I’ve had a minor back problem for most of my life. Oddly enough, it happens with less frequency now than when I was younger. That makes no sense, but I’ll take it. It happened again. That’s why I’m irked. When I’m irked, I write, right?
I’m irked that I’ve had elaborate surreal dreams that I cannot remember upon awakening. I recall a snippet of one involving giant birds hence the Max Ernst featured image. In any event, I love the smell of surrealism in the morning. That only makes sense if you remember this scene from Apocalypse Now:
I’m irked that Secret Service agents have deleted text messages from January 5 and 6 2021 and expect the world to believe a cover story that’s the technological equivalent of “the dog ate my homework.” I hate the smell of cover ups in the morning.
I’m irked that doctors are being smeared and persecuted for doing their jobs. If this doesn’t stop, there will be a shortage of OB-GYNs thanks to supposedly pro-life politicians. So much for limited government. I hate the smell of hypocrisy in the morning.
I’m irked that Joe Mancini dba Manchin pulled his Lucy and the football shtick again. Chuck Schumer gave him what he wanted but he balked. I hate the smell of malakatude in the morning.
I’m irked that the UK is facing a heat apocalypse this week. I was in London during a similar heat wave in 2007. It was brutal because not everything was air-conditioned. Hasn’t the UK suffered enough because of Brexit and Boris? I hate the smell of flop sweat in the morning.
I’m irked that the Mothertucker dba Tucker Carlson wants to run for president. There’s no other reason for him to be in Iowa in the summertime. He should stay in Maine and go back to wearing a bow tie. I hate the smell of preppie smugness in the morning.
Finally, I’m irked that Texas wingnuts want euphemisms for slavery taught in schools. Involuntary relocation? Really? I wish they’d relocate to Hungary where they could learn what life in an authoritarian state is like. They should take Tucker. He loves the smell of goulash in the morning.
After all that kvetching, I’m still irked, and my back still hurts. Oh well, what the hell.
The last word goes to Paul Simon with the song that inspired the post title: