Strange Brew, Bruh

Yikes. Yes, certainly, and quite literally, yikes, for actually the quiet part out loud is quite literally the elephant in the room. Yikes, yikes, and double-dog-dare yikes, and no, you’re not allowed to say “I Feel Fine” is your fave-rave song by those lads from Liverpool. But, and this is the super-awesome question, “Am I the only one who likes Revolver,” that LP by the mop-top lads from Liverpool”?

Pro tip: I’m old enough to remember when the weekend edition of The Wall Street Journal cost $6. SMH.

It’s almost as if the American Experiment, not to mention PBS, is teetering into oblivion.

Sorry, not sorry: I rarely post personal news but my neck’s out of whack from sleeping in a funny position.

It’s Del Monte canned fruit cocktail week for all those who celebrate. And that’s inherent and existential.

Required reading: Do better!

[Insert name of person you hate] “I hope he gets the help that needs.” Let’s have a “national conversation about it!” [Only media allowed to converse.]

Because I knock the knock, dingleberry. So yeah, that actually goes hard, even on this hellscape, this Elon cesspool. I dunno, man, that’s really, really, really, really, really, really, really, rather unsettling, even if goes so damn hard. But I’ll die on that hill.

“Honestly, X is so fukcen addictive right now. Holy moly, it’s like a dashboard into the world.”

Because I’ve seen enough; Elon wasn’t elected, and it’s your clown (but not “Weary Willie”), party and you’ll cry if you want to. But sure, Elon goes hard and that’s so damn okay by me. And just don’t tell me the Overton window hasn’t been, like, max opened. Because, if you ask me, myself and I, you can’t hate the media enough.

“Also, given that Trump is the most corrupt public official in American history, he no doubt considers a sovereign wealth fund as yet another source of public money he can convert for his own personal use. Because, hey, he's the sovereign, right? His name's on the damn letterhead!”

From the #twittersupperclub: “I see the people trying to defend Trump's trade war, and honestly, it would be less embarrassing for them if they shit their pants in public.” Holy crap, and welp, welp, welp, welp, welp, welp, welp on a Ritz cracker, my dude, don’t forget to be I’m-a-gonna buy me some guac and maple syrup.

“Folks, we're living in strange and unsettling times. We'll try to get through it as best we can, but nope, I'm not gonna offer any undue comforting words because now is not the time for dishonesty.”

And don’t think I won’t put some of the hair in that clown’s bird nest, because my dude, my man, he’s part of a clown show. Yep, yep, yup, yup, and yep, Lord Almighty, and I don’t know who needs to hear this but $81-million man Chuck Schumer will still enjoy his Corona shooters and gray burgers.

And not enough people talk about Pokey Reese.

“Elon Musk has perpetrated a digital and economic coup. This is not hyperbole. This is not euphemism. This is what has happened.”

Tempura shrimp, are you a fan? Me, myself and I: There is a cook in East St. Louis/Who makes the most delicious chop suey/So when I want chop suey, I go to East St. Louis.

Fun fact: Bill Kristol’s soft, soft, soft as a baby’s butt rice pudding is, like, super-duper watery. That’s certainly and actually true.

Holy Shlit!

"I'm the only mom in my gym class without a trans-kid, stop being so selfish."

Oh, oh, oh, here’s another fun fact question: am I the only one who remembers the sweet, narcotic smell of a mimeograph machine (and if that’s bad, I don’t wanna be good)?

Fuck my life: just lost game of 25-D chess to Pinky (and Agnes, but cleaned Aram’s clock in preliminaries). And that, my friends, is badass. LOL.

Happy heavenly birthday to Egg Roll Norton: with Richard Speck and Darby Crash, you know they’ve got a hell of a band!

•••

That was exhausting. The accompanying picture, of New York Press art director Michael Gentile, was shot in Greenwich, CT, where a colleague had an impromptu barbeque and a slew of us got on Metro North out of Grand Central. As you can see, that’s Schaefer beer, by the crate.

Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Iain Banks’ Canal Dreams, Anthony Burgess’ Any Old Iron, Katherine Dunn’s Geek Love and Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence are published; Nirvana releases their first album; Nicholas Hoult is born and Bette Davis dies; Sara Raasch is born and Robert Penn Warren dies; Wendy Wasserstein wins the Drama Pulitzer for The Heidi Chronicles; the Detroit Pistons win the NBA Finals; the Philadelphia Wings win the Major Indoor Lacrosse League championship; Ted Bundy is executed; Ron Brown is elected DNC chairman; Robert Mapplethorpe is cancelled; and the Pixies’ Doolittle is released.

—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023