Beach Blanket Jingo

The Cigar Guys, our resident sore winners on the patio, have a new bête noire: Senator Barbara Boxer. Because of her token opposition to the vote, she has DISSSGRAAAAAACED THE STATE OF CAAAAALIFORNIA and must of course be deposed. Ideally there would be a recall election, but I think they would accept an auto-da-fé. They were spurting out flaccid zingers like “Boxer, someone should box her! In a boxing ring!” etc. and laughing at their own jokes the other day. At least Tom knows not to talk about “journalistic integrity” within earshot of me since my spittake the last time he said the phrase. He’s their ringleader and is fairly smart but when he talks politics his eyes turn into spirals and he levitates and weird things happen to his hair. He’ll make sense about the weather or cars or something for 30 seconds and then he starts a sentence with “IF THOSE PEOPLE IN EYE-RACK WOULD STOP, JUST FOR A MOMENT, JUST FOR A SECOND, TO CONSIDER…” and it’s all over. These guys actually bray; it’s not a metaphor. Harrumph harrumph harrumph! I didn’t hear a harrumph out of that guy!

They all need a year doing shitty temp work and living on Costco ramen in an unairconditioned apartment in Van Nuys. The joke goes that the difference between a liberal and a conservative is a police report; point taken. The difference between a conservative and a liberal might well be a year without medical insurance, working in a call center with your bathroom breaks on a timer, and riding the Los Angeles public transit system.

Speaking of which, here’s a new hybrid author idea: Ayn Rice. Discuss.

I’m staving off melancholia, anxiety, and self-hatred with solitaire this week. Score’s tied.