Neanderpundit

Here’s a video of cop-slapper CyNThiA McKinney during her run, yesterday, talking about how it’;s “impossible to keep a good woman down”. Well, dipwad, that may be, what woman were you referring to?

Oh, wait, could it be that you’re talking about Poster Woman for Child abuse Cindy Shithead, doing the electric slide next to you during the campaign? While you’re scrambling for the rewind button, look at the woman in the pinkish coat. Yes, it’s Cindy shithead herself, there to “watch a documentary” with Cynthia. Yes, grief is a horrible thing, for Mother Sheehan, who can hardly contain her tears while dipping and sliding. Isn’t she supposed to be on a hunger strike?

Update: I see Jenny beat me to it. It was her as sent me the link in the first place, and it’s HER congresscritter. Vote early and often, folks. Don’t let this retard take office.

I was a bit apprehensive about what I was gonna discover about my new dentist, but damn, was this guy GOOD! He did a full molar root canal in less than a half hour. Twenty minutes if you take out the novocaine wait and the Xray he did during the procedure. And virtually no pain. I’m not gonna let this one go. A good dentist is a treasure.

I don’t listen to music radio much, and when I do hear something new it’s at the reccomendation of friends, with few exceptions. THis is one: Johnny Cash’s last album, finished a coupld years posthumously.

I listened to this driving from place to place saturday, and I kept going back to track 3, Johnny’s last song, “The 309”

It should be a while before I see doctor Death
So, it would sure would be nice if I could get my breath
Well, I’m not the cryin’, nor the whinin’ kind
’til I hear the whistle of the 309, of the 309, of the 309
Put me in my box on the 309

Take me to the depot, put me to bed
Blow an electric fan on my gnarly ol’ head
Everybody take a look, see, I’m doin’ fine
Then load my box on the 309
On the 309, on the 309
Put me in my box on the 309

Hey, sweet baby, kiss me hard
Draw my bath water, sweep my yard
Give a drink of my wine to my jersey cow
I wouldn’t give a hoot-and-nail for my journey now
On the 309, on the 309

I hear the sound of a railroad train
The whistle blows and I’m gone again
Hitman, take me higher than a Georgia pine
Stand back children, it’s the 309
It’s the 309, it’s the 309
Put me in my box on the 309

A chicken in the pot and turkey in the corn
Ain’t felt this good since Jubilee morn’
Talk about luck, well, I got mine
Asthma comin’ down like the 309
*haaaaaaaa…..*

Write me a letter, sing me a song
Tell me all about it, what I did wrong
Meanwhile, I will be doin’ fine
Then load my box on the 309
On the 309, on the 309
Gonna get outta here on the 309

My friend Jenny (great new material, she’s been out of commission for a while but promises to update more often now) tells me not to feel sorry for Johnny, he had a good life. Well, yeah, he did, but songs like this get to me. I think it’s because songs like this are like a lens that refocus our own sorrows, gone blurry in the rearview. Snap that last couple moments with Grampa into clear focus. Clarify the memory of your cousin’s burial in Bahn, seen via videotape some twenty years ago. If you liked Johnny, you should add this to your collection. It’s worth it, well worth it.