So. Here we all are sitting in the darkened rooms of our domiciles with no light, save, and except, the glow from our computer screens. I read where some 50 million-plus Americans sit at their computer screens late at night either reading news from blogs and Facebook, or watching porn.
If you’re reading the shit I write here to Loonyville, you’re managing the deft act of doing both—that is to be a reader of pornographic news. Take another sip of your evening cocktail in salutation to you, your veryownself, as you, dear reader, are special.
Me, I’m sitting in my darkened office because the Squirt feels ill, having consumed one too many cat turds from the sand pile out back, and consequently having puked a trail of cat turd bile from the top of my right slipper not quite tucked under the chair upon which I place my next-day’s clothes, across three rugs from bedroom-to-kitchen, and culminating in a waffle-sized pile on the kitchen floor where I stand at the sink. I discovered this trail of tears and smears upon my late arrival back to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe earlier tonight. I was quite tired and not in the least interested in cleaning eight piles of cat turd puke from floors and rugs.
Ever smelled dog-emitted cat turd puke?
Squirt asked me to sit quietly in the den and not bother her with any threats, as the tiny brown puppy so carefully explained to me, she said, “My stomach is still uneasy, shithead. Let me rest quietly or I drop a deposit on your pillow.”
Since I’m still up at 2 am, fearful of disturbing cat puke girl, I figured I’d write to you about something that has been on my mind. Maybe I should say, “Something that has been swirling in the toxic swill that is my rat-infested and ADHD-addled grey matter.” This thought has been pestering me for several months, ever since the jet streams caught my attentions. Then, again, many things catch my attentions and swirl around like a frog in a blender inside the cauldron I call my skull. However, this thought has managed to survive processing with little damage other than tattered sails.
As we all might know, the jet streams are the ribbons of super-charged wind travelling up to 250 mph at 6-7 miles above Earth’s crust. It is these waggling wind ribbons that make, and change, our weather patterns. In my simple mind, I see our planet’s rotation inside its atmosphere as the initial causal effect of the jet stream. And I see the variations of land and water temperatures—many of which are caused to change by these self-same jet streams—as causal forces in controlling the directional adjustments in the jet streams.
[Editor’s note: Yes, science assholes, we do know that the Sun’s activities can also effect jet stream movements. Howsoever, as this is a rant on global warming, and we earthlings have yet figured a way to ruin the sun, we’ve restrained ourselves in limit and causal scopes for the pages herein.]
The jet streams’ activities caught my varied attentions a few months back as I spent a drug-fueled evening gazing at the Weather Channel, and I’ve carefully studied them since. As I’m not a scientist and likewise lack the common sense to exhibit sound judgment, you might sense the temptation to ignore everything written past this point. Howsoever, and once more at that, please do so at your own risk.
I waited months before making the first jet streams-related prediction, and said first prediction was spot-on accurate. The evidence of this prediction’s efficacy is currently visible through the window from which I now view the outside world, as a massive thunderstorm currently rages-off its energy at the beautiful landscape of northern New Mexico, a storm I predicted three days ago when I likewise predicted yesterday’s storm, said prediction being part-and-parcel to a larger set over overall predictions made by me as the resulting recalibrations and adjustments to my senses of the Earth as it relates to future climactic conditions.
As is my method when encountering strange run-on sentences, I have carefully studied that last paragraph and found it to be more than an accurate depiction of my true thoughts, reason enough for you to tune me out without consideration to the simple fact that I have absolutely no credentials.
But having said all of that, I’m one-for-one in climate change predictions, and this first one was a dramatic win. The weather prognosticators had predicted Santa Fe would have a few thunderstorms and maybe a half-inch of rainfall this holiday weekend. As of my return to find cat puke plastered across the house earlier, we had gotten more than 2-inches here to La Casa. My guess is that this current storm has added a third-to-a-half-inch more, and it’s due to rain on manana.
Which reminds me. You’ve gotta love the Italians. My kind of problem solvers, the Italians.
“Hey, Luigi, listen up. I been thinking on this whole national debt dealie and I got us a solution. What they’re saying is our Gross National Product is a slipping so’os we got too much debt to pay based on the national income. Asshole fucking bankers are hitting us with higher interest rates, right? Fucking economy isn’t hitting on all cylinders yet because those same fucking bankers wrecked the entire fucking world back to the two-thousand-and-oughts. Fucking bankers.
“So, me and Carmine—you know Carmine, right, fat fuck runs the pasta joint over to the Coliseum there on Pope Johnny the First Boulevard—we was out for a good time the other night—Tuesday I’m thinking—an we ran into Roldolpho, bought purse and a bag of coke. Ever since he lost his leather goods store to the fucking bank, he’s been dealing coke and shit. Still selling them Gucci purses he gets from Lithuania or whereverthefuck it is, but now you buy a knockoff handbag for a hundred bucks, you get a change purse full a coke.”
“What you boys doing after this?” Rodolpho asks us. “My cousin, Michaelangelo, he lost the concession stand over to the Vatican to the fucking bankers and he’s renting-out his wife and her sister by the hour, poor sonofabitch.”
“So, Sophia—that’s Mikey’s sister-in-law, you know, skinny broad with bad teeth—she’s blowing me and I’m watching Carmine trying to get it up to bang Mikey’s wife—Carmine’s wife, Maria, she’s friends with Mikey’s wife, an he’s taking a couple minutes to digest things—and I get to thinking about the fucking bankers, an’ boom! I got this whole GNP problem all figured out.”
Gotta love those Italians. And fuck Walmart!