What do we know about 18 to 24-year-olds? They are really stupid. They make really bad decisions.  ~ Kamala Harris

It may be time for a new treadmill, dear reader.  The old one has served me well as I’ve put…let’s see…7305 miles on it.  Not bad.  I went through two (2) pairs of Under Armor running shoes racking up enough miles to run from Canada to Mexico and back multiple times.  So I can’t complain too much about its performance.
Until this week.
This week, the goddamn thing attacked me.
This week, due to what I assume is a faulty fuse, the treadmill just suddenly quits at some seemingly random point in my five-mile run.  If the treadmill behaved normally (and civilly), it would do the slow and gentle slowing from 10mph to zero over the course of several seconds, as it does when you press the “Stop” button.  But that’s not what happens.  This thing just instantly comes to a dead stop.  Which sudden stop sends me careening into the control panel  of the treadmill and sometimes into the wall just beyond, at exactly 10 mph.  Neither the control panel nor the wall, are particularly made to be crashed into at 10mph, and the result of the impacts thus far have been unusual bruising and an almost broken nose.
I’m going to change the fuse tonight and see if that takes care of it.  If not, I may start a GoFundMe to cover medical bills and the cost of a new, perhaps more padded treadmill.

N.P.: “Raise the Red Flag” – Marilyn Manson

We must together, work together, to see where we are, where we are headed, but also see it as a moment, yes, to together, address the challenges and to work on the opportunities.
~ Kamala Harris

Does anybody else feel gross and vaguely queasy about the amount of gaslighting going on in the United States these days?  It’s probably just me.

N.P.: “Whole Lotta Sabbath (Wax Audio Lance Herbstrong Edit)” – Lance Herbstrong

The democrats aren’t even pretending anymore.  Saviors of democracy my ass.  Over the weekend, in what can only be described as a palace coup, the party elites (3-4 people) decided to literally depose the democratic nominee (according to the primary vote), nullify 15 million democratic votes, and just give his nomination and campaign funds to someone else “who can win.”

While this is egregious and outrageous enough, what is truly unbelievable has been the democrats reaction to this: they don’t give a shit.  Which is just bizarre.  Apparently they’re fine with this blatant revelation that their political party is run by a small group of “elites” who are apparently totally comfortable overwriting the will of their own people, and why shouldn’t they be…their own people won’t say a word.

You almost have to feel bad for Old Joe.  He was so insistent…he was going to do a string of comeback appearances last week, including a multi-date trip to Las Vegas.  Every night, after Matlock but before bed, Joe and his comms team we putting out fiery and defiant messages declaring with papal ex cathedra that by Christ  Joe was the nominee and that he was staying in the race.  Then suddenly, in the middle of his Vegas stint, Joe Biden, who has been vaxed and boosted 113 times, got COVID.  For the third time.  The public got a glimpse of him trudging up his big boy stairs to Air Force One and that was it…he was off to deepest, darkest Delaware to “recover” from COVID.

Then Joe woke up last Sunday to find someone had forged a letter on his personal stationary and posted it to his X account saying that he was dropping out of the race.  Then whomever posted the first X published another, more hastily written X saying, “Oh yeah…we also endorse Scamala as replacement candidate.”  And democrat voters just fell in line immediately.

Well, most of them did.  Even the shameless, race-baiting grifters over at BLM know this whole thing stinks to high hell of corruption and shady shit. To wit:

It’s a start.  Wait ’til they find out the Democratic Party defended slavery, started the Civil War because of it, opposed Reconstruction, founded the Ku Klux Klan, imposed segregation, perpetrated lynchings, and fought against the civil rights acts of the ’50s and ’60s.  But “a party of hypocrites” is a start.  Baby steps.

N.P.: “Black Betty – Fuzzy” – Spiderbait

Presage (verb): To predict or foretell a future event. Presage (noun): An omen, portent, or indication of a future event.

The term “presage” originates from the Latin word “praesagium,” combining “prae-” meaning “before” and “sagire” meaning “to perceive keenly.” It entered the English language in the late 14th century, retaining its meaning related to foretelling events.

