Intemperate thoughts

My new toy.

No, a copy, not a real Fender Strat. Although, I do have the real deal lying around here somewhere.

Many thanks to our lovely model, Boyzilla.

Meet my new pet...Normie the Beetle.

If we taxed women a plug nickel every time they posted pictures of their stupid cats on social media outlets, we would have no national debt, a zircon-encrusted stairway to heaven and a dozen or so thriving cities all across the face of Mars.

Face it, insects are cool. And save for when air rifles are a part of the equation, cats just flat out suck.

So, Barry Oblahblah...let's get that goll-danged cat photo tax enacted like pronto.

There ought to be a city ordinance banning these freak shows, these estate sales. Truck it to an auction house. Or truck it to the landfill. But don't invite every resident of Incest Creek not on death row to my front door.

For an entire day, an entire street is held hostage while the trailer park escapees come by the millions in search of trinkets priced at 75 cents and less.

According to the newspaper, the sale was to begin at 9 o'clock in the morning. Yet, an hour and a half before that published time, I had creepy crawlers in my driveway straining to peek inside of windows.

Being kind of, sort of grown up at my advanced age, I resisted the burning urge to stomp on out there and go all sh*tstorm on them. These days, intense death stares are still legal near as I can tell.

Freaks!

Anyways, that's all I got.

G'nite