A BLEAKNESS OF THE SOUL

So Elon and Donald have mutually decided that the bromance is over. OVER! They never want to see the other man again. All that's left is deciding who gets custody of J. D. Vance. Neither want the putz or the couch, but someone has to take him.

The boys in the backroom are still in a state of denial. Which means they've been more than unbearable, worse than before. The member of the judicial branch ranted about the Chinese for over an hour, following which he went on about Latinos. This convinces me that he's irredeemable. I kind of knew that. The others not only encouraged him, but joined in. Repulsive cretins.

On the way into work I ran into an old acquaintance, who was surprised when I described the member of the judicial branch as being divorced from reality, out of his mind, and staggering into senility. Of course, they're all mentally off and morally crippled, which is why they enjoy each others company, vote the solid fascist ticket, and have no real friends.

For Christmas this year I want an electric cattle prod.

Other than about a dozen or so human anomalies, I have realized that the creatures of which am I fondest in Marin County are the turkey vultures circling elegantly over the marshes and disposing of the Karens who strayed into the swamp.

Remarkable birds. Lovely plumage!

And the crows.



For the rest, Marin kan me echt gestolen worden.




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