Fuck, he thought for the seventh time in the last minute.  He had never been this blocked.  He’d had days, even the occasional week that he couldn’t write.  But never like this…never months.  It wasn’t that he didn’t have anything to say…quite the opposite, actually.  He had so much to say he didn’t know where even to begin.  For months now, significant events had unfolded far more rapidly that society could process them, and far too fast for him to keep up with, commentary-wise.  And thus, things had spun out of control months ago. 

The previous year, in  a series of meticulously crafted blog entries, he began to presage the downfall of the American Republic. His warnings were not borne out of paranoia but from a deep analysis of the incumbent president’s actions. The president’s clear contempt for democratic norms, relentless assaults on the free press, and almost comically divisive rhetoric had people concerned, especially in light of the alarming increase in public pants-shitting episodes. Each post was a call to arms, urging his fellow citizens to recognize the signs before it was too late.

One entry, titled “The Twilight of Democracy,” stood out. “We stand on the precipice of a new era,” he wrote. “An era where the very foundations of our Republic are under siege. The signs are clear—our freedom teeters on the edge as authoritarian shadows loom large.”

Despite his compelling arguments and data-backed insights, he faced a barrage of skepticism, vitriol, and bullshit. Many dismissed his predictions as alarmist or paranoid, while others accused him of partisan bias. Undeterred, he continued his crusade, hoping that his words would reach those who could still make a difference.

Months turned into years, and the political landscape grew increasingly volatile. Scandals erupted, institutions crumbled, and civil liberties were eroded. As the country’s stability waned, his presages seemed to transform from speculation into grim reality. Those who once jeered at his predictions now revisited his blog with a newfound respect.

In the end, his voice echoed through the annals of history as a presage unheeded.  His story serves as a poignant reminder: sometimes, the most critical warnings come not from official channels, but from the perceptive minds that dare to foresee the future.

N.P.: “Cast No Shadow” – Tales of Sound and Silence

In honor of Memorial Day, our Word of the Day is “remembrance.” Judging by the number of people I’ve heard who’ve very inappropriately wish me or anyone else, “Happy Memorial Day,” a reminder is necessary.  This word encapsulates the essence of this important holiday, which serves as a time to honor and remember those who have sacrificed their lives in military service.

Remembrance (noun): The action of remembering something or someone, often a person who has died; a memory or commemoration.

The word “remembrance” originates from the Middle English “remembraunce,” which in turn comes from the Old French “remembrance.” Its roots lie in the Latin verb “rememorari,” meaning “to remember,” composed of “re-” (again) and “memor” (mindful).

On this Memorial Day, let us all take a moment of remembrance for the brave souls who have served and sacrificed.  Their legacy lives on through our memories and our commitment to never forget.

Word of the Day: pestiferous

adjective

literary

1. harboring infection or disease.

2. humorous – constituting a pest or nuisance; annoying.

The janitor had clearly grown tired of the conversation and had begun thinking more about his lunch than the outcome of this colloquy: “No…what you’re going to do is take your pestiferous ass back to that rotting hovel and leave us alone to make babies and drink deeply of the green chartreuse.”  It was, it occurred to him at that moment, one of the stranger Wednesdays he’d had in a while.

N.P.: “Scarface (Push It To The Limit)” – Paul Engemann

Good afternoon, dear reader…

Yo rent is due.  And your Word of the Day is botryoidal.  Behold:

adjective

1. (chiefly of minerals) having a shape reminiscent of a cluster of grapes.

The urologist thought he’d seen it all until that fateful Thursday when he found himself unable to describe the shape of the set of odious and detestable testicles in his nitrile-gloved hands as botryoidal.  

“Never saw anything like this in med school,” muttered the doctor darkly to himself.

“You got all the way through med school without seeing a set of testicles?” said the patient, whose actual name the doctor knew, but who had become known in the doctor’s mind in the last 30 seconds as Grape Nuts.

“Shut up, Grape Nuts,” said the doctor, who, upon saying it, regretted having said it aloud, as that was not his intention.  

