The featured image is one of the last paintings Grant Wood finished before his death in 1942. I’m a city boy so I had to look up what the structures in the painting are. They’re corn shocks, which isn’t shocking since Wood was from Iowa where corn is king and where the presidential campaign schedule kicks off. Ethanol subsidy, baby.
The mere thought of how the legacy media is covering the 2024 race vexes me. You know that means: It’s time for some vexatious venting about irksome things.
I’m irked that the NYT has an op-ed piece with this headline: Could Nikki Haley Actually Do it?
Are you fucking kidding me? I’m more likely to believe in the Easter Bunny or Bigfoot. The Indicted Impeached Insult Comedian has the GOP by the balls. Malaka Nikki is going for the silver medal.
I’m irked that geography no longer matters when it comes to college football conferences. Since when are SMU, Cal, and Stanford located on the Atlantic Coast? Since when are USC and UCLA located in the Midwest? These are questions no one should have to ponder. It’s all about greenbacks, dough, cash and:
I hope you’re not irked that I called y’all honey. What’s a banal term of endearment among friends? How about another version of Money Honey?
I’m irked that people are irked that I don’t give a shit about Jeffrey Epstein. He was just a rich pervert who died in jail. I don’t give a shit about the Maxwell spawn turned procurer of women either. Punish these fuckers and leave me alone. As to the details of who is in the perv’s little black book:
I’m irked by all the buzz words we have to navigate to avoid offense. I’d like to cancel the use of cancel and pull the trigger on removing trigger from the lexicon. If that triggered you, find your safe space, stay there, and spare me the psychobabble. I just wanna rock with John Wetton, Geoff Downes, Steve Howe, and Carl Palmer:
I’m irked that Elise Stefanik outsmarted the presidents of Harvard, MIT, and Penn. She laid a trap for them and they fell into it. It cost them their dignity during the hearing and two of them their jobs thus far. That’s what happens when you’re:
Finally, I’m irked that it’s the Eleventh Day of Christmas and all we get are eleven pipers piping. I don’t want one piper piping at me let alone twelve. Oy, just oy.
The last word goes to Jethro Tull:
