Coming to you (while a signal remains available) from the future permanent House by the Parkway (South), which means that I am typing directly on the laptop (at home I use a docking station and a real grown-up keyboard). I can handle typing on the laptop (even though I hate it), but I cannot get comfortable using the cursed farookin’ pressure pad and clicky things on the laptop. I cannot tell you how many things I have opened and occasionally deleted, or drastically changed because of the rotten pressure pad and clicky things on the laptop. All you have to do is look at the clicky things and they CLICK, thereby creating all sorts of havoc. I spent about 45 minutes fixing the mess caused by accidental clicks on my email app.

Memo to Self: Buy a goddamned mouse to use while away from the docking station.

That is necessarily all, lest I fling the computer out the window.

Being the goddamned prince that I am, I thought I would share with youse guys the heretofore secrets of dealing with those snotty looks (or worse) that often follow a bit of healthy bowel windage.

1. “Damned floorboards squeak. We should call the floor guy and have him fix that.”

2. “I wonder if there are squirrels in the house. We should call an exterminator and check that shit out.”

3. “Must be that annoying kid down the block running his motorized scooter down the street. Damned thing is a motor vehicle, and he’s too young to have a license. We should call the cops.”

4. “The guy next door must have his 400-watt powered woofers in his car cranked up to 10.”

5. “Did someone just open a door? Damned hinges need some WD-40.”

6. “Geese! They fly south at this time.”

7. “That wasn’t a fart. It was my stomach gurgling. I’ll concede to it being a pre-fart.”

8. “No way was that a fart. See? It doesn’t stink.”

9. “Must be the dog. No, wait. We no longer have a dog. Damned floorboards.”

10. “What was that? I can’t believe you did that. Gross.”

You’re welcome.

In this amazing video, check out Frances “Baby” Gumm performing with her older sisters. She’s the one on the left. Of course Frances Gumm went on to become the woman better known as Judy Garland.

Thanks to Dick for the link.

El Cap is at it again. Check it out.

Yes, the Wiseass Jooette, her own self, the one who has all but abandoned her blog in favor of the one-sentence-writer’s world of Facebook, has resurfaced in the blogosphere with a Photo Blog.

I already knew that she is wonderful writer (albeit snotty in a dooshbag way), and I sort of knew that she has a good eye for photography, but the new blog dispels any doubt about whether she is comfortable with a camera.

Go look, but don’t tell her I said something nice about her.

Brooklyn ……. Feh!

PRS Operatives managed to record The One after the White House staff delivered his requested bowl of Rice Krispies.

Bowl of Rice Krispies: Hi! I’m Snap!

Bowl of Rice Krispies: Hi! I’m Crackle!

Obama: Cool! Let me guess. You’re Pop!

Bowl of Rice Krispies: Right! Now, let me guess who you are.

Obama: OK. Go ahead.

Bowl of Rice Krispies: You’re the Marxist mutt who somehow became the President of the United States.

Obama: That’s not funny.

Bowl of Rice Krispies: No shit.

Seeing as how it’s Valentine’s Day, I think it’s appropriate that I write a few love notes.

To: Nancy Pelosi
Your high-handedness, arrogance, mendacity and douchebaggery positively sicken me. In return for all those times your words and deeds have spiked my blood pressure, I wish for you a massive and chronic case of vaginal itch.

To: Paul Pelosi (Son of Nancy)
I hope you’ve been enjoying the luxurious air travel that we taxpayers have been providing to your momma’s boy-sorry ass. Did the liquor selection and cuisine meet with your satisfaction? If you’d like something else for your next flights (perhaps some Wagyu beef at 150 bucks per pound?), just say the word. After all, nothing is too good for the son of a millionaire “fat cat” hating, champion of the common folk.

To: Harry Reid
I hope you’re enjoying your time in Washington D.C. I believe the people in Nevada must miss you, because it appears that in November, they’ll be bringing you back home where you’ll have to get a real job, perhaps as a hat rack in one of the Vegas casinos.

To: Joy Behar
Woman, if bird shit were brains, you’d have a clean cage. You can always be counted on to dump a truckload of dumbshittery on your small audience, most of which is comprised of mouth-breathing moonbats. You may even be more stupid and annoying than Rosie O’Donnell, but it’s a close call.

To: Michelle Obama
I was most impressed by your awesome vegetable garden, your awesome hula-hoopage and your awesome dedication to having the federal government make sure that people’s children don’t become fatty-fats. Nobody likes fatty-fats. They are not awesome like you. You’re awesomely awesome. In fact, because you’re so very awesome, I have decided to send you a gift.

Enclosed please find a big, round, red nose. It will compliment virtually all your awesome clown outfits.

This morning, I had a most unsatisfying groundpound. There is simply no way to get into the “zone” if you have to keep your eyes directed to the six-feet of pavement in front of your feet in order to be able to see potential hip-breaking patches of ice. I’m tired of “layering up” before the groundpound and having to carry a paper towel in my pocket for the inevitable runny nose. I hate using lip balm. I’m tired of the freezing wind stinging my face.

I’m ready for some spring. In that regard, last week, the Usual Suspects booked the airline tickets for this year’s May assault on the Sunshine State, where I avoid going anywhere near fresh water unless it’s in the pool or comes from the tap. It’s a gator thing. And, yes. Our place is on the second floor. I don’t believe that gators can climb stairs. Did I mention that I’m scared shitless of alligators? I believe I have.

Excuse me while I pour myself another taste of Russell’s Reserve Ten-Year Old Bourbon.

Farookin’ winter. Feh!

Yeah, I know that she is a moonbat of the highest order, but in her case I do my damndest to put that out of my mind, because Bonnie Raitt sure as hell can play and sing. I love her version of “Runaway.” Listen to the groove the group catches. They grab it in a death grip and don’t let go.

via Cousin Jack

Taken at 3:40 p.m. I had to open the window to shoot the picture, because it was impossible to open the back door due to the depth of the snow.

And, it’s still snowing. Blecccch!

Click for larger image