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They say that families that have dinner together, are happier.


How does it happen that you are merrily going about your business, and when you get up, your hip hurts?

And then.

As the afternoon progresses, it gets worse.

So that you are hobbling around getting dinner on the table?

And by evening, you are whimpering in pain and would rather pee by e-mail than get up?

And then you go to bed, and then, and then, and then, it’s mostly all better?

What the hell is my hip doing?

And God, while you are answering that one, can you please explain why you didn’t give us a thought-free day every week?

It would sure cut down on the need for drugs and booze and random sex to forget-not-think-about all those things that rattle around the other six days.

I think you dropped the ball on that one.

Just sayin’.

The sun is shining.

Did ya know that Keith Olbermann ends his show now with “Congratulations: you made it through another day of crap”.  That sounds about right to me most days.

I worried a bit when old Herm (you remember Herm) left the race for chief clown GOP candidate.

I figured, wow, all the fun is over now.

But not to worry.

The GOP sleigh is just chock full of fools.

the King “Ging” is practicing being d i s c i p l i n e d right now. He refuses to be baited into losing his famous temper and lashing out in his bully-boy fashion.

Las Vegas is taking bets on how long that will last.

In fact, Newtie Patootie is like a whole circus himself.

You could write an easy 3,000 words a day just on Newty alone.

He’s got what they call baaaagggggaaaaaggggggeeeee.

A lot of it. A ton of it.

I’m glad to say that the chief hate monger in Iowa says Newtster is a “transformed” man. Transformed into what is my question.

 A better liar?

A better serial adulterer?

Mitt hasn’t a clue what to do now.

This was not supposed to happen.

Herm was a dream. So was Ricky P.

Michele and Ricky S? Ciphers at best.

But he hasn’t a clue what to do with The Grifter man.

After all, Mittens is just your average corporate CEO who made millions leveraging companies and putting people out of jobs.

He can’t compete with a dude who says black kids ought to scrub toilets, and Palestinians don’t really exist, and Obama has some Kenyan voodoo ideology and hates capitalism.  And did you know, I invented supply-side economics and ended the Cold War? All the while eating a Subway Sub with Jared?

And Mittens thought the way to success was one man-one woman, not one man-one woman, and another and another. He didn’t get the tactical decision to convert to the only faith that could wipe out those other women as “not really marriages at all” and accept a confession is good for the soul, wipe the slate clean kinda attitude that could be certified and officially stamped and carried in your wallet.

Nah, Mittens ain’t got that kinda sly smarts. It takes a Grifter to know those things.

And it’s not like, in the end, they don’t see the world pretty much the same.

They were, after all, born in the same nursery at Butthead Hospital in the State of Disbelief and in the country of MeFirst.

In their youth both were read their favorite tale at Christmas time.

“Twas the night before Christmas,
When all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even the help.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that new golden parachutes were soon to appear.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With visions of trust funds dancing in their heads.
And Mamma in her Tiffany jewels and I in my Rolex,
Had just settled down to read our portfolio.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
That I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window, I flew like a flash,
Tore open the velvet curtains and through open the french doors.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to the olympian pool below.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a long caravan of limos and  exotic reindeer.
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
That I knew in a moment, it must be our broker, Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:
Now Stocks, Now Bonds, Now Gold and Silver bullion.
On Margins, on Wall Street, on Euros by the billions!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now Earn it, Now Earn it, Now give me it all!
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky,
So up the to the pillars and in the foyer they flew,
With a lift-fork full of toys and our broker Nick, too.
And then in a twinkling I heard at the pool house,
The prancing, pawing, and pooping of those damn deer.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Nick the broker, came with a bound.
He was dressed all in Brooks Brothers from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with spilt booze and cigaret soot.
A bundle of documents he had flung on his back;
And he looked like a corporate raider just hiding the facts.
His eyes–how they twinkled, his dimples so merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose lined with broken veins, so cherry.
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was in need of a dye job so.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the reefer smoke encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and an obese belly,
That shook unattractively when he laughed, like something smelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right common riffraff elf,
And I laughed as I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know, that he would protect all my secret dread.
He spoke not a word but went straight to his work,
Burning incriminating documents and being a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney they rose.
He sprang to his limo, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down on a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,
Millions for you and for millions just blight!

~~And that is just how crappy it is.