Hello, welcome to the Friday Open Thread, aka Funk Friday. I have been winging it for awhile now, and offer no excuses. The bottom line is I managed to get the Friday Open Thread and it's my funking Friday.

Welcome to Thursday Coffee Hour. This is an open topic thread so help yourself to the goodies and sit a spell and let us know what is new with you. Having been an artist all my life I really enjoying putting together decorations. Living in an apartment can be challenging because of limited space so I decided the perfect things to decorate were my kitchen table and my plant.

What is utopia? I suppose it's different for everybody. Some might think it's being near the ocean, having a little garden, enough money to live and painting supplies.

On Sunday The Mad Bomber gifted Fristian Phrenologists all and everywhere with Christmas in September, when she woozily wobbled at some 9/11 shindig, and then collapsed, bodily, into a van. Like any sick animal, she sought refuge in a place she associates with safety and comfort—in this case, her daughter's apartment. From which she emerged some 90 minutes later, smiling brightly, petting a small child, and pronouncing it "a beautiful day in New York." Then, she went on her way.

But this would not be the end of it. Oh no. Because, in these days, all and everything, and always, it is filmed. My bowel movement, yesterday morning, for instance, it was filmed by two separate cameras: one, fixed to a small drone passing by the bathroom window; two, an in-the-bowl "Colon Cam," apparently now standard equipment with such plumbing fixtures, connected directly to the federal Department of Howdy Doody, so that the health of the colons, of all the people, it may be monitored, and in real time, and for the Good, of All the Nation.

And so, of the Bomber's wamble and fall, there was Footage. And this Footage, it went out unto the tubes. And the tubes, lo, and yea, verily, they, and immediately, became unsane. Great crashing waves of ecstatic orgasms, they pulsated through the Fristians, as they rhythmically ejaculated, great streams of Theories. She'd stroked out, The Mad Bomber. Her battery-pack, it ran down. She'd ODed, and on jimson weed. Anus Jones, he was on the case: Parkinson's. The Express weighed in: advanced vascular dementia, and she will be dead, in six months.

The Bomber people then rolled out, as would-be Moses, to attempt to part this red sea of Fristing, the Bomber's personal sawbones, who said she'd diagnosed the Bomber with pneumonia on Friday—and, it was this pneumonia, that had caused the Bomber, to must needs be wheelbarrowed on out, from the 9/11 bacchanalia.

But the Fristians, they were not buying the pneumonia—they would not buy anything, even if the Bomber were to undergo a complete physical, live and on the television: the Fristians, they would say it was fake, like the moon landing. Meanwhile, the Normal people, in the press and elsewhere, they were wondering why the sam-hey the Bomber, she didn't just announce the pneumonia on Friday, rather than sitting on the news, until after she'd had a bad jimson-weed reaction, in front of all and everybody. "I didn't think it was a big deal," the Bomber said of the pneumonia, while aides mumbled anonymously about "privacy." But the Bomber, of all people, she should know that, for those wanting to be the president, there is no privacy, and everything is always a big deal, about each and every body part, which belong, to all the people, at all times, and not to the presidents, or the president-tryers: her husband, after all, was the man whose penis was intensively dissected by the people, and for eighteen straight months, until utimately it was actually impeached. With the very semen, of the Clenis, entered, as Evidence. On its way. To permanent, stained, display. At the Smithsonian.

[video:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0Bx4oY4mt0]

As most of you know, on Labor Day the site crashed when Johnny tried something new, and it took him overnight to repair from the crash. Yikes! So we'll say goodbye to summer with Labor Day Caucus Critters one week late.

I thought to make sure your Labor Day is hoppy, I'd see how many hopping critters I could find.