More Clean Pot Cleaning Or How To Try to Look Sympathetic

Tags

Election 2012, Humor, Mitt Romney, satire

Looks like Willard has been taking advice from his running mate, Paulie on how to appear empathetic. Yes, our intrepid wannabe Prez, saw Hurricane Sandy as a grand opportunity to look sympathetic to the masses of “those people” who live in little gingerbread houses, so tiny and quaint.

So, they turned a political rally into a “relief rally” albeit, they had music and a film show of our dynamic candidate before hand. Just bring your donation of food and diapers and feel good about yourself.

So anyway, the Red Cross reminded people that they ASK SPECIFICALLY that people don’t do this. They just have to unpack everything and repack it where it needs to go, and it’s so very much EASIER and MORE EFFICIENT for them if you give cash.

But having old Willard stand there with his fist out taking cash–well that looks so very BAIN of him, that they decided to ignore the Red Cross and do it the FREE MARKET way.

And then they worried that all those Romneyites being the selfish jerks they are, would probably show up sans DONATIONS, so they hurried off to Wal-Mart (Not Sams where we are told the Romney’s so enjoy shopping themselves) and bought about $5,000 worth of foodstuffs to stick in the truck to MAKE IT LOOK like people were donating as requested.

And the candidate, our fool, rolled up his sleeves and slipped on his belted jeans, you know the ones I mean–the ones that allow the dildo firmly lodged in his butt not to show too much–and stood at the table ready to shake the hands and receive the bottles of mayonnaise and pickles.

Except, that as they feared, most of the Romneydites showed up without the DONATION, and wanted to shake the hand of the man who wanted to turn AmeriKA into a corporate boardroom. What to do?

Why, stand a guy at the end of the table shouting down the life, “No boxy, no shakey!” or words to that effect, which made the troglodytes sob with snot running down their chins. And so somebody got the brilliant idea: “Set a box of stuff at that end of the table and hand them their donation when they get to the table to take to and hand to the LIAR Candidate!

And so they did.

And that’s how you appear to be empathetic to those who have suffered unspeakable losses of home and kith.

God Bless the Corporate Model of Doing Business! Onward You Special Rich!

Related articles

• Romney lines everybody up to give him stuff the Red Cross says it doesn’t want (dailykos.com)
• Romney’s unhelpful “storm relief” (salon.com)
• Red Cross had to divert staff to deal with Romney’s phony “relief effort” (americablog.com)

 

Intelligence Comes and Goes–I Have Proof

Tags

Election 2012, GOP, Humor, Mitt Romney, satire, teabaggers

My affair with David Brooks–how’s that for an opening? I dare say a few of you spit out your coffee.

No sexual innuendo intended, I surely can confirm.

What I mean is that David tries really really hard to appear sensible and sane. When Willard veered off into the satanic realms of teabuggery, he screamed out in primal anger that Willard was making himself a buffoon and sullying the non-too-white robes of the Republican Party.

He said a lot of things that were true. He questioned whether Willard had a moral core. He questioned his intelligence and the manner in which he was running a campaign that most pundits would have argued a year ago was a slam dunk for any responsible Republican. Trouble was, there turned out to be no responsible Republicans willing to grab for the brass ring. Only John Huntsman was actually qualified and the crazies laughed him off the stage.

When David is operating in sane mode, I find him pleasantly nice to read and listen to. He makes pretty good sense, all the while lamenting the fact that people like Willard and Paulie don’t represent real Republicans like him. And I feel a tender spot in my hardening heart (nearly made now of stone to anyone who includes the appellation GOP to their name) toward him for being one of the few remaining good guys from the dark side.

Then, David is David.

David feels all the guilty trappings of a turncoat, and no doubt reads one too many of the many vicious e-mails that must come his way from the cavemen who totter out of their double-wides to saunter down the dusty road to see if cousin Jack’s car is still parked in Becky’s back yard, hiding from his wife.

So David tries to come up with some positive spin on why old Willard might not be so bad after all. And so his theory goes. . .

You see, the Crazy Freakin’ Right, embodied in the bodies of Eric Cantor, Darryl  Issa, blah, blah, blah will continue to hate the President if he wins re-election. They thought they had this one in the bag, certainly the Senate, and expected to gleefully get about the business of undoing all that socialism stuff. Now they are truly steamed, mostly at that incompetent Mormon, but the President is a daily reminder that they LOST AGAIN.

