You wouldn’t believe the crap I save. Not just the crap everybody seems to save, but a lot of other stuff most people put in the incinerator with glee. Not me. I cart it from house to house, moving van to moving van. If you wrote me a letter or even a postcard back in the seventies, I have it. Uh, no, not neatly filed in a folder in a cabinet, but in a jumbled mass of papers from multiple decades, all nicely slammed into a cardboard legal box. My ex insisted on packing that stuff for me, and out of a sense of packing paralysis, I leave it that way.
And that’s also why when I move, like I am right now, I need time away from pleasant things to get it done. And that means my local comrades will be pressed into service, too. That means Saitia— the best Uhaul move director I’ve ever seen— and Terry— yeah he says he has a bad back, but how do you get a bad back photochopping— will have an additional excuse not to be producing the uh, how does “Majeston” put it— “shit” we call satire— for a few days.
Meanwhile, you can follow my pain in the neck on Twitter, or just ramble aimlessly through our archives; you’ll be amazed at the excellent work shit you’ll find there… hmm… it seems like only yesterday this nation was actually flirting with the idea of making an ex-sportscaster wolf-hunting halfwit the vice president of some old batshit bastid phony from Arizony. And you think things changed for the worst?
Meanwhile. Propagandee has promised to pick up the slack while we’re moving stuff; but that could mean anything from a brilliant new post every day, to him taking an acid trip until next Wednesday. But that’s why we love him.