I Didn’t Do It

Look, I know there are other things I should be writing about today…


… and I’m relatively certain there are other things you’d rather be reading about.

But there is something I need to get cleared up. It has to do with this goddam Facebook crud … again! … and it has me nervous. Besides, what the hell is there left to be said about the LOOMING YOU-KNOW-WHAT!?


And even if I did have something to tell you … even something HUGE …

for instance, if I had in my possession a video on which the beast is caught fondling tween-age girls at one of those bunga-bunga parties he is rumored to have arranged for other obscenely rich New York City pedophiles …

OR, if I had my hands on the slimeclot’s actual tax returns, which showed clearly that not only has he been paying less taxes than a waitress at a Wyoming Denny’s supporting three children on her tips and driving to work in a ’75 Vega with a fender missing, BUT that he’s also been bribing prosecuting attorneys all over the Eastern seaboard with money that comes directly from the in-box of his phoney f***ing Trump Foundation and claiming them as charity exemptions, AND that his private jet liner was a gift directly from Vladimir Putin ….

OR, if I had been contacted in a middle-of-the-night phone call from Kellyanne “Stepford Wife” Conway, herself, and she told me about how Trump (as he was collapsing after a three-day cocaine binge during which he’d beaten up Melania, tried to shoot his son Eric after confusing him with a giant wharf rat, and possibly dropped both a hooker and Chris Christie off the 57th-floor balcony of Trump Tower) had let it slip that the only reason he’d decided to run for President in the first place was because he realized it was inevitable that he was going to be indicted for all the fraudulent, criminal activity he’s been up to for the last 20 years, and that the only way out was to run for President, lose, and then scream bloody murder about how the Clinton Administration was persecuting him for his political views …

… well, it would hardly matter, would it? Nobody’s going to listen to a blogger out in Idaho, no matter the undeniable proof I might have.

Which I don’t have! Don’t get me wrong. I’m just saying that even if I did have something like that, it wouldn’t matter squat because 1) nobody beyond my tranquil little stream of readers would ever hear about it, especially in time for it to affect the election one way or the other, and 2) even if it spread like a pyroclastic blast across the entire United States of America, it wouldn’t change even one Trump supporter’s feeble little mind. Am I right? … or what? And at this point, I’m not sure I even want any of those galoots voting for Hillary, do you? Really, it would be like having the Bundys show up uninvited at your daughter’s wedding reception.

I mean, to borrow from Groucho … “I don’t want to belong to any club that would let them join!”

So let’s get this Facebook crap out of the way while we’re waiting to see what happens, okay? It has to do with the way some of you are responding to my blog posts, which my daughter/blog manager somehow or other gets to show up in my Facebook spot.

But before we get to that, I need to explain to about five or six hundred of my newer “friends” why there is so little on my Facebook spot other than my blog posts. Virtually nothing, in fact, because (as I explained way back in June when I first started blogging and Facebooking, almost simultaneously ) the only reason I have a Facebook spot is to spread awareness of the blog. I repeat, the only reason. I have no other rationale to be there. I don’t take selfies. I don’t fish. I don’t cook scrumptious looking food stuffs. I have no cute dog photos I am compelled to share. Or cat photos, for that matter. And frankly, I’m not so fond of people in general that I feel any desire to belly-flop into the social-networking pool just to be part of a crowd I would do my best in real life to avoid.

I made this as clear as I could in the beginning, and that handful of “friends” I started with—some of whom are actual friends and not the kind Facebook arranges for me—were content to live with that. After all, I don’t imagine they want to hear about my mundane, day-to-day, activities anymore than I want to hear about theirs.

But I kept adding “friends”—quite a few, in fact—hoping they will get eventually get around to coming over to “Mr. Cope’s Cave,” then send their friends on over, who will in turn send their friends … etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum. Is not this the purpose of Facebook? To get as many little THUMBS UP and HAPPY FACES and HEARTS and blah blah blah emoji shit as possible, largely from people you wouldn’t want to call on the f***ing phone and have a real conversation with?

