Bridge
To Everywhere
Right-wing media is busy fabricating conspiracy theories
about the destruction of the Francis Scott Key bridge, blaming
everything from Biden's infrastructure bill to Taylor Swift. Because
everything is the Democrat's fault.
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The difference between the Key bridge and Jesus is that the
bridge will rise again.
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This coming Monday everyone will be outside staring up
at the sun and beholding this little miracle of astronomy
we humans call "a total eclipse". But where will
I be?
Jury duty.
Jury. Fucking. Duty.
Hopefully the judge will decide that this rare cosmological
event might be a peench more important than which defendant
in the case gets custody of the Star Trek Collector's plates
and therefore extend the jury pool's lunch hour a few extra
minutes.
This
Just In: I received a text this afternoon
saying that I was no longer needed for jury duty, with no
further explanation. So, yay me, but I really don't mind
doing such
civic duty when called so I think I'll balance my karmic
scale by looking for an old lady to help walk across a street...
or maybe find
a
young
lady
and let her walk ME across the street.
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I'm officially in the 49th year of ownership of my '65
Mustang and it celebrated the occasion by suddenly running
like hammered shit last week, highlighted by a persistent
miss in a heretofore buttery-smooth idle which proceeded
to all-hell-breaking-loose under any slight hint of acceleration.
I've been the chief cook and oil-changer to this lovely
beast all these many years but this rash of symptoms was
new to me. Bad gas? Sticky valves? Timing chain? Bird flu?
I spent three days, most of last weekend, replacing ignition
wires and distributor caps, checking and rechecking the
spark
plug
gaps, even
popping the valve cover to make sure the valve train hadn't
been replaced in the night by a shoe box full of gravel.
Sometimes it ran smoothly, sometimes it called my mother
names. It was the kind of complete and inscrutable inconsistency
that causes one to question if they're in the correct multiverse.
Finally, yesterday, even though I am loathe to let other
hands sully my ancient ride, I threw in the towel and handed
it over to Emilio at the corner repair shop. I was certain
that my little car was doomed, that open heart searchery
(sic) was imminent, to later be accompanied by a bill equal
to the GDP of small Eastern European countries.
Four hours later
Emilio called back and said that it was fixed. I girded
my loins, held my breath and asked, as well as I could
considering
I was holding my breath, what magic he had performed.
Points. A whole $65 worth of repair.
And that's why I am/was an artist for a living. (It's also
why Monday's 'toon is on a Tuesday.)
-
Lefty
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