So, according to David, they will just sit on their haunches and dig in their clawed hooves, and do NOTHING for four more years, as a testament to the great POUT OUT. The country will be a mess in four more years.

So, David, concludes. . .

Willard is actually the better pick, since he is nothing but a shape-shifting opportunist, and that’s actually, in this very special circumstance, a GOOD THING.

Why?

Why, because, that’s why.

Since Willard has no real opinion about anything, he will naturally gravitate to the middle and a lot of grand things can be done in the middle. He doesn’t of course give a tinker’s damn (what exactly DOES that mean) or a wombat’s penis about the crazy Right, and they will wither away in his administration, while grand middlers will rule with some measure of rationality.

Got that?

Except that gee, David, think my silly man, think.

Willard has NO OPINION on anything. He wasn’t such a great governor of Massachusetts if you remember. After his grand health care, which was really pushed on him after all, he did nothing but veto just about everything else while screwing everyone with increased fees on everything. Even breathing required a membership card  for a fee, if you recall.

Why would you think he would do the RIGHT thing, being here the correct thing, as opposed to the politically right leaning thing? He could care less. He wants to BE President, not Do President.

Can’t you people see that yet?

It’s a freakin’ crap shoot what Willard would do on just about anything you can imagine. He don’t care! He cares about the photo-op in the Rose Garden with queens and kings and potentates. He cares about sitting for his picture for the hallway of Presidents.

If you don’t think I’m right, well, I betcha.

I betcha he already knows who he wants to paint his portrait. And I bet him and Ann have already talked about the damn drapes in the Oval Office.

Wanna bet?

We Built That Malarky

Tags

business, economy, Election 2012, free markets, GOP, Mitt Romney, panic of 1873, Paul Ryan

Saturday evening we watched a two-part docudrama from the History Channel, called The Men Who Made America. Now get past the sexism and the pomposity of the title if you will. There is something important to be said here.

By intention or otherwise, THC offered up that a few “titans of industry” filled the void left by the death of Abraham Lincoln at the close of the Civil War, and singlehandedly rebuilt America. Dubious as this contention might seem, they offered it with no tongue-in-cheek.

Better that they had since they then peppered the show with commentary from none of than the likes of Donald Trump and Jack Walsh, aided by Mark Cuban and a pinch of Steve Wozniak. These “modern-day entrepreneurs” sought to explain the mind-set of men like Cornelius Vanderbilt, John D. Rockefeller, J.P. Morgan, and Andrew Carnegie.

Vanderbilt, having made a fortune in the shipping industry, sells off all his fleet and invests in what he sees as the future: the railroads. Soon he has a commanding amount of track. Gould and Fisk apparently by pure counterfeiting, sell Vanderbilt millions of dollars in fake railroad stock (Vanderbilt is trying to buy up all the little railroads in the best traditions of monopoly), and so anger Vanderbilt that he vows never to be beaten again.

Now that he most of the railway, he must put something in his cars. He contacts a struggling oil man, John D. Rockefeller, and Rockefeller gets a sweet deal to ship all his crude via Vanderbilt’s rails. This lasts until Rockefeller is big enough to want a better deal, so he agrees to send his crude via a railroad owned by a guy named Tom Scott whose right hand man is one Andrew Carnegie.

Vanderbilt and Scott join up in an effort squeeze Rockefeller for more money. Rockefeller replies by building his own pipeline from the oil fields of Ohio and South, to his refineries in the North. Vanderbilt dies, and Scott replies by building his own pipeline that will require Rockefeller pay to move his crude to his Pennsylvania refineries. Rockefeller replies by shutting his PA refineries, throwing the railroads into bankruptcy and destroying Scott. Rockefeller then calmly buys up the destroyed railroads for pennies on the dollar.

Trump, Cuban and Walsh stand as a cheering squad, pontificating about how men like these (and themselves presumably) are cut of a different cloth. They started out poor, worked from dawn until midnight, came up with a great idea, and let nothing stand in their way. It was a game of war to them, take no prisoners and the winner has all the money. These men are apparently men we should admire.

Such men, we come to learn, get up each morning with only one thing in mind–how to beat the competition and secure the whole pie. They do not want to compete, they want to control.

