Fringeville #155: Ramblings

I may have inadvertently committed involuntary rodentslaughter.

My wife found a mouse/mole/whothehellknowswhatitis floating in a garbage can outside the house. I don’t know how the little peckerwood got in there, but it was a one-way trip. The theory is the dumbass was in the can, which was on its side after the tornado and which I picked back up, trapping him within.

The Mickey Mouse Club has informed me that I am permanently barred from applying for membership.

Out of respect for the dead, I took no pictures of the crime scene before unceremoniously dumping him where the members of the legions of feral cats in my neighborhood can find their latest cat toy. Rumors that I sprinkled catnip on the remains are likely untrue.

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I continue to watch and read the level of hysteria in the media and among many of my Democrat friends over President Trump.

I was able to recover immediately after the last President was elected (twice) for one simple reason: I have a fundamental faith in our Constitution and in the balance of power between the branches of our government. Go a little wild, and you will be slapped down.

I didn't hyperventilate at my keyboard for eight years every time the previous President overreached, because I knew in many cases whatever he did would ultimately be reversed. I also think the real damage done is by those in local offices. That’s where your wallet is hit the hardest, and they are very happy to worm their way into it (if you’re not sure about that, look at your school taxes).

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...Jimbo, apparently we have a failure to communicate.

I don’t think God wants me to run for any office whether public or party (except for GOP County Committee, where He apparently approves).

A few years ago, I ran for State Committee. I got prostate cancer. Now I’m about to file for a local municipal office, and my supposedly curable cancer has recurred.

I’m not saying there’s a linkage between politics and cancer, but my personal statistics are suspicious.

Fortunately, the voluminous research I have done assures me that I am more likely to die choking on a chicken wing bone than to pass on from prostate cancer. Even if it does send me on to that great Hooters in the sky, I can probably run for office repeatedly before it does me in. Probably.

In any case, it will be another summer of choosing between several shit-sandwich choices for treatment.

So over the next few days I’m filing my petition and getting a referral to an oncologist before ramping up my usual door-to-door campaign.

Happy trails. And if anything unexpectedly goes wrong, you can look forward to the funeral brunch (hopefully in 10-15 years):

...Cajun Bleu or mild? There's Guinness and Yuengling on the buffet table.

 

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Fringeville #150: Five and a Half Years Meandering the Blogosphere

I’ve written 150 posts since June of 2011.  Reaction to this immense body of work has come swiftly from across the globe:

Kaci Kullmann Five, 2016 Chair of the Nobel Prize Committee: “…James who? From the Fringe? Where is this Fringe? He sounds like a nincompoop.”

Bill Belichick, Head Coach of the New England Patriots: “…O’Meara? The Golfer? I played 18 holes against him. Kicked his ass. I let the air outta his balls, I tell ya. What’s that? It’s not Mark O’Meara? It’s James? James O’Meara? Sounds like a f****** nincompoop.”

Donald Trump, United States President: “…Five and half years for 150 itty-bitty posts? Fire his ass.  I can write 150 posts by Thursday. And they’d be the best blog posts ever, let me tell you. Guy's probably a nincompoop.”

Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II: “…James O’Meara. Yes, I remember him well. Yes, I’m blushing.

"James and I were great friends. We met in London during the war. I was driving a truck for WATS, and he was thumbing a ride to the pub. He was on leave. We had quite the evening, and he was quite the man. He was an ace, you know. 11 kills. He was flying out of Hornchurch. He’d just shot down his first Bf 109 when we met. A dashing fellow. I loved his mustache. When we parted, I told him to shoot down another Hun for me. ‘I’ll shoot down ten!’ he exclaimed, and he was true to his word. Did I mention his mustache? What’s that? O’Meara from Pennsylvania? Heavens. He hasn’t shot down anything. He’s a nincompoop.”

Steven Hawking, Theoretical Physicist: “…I love everything he’s written. He’s a visionary. Deep Sky Companions: The Messier Objects is a favorite bedtime read. I’m fond of the Caldwell Objects installment as well. Say what? It’s James O’Meara from Plains, not Stephen James O’Meara the astronomer? Well, yes I’ve read his stuff too. He’s the biggest nincompoop in the Universe.”

Kim Jong-un, Supreme Leader, North Korea: “…O’Meara? Yes, we know him well. He is a rabid mad dog enemy of the DPRK. He writes lies about our glorious nation. At his next insane provocation, it will be all-out war with his Fringe and his mad band of bloggers. Death to nincompoops!”

Generalissimo Francisco Franco:

Senator Charles Schumer, D-NY: “…That nincompoop is still writing? It’s enough to make me cry.”

The Pope: “…He used to go bowling and have a few beers with my predecessor from time to time. We’re going for wings the next time I’m in America. Two dozen Cajun Bleu and two Yuenglings. Jimbo's a nice guy. Bit of a nincompoop, but harmless.”

Jimbo: Forget the Blogging. Eat more wings!(Not Coby Brooks)

Coby G. Brooks, CEO, Hooters: “…Blogging? He’s still eating wings, though, right? If he quit eating to write, I may have to lay some staff off. Damned nincompoop.”

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