Don’t exactly know what I did, or if it’s because it’s very overcast and threatening rain, but awakened with the old usual torture in my back, hip and leg that hasn’t passed. About to take a hot shower to try and loosen it up a bit and have no choice but to take a Soma, something I don’t do in the day time because it knocks me out. Lucky I have oodles of sick time accumulated and two very understanding and kind bosses who know absenteeism isn’t a chronic problem for me. If the weather has something to do with this–were wedged between a low warm front and a cold front that’s shortly on its way, I wonder if arthritis is also a factor? Jeez, as Mom and Kate Hepburn used to say, “getting old ain’t for sissies!”
Mitt Romney is supposed to make a speech today, expected to trash Trump. The Republican party is making me sick with the way they don’t want him, for God’s sakes this party is practically in a moribund state and desperately needs fresh blood. Additionally, their attitude is an insult to Trump’s supporters. I voted for Romney in the last election and truth to tell I really didn’t like him but not only did I intensely dislike Obama, I feared for the country and the direction he was taking it in and figured once he was elected to a second term he would unleash the hell of his hidden liberal agenda on many fronts, and don’t you know I was right. It was sickening the way one editorial writer put in every column the fact that Romney put the family dog in a crate atop the car for family vacations, but it also sickened me that Romney did this. However, at least Romney never bragged about eating dog the way Obama did, something that never seemed to make it into the columns.
Before I hobble to the shower, and slip into Soma oblivion, I have to say it’s very suspicious that the guy who installed Hildebeast Clanton’s personal server has been granted immunity for this testimony as the news broke this morning–is someone about to be indicted? Don’t blame this bloke for seeking immunity. The Clintons are such liars and spinners of their own dirt they could be perfect candidates for human cesspools–I’m sure they would try to put blame on anyone they could besides themselves. And they are like crab grass–bad grass impossible to get rid of–they just don’t go away but keep surviving rather like cockroaches. Somewhere, somehow, there must be two hidden, secreted portraits of them that, like Dorian Gray, show their real fiendish faces. Suddenly, for some reason, I’m in the mood to talk to–Mel Brooks! Great werewolf and cat screech imitations.