"People never lie so much as after a hunt, during a war or before an election."
Starting the day with a grim smile, watching all the low information voters who elected King Mendacious II to the throne choke on the consequences of their support.
Down in Doral, the Venezuelans loved him, crowded their yards with his signs before the election, even if a lot of them weren't citizens and couldn't vote.
Now the joke's on them: whatever emergency back home allowed them to be here seems to have ended, by executive decree. They can all go home now. They must go home now. Might be a good idea to leave that MAGA hat back in South Florida, rather than flagging yourself when Maduro's goons come looking for you on the streets of Caracas.
Then there are the self-defeating Arabs of Michigan, who showed Biden a thing or two by delivering their state to the Spray On Sun King as punishment for Biden going a little too easy on Israel. Now they're shocked at the notion that their guy plans to deport two million Palestinians from Gaza, annex the whole thing and turn it into a Trump resort community.
Let's not forget the farmers, whose racism and ignorance led them to vote en masse for a washed up reality TV start from Queens. Now the crops they would've sold through USAID aren't going anywhere, not that there will be anyone to harvest them once the immigrants are all gone. Financial ruin awaits.
Dumbshits all. But the whole country gets to pay the price. And don't expect any sort of mea culpa from any of them. Their man taught them never to admit a mistake. If bad things happen, it's all the libs' fault.
I had planned to talk football this morning, three days after the Eagles mopped the floor with Patrick Mahomes' face in a Super Bowl game characterized by many as perhaps the worst ever. We're in that grim season now, snowy and cold and devoid of America's favorite pastime until the fall. "Football season is over", Hunter S. Thompson titled his suicide note, twenty years ago next week. I'm not quite that depressed. Unlike Dr. Thompson, I joy in baseball season at least as much as football, and the Braves' pitchers and catchers report for spring training today. The dark night of no sports only lasts three days now. The buds are, figuratively, already on the trees.
But back to football. The Chiefs' drubbing last Sunday reminded me of the last time they were mercilessly stomped in the Super Bowl. That would be Super Bowl I, when they lost to the Green Bay Packers in the Los Angeles Coliseum 35-10. I was two years old, and don't remember anything about the game although I'm certain my folks watched it. I do remember that team, however, as a kid who over the next several years slept under Kansas City Chief sheets while wearing Chiefs footie pajamas. Those guys were the heroes of my youth: Buck Buchanan, Curley Culp, Willie Lanier, Ed Podolak, Otis Taylor, and of course the great Lenny Dawson. I reckon next to Robert E. Lee, Dawson would have been the guy I most tried to emulate as a very small person.
My favorite pic of Dawson is this one, from that awful first Super Bowl, taking a break at halftime after spending a couple quarters dodging Ray Nitschke in a collapsed pocket, over and over.
Those guys were real men--no freaky Tom Brady diet here. Just the rich tobacco pleasure of a Marlboro (red label, I'm guessing, and not those sissy low tar cigs we smoked during the war), and rehydrating with a Fresca. Awesomeness.
And Dawson lived to be 87, working right up to the end as a fixture of the Kansas City sports and charity scene. Obviously, that diet of nicotine and sugar didn't ruin his health. I'm guessing Peg met him during her time there, although she doesn't specifically remember.
Time to do something remunerative, as important as this bit of therapy has been.
It's baseball season! All very good.
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