N.P.: “Why Do I?” – Thumpasaurus

A dotard is someone, usually of advanced age, who has begun to show a decline in mental faculties such as memory, attention, and decision-making, often leading to moments of confusion or forgetfulness. It’s a term that paints a picture of an adorable yet slightly befuddled grandparent, wandering into a room with purpose only to forget why they’re there.

The term “dotard” comes from the Middle English word “doten,” which means to dote. Doting originally had meanings related to being silly or feeble-minded due to age. Over time, it evolved into “dotard,” specifically referring to an elderly individual showing signs of senility. It’s a word that Shakespeare and Chaucer threw around like confetti at a wedding, adding a touch of historical class to what essentially amounts to calling someone a lovable old goofball.

Once upon a recent Thursday, in a quiet town just outside of Maryland, there lived a notorious dotard named Joseph. Joseph was known far and wide for his whimsical forgetfulness, which often led to amusing situations.
One sunny afternoon, Joseph set out from his house with a determined look on his face, wearing a bathrobe and slippers. His mission? To buy milk. The only problem was, by the time he reached the end of his driveway, he had forgotten why he’d left the house in the first place.
After standing there for a solid five minutes, scratching his head, he shrugged and decided he must have wanted to go for a walk. So, off Joseph went, wandering around the neighborhood in his bathrobe, waving cheerfully at confused neighbors, unaware that several Secret Service agents were following him.
Eventually, he found himself in front of the local supermarket. An idea struck him – a brilliant, undeniable urge. Joseph marched into the supermarket, went straight to the pet aisle, and bought the largest bag of birdseed they had.  Joe still failed to notice the Secret Service detail following his every motion.
Upon returning home, his wife asked him, bewildered, “Joseph, why on Earth did you buy a year’s supply of birdseed? We don’t even have a bird!”
Joseph, looking equally puzzled, glanced down at the birdseed, then back at his wife, and said, “Well, I’ll be. I knew I went out for something important. But don’t you worry, Jill. I’ve got it figured out. We’ll just have to get a bird now, won’t we?”

These sorts of goings-on were daily occurrences and basically fine until an aide made her daily reminder to Joseph that he was, in fact, the sitting President of the United States.

“I am?  Me?  Well…son of a bitch.”  An rather moronic but somehow menacing grin took over his face.  “So, I can do whatever I want?  I want my ice cream before dinner.  I want my ice cream now!  And Matlock!  Now!”  Joe just loved Matlock.
Joseph’s advisors conferred briefly, and called a press lid on the rest of Joseph’s month.  Joe was asleep before the opening credits of Matlock finished rolling, his ice cream cone resting stupidly on his chest, beginning to melt.

N.P.: “Love Bomb Baby” – Tigertailz

Kakistocracy (noun): A system of government that is run by the worst, least qualified, or most unscrupulous citizens.  It’s a real word for when the village idiots become the town council.

Origin: The word is a delightful blend of Greek components:
Kakistos (κάκιστος): Meaning “worst”—because why settle for mediocrity when you can aim for the abyss?
Kratos (κράτος): Meaning “rule”—because even chaos needs a manager, apparently.

The President of the United States gazed vacantly at the tens of people who had gathered to hear his speech.  Once again, he had forgotten not only what he was saying, but where he was.  Where he was was widely known for certain: he was presently in the House of Representatives delivering the State of the Union Address. 

This sort of thing had been happening a lot lately, but really, things had never been good, mental-acuity-wise for this president.  His inauguration was the most memorable for many reasons: the first inauguration to be sponsored by the Chinese Communist Party, the first inauguration to have a president to take the oath pantsless (but he was wearing mismatched socks and a blissfully ignorant grin).  It was a horrible day.  When the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court appeared on the dais, he was dressed as female clown and, as one writer put it, “engaged in cheap Socratic banter and low-rent sleight-of-hand with the handful of people who had shown up to witness this farce.”  The majority leader of the Senate came out and tried (and completely failed) to juggle several rubber chickens.  The traditional oath of office was replaced on this occasion by a rather bawdy nursery rhyme, and the president’s acceptance speech seemed to center around a promise replace all traffic lights in the US with interpretive dance troupes. 

