TWTWTW

Man, what a week, eh? I neglected to stock up on popcorn, and there I was Tuesday evening with nothing but a leftover pork chop to fix for supper when Twitter blew up.

Because sensing that even the understaffed and underfunded investigation into Russian ties to the Kleptocrat and his Gauleiters might still manage to overturn enough rocks and expose some really slimy things, 45 decided that FBI Director James Comey [hadn’t been fair to Hillary Clinton, wasn’t doing a good job, isn’t obsequious enough; was asking for more money to expand the Klepto-Russian investigation, whatever]—or possibly it’s just that it was Tuesday—so he fired him. In a letter hand delivered by a flunky while Comey was in California recruiting prospective FBI agents.

Honestly, you just cannot make this stuff up.

Moreover, the Chaos Monkey gave his mouthpiece chimps about an hour’s warning before making the announcement, and their efforts to ‘splain the “removal and termination” were caught—at the very least—wrong-footed.

One of the most entertaining incidents was press secretary Sean Spicer literally cowering in the bushes outside the White House, insisting that he would not speak about the sacking on camera and demanding that the newsies turn off the lights.

And then, Wednesday—possibly to reinforce his insistence that there are no ties between the Kleptocrat and the Russians—he received Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov and Russia’s ambassador to America, Sergei Kislyak in the Oval Office. US media were barred (even Fox News and Breitbart; go figure), but Russian photographers took pictures and posted them to the Web.

This apparently came as a surprise to the White House. One can only imagine that the decades the Kleptocrat has spent smirking into cameras in the expectation that photographs would subsequently appear in all manner of media did not prepare him for that happening this week.

Well—as you would expect—late-night comedians and social media have been erupting like Krakatoa around the clock.

By way of sampling—because it’s the end of the week, and if ever there were an embaras de richesses, the past few days have produced it—I give you these two.

WRT the new White House garden gnome, there was apparently an update, because Spicey actually called WaPo to “correct” them on what, precisely, he was doing in the shrubbery:

And in re: the not-a-Russian-connection, not-a-Russian-connection, there was also an attempt to explain the whole khaloshes:

Then—apropos of, just, you know—blonde conservative mouthpiece Laura Ingraham was driven to such apoplexy by the removal of monuments in New Orleans to what you could call the biggest losers in American history that her tweeting fingers got way ahead of her brain:

Poor old Laura is not a credit to her alma mater, Mr. Jefferson's university, oh-so-close to his home.

And I think I’m ready for a couple of fingers of single malt. I’m seriously sick of all the winning.

Cookie monsters

As you know, I often pick up oddities from my forays around the web; things I find of interest for one reason or another. Viz.:

Who among you, I ask, is actually “happy” to deal with cookies?

We all know that people foist cookies on visitors’ browsers not because they give a toss about your “experience”, but so they can monetize the traffic. Either directly on the site, or by tracking your web browsing (depending on the type of cookie).

I reckon that the least I can do is clear cookies from my cache on a regular basis, just to make it harder for them. In the end, I understand that I can’t stop the cookies altogether and still navigate the Web. But I can do my part to mess with their minds wherever possible.

And no, I am not “happy” with it.

Body electric

There are those who will look at this photo and start laughing:

Those people do not live with a cat.

Yes, it’s amusing to illustrate the principles of static electricity by letting a feline jump in a box of little Styrofoam pellets. But that amusement wears off as you watch the animal race around the house trying to rub them off, and you realize that you are going to have to vacuum the entire place. Possibly after you’ve woken up the next morning with little Styrofoam pellets in your nostrils because Fluffy walked on your pillow while you slept.

Also consider the phenomenon of hair balls, and what those pellets will look like in a soggy caterpillar of substance that emerges from either end of Fluffy’s gastrointestinal system.

Just sayin’.

Can you hear me now? I thought not

This came into my email queue over the weekend:

You might consider it rather pedestrian, and it is.

Except that I ended my association with Verizon in February. And I haven’t had one of their “your bill is ready” notifications since March. Why it suddenly kicked in again, I have no idea.

Except that this is emblematic of their service for the 12 months that I was stuck with them. Sloppy, indifferent and inaccurate.

Gratitude Monday: Ribbit

After last week—which I was ready to be over with by mid-morning on Tuesday—here’s what I’m grateful for today: the Internet. Not for the first time, the ability of people to share taking the piss at the expense of those in power gives me hope.

It’s not just that there are amazingly inventive and witty people out there (scattered about among those whose brains have never evolved beyond the amygdala stage), it’s that the worst things inspire them to great work.

The latest example is that an artist from Austin noticed that the Kleptocrat’s chin looks like a frog. Before you know it—we’ve got klepto-frog memes all over the place.

@ColinMcInerror @sirmitchell I animated it with sound, for all those who'd like Trump to croak. #TrumpFrog pic.twitter.com/HJGa94nnSk

— Colby Fulton (@colbster) May 5, 2017

@sirmitchell Animated pic.twitter.com/agt0QkdDuA

— Andrey Zakirzyanov (@Bezizyanov) May 2, 2017

And—as pretty much every media outlet on the planet points out—once you’ve seen it, you can never unsee it.

Thank God.

Twitter, as we all know, is fairly equal opportunity. So, for example, a pathetic, amygdala-frozen git like former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee can use it to spew all manner of disgusting sewage—now that he’s unencumbered by hope of future political office. (He was always devoid of a conscience and scruples.) Viz. his tweet on Cinco de Mayo:

But—as with every tweet by the Kleptocrat—those ready to call him out are legion.

Finally (for today), there are those who otherwise might toil in obscurity, taking comfort only in knowing they did the right thing, even if no one else sees it. Twitter gives them a platform, like the air lifting soap bubbles, so that we may all share in their happy moment.

For example: this true American hero who took advantage of Paul Ryan’s desperate need to smirk into a camera with anyone who doesn’t immediately look like they’re going to punch him. Especially after his cruel performance on Thursday. (You’ll note that he feels the need to write his name in full on his “Hi My Name Is” label. Seriously.)

Thank you, Internet.