All the Ass You Can Eat Wednesday

I am en route to what looks to be a truly noxious examination for discovery, so I will be brief. Today I nominate my "ass of the week" candidates. In no sensible order they are:

1. The driver of Allied Van Lines truck No. 5472. (I think that's the number, I don't know for sure, you were moving so fast as you bore down on me from the rear, before swerving onto the shoulder of Marine Way, without checking your speed, in order to crush the slightly swollen corpse of the roadkill raccoon. Big Man.) You, sir, are an ass.

2. That little guy from N. Korea with the limp missile problem. Clearly his star turn in Team America (which role was made for him) has gone to his head. I know it is difficult to discuss anything with the Shrub (who is also an ass of immense proportion) (and will be nominated soon, as soon as I read the news and find some risible quote) when he is busy on his latter day crusade for justice, or petroleum, or sand, or whatever it is, I forget, it keeps changing but to blow your wad in such an unceremonious manner suggests to me that you, sir, you are an ass.

3. The dead Enron guy. How dare you pop off prior to sentencing! How can anyone extract their putative pound of flesh when you are but a mouldering corpse? Unless there was some kind of 'Bulgarian Umbrella' scenario here (and I have no clue, did I mention I am in a bit of a rush? Quantity quantity uber alles, oom pah, and what about that semi-final match between Italy and Germany yesterday - it's almost enough to make soccer appear interesting, which is something, given the lack of gimmicks involved in the sport, such as cheerleaders, half time appearances by dinosaurs or the sartorially challenged, or blaring bertween-play music, all devices for those who have, or soon will have, the attenuated attention spans of gnats) in which case maybe the pound has been taken. In any event, you sir, you are and were an ass.

4. The sport of cycling. I thought that, in this modern age, the only person needful of a complete blood-change was Keith Richards, the only moron requiring growth hormones was some chubby baseballer, or a track star, but no. All of those who chase Mr. Armstrong's accomplishments are perhaps seeking some competitive edge, the edge some suggested Mr. A partook of (of which he partook, of, of partook which...fuck). A pox on your saddles, you silly spandex-loving cyclists. You have brought shame to your families and your sport. You are all asses. (My theory of Mr. A's success: one nut.)

(So there, he says, putting away his blowdryer.)

Today when I got home e said "thanks for coming home" and, well, it's kind of hard to stay bent out of shape. Children are yoga for the soul.

P-man out.