Once, twice, three times a lady, or not so much a blog as an OCD symptom

There’s a couple reasons this is not a news blog.

1) Being timely interferes with my (admittedly flawed) “blogging without internet” concept.

2) Have enough jobs and deadlines. Want no more of either at the moment.

3) My opinions are rarely sought by others. Oh, and fuck those people anyway.

Finally, because even when I do intend to write something in the moment/same day, like I intended re this bitter drivel, more often than not, I simply sit and stew in it, then am forced to admit I have nothing more salient to say than “Bite me, Peggy Noonan.”

I tried but I just couldn’t get past Noonan’s musty repressed Miss-Jean-Brodie-fanfic about Thatcher. Couldn’t she just trash Hillary like any other self-respecting wingnut, without throwing in all the crap about Maggie’s feet and scotch and smell and purses? This was obviously a first draft of a pre-emptive Thatcher eulogy.

The point is the big ones, the real ones, the Thatchers and Indira Gandhis and Golda Meirs and Angela Merkels, never play the boo-hoo game. They are what they are, but they don’t use what they are. They don’t hold up their sex as a feint….

No, the point is that two of them are quite dead. If Indira or Golda are up and about and holding up their lady parts,  I’m out of here.