swerve responsibly

Never the most optimistic Yaqui sorcerer on decent flying days, seeking signs that 2010 will be an improvement over last year has yielded the slimy glimpse that we’ll be seeing more of Newt Gingrich on Meet the Press; that’s what chicken intestines tell me. Maybe you have a better way of divining the future. At least a chicken can be fried and served with mash potatoes after the serious work is done.

Although loath to make resolutions, I have decided to ignore online senility and NO SMOKING neon. Consider my public pipe smoking a version of going Galt. When Missouri becomes civilized and allows nicotine-addicted drunks to flaunt their firearms, tobacco teetotalers had better watch their step. Because I’m a lousy shot, the Mac 10 is an ideal weapon. Gun nuts tell me that the lightweight machine gun is great for drive-bys and spontaneous crowd control. Besides, spraying collateral damage honors a holy God-given Constitutional right. I’d be more inclined to kill animals if taking careful aim wasn’t considered a sport. We’ll know the last trace of liberalism has finally been eliminated when Field & Stream features an article on flame throwers.

Assuming that a neutered health-care reform bill meets Joe Lieberman’s approval, my guess is that Tea Baggers will turn their short attention span toward education. Who knew teaching evolution would morph into America’s first black Hawaiian president? Reading between the lines, I suspect that’s why Sarah Palin is still hanging around. She knows her scripture. Pictures in the official Alaskan Assembly of God Bible depict Adam and Eve looking like fully clothed Scandinavian campers. Education is a terrible thing. Jesus and Paul Butler wept after reading Paul Teverow’s op-ed that blasphemed “It’s a Wonderful Life” with leftist Ph.D. propaganda. Perhaps locals much closer to the Lord than the out-of-state historian can pass the collection plate and buy MSSU before another international studies vacation corrupts Heather Dawn’s sporadic rendezvous with underarm deodorant. I worry that reinstituting a ban on shellfish will cripple Red Lobster’s business. Executing abortion providers and waiters serving lobster dishonors the ‘murder by necessity’ defense, as it infers that both fetus and lobster share the same homarus americanus classification. Because dark magic gives me an edge, I can see Anson Burlingame solving this dilemma by suggesting parents name male offspring Shrimp and girl babies Crabbie.

Fully rested and well stocked, Juan Don looks forward to sharing his exposed toes wisdom with those bold enough to crawl away from Caldwell’s Corner. Assuming there is no more dirty laundry to wash, I’ll eat some sacred fungi and see if I can find Cary Randolph Fuller. My spirit body enables me to sneak into Nello’s without appropriate jacket and tie.