Today marks the 11th birthday of this here blog thing. We've endured so much together: a stage show or two, an audiobook (buy it if you want to remember the evil fuckery of the Bush administration), a book book (the good chunk of which is autobiographical and most of it is still valid), weekly radio love sessions with Stephanie Miller, and so much more (not really, but, hey, who's fact-checking here?).
Oh, yeah, and about 10 trillion or so words about the filthy degradation we are all subject to on a daily basis, that sodomy machine known as the American political system. This here blogger is still foolishly optimistic enough to believe in the wavy illusion of democracy. But, to be honest to you all, dear, sweet rude readers, he doesn't know how much more he has in him.
The Rude Pundit wouldn't mind finding a home, a nice little place he can go to, where there might be, heavens, "payment" involved, maybe a Daily Beast or Salon or whatever that thing is that Matt Taibbi is working on for The Intercept. Even sharks don't mind hanging out with other sharks to share in some chum.
And it ain't just money. He's been thinking he wants to make some time to write other stuff. Mortality is an ugly bastard, you know?
Fuck contemplation for now. That is a future decision. This is now. And right now there is a midterm election afoot, our newest most importantest election ever in the history of forever, and more conservative taint-punching to be done than ever. Besides, this whiskey ain't gonna drink itself. And this Molly is looking for someone or two or three to share it with.
Back later with more disorienting rudeness.