If that doesn't absolutely nail it, I don't know what would. And it's got me humming this song, too:
Sunday papers don't ask no questions,
Sunday papers don't dead no lies;
Sunday papers don't raise objections,
Sunday papers ain't got no eyes.
Brother's hearing that way now, I guess--
He just read something made his face turn blue.
Well I got nothing against the press:
They wouldn't print it if it wasn't true.
-- from Sunday Papers by Joe Jackson
What are you busy doing on this day of rest? Besides watching the World Cup final, of course?
I'm going to walk to Publix for a hard copy of the Sunday NYT and some eggs and good cheese, then I'll make something tasty to nibble on for tea while we watch the football. "Tea" meaning, tea for me, and something undoubtedly more fermented and less precious-sounding for Robert. The boys want chocolate-chip cookies (no big surprise there), but given how hot it is and how exceedingly lazy I feel today, I'm wondering if there might be some simple tapas in the immediate future. Maybe just a big bowl of fresh olives, some crusty bread, a chunk of Manchego, a jar of anchovies, and a nice frittata.
But no pulpo a la parilla--Lord no. Paul hasn't been wrong yet. (I daresay you've guessed that we're cheering for La Furia Roja.)
Son One adds: "That octopus is going to start some fucking wars next, you watch."
(MSM video via Sully.)