Thank God for GOP Sen. Bill Cassidy, one of the many leaders of the moron wing of the U.S. Senate. For a fleeting moment there we got the laughable impression that Blanche’s AG nom might actually be in danger. Cassidy, of course, is the same schmuck who’s vote gave us Kennedy at HHS. He’s a doc who’s got more blood on his hands than an ER surgeon. What’s the medical equivalent of being disbarred? The AMA should dis-caduceus him.
Owl Chatter has received an exclusive copy of the transcript of the phone call from Senators Collins and Murkowski to Trump:
C&M: Mr. President, it’s Susan and Lisa. How are you?
Trump: Fine. Wassup?
C&M: Listen, do you mind very much if we vote against Todd for AG? Our idiotic constituents seem to want us to do something in their interest once every couple of months. Of course, we would only do this if we were sure he’d pass anyway and with your approval.
Trump: Okay, go right ahead then. What the fuck do I care? Who is this?
C&M: Thank you, Mr. President. God Bless You.
And God Bless America!
Historian Heather Cox Richardson:
“Some Republicans, like 92-year-old Senate Judiciary Committee chair Chuck Grassley of Iowa, were enthusiastic. ‘Mr. Blanche is a tough, fair prosecutor dedicated to the rule of law, and his leadership instills that same zeal throughout the entire Justice Department.’
“Other Republicans were more skeptical but said if they didn’t confirm Blanche, Trump would choose someone worse. Perhaps in a permanent rather than an acting capacity, they said, he would be more likely to resist Trump’s pressure.”
AYKM? Puh-leeze.
June Torrance submitted the following to the NYT Metropolitan Diary.
Dear Diary:
In fall 2021, I visited my brother-in-law in the East Village. His husband had died in March. They had lived together in their rent-controlled apartment for over 30 years.
The apartment had not changed much since my last visit, with the exception of the urn that contained his husband’s ashes and was prominently displayed.
We had talked many times about holding a memorial service, but my brother-in-law had said he just could not bear to say a final goodbye.
One day while I was there, an exterminator came to perform the apartment’s semiannual pest-control treatment. He had been providing the service regularly for some time and asked about my brother-in-law’s husband’s whereabouts.
My brother-in-law pointed to the urn and explained what had occurred since the exterminator had last been there.
Visibly moved, the exterminator asked if he could touch the urn.
With my brother-in-law’s permission, he approached the urn, murmured a prayer, kissed two fingers of his right hand and then placed them on the urn.
Owl Chatter friends Ellen and Stuart live down in the DC area, ground zero for Gnats fans. So I emailed them that I was heartbroken over the Gnats’ recent trades of Mead, Luis, and Grif for prospects unknown. S is less downtrodden than me: He said he was “disappointed,” a step or two down from heartbroken. He thinks the lineup is strong enough to absorb the losses and that they couldn’t have gotten very far anyway with the bullpen as weak as it is. Hope he’s right about the first part. As if to support his position, the boys cashed in two nice wins against the Reds, bouncing out of their recent swoon very nicely. It was enough to get Linda and me back in the fold. We’ll be cheering them on next Sunday at Shea against the Metsies, kinehora, God and NJ Transit willing. (It will always be Shea to me.)
We’re still with you, Alexa! What’s all that crap in the bag?
Today’s big Sunday puzzle was themeless, which is unusual, and it was by brilliant constructor Erik Agard who did not disappoint. Early on, he had us all swim a lap with a grid-spanning 21-space: COME ON IN THE WATER’S FINE, clued simply with “Swimming invitation.”
“Communicate through a disagreement” was HAVE THINGS OUT.
And this brilliant clue which I could only solve via the crosses and only understood after googling: “Bond between Lazenby and Dalton.” Answer: MOORE. Get it? They are all actors who played James Bond. Roger Moore, of course, George Lazenby, and Timothy Dalton.
I commented as follows for the commentariat. [OC note: SALAT is “One of the Five Pillars of Islam, referring to prayer,” and LEIDEN is “Dutch city with a namesake jar.”]
