The Post-Partisan Emporium

  Uncivilization Rome wasn't burned in a day RADIO FAR SIDE As if Clown World could not get any more surreal, we now have a game of Clue ongoing in the US White House over what is either some loose Bolivian Marching Powder or a bag of it: Hunter did it in the phone cubby in the West Wing; no, Kamala did it in a secure drop off near the Situation Room; no, Jill did it on the Truman Balcony during 4th of July frolics. What’s even more entertaining is that we have an Epstein Moment running concurrently, in that none of the 1,637 surveillance cameras were working, and all of the hundreds of security personnel were either asleep or refilling their coffee at that precise moment. We should not be surprised, since many of the Secret Service detachment were partying till dawn in Fort Worth the day JFK was assassinated, and some of them even lost their IDs during the festivities. Washington has been in a downhill spiral ever since. One wonders what the 83 million voters who elected Joe Biden

  Sane Borders, Sabotaged Ones and Gonzalo Lira LINH DINH [Attaroast in Ubon Ratchathani, 7/1/23] Walking into Attaroast, I was loudly greeted by two lovely baristas, so life is good, no? Not exactly. If it wasn’t painful to walk, still, I’d be somewhere else. Again, they’re playing some jazzy rhythm and blues, with just about every line of every song a horrible cliché. “We were so perfect together,” “you broke my heart when you left me,” “I just want to stay with you forever,” etc. For a foreigner, such idiotic lyrics are easier to pick out, so suit them fine. This article, then, is not written under ideal conditions. It took me at least four minutes to put my pants on this morning. I’m wearing long pants to hide my sores. Some look like wounds. I’m improving, though. My right toe is almost normal, and my left knee is halfway healed. Leaking toxins, my bodily border is still a much-punctured sack, sad. I have just 13 days left on my visa. If I’m still unwell by then, I’ll take a taxi