Here lies Wednesday — negotiator between the tyranny of Early Week and the false promises of Slightly Later In The Week; harbinger of The Possibility of Surviving Until The Weekend; Time's Own Uncomfortable Middle Seat That Tells You Where You Really Rank Among Your Friends. Let us look forward to Thursday with open hearts and genuine gratitude that our shitty half-friend Wednesday couldn't keep up.
Vice President Joe Biden announced that he would not, in fact, soil the metaphorical sleeveless muscle T we all picture him wearing when we close our eyes by entering the presidential-candidate fray. Which is, if we were all to be honest with ourselves, probably the strongest single indicator of qualification for the office (read: sanity) we've seen from an individual yet, yes?
Somebody in Florida was finally arrested for a bomb threat that was actually a bomb threat: A dude with multiple legal entanglements earned the bracelets after a Molotov cocktail was found at Sebring's Newsom Eye & Laser Center. The suspect's complete vision has yet to be discerned, but agencies see a connection between the man's troubles and their perspective on the crimes. (Those are eyesight-related puns, by the way, and I worked very hard on them, thank you.)
Are you obsessed with whether or not the Rays are leaving, like the Tampa Bay Times? You'll be pleased/exasperated/edified/mollified to read the paper's latest on proposals the St. Pete City Council must parse. Shall we remind you it's not the St. Pete City Council's job to negotiate contracts, but rather up-or-down them? Shall we insinuate that the Tampa Bay Times is maybe working this story so hard that even a dead cow might complain of teat chafe? Perhaps we should just default to editorializing with heavy sarcasm and unabashed populism, and suggest that if the Rays want to break their contract, they either compensate the taxpayers fairly, win a World Series or shut the fuck up? You be the judge.
And finally, $40 million in blow confiscated by the Coast Guard was offloaded here in Tampa Bay. Given our cynicism and hyperbolic math, at least one-seventy-fifth of that shit will be on hand at local Halloween parties by the weekend, courtesy of that guy Steve that we sort of know, and don't want to know anything else about.
