I’m just a plainspoken Colorado criminal defense lawyer, but the way I see it…
There wasn’t nearly enough music this election cycle. Donald Trump, bless his tiny little heart, did try to play some songs at his white nationalist rallies, though the musicians who wrote the songs kept asking him to please stop playing them.
Good news is, if you’re around Colorado next Saturday at 8 p.m., a group called 500 Year Flood will wash off the dust of the election with some totally nonpolitical songs that will make you glad you’re still an American. They’re at Your Mom’s House in Denver, and you can get tickets — use the Promo Code: 500YEAR — at their web site here.
If you’d prefer to see what you’re getting into first, just click this link here.
You deserve it for voting, and so do they. [Disclaimer: the singer may possibly be my daughter; the guitarist, her husband.]
I’m just a plainspoken Colorado criminal defense lawyer, but the way I see it…
I don’t vote in Texas, but my mother was from Texas. So I ask: Beto vs. Ted?
One man with the courage to stand up in this reddest of states for universal health care, for higher wages for teachers, for ending the separation of children from their parents at the border, for keeping alive the hope of citizenship for Dreamers. Whose courage is being noted far beyond Texas.
Another who bows and scrapes to power, so craven he abides humiliation and insult, of his own wife, of his own father. I’m surprised he hasn’t sold his children for your vote. Oh wait…he has sold his children for your vote: last year he forced his two young daughters to pose with the man who likes to grab slightly older girls by their…
I’m just a plainspoken Colorado criminal defense lawyer, but the way I see it…
The Republican majority Senate is deciding whether to elevate an unrepentant alleged rapist to the highest court of the United States, who might soon cast the deciding vote on whether men, rather than women, should control women’s bodies.
Is that irony, or simple disgust I hear rumbling across the nation?
There may or may not be an actual investigation into the bad things he did to get me to call him an unrepentant rapist. That depends on another unrepentant sexual criminal.
Pity poor Judge Kavanaugh. He certainly pities himself, repeatedly in testimony before the Judiciary Committee. “This thing was sprung on me,” he complained through tears over and over and over. All these high school and college girls trying to ruin his reputation by bringing up decades-old indiscretions when he was just a callow youth. It’s not fair. He went to Georgetown Prep. He went to Yale. He really likes beer.
I know that President Trump prefers like-minded people in his administration. But couldn’t he have gone off script just this one time to nominate someone who ISN’T a rapist?
Rapist is merely the worst of Kavanaugh’s disqualifications for the high court. He began this whole sordid process with a bald-faced, and totally unnecessary, lie just to kiss the ass-ring of a President who boasts of grabbing women by their genitals. “No president,” he lied, “has ever consulted more widely, or talked with more people from more backgrounds, to seek input about a Supreme Court nomination.”
If no President has done more than to read (or in this case, have it read to him), a list of judges favored by the extreme wing of his party, then Kavanaugh is telling the truth. Otherwise? He. Is. A. Liar.
He lied multiple times during his Senate confirmation hearings, and in the sham “hearing” the other day of eleven Republican men pretending to listen to the testimony of a woman who said His Honor sexually assaulted her when she was fifteen and he seventeen.
One Democratic senator asked her what most stood in her memory of the assault. The uproarious laughter, she said, of Judge Kavanaugh and his enabling friend in the locked room where the next associate justice of the Supreme Court tried to rape her.
The shame of every senator who votes to elevate this sorry excuse of a man (and sorrier excuse for a judge) will stand in Christine Ford’s memory, too, till the day she dies. As, without a doubt, will something else.
The uproarious laughter of that other serial sexual abuser in high office: the President of the United States.
I’m just a plainspoken Colorado criminal defense lawyer, but the way I see it…
The other day I got an email purportedly from Esquire, the men’s magazine. Told me all about a great new fitness program, developed by guys who have nothing to do all day BUT get pumped — for their next parole hearing. These physical fitness experts are felons. And now, entrepreneurs.
And here’s their pitch: don’t just develop a body: develop a “Conbody.”
Why smuggle that chisel in a cake, when you could be chiseling your chest and arms instead?
You’re not just doing time; you’re doing pushups.
Conbody says to get that valued I-just-did-six-years-in-the-slammer look you don’t need to leave your house. You don’t need to buy any equipment. You don’t even have to be anybody’s bitch.
Most importantly, you don’t actually have to go to prison. You can do it in the comfort of your home, in just twenty-three minutes a day.
Just click on the link, the email says, and you can start right now.
But here’s the thing.
I’d give you the name of the website, so you too could build the felon-fit body you’ve always dreamed of, but never had the initiative to commit the crimes that could really get you started. But I noticed when I clicked the link to start my own transformation today, that my ever-helpful computer flagged the site as maybe having the intention to steal my identity and financial info. I might get fit, but I might go broke.
