When he was living in his accursed group house, the Engineer suffered the presence of his house-mate’s beau, a local Republican talk-show host who came over to watch their cable TV (he was too cheap to pay for it at his own place), nosh the Engineer’s baking, and basically sit on the sofa and scratch his balls. I cherish the memory of the chump only because of the spit-take he did when the Engineer executed his hail-Mary pass ten and more years ago, during a homeowner upgrade. For reasons too bizarre to go into, I had asked him for any spare lumber that was left over.
“Oh, Sled? I have wood for you. …I mean, if you would like a stud.”
We had to pound the poor motherfucker on the back to sort out the coffee he inhaled.
The other night I dreamed we were attending the premiere of a movie that was being made about the sorry chump’s life, really more like the first rushes. People were coming from all over to sit in an amphitheater kind of place, with popcorn.
And then Ted Cruz bustled out of the kitchen in a red and white gingham apron, with a pot roast that he had more or less assassinated, unfit for consumption by any but the desperate and by a vegetarian, well, it goes without saying.
And the primaries are only starting. It’s going to be a long, long fucking year.