I wonder if, when Charlton Heston died, someone had to pry a gun from his cold, dead hands.

I’ve been watching the Rachel Maddow show lately.  I really like her because she’s a huge, unashamed nerd, is incredibly smart, and because I agree with a lot of her politics.  But something has been bothering me while I watch her show and I finally put my finger on it last night:  I hate what she does for a living.  Obviously, I don’t know her, but based on the little I know of her, she seems like a decent person and someone whose conversation I would enjoy, and I feel safe in saying she’s a better person than Sean Hannity.  But what she does for a living is destructive, unhelpful, and bad for our country.  Televised, biased commentary is bad, even especially if I like and agree with the bias.  She seems like a genuinely good person.  I’ve stopped watching her show.

I swear to God, I’m not making this up:  There are four people in my office, I’m less than two hundred feet away from the person furthest away from me, and my boss wants us to start having video conferences with each other from our desks.  Really.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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