Guido and I partied hard on Saturday — I even put down my beer to spell the bass player for a couple songs — so we totally forget about this Rapture bullshit.
Dawn Sunday. Cue the birdsong, the sunrise behind the closed blinds, the thumping of the early morning wood against the hollow belly button. Are we still here? Is the earth of one piece? Are the imbeciles who bought this shit even a little bit embarrassed at their own naiveté? More importantly, did the Phillies win? And, in the flower power tradition, Where have all the covers gone? (Guido steals the sheets off my naked body every night and blames the cats. Really. I suffer so.)
None of the above. Looks like a Sunday morning like any other. It’s just about 7 AM, and I’m perched on the throne, drinking black coffee while sneering at the Miami Hurled sports section (how does Greg Cote keep his job? “TNT’s Charles Barkley called the Heat “a whiny bunch.” I am taking up a collection to pay Chuck to please shut the [bleep] up for just one [bleeping] minute for crying out loud!” Great stuff, Greg. Insightful. Clever. Mature.)
The world endures, and the dudes abide. But wait — my next door neighbors are gone! The redneck assholes s have shuttered up their house, packed up their truck and house trailer, and slipped off before dawn. Have they been raptured, or at least ruptured?
Probably not. They do this every summer, inspiring my prayers (such as they are) that somewhere on the highway to wherever they go they meet their maker in a fiery, fatal, metal-melting highway collision that scorches their flesh and kills them dead. But god, the asshat, never listens to my prayers. Evidently I don’t send a big enough check.
And an hour or so later, out in the back yard with a handful of plastic bags on poop patrol, I don’t find a single cable, pile, or puddle. Five cats and a dog, and not one ounce of excrement. Perhaps all the shit in the world was raptured, leaving us poor sanitation staff behind? Meet god, coprophile. It figures. Nah. Coincidence. Read this:
“How absurd to suggest that any governor’s selection of a state judge would be altered for any price, especially for a handful of dollars directed to a political party,” Michael Stout, Judge Murphy’s attorney, said in a statement on Saturday. — NYTimes
Wow….clearly the nation’s lawyers have supplies of deep unraptured bullshit in unlimited supplies. Imagine — state politics (in New Mexico) actually influenced at the highest level by cash? We’re shocked, shocked.
At this writing, I haven’t encountered a reaction from Harold Camping, the nitwit Christian broadcaster who started this rapture-fest, but truly, I don’t anticipate an admission of error, let alone an apology, First of all, it’s just business, and second, making a humongous braying ass of yourself on an international stage is no longer a negative. In fact, you’re nobody until you do so, consistently and often.
But let’s leave Donald Trump, Sarah Palin, and Newt Gingrich out of this for now.