Counting down the weekends left here in my own home, but I’ll try not to bitch too much, since I know this is Mr FK’s last weekend at home before heading back to Baghdad (where today’s forecast calls for clear skies, and a high of 100, with an overnight low of 78). Oh, I know he’ll just be hanging out on his hotel balcony with Laura Ingraham, but still, it’s a long way from home – and sometimes it’s hard to find enough crushed ice to make a decent martini.

So it turns out that, despite having Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, diabetes, recovering from a stroke, almost dying in 1999 from Hepatitis C and a liver transplant, and something like 40 broken bones, Evel Knievel isn’t dead yet (hate to say it, but that picture looks kinda like Malloy). Go figure. I coulda sworn he was dead (Evel, not Mike).

In other news, no Rove indictment and no Jimmy Hoffa (unless they dug him up late last night or early this morning – I haven’t looked yet), but maybe – just maybe, we’ve captured one of the “top” Taliban commanders, Mullah Dadullah. This would be the highest ranking military chief since Mullah Magilla Gorilla was captured with Mullah Dummah N’dummah.

Enjoy your Saturday.