And to anyone who might have a bitch with me promoting my “Mr. Cope’s Cave” via Facebook? … well, exCUSE me, but I gotta ask  … What the hell are you promoting with all those f***ing picures of your … uh … uh …

Uh, perhaps I’m getting a tad off-track here. Forgive me if I sound a little dismissive of your life. At least, those portions of your life you put on Facebook. It’s just that … well, I guess I’m a bit on edge about this LOOMING YOU-KNOW-WHAT!


So anyway, I have been noticing that when many of you approve of something I’ve written here-in, you leave a message in one of those Facebook mail box thingies that you “like my photo.”

Get what I mean? “Like my pho-to?

Or maybe you don’t get it, particularly if you missed my earlier explanations about the state of graphics in “Mr. Cope’s Cave.” The deal is, I don’t take photos. I don’t even own a camera. Either a camera camera, or a smart phone camera. And even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to get a picture from my camera to my Facebook spot, my blog, or anywhere else.

No, every picture you see in “Mr. Cope’s Cave,” which are the ones that show up on Facebook, was lifted from various web sites that provide public domain images for people either too lazy, too inept, too technologically dumbshit, too graphically untalented to take their own photos or draw their own illustrations.  And when you chime in with “Jimmy Ratsass likes your photo,” I don’t know whether you’ve read one of my blog posts and mean that’s what you like, or that you seriously like the picture accompanying the post and think I actually made that picture.

I even had a bunch of you compliment me on my video—repeat: MY video—when I forwarded a campaign ad for James Piotrowski on to everyone on my friend list. I figured that using social media like that was the only way to get some sort of balance in coverage, since Labrador has been able to out-spend Piotrowski by a margin of, like, a trillion to one. And is that not the curse of being a Democrat running in Idaho? You get swept down the mountain under an avalanche of corporate money. Damn Republicans! You notice how, come election season, they always stick their boys into a pair of blue jeans for the campaign ads and put them out on a farm somewhere to pretend they’re just plain folk? Jesus, remember that ad years ago where Larry Craig was hanging around a hay barn in Levis and cowboy boots? F***ing ridiculous! Of course, that was before we learned just plain folk Larry was more probably comfortable in a …

Er, never mind.

But the galling thing is, it works for them. Goddam Republicans. I guess it doesn’t take much to fool the GOP faithful here in the Goober State. Hezzah, don’tcha see? That Rah-ool Laberdorry, he’s juss like me. See how normal he looks? Why, I got a belt buckle juss like the one what he’s wearin’, I swear I do. Good ol’ Idaho boy, that Rah-ool Laberdorry. He’s got mah vote, that’s f’r DAMN sure!

So you understand, I hope. I was just trying to do Piotrowski a favor by passing on his ad, but then you guys start messaging back how much you like my video. For Christ’s sake, it wasn’t my video. I wouldn’t know how to make a video if Martin Scorsese was riding along in the car. It was James Piotrowski’s video, and I hoped you liked it and spread it on. And I hope your “friends all spread it on to their “friends”—etcetera, etcetera, ad infinitum.

Above all else, I sure as hell hope you vote for the guy. Piotrwowski, I mean. Wouldn’t it be great to have at least one Congressman from Idaho who isn’t a douche?

And tell me it wouldn’t be sweet to send good ol’ Rah-ool Laberdorry back to his lawyer’s gig in Eagle.

So then, I hope that clears it up. I don’t take pictures and I don’t make videos. I only do one thing. I write this shit. And in the future, if you read this shit and like it, then please leave the message … something like … “Jimmy Ratsass likes your shit.”

Or can you say that on Facebook? Honestly, I don’t know.

Okay, that’s all I have to say. So let’s all turn our attentions back to that other thing.  You know … the LOOMING YOU-KNOW-WHAT!


…and just think. About 96 hours from now, we can all relax.

OR, start checking out real estate brochures from British Columbia.



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