Living as I do a pretty abstemious life – more out of economic necessity than moral rectitude – I nevertheless must admit to a few guilty pleasures.
A lot of Bush’s support comes from the Christian Right.
A lot of Bush’s support comes from people who he and his cronies have terrified with their terrorist boogeyman stories.
So, riddle me this: if someone is a “Christian” right-winger, don’t they KNOW where they are going when they die?
No wonder they are so terrified: imagine what G*d Almighty has in store for them as payback for their anti-woman/jihadist/racist/anti-intellectual and generally hateful ways.
And I don’t think it’s a covey of virgin brides, either.
Well, it’s finally here, the Tuesday after Labor Day, and there were a lot of glum faces at the final cookout of the season at my neighbor’s house last night.
Recently at work, we rehashed our options regarding a piece of source code which my company bought largely on trust, without understanding what exactly differentiates its workings from an earlier version that we (meaning I) have been slicing and dicing for the last couple of months.
As a gardener, I resent the bad rap that mud and manure got this week as a result of their misuse at the Republican National Convention.
Well, it’s ABOUT TIME – thank you, Senator Kerry, for finally engaging the Republican attack machine in your Ohio speech.
I’m almost done replanting the rest of the flower boxes on the porch.
A meander down 6A from Dennis to Peter’s house included a productive stop at the County Farm, where I picked up two nice, bushy (you should forgive the phrase) impatiens. A couple of six packs of fall pansies should finish off the job.
I know a lot of Cape Codders who are thinking or at least dreaming about moving further South.
And by South, I don’t mean Rhode Island.
Around here, comes August, come the crickets.
Last year, I had an invasion of the little buggers in the basement, and I grew to hate their miserable chirping, amplified by the unfinished cement floors and walls.
And one had hope that somewhere in North America, judges have the decency to protect children with the one weapon at their disposal: levying meaningful consequences for abuse and neglect.
Fat f* chance.