The show tends to imply that Rockefeller, by his actions causes the panic of 1873. No doubt he played some part in it, since it was the over extension of railways that led to the panic, but frankly that bit is overblown from my short delve into the real history.

What is missing here?

It is so clear that all these men were indeed engaged in a game. And the pawns were the men and women who worked on the railroads and in the refineries and all those supporting industries that lost their jobs when these men decided to play hardball with each other. There is nary a breath of concern expressed for all those who will be out of work and what that will do to PEOPLE.

The docudrama points out on the other hand, that the depression that came from the 1873 Panic, caused no inconvenience in the lives of the wealthy.

What is also missing is that the Panic and following depression were caused by the unregulated excesses of these men. There was no mention of quality of goods or services. Nobody cared about the consumer. There was no interest in competition as it relates to improving the end product. Monopoly was the only interest of these men. Raw power and money and what money could buy.

This is the free market economics that are favored by the likes of Paul Ryan and Mitt Romney. They are the ideal of Ayn Rand.

Somehow we are supposed to conclude that the ends justify the means, i.e., America got built. And we are to believe without proof, that if left to their own devices, everyone would have been the better for it. But that is not what happened. The excesses of these men led to anti-monopoly laws, unions, limits on working hours, child-labor laws, workplace safety laws,  various banking restrictions and so forth.

It is all these things that Republicans are against today. They believe that business, if left to its own devices, will naturally spread the wealth. Except they have no evidence that this has ever happened. Instead, business leaders continue to war on each other to gain the advantage and be kings of their various hills. And NO THOUGHT is given to the worker or the public good.

If you believe that certain business leaders act improperly then why aren’t they being shunned by the rest of the business world? Everyone knows that Trump, once things start to turn sour, gets out and leaves somebody else holding the bag. Yet people continue to “make the deal”. That’s because they secretly admire his success, and look only to out-Trumping Trump.

I suspect The History Channel meant to show us about the great men who built America. Instead what they have done is shown us exactly why we cannot trust the likes of Romney/Ryan or the corporatocracy they envision.

And Coming Around the Bend. . .

Tags

cartoons, Election 2012, Humor, Mitt Romney, satire

It’s been a chilly morning here in Las Cruces. My computer temp app is registering 41° and it was undoubtedly colder than that when Diego and I left at 6:25 am for our cruise through the desert. I had my hoodie tied up tight I can tell ya.

So it seemed a perfect day to make a pot of chili and a sheet pan of carrot cake. Both are simmering and baking as we speak. We are speaking still aren’t we?

So, it’s been a while since we looked at the light side of life. I just want to congratulate Willard on his full head of hair. I’d have torn mine out by now if I had such helpful GOPer’s like Mourdock  and Sununu as my battle buddies.

The Willard plan to cozy up to the President when it comes to foreign policy turned out just about how I thought it would–it scared the bejesus out of ordinary folks who were okay with him having no interest in morality “values” issues and thus flipping from place to place, but find it too scary to think that he really doesn’t care one whit about the rest of the world either.

Finally the message is clear–I’m a businessman who wants to be A president of a big fat ass country, and you can trust me that I know my bizniz just fine and the rest of it–I’m just gonna turn that over to people who care. Except that the people he wants to turn it over to are scary +++ types.

For the most part Willard hasn’t bothered to explain his constant changes of position. I’m thinking that it has mostly to do with his deeply felt paternalistic superiority over all us little people who live in our little apartments and call for help when we have our heart attacks.

We are too plain dumb to realize that he’s changed his position you see. Why explain what need not be explained?

Why you might as well talk to Ann’s horse Rafalca for all the good it would do ya.

Ain’t it grand having to explain yourself to people so beneath yourself? Talk slowly, and use simple words and just smile when someone claims you said something different last week.

Millions of us were just tingly all over wondering if we were in Willard’s binders. To think that those dark brooding eyes fell upon our fair statistics, well it makes a girl tremble in ecstasy I must confess.

There were no binders of women in his Mormon church hierarchy and no binders of women at Bain. So what’s a guy to do when he becomes Governor and needs to woman-up the looks of his cabinet?

Why one takes advantage of work DONE BY WOMEN and then lie and say you thought of it. Women will never know the difference–their too busy being unbound in their binder.

 

Meanwhile, back at the mansions of Amerika, with all their fancy cement ponds, the rich and infamous are busy sipping Mai Tai’s and e-mailing their factory fodder to “vote for Mitt” or else.

