Life is a Big Slab
I had a bad feeling about it: Harriet Miers wasn't going to work out. This morning I dashed to my internets, as usual, for news and frothy inspiration, and I had my suspicions confirmed. Good, I thought. I never liked the cut of her jib, anyway. I didn't understand why she wouldn't state her position on trans fat, or on government vouchers that would allow up-quarks to go to private protons. I wanted to know if she would try to eliminate my constitutional right to purchase sub-standard electronics from Walgreens, including robotic plush cats and festive stocking caps that vibrate to the tune of Jingle Bell Rock. What is her position on intimigration, I wondered, or on conswervation? Would she try to keep me and my snowmobile out of Everglades National Park? Is she opposed to Fission-Assisted Suicide, and if so, what does she propose we do with people who dance in public? Has she experienced any unexplained activity that could be described, construed, understood or otherwise interpreted as "poltergeisty"? Who is Betsy, and what makes her so Charming? Is Scotus his first name or surname? Does she want to overturn Beard v. Justmoustaches? I wanted answers, and she wasn't talking. Anyway, all that unpleasantness is over now, and life is a big slab of butterscotch. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Walgreens to buy a plush AM/FM radio telephone that reheats coffee in your car.