In which Your Humble Blogger is about a week late for this post, but since y'all never forgot about Baby Jessica you probably still remember the kids from last week.
In Which Your Humble Blogger recognizes the particular nature of Our Only President's genius, and its possible utility in the field of oh my lord we're all doomed just please don't start firing missiles
In Which Your Humble Blogger is unhappy all around.
In Which Your Humble Blogger pronounces it properly the whole time, in case you were wondering, with the middle syllable of klee, not kyuh.
In Which Your Humble Blogger would like something to believe in, if only for the comfort of a slogan.
In Which Your Humble Blogger was going to link to the White House statement, but couldn't find one. Sigh.
In Which Your Humble Blogger wonders. Idly.
In Which Your Humble Blogger knows not whereof he speaks.
In Which Your Humble Blogger still believes (quoting Colin McEnroe again) that if there’s an elixir, some potion we can drink, it’s almost certainly love.
In Which Your Humble Blogger leaves out the probably irrelevant information that Zymon lived in Fremont for a couple of years, back in the nineties, working for an Israeli company on an H-1B visa. They were doing something Y2K related, although Zalmon had the impression that it was a front for Mossad. He never saw anything, mind you, and he figured it was better not to know, so when the contract was up, he went home.