Now that’s what I call voter intimidation.

“My Lord, my good man, if taxes go up another penny, I would be forced to sell my Christmas home in the Alps, or my Thanksgiving castle in France, or perish the thought, sell my California car, the Lamborghini which I only drive three times a year to keep the paint bright and shiny. Better I just cut your job! Not trying to tell you how to vote of course. No never that!”

Arguably, there were other things going on in the world that were worthy of discussion.

But everyone knows that running for office is only about platitudes and generalities. Serious discussions are for the intellectual elites who would have nothing to talk about on those high-minded talk shows if politicians actually discussed seriously the issues of the day.

When the three trending ideas on Twitter over the week or so is #BigBird #Bindersofwomen and #Bayonets, you gotta figure that our elections are about trivialities. Actually they aren’t of course, but we have to take on faith that our choice of a candidate is the one closest to believing as we do. And they say faith is God is a hard leap.

Well, the cake is baked and the chili is ready, and the sun is shining. It’s Saturday and all is well.

OMG ONLY 10 MORE DAYS–I’m Kanipshit Fitting!!!

 

Who Loves Ya Baby?

Tags

blogging, Humor, life in the foothills

I was meandering around my blog yesterday. I seldom do that. My schedule is too crazy for daydreamin’ on a Sunday afternoon.

But, I was meandering apropos of something or other and by chance clicked on my ClustrMaps icon which I had not done for like a year or so. Volumes of information poured forth, some of it amusingly and politically accurate and some of it just plain weird.

As you might expect, the talented and deliciously brilliant folks in California visit me more than any other state. The outlier is that Texas is second, and plainly there are not that many people who can read in Texas I’m quite sure. This is followed by New York, which again speaks to the chic in-the-know kinda folks that inhabit that fair land.

Florida is inexplicably next (no I’m not running through the entire cavalcade of states! give me some credit for knowing boredom when I smell it) and the only explanation is that the nursing homes set all the old geezers and geezerettes up in front of my page as a way of keeping the blood circulating from all my provocative stances on all issues of import.

Michigan favors its favorite daughter more than Iowa. I guess Iowa is pissed that I took one of their native sons away to live in the happy land of Enchantment. My new home of New Mexico is quite a distance ahead of my second home of Connecticut which apparently didn’t find my two-year stint there important enough to feel any kinship toward me.

Nothing much is of interest, except that the Washington DC area doesn’t read me nearly enough and I was just sure that I was the talk of Congress and most of the beltway. I assume being politically correct trumps political honesty. But deep down I know that Boehner of Orange sneaks a peak at what I have to say or at least has his staff prepare a synopsis/position paper, on my latest analysis.

The state that visits me least? Oh that would be North Dakota, and who the hell cares what they think? Exactly NOBODY.

Only eight have visited from the Armed Forces of the Pacific. I have no idea if that is an island or a ship, but I can allow that they may have more to do watching out for Commie sneak attacks than to read about Diego or peruse my decorating successes.

Foreign wise, the UK is by far ahead of the pack, beating out the neighbor to the north by a mile. I guess the Stanley Cup residing almost always in the US and my Canuck jokes have not gone over well. Hell, most of the damn country is uninhabited or uninhabitable, and everyone knows Polar bears don’t have thumbs to move the cursor.

I’m big in the Philippines and India, not so much in Switzerland or Finland. Go figure. If there is a correlation I have yet to figure it out. Folks from Trinidad and Tobago (boy it must be strange to be a pair of countries forever tied, kinda like Siamese twins?–or is that politically incorrect–conjoined twins? better?) visit more than those of Nigeria. Again, I’m flummoxed as to why.

I’m guessing, though I have no intention of tediously counting all of them, that I am nearing a visit from nearly every country on the map. One wonders how thy came to find me, and I’m sure each has a fabulously funny story to relate as to that. Contact me and I can feature your little story. Beyond that it is little wonder that the world is in the state it’s in if they have the time to read my blather.

But I’m sure you wanted to know all this.

At least now you have something to talk about at the dinner table. “Hey dear, did you know that Sherry over at A Voice From the Foothills has more visitors from Trinidad and Tobago than from Nigeria? That’s really odd don’t you think? Please pass the salt.”

It’s Friday, only about eleven days to go before I can take my brain back out of the freezer where I have stored it for safekeeping.

