Gas and Laziness and Fatty Americans

One of my many #1 Rules of politics is: Look for the Fat Politician for he, (and it is usually a he, but it could be a she, unless you're in PA and you have like 16% female representation in the General Assembly) is ripe to be picked off. Several did, and several slimmer men, and just one woman, a hog rider herself, Madame Forcier.

It's a matter of walking the doors, and still being able to attend the spaghetti dinners, and chicken barbecues, and exercizing, not only the fat white bods in which most fat politicians come, but also exercizing portion control when sueying up to the buffet table, either laid out in caucus on the taxpayer dime:

For thoseof you PCN watchers out there, the floor euphemism for free food in the caucus room, taxpayer paid that is, is "Informal discussions are now going on in the caucus room, followed by formal discussions." And generally we're not talking about lunch meat and soda, but nice sternoed catering and punch bowls.

The other portion control is: are you spending too many days in the burg sitting down to saucy dinners with lobbyists, while still collecting your mucho denero per diem (ok, so I mix Spanish and Latin, they're both romance languages, aren't they) and eating for free, and of course with us being the only state without a lobbying disclosure law, we dont know exactly how many bottles of wine accompany that porterhouse and baked potato.

If these fat guys: the Zugs and Stevensons, these complacent two decade guys, the LaGrottas and Belardis, if they were knocking on their doors and holding the open houses and town meetings, and taking the heat for their tough votes (or in the case of the property tax reform bill if you're a House Republican, NOT taking a vote), you'd still be knocking on doors and not the unemployment office, or anyway whirring up the printer with resumes to lobbying firms or former compatriots looking for a golden parachute do nothing job hiding somewhere in the vast legislative bureaucracy, and I admit to being a part of it, okay, but some of us work when we work, and some of us rebel against the word down on high from the powers that be, the PTB of the word trying to kowtow to their ever dwindling majorities.

Anyone choke on Perzel congratulating pre-pubescent Mark Harris, and how in the Hell ladies and gentlemen can a 21 year old be so adamantly conservative, where are they breeding these black-haired Aryans, suburban Buenos Aires in the Hitler Youth enclave? So the Pig Man, he says in the Inky to good ole Marky Boy, if he can read above the 8th grade level yet, that he's welcome under Johnny boy's ample wing, a vote for the status quo. What do you think the thin young man will answer? Daryl Melcalfe for speaker you say?

Over my cold, dead body...but...wouldn't it be fitting to twist the GOP back to the stone age of the early 1990s when they were last in the minority and remind them what it is like to watch the governing.

On the way over to my safe haven of the library, a Veedub sits idling at the corner when she should be green and going right on red. I didn't honk at her as I hate the noise pollution and I'm not about the rudeness, but I am behind her gesticulating wildly the universal sign language for turn you idiot, hoping that she takes a minute to put down her Virginia Slim and eye shadow to save me some gas and go and be green on the right turn on red. Wanting to pimp her ride flat with a Monty Python foot, as the Beemer idling next to me has a classic bumper sticker:

Some Village in Texas is Missing Its Idiot, above a new one for me, Mr. Yuk Smiley Face in the Center: Yuck Bush. Never has a president seemed to inspire such one liners on sticky plastic on metal. Dont remember anti-Reagan sentiments as profound and prolific, but then again, all of the Good Reagan Democrats were part of the line of ducks heading to the military buildup and red ink parade, similar to what we have now, the black ink of Mr. Clinton's presidency erased with new war spending...

but I digress as the gas fumes pollute the air: Short answer, I should have skated the 2.3 miles to the 'bary and saved the gas and sweated gallons so I could type at no one. But, this is the fate of a single man looking for someone to share gas with.

So I just dated myself in the 1980s, and in the 2000s, I am still left dating myself until Ms. Right comes along and proposes to me and lets me write my novel and get out from under the dunce cap dome under which I slave as a drone for the PTB. Later