As Rigby has cogently pointed out, he’s a very poor writer. That’s a fact — in evidence now.

But after suffering through several that seem to have no discernible premise (nor a plot line — no beginning / middle / or end, in any rational order)… I wonder if recreational chemicals are among his afflictions. [He’s written ten or more like this one this morning: free association pieces — about truly trivial events, most decades in the past — that claimed the non-event caused / predicted today’s Democratic ascendancy. Whatever.]

Me? I think he fancies himself as some kind of a low rent version of… Hunter S. Thompson.

But peyote… seems the equally likely answer — ingested as fuel, for unintelligible spewing like this.

Charming. Sort of… not.

Onward.