I deeply apologize to my long-suffering followers who have been stranded in the desert without MJE to offer sage advice on how to survive the current political shit show. You’re not going to like it but here’s my down low: we are all of us thoroughly screwed and we’re going to remain screwed for the foreseeable future. I am sorry if you thought that perhaps there was some sort of upside to the pathetic display of cowardice and dissembling on the part of the majority members of congress, the cabinet and last but not the least by any means, our dear leader. Well there isn’t. The bulb in the exit sign blew out last november and it’s gonna take a while to find a replacement. My advice: find a flashlight and use it to illuminate your path to the voting booth on november 6.

MJE has also suffered several personal tragedies in the past few weeks that have blocked my ability to hold forth. First, my computer printer broke down. Obviously that means no scans of my insanely clever doodles would be forthcoming. It sort of feels like I have a limb missing, well not a real important one because the printer was a typically crappy HP thing which was more unreliable than our notorious daughter albatross. That said, I’m sure you understand how irritating it is when even lousy technology leaves you in the lurch. It’s like having a boyfriend you’re sort of sick of and dammit he beats you to the punch and dumps you when you meant to dump him last week. It just really, really pisses you off.

Then I lost my fab fashion forward suede ankle boots, which I was going to wear to an important event and which are crucial to pulling the whole outfit together. As we all know, accessories are key. So now I am on the horns of a dilemma: buy another pair (I just saw some online and frankly like them better) knowing that I am guaranteed to find the old ones in my closet the minute the new boots are worn and therefore non-returnable. Or resign myself to a less than knock out look for want of the perfect footwear. Talk about a hobson’s choice.

Then the third and by far the worst thing is that our wonderful 14 year old black lab belly button died. Admittedly she was 337 years old in human years and a bit past her prime. We took her to the vet where she lay down with her head on our laps and painlessly drifted off into eternal sleep in under sixty seconds. ALERT! I’d like it on the record that when my time comes I want to be laid out on the vet’s linoleum floor with a bourbon and soda in one hand and a bunch of cheese doodles in the other and drift off to the great beyond with the lingering taste of maker’s mark and corn meal, ferrous sulfate, thiamin mononitrate, monosodium glutamate, artificial cheese seasoning and yellow dye #6 on my tongue.

Belly button’s now back home with us in a tasteful (to the crematorium personnel at least) box and we’ll find a piece of natural stone and have it inscribed to mark her grave. We’ll bury her in a clearing in the woods above the house next to her predecessor sweet molly. Oh, and some of the OB&C’s mother is strewn up there too but we didn’t bother with a marker because for all we know it could be a scrap of thymus, a nostril and the odd bit of urethra. Seriously, I just don’t think that’s worth memorializing.

R.I.P.

Three bitches on the hill.