“It’s better for the environment!  Climate change is the biggest threat our country faces.”  White supremacy was number two, followed closely by transphobia. 

The crowd of nearly 10 people erupted in panicked gasps.  A secret service agent was so taken aback that he accidently knocked over the podium.  The president tripped on the Chief Justice’s clown shoes and fell into a truly massive cake shaped like the national debt. 

Manolo, a janitor at the event who, unbeknownst to anyone, had the highest actual IQ of anyone in DC, ran onto the stage and grabbed the microphone.  “You know what climate change, white supremacy, and transphobia have in common?”

Confused silence from the crowd.

“They’re not threats to our country.  In fact, they don’t really exist at all.” 

And with that, the crowd as well as the entire kakistocracy they had voted for simply disappeared in a fetid puff of idiocy and lies.

N.P.: “The Man” – The Killers

Right, so today’s word is “indefatigable”. No, it’s not a new type of inflatable mattress, nor is it a fancy name for a hipster indie band. It’s an adjective, dear reader, meaning persisting tirelessly. That’s right, it’s like the Energizer Bunny of words.
Originating from the Latin indefatigabilis, where “in-” means “not” and “defatigare” means “to tire out”, this word basically means you’re too stubborn to admit you’re exhausted. It’s like saying “I’m not tired, you’re tired!” to your body after pulling an all-nighter.

Fred was a middle-aged man who had taken up porn as a way to escape his mid-life crisis.  Not watching porn, mind you…Fred had been doing that since he was a kid.  He was convinced that if he could bone enough on film, he’d eventually somehow outbone his rapidly receding hairline and expanding waistline.  So he packed his shit and moved to Van Nuys to get his video fuck on.  His friends called him “indefatigable Fred,” mostly because it sounded better than “delusional Fred.”
One day, Fred’s agent called him up and asked him if he wanted to book a gig called “The Luckiest Man in the World,” which was a porn franchise that filmed twice a year featuring a single middle-aged man having coitus with as many available female porn stars as he could handle.  They typically started with 26 actresses on the set, and then, if, as had been the case the last several years, the male talent was going to need more than 26, they’d call girls in.  The director of these hyperlibidinous productions referred to the whole production as “the Inferno Fuckathon” as all participants experienced painful  burning sensations whilst urinating for days/weeks after filming.  This was so bad that even seasoned male porn athletes were known to weep at the mere mention of its name.  Though it seemed like a wonderful idea on paper to most men, most men have not had to successfully copulate with 26 different females in one take…it was an uphill fuck-slog done poolside, in the blistering California summer heat, with no shade whatsoever.  And, unbeknownst to Fred, due to declining sales in the new decade, the director had decided that making the thing more of an extreme sport than a typical porno shoot would draw in more mainstream viewers, and thus would throw in a rabid, ball-biting wolverine on the set, just to keep things spicy. 

On fuck day (as Fred had put it in his calendar), Fred snorted several healthy lines of Viagra and arrived on set wearing nothing but cowboy boots, a thin sheen of Vaseline, and a huge smile.  Once filming started, Fred’s huge smile quickly turned into a determined grimace.  He started his slow, relentless lovemaking.  Hours passed, actresses dropped out, the wolverine snapped, but Fred…Fred kept going.  The sun set, the moon rose, a new day dawned, and still, our indefatigable Fred was boning.  He’d long since run out of water, his sheen of Vaseline literally fucked off, balls unbitten but burned in the sun, and he was pretty sure he’d lost a finger to the damn wolverine.  But did he stop?  No!  Because Fred was indefatigable. 

When filming finally wrapped, three days later, there was no one there to cheer him on.  The production staff had packed up and left, most of the female talent was long gone, and even the wolverine had lost interest.  But none of that mattered to Fred.  He’d done it.  He’d completed the Inferno Fuckathon.  He was indefatigable. 

N.P.: “Facts” – Tom MacDonald, Ben Shapiro