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• The Sex Lives of Conjoined Twins (theatlantic.com)
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• Shoot a Barn, Why Don’t Ya (theonlinephotographer.typepad.com)
• Saddle up, ya’ll! It’s Texas Wine Month! (cabsavvy.wordpress.com)
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Not Every Reincarnation Goes By the Book

Tags

Diego, Humor, life in the foothills, New Mexico, short stories

Before you start, I know.

Everybody is most assuredly sure that their pet is the most intelligent, most adroit pet in the entire world. Nobody can match their sweet gerbil, rabbit, dog, cat, turtle or canary at tricks, cuteness, or intellectual perspicuity.

But no, really, Diego is different! HA!

Okay, he looks perfectly normal. And he acts fairly doggish most of the time. But there is something weirdly, nay, creepily human about this dog that gives pause.

I have come (in the moments of lucidity) to believe that this creature is a human trapped in a dog suit. And believe me, when you realize that, it makes you relate in a whole different way. I mean, you can hardly be childishly cooey to a grown man can you? You cannot wag you finger at a possibly elderly woman and cluck, “bad dog!”

I mean ya just can’t. You feel, and should, vaguely guilty at such condescending crap.

You see, we thought Diego was unable to speak. Other than a whimpering whine, he seemed mute. Then he developed this thing we call “the growl” which is not a growl in the sense that other dogs growl. It is no warning to “leave me be”.  No, it is a long, drawn out series of syllables that are not always at all the same and resemble something like “ohhh rah rooo rooo, rum”.

This typically happens when he comes running into the room you are in and looks up in excitement:

“Rooah, roo roo rah roo!”

You see?

He speaks in complete sentences.

I’m considering contacting a linguist to pinpoint the country or region which speaks this particular dialect. I’m looking for a translator. I figure he has more to say than “Timmy’s in the well again!” It’s probably got to do with his advice on how to bring the Palestinians and the Israelis back to the table to negotiate a two-state solution.

Okay, so we have this “dog” that talks in his own language.

So, we are sitting the other evening in the living room and Diego has taken up his post out on the patio listening to the night noises (other dogs yapping mostly) while taking a chew on his rawhide, enjoying his new comfort mat that covers the stone floor.

Suddenly we here two very sharp and very loud barks: “WOOF, WOOF!” Clear, deep, manly BARKS!

It seems our Diego does not favor the sound of a siren, which is an infrequent occurrence in our environs. The next night, another siren, and the same clear, bell-ringing sound, WOOF, WOOF!

Just two. Just enough to register his dislike of such noise.

Now this raises a whole new issue to life with Diego.

Diego is the “sweet boy” of the neighborhood. He is seldom on leash any more, and often lays in the garage doorway when the Contrarian is out sawing and sanding, and finishing and all that woodworking dovetailing thing. When Rosie, from down the street goes by, he fairly faints with happiness. When the girl across the street heads off to catch the bus, Diego runs into the street, collapses at her feet, and wiggles happily as she rubs his tummy. When anybody moves, Diego races to them and demands they feel how soft his tummy hairs are. Then he trots home, happy that he has like State Farm, “been a good neighbor.”

Diego, when confronting other dogs, is often (Rosie is a clear exception) met with howls of growling barking warning him to come no nearer lest he lose his nose and one leg. Most are little shits with no hope of success, yet they blather with a bravado which attempts to sound big. Diego calmly looks on, standing still, and sometimes even requests them to rub his tummy too.

This makes all the owners of those dogs feel down right embarrassed by their dopey belligerents, and apologize profusely for the poor manners of their canines. Diego smiles, and come home.

Now I ask you, what dog takes this kind of abuse lying down? It’s as if he is saying, “what in the world are you fools yapping about. You smell and I wanna get a closer whiff. No doubt if you would shut up long enough to check, you might like to take a whiff of my equipment too.” Then he shrugs and goes on his way.

He does the same thing to those dogs we find at the far reaches of our walk who sometimes greet us from their pens with slathering threats. He stares, and then shrugs, and then moves back to the scent he was on in the first place.

He doesn’t bark by choice.

This is not a dog.

This is a guy who  KNOWS he’s been reincarnated in a dog.

Trouble is, I don’t know how okay he is with it.