What a wonderful puzzle! Here’s some dreadful wordplay that, in the spirit of our new Attorney General, does it injustice.
Sad memo heading at SNL: For LORNE.
What “Ladies Night” seeks to bring in: MOLASSES.
Recent trend at the NYTXW: MORASS.
The off-switch broke on the merry-go-round. Now it WHIRLS without end.
I went straight from the luau where I HULAED to the bar-mitzvah where I horaed. (Probably should have changed out of the grass skirt.)
Selecting your finest outfit for the prayer meeting: SALAT dressing.
We loved our trip to the Netherlands and especially recall watching the sunrise and sunset at LEIDEN with happiness.
Unlike the Wheel of Fortune contestant who bought a vowel, ISOLDE.
A comic was in the puzzle: SHENG Wang. You hear of him? Me neither. I challenge you to watch the first half of this five-minute video without laughing out loud.
This is a “dad poem” by Jim Daniels. That’s what I call it, with no connection to dad jokes or dad bods. It’s from yesterday’s Writer’s Almanac and it’s called “Last Night I Drove My Son Home.”
from his friend’s house, where they were filming
a movie starring my son in a love triangle.
My son, fifteen, has never been in a love right angle,
or even a love straight line, as far as I know.
He stopped talking two years ago—
to me, I mean. I got this secondhand from a street informant
I’ll refer to here by her code name, Little Sister.
A warm night, windows rolled down—my cheap car
requires physical cranking. (Not even a CD player!)
Purchased in 2003 when he was ten and still kissed me goodnight
and may even have held my hand while we watched
old movies. (No cable TV either!) Yesterday
he made me kill a giant bug, and I briefly saw
that ten-year-old again.
Full moon—I could see him looking up at it,
following it as I turned and we lost it to the trees.
September, but moist like August. I ached
for a few soft words between us in that silence.
On a sidewalk near the park a young man sat,
face in hands, a friend standing helpless above him.
I slowed down. What’s that guy doing? I said aloud.
Is he Okay?
I see him too, my son said.
As the friend helped the man
to his feet, I sped on.
My son hummed an old song about the moon
that I didn’t know he knew. My son, the star
of a movie I’ll never see. I just get
these vague coming attractions.
I caught him in a lie or two this week.
Every exchange a house of cards—all it takes
is a deep sigh, and they come tumbling down.
I’d have hummed along with him,
but I didn’t want him to stop.
We’re having a string of 90-degree days this week, reminding me that my mom thought mankind’s greatest invention was air-conditioning. So let’s talk about snowball fights. You ever get into a good one, a serious one? The best I was ever in was at Brandeis. A gang from one dorm attacked another dorm in the our quad but they soon joined forces and marched on another part of campus to attack. That quad had terraces on their buildings, so it became a battle of attackers on the ground against defenders, one flight up, on the terraces. The defenders were limited in ammo to the snow that had accumulated on the terrace, giving the attackers an advantage.
The fight that crisp winter night comes to mind because the lead headline in today’s NYT is how we (the U.S.) have depleted our supply of crucial missiles and other munitions by using them up in Trump’s moronic Iran war. Are you shitting me!!?? We are fucking out of snowballs already?? After a few months — that’s it? The trillions we spend on defense — we’re out of bullets?? Srsly?
Turns out Hegseth, our Secretary of Idiocy, lied to Trump about it, and is now blaming his deputy, pictured below.
Now, I’m no expert on national defense. I dodged the draft, remember? But, it seems to me, instead of focusing on testosterone levels, ridding the armed forces of qualified trans soldiers, and denying promotions to worthy women and Blacks, maybe the Defense Department should be a little more on top of trivial items like munitions? Just sayin’.
At least the folks who want us to stop providing weapons to Israel (or Ukraine) don’t have to raise a fuss anymore — we’re out of them.
File the above in our You Can’t Make This Stuff Up Dept.
Let’s close with this song by Bob Dylan. Linda’s sisters Bobbie and Judy did a beautiful job on it at our wedding.
See you tomorrow! Thanks for popping by.
The Wellington Files 