I think I showed him to you once before maybe, but it wasn’t a good picture. He was still in a lot of pain and still mostly lame from his pelvic fracture. In this neighborhood, innocents take workboots to the pelvis all the time, and it has a decidedly anti-photogenic effect. There has never once been a supermodel who went to high school in SandRock. Their pelvises are just no longer runway friendly.
But this is Dusty, mostly better now. It feels good, to feel better.
We had a talk, as you can see. It started out about chicken, but eventually it came around to the nominally political.
You know I held my nose and voted old Joe. Dusty didn’t vote, because as he pointed out himself: “WTF man, I was only a kitten, and besides that lesser evil crap is for the pigeons”. The usual half-ass excuses for disengagement and alienation, among the poor, among minorities, among the uneducated–and believe me, this cat is all three. Especially uneducated. Behind his back we call him “Short Bus”, and since he moved in my bong is totally unusable because of weeks of crusted catnip residue.
Anyway, neither of us are Trumpers. Neither of us is even vaguely right-wing.
But even so, for a multitude of cultural and racial and socioeconomic reasons, Dusty and I, just by ourselves, amount to a full half bushel of Deplorable. This measurement was confirmed in a detailed study by the Brookings Institution, which also condemned Dusty for never taking his two proper Covid jabs, much less a booster.
Once I even watched him chew up a perfectly good mask. And as for me I let him.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not a source of malinformation. This is all true. Don’t tase my Facebook bro.
Also, I still wear a mask, and not even the chewed one.
The think tank had harsh words for me anyway, because they said I wasn’t wearing one for the right reasons, and by their own lights, they’re right. I don’t wear one because of any medical concern, for myself or others. Dude it’s Omicron. I’ve had attacks of intestinal gas that laid me lower.
I wear one because I can’t believe I can get away with walking into a store in a right-to-carry state wearing a mask and a Glock-34, and no one calls the cops to report a robbery.
I also wear one because it defeats facial recognition software.
I do admit there are limitations to masks for anti-surveillance protest.
In fact, I’m probably more recognizable, since there don’t seem to be any other citizens here walking into the grocery with a mask that says, “Free Julian You Fascistic ShitLib Bitches”. I think I would have noticed, like a mortified debutante.
But still. Hiding my face makes me feel better. Maybe it is a little medical. Maybe after they start arresting people again for mask-wearing, I can wrap Dusty around my face and claim that he’s a comfort animal.
I don’t believe in the stars and stripes forever, and I don’t believe in working for the man, but I believe that might even amuse his furry little ass, although so vanishingly few things do.
I let him read it over after I posted and he was a little pissed off because, he said, I seemed to be implying he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.
He wanted me to point out all the thick books in the photo, on the shelf in his own personal room, right next to his own personal bed.
So I’m doing that, as a personal favor. We are good friends.
But confidentially, I still owe truth to my readers, and I swear by Astarte that this is gospel–every single one of them is porn, of a kind that would give paws to the most urbane and jaded among you.