The Sunday Morning Funnies Just Landed On Your Doorstep

FRIENDS & ENTROPIES,

I really don’t care who you are, just listen to my protracted demagogic blog-personality voice:

I am a hypersensitive WATER SIGN so I will get all emotional here in the Octopus Diary. It’s okay, you can handle it, I think. I like to think you all understand where I’m coming from when I share my thoughts & words w/ you. But I know that’s an unrealistic expectation, and that some people just won’t understand, don’t have the Iron Age tools of understanding.

At their direct disposal (crematory of consciousness) garbolic sanitation demolition project. Hero.

HELLO: 

Let me start again by saying: I know I got all emotional and sassy and made broad sweeping generalizations which are a NO in this hyper-woke post-Aquarian tectonic New World Disorder shift of consciousness Age.

And like I said, that’s going to keep happening. In my proven empirical fact-checked zodiac chart there is only: WATER & FIRE.

Zero zilch nada EARTH or AIR.

So, with me you’ll get a lot of this: EMOTIONAL/INTUITIVE/PASSIONATE

And none of this: COOL/CALM/COLLECTED

But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen.

Since I got all emotional on you last time, I was actually going to do something a fair & logical AIR SIGN would do:

Write an Adventure in Reality

And, friends, I did start writing an adventure. But then I did something I’ve never done before—I bailed on it! I got halfway into it (or more, 2/3 maybe) and I said ‘I can’t do it anymore!’

The Adventure was, in a nut shell, the tale of Trump & Putin’s romance leading to WW3. It was plenty ridiculous & action packed, but…I just didn’t find it funny. It’s hard for me to joke about all this. Putin is a really scary guy (even though he looks just like my step dad). 

And though Trump will always be a bozo, his henchmen are like sentient fungi come to life, spreading grayly w/ broken capillaries all over my comfort zone.  

I joked & satirized & surrealized & subverted myself all through the Bush years, because I had a firm grasp of what those bozos were about to do next. I have no firm grasp on this slippery executive guano…

…my skullbones once fused together so nicely

now pulled apart & struggling to contain all this new shit

It’s a shell game

So many new things to know

It’s not that I thought I was done knowing new things,

but these aren’t new things & I don’t want to know them again

[Yeah, like remember in the 70s & 80s how ugly we were to gay people, minorities, immigrants, fat people? I’m glad I can’t remember any farther back than that… we’ve come forward a little ways, but now we’re lashing back like a whip…snap]

They’ve been trotting out old George Monkey Bush—the enemy-media has. Look at him! Don’t we miss this little eek-eek good-ole boy chimp w/ his acrylic on canvas atonement oeuvre?

HE LOOKS LIKE A BEADY EYED HAMSTER WHOSE CAGE WAS FLUNG OPEN AND ALL HE WANTS TO DO IS SCAMPER TO THE FARTHEST CORNER AND HUNKER DOWN. HE LOOKS LIKE HE HAS BLOOD ON HIS HANDS NO TURPENTINE WILL EVER REMOVE. SHAME ON YOU (and you, Ellen De Generes for having him on your show) GEORGE W. BUSH FOR NOT EVEN BEING A CHIMPANZEE BUT A LESSER DEMON, A TRINKET ON A PUPPET ON A WIRE IN YOUR VICELORD’s ARTIFICIAL HEARTCHAMBER!!

I HAVE NOT FORGIVEN YOU YET. Our common hatred for clowns does not make us friends. And so my enemy, since I can’t make the adventure any less real I share w/ my friends again—

SHELTER CAT & TRUST FUND BABY