you don’t have to call me jr., darlin’

So now it’s Venezuela, is it? Are you fucking kidding me?
I’m reminded of a line from that 1979 redneck anthem “Family Tradition,” by the would-be-outlaw son of the iconic “So Lonesome” American troubadour who once set the standard for country music as the people’s music, on which Sr.’s newly all-is-forgiven electric-geetar racist sire and “Are You Ready for Some Football?” singer asks his Bocephus self, to his fans’ great shout-along joy:
“Hank, why do ya drink?”

To which I now answer, with a chorus harkening back to how this post all started:

Are you fucking serious?

Which is to say hurry the fuck up with that next round, barkeep; North Korea isn’t yet a smoking hellscape of urban rubble and scorched human bones, and Maduro’s impoverished fascista fiefdom clearly isn’t gonna invade itself. And I’m certainly not getting any younger.

And while yer at it, bubba, don’t ya dare fucking call me Hank.

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