… as with the peppers, onions, Pontiac reds, cabbage, and first planting of sweet corn, beets and radishes. Not screwing with lettuce this year. I let it go to seed last summer and it’s coming up volunteer so thick I’m fighting back with the weed whacker. (Gotta keep your eye on lettuce, I tell you. The only difference between lettuce and the other weeds is that it gives us a good excuse to soak something in bleu cheese without feeling like a self-indulgent hog.)
By the end of the day—provided I get my ass away from the keyboard soon enough—I’ll have the green beans, cukes, zukes and cantaloupe planted. And another row of corn. And more beets. I like a lot of beets. Do love beet greens, I do. They “beet” the pants off that fucking lettuce, ha ha. Of course, that’s just my opinion.
And that, my friends, is the only opinion I will be issuing today. Yes, I have other opinions. Me without opinions is like beet greens without balsamic vinegar—yum. But nothing new. He’s still an asshole. Going to Europe didn’t help. Funny … everyone else I know that went to Europe came home a bit wiser. Broader. Deeper. A bit humbled. Know what I mean?
Not him. Somehow, he managed to come home even stupider than when he left. Narrower. Shallower. Even more a pompous dick. Someone ought to write a book. The Baboon In Brussels: The Week Trump Tromped Through the Continent Like Something That Escaped From a Paris Zoo—there’s your title.
So excuse me. I hear some little beet seeds calling my name.