Wandering into the kitchen in the middle of the night for a glass of water, my toe met its Waterloo. No I didn’t trip up to Iowa, rather my toe met the corner of the wastebasket container, and my toe lost the battle. At first I figured it for merely another stubbing with searing pain for about two minutes, and then chalk it up as another of those miserable toe meets _________stories.
Twas not to be. As I turned from the sink, and began to walk, a tingling was felt that was definitely harbinger of much worse to come. I sat upon the sofa and manipulated the fourth digit and heard/felt a distinctive popping, which suggested that all was not kosher.
I moaned and hobbled off to bed, where I moaned again. The Contrarian sat up.
“I broke my toe,” I groaned.
“Where?” he asked.
“On the way into the kitchen,” I quivered.
“On the wastepaper container?”, the specifics somehow of great importance here.
I squelched the question, “are you going out there and beat it up?” and merely said, “yes.”
He got up. I tried to get as comfy as possible. A few minutes later, I heard him coming into the room.
“Still awake?” he whispered.
He turned on the light, and stood there with an ice pack. He got one of the decorative bed pillows and laid it in place with the ice, and fixed my foot upon said pillow. “The internet said to keep it elevated and iced to prevent swelling.” he advised as he climbed back into bed.
“Thank you dear, it’s really not hurting.”
Which would all not be so terrible were it not for the fact that the other foot sports something we have called a stone bruise, which has lasted for about three weeks on my heel. I have tried to ignore it and “walk it off” but it hovers between getting much better, and then being horribly painful and hobbling. That leaves me with no good feet.
With flip-flops, and my toe taped in friendly buddy camaraderie with the bigger middle toe, there is just enough padding to my bruised heel foot to get around. Oh and with a healthy dose of some prescription ibuprofen given to me by the dentist to assuage sore gums from my teeth cleaning last week.
Diego, I might add, is bummed.
Meanwhile. . . . .
Whether for surveillance or for attack, they pose a serious intrusion on our lives. Nobody thinks it wrong that they are snooping at the border, because we don’t want “them” coming across.
Probably few in America would object if they patrolled in high drug trafficking areas within some of our cities, because we want “them” stopped.
How many other areas are we prepared to accept drones as a part of modern law enforcement?
How many are prepared to have them used in a more aggressive form?
There is an old Star Trek wherein constant war between two planets resulted in an agreement that each side could “score” computer attacks, and “casualties” would be generated. People would then march dutifully to disintegration chambers. Thus each country could preserve its infrastructure and life could go on. This had gone on for five hundred years.
Proof that what we get too far from, we find more palatable. Making war nice and easy and unmessy, has unintended consequences.
We knew they would.
They can’t help it.
They hate with a viciousness and wild fresh-meat smell that is scary, funny, and as I said, oh so predictable.
They claimed we would never see a picture because he never had shot skeet, or as one Blazey Boob put it, “I have shot lots of skeets and he ain’t shooting any skeets that I ever seen.” Yes skeets indeed.
When they produced the picture, if was of course, doctored, like his birth certificate, his college transcripts, his law license, and well, his “I’m a human being” card.
He kills over three thousand Muslims with drones, and is called a card-carrying member of the Muslim Brotherhood, intend on bringing Sharia law to Merika.
Go figure. They are nuts. It shows.
I mean you go to bed at night a card-carrying conservative Republican, and wake up the next morning an RINO, to be heaped on the pile of derision by the reactionary right-wing. NOT CRAZY ENOUGH ARE YOU screams Yoda.
Some don’t think the Tea Bibbers have the stomach for a long fight against rational Repubs who just want to win a damn election. Some don’t think they have the numbers or will to start their own third party and linger in the basement with Ralph and the other groups that vie for a place on the ballot. HERE WE ARE ↓ IN THE BASEMENT. I think remnants of the old Communist Party still dust off the buttons every four years and give it go for the Bolshevik cause.
Rush and the folks at Foxy Noise are in a tither, not knowing what to do, while Karl insists that if you will just give him more money, he will use it and WIN this time. He promises. Rush has made a living off of cheating and double-dealing all his miserable life. He’s so very prepared to continue.
Meanwhile the Tea bibbers no longer have a clue what they were about in the beginning. It had something to do about banks they think, though what it was, nobody recalls. They look down and find a KJV bible in one hand and an AK-a5 in the other, and look longingly at the Bud on the table. I may not have two good feet at the moment, but they need another hand immediately. The Bud eases the cognitive dissonance of what is in their hands.
You see, Bill said that he was the spawn of his mother having sex with an orangutan.
Donald whipped out his birth certificate to prove him wrong.
Bill, smilingly suggests that old Hair-do misses the point.
Donald wants Bill to donate some money to charity.
Donald has nothing to do.
All those Apprentices run his business.
He can’t spend all day trying on toupees.
He can’t spend all day looking up all the words that people call him, that would take forever. And besides, things like Asshat aren’t even in the dictionary yet. But the word has been submitted to the Oxford English Dictionary committee with his picture.
Have a glorious day, and don’t stub your toe. Because I will laugh if you do. Really i will. Misery loves company.