He seems okay with it. He wiggles and kisses a lot. He comes at you and throws himself in your arms and then looks up at you with tender affection, surely saying “I’m really cute aren’t I?”

If you know of a translator, let me know. I’m getting a bit nervous. I just went to the patio and a bunch of stones, surrounded by four disemboweled unstuffed animals,  seemed oddly scattered in a pattern that looked an awful lot like MED SCH. Diego looked up at me and smiled.

Boy, I guess we better start saving for college.

 

Mental Hospitals are Packed to the Gills

Tags

Election 2012, essay, Humor

Headlines scream across the nation. Our insane asylums are filling up rapidly, especially in the swing states. Crazed citizens are seen throwing big screen TVs out of windows and smashing IPads, all in a frantic effort to get away from campaign ads.

Those in non-battleground states fare somewhat better, but they too are starting to call suicide lines in increasing numbers, mumbling “Rasmussen says Romney is up 2 points, NBC says Obama by 1, Gallup has Romney by 5, but that’s a tracking poll, (ignore?), Quinnipiac has it a dead heat. . . .HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!”

What to make of it all?

Who in hell knows and could they be trusted to tell the truth anyway?

What is for sure, is that the media is pushing the meme of “closer than gnats having sex on a head of a pin” and they change the gloom and doom for one candidate versus the other nearly every hour. This is what makes their little libidos tingle with joy and they are getting a whooping thrill out of making us crazy with worry or exaltation.

If you care, you are either up in the clouds or slogging through the cesspool of despair. And you are reversing course at least twice a day.

No wonder doctors offices are filled to overflow with demand for sedatives and tranquilizers. Booze is being sold by the truck load off street corners, and people are simply offering up the deeds to their homes in return for a joint. It’s THAT bad.

Everybody wants a definitive answer, and everybody promises one. The problem is that scroll down, get to the next corner, turn the page, change the channel, and the opposite view is expressed as just that–THE bottom line.

Round we go on the merry-go-round of presidential elections. The final two weeks. The candidates are hoarse, they talk louder and faster. They promise a chicken in every pot and a Porsche in every driveway. Fox is nearly talking backward promising Armageddon, World War III and IV to be fought outside your door, a plague of locusts, earwigs, and jello shot addiction, should *gasp* HE win.

Meanwhile, the stars? keep dancing, Steve McGarrett continues to yell “book ’em Danno” and  Alex Trebek continues to sigh, “you forgot to give your answer in the form of a question.”

The sun continues to come up in the east, although further to the south as we move toward the winter solstice. The moon continues to wax and wane and millions still have no idea which is which. Monday continues to come before Tuesday except in a Leap Year when it faints from the effort and mills around with out drugged out days of the week that didn’t make the cut.

The fool running in Indiana who beat out Lugar to carry the Re(ohyougottabekiddin’me)publican banner, just up and said that he’s had a long talk with God and feels most assured that women who become pregnant from rape are carrying the child because God wants them to. Great comfort for the rapist to know he is doing Holy Will. A conversation overhead between Mourdock and Willard the Lie, reflected:

“Richard, don’t worry, I won’t desert you. If these lumps of factory fodder haven’t figured out yet that we don’t mean hardly anything we say anyway, hey, they never will. My endorsement is yours still my good fellow. I personally don’t have a clue about all that morality stuff–just feed ’em what they want to hear I say.”

Some have suggested that perhaps God doesn’t want the GOP to have control of the Senate. Oh who can say?

And the beat goes on, but in slightly a different timbre since Uranus just lodged complaint #32,491 against the Galatic Center for having to bear the most embarrassing butt of all jokes kinda name in the entire Milky of Way. Sirius pointed out that there is a new star in the Pleiades that just got named PusayWip and Uranus should just shut the frack up.

This just in. Alabama has instituted an emergency voting law that says that you must bend over, and if you can’t read the eye chart between your legs upside down from thirty feet, you can’t vote in their state. Alabama is contemplating making everyone walk that way all the time since it helps to define who are the “illegals” since only Alabamians are willing to bend over that far for their government.

I’d have more to say, but my meds are fading and I have to I have to call and ask if it’s okay to take them only fifteen minutes apart. I’m doing fine–just another trip to the grocery story to buy aluminum foil. Got most of the house covered now, just the driveway to go.

Can you spell R O S W E L L ???? Did I spell it right? Who said that? Now you’re being just creepy.

 

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