Billmon: Dog Day Afternoon

Dog Day Afternoon

It's hard to feel inspired to do anything -- much less blog -- when the temperature is 95°, the heat index is 110 and the sun is curling back the shingles on the roof and turning the driveway into a strip of burning black goo.

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It's as good an explanation as any, I guess, although to me the expression "dog days" has always called up images of rabid canines, their muzzles dripping with foam and blood from their own self-inflicted bites, writhing in crazed torment under the blazing sun while their virus-riddled brains gradually turn to mush inside their narrow, wolfish skulls.

Which, more-or-less by coincidence, appears to be the effect that Cindy Sheehan is currently having on conservatives. Except for the gradual part.