Our thirteen year-old cat, Skaynes, recently diagnosed with a fatal and irreversible disease, chronic renal failure, just hopped up on to his feeding post and looked at me expectantly. His appetite has been spotty lately, but he still shakes us down for treats, even if he doesn’t always eat them. I took a break from thoroughly cleaning his litter boxes to find out what he wanted as a snack.
I took down the box of his various treats, and, as I offered the first to him, he sunk his grey fangs into my wrist. I pointed out to him that he was literally biting the hand that was trying to feed him, but he was unimpressed. He bit my wrist again, by way of reply. He bit it every time I tried to place his treat in front of him. We often refer to him as The Baron. This was certainly baronial behavior, it seems to me.
Thinking of fucking barons, those born booted and spurred to ride and rape the rest of us, reminded me of this lighter note, such as it is.
Farmers used to love Thomas Jefferson, they saw him as a fellow farmer. I heard a quote of old TJ’s yesterday, a wonderful quote by the old agrarian.
“Those who labor in the earth are the chosen people of God.” 
I know it’s wrong, and I couldn’t help myself, but I started thinking of the rest of the quote, lost to posterity: “and I should know, bitch, I own more than three hundred of them!”
Just then his beautiful half-sister-in-law (his wife and her had the same white father) and long-time mistress Sally, a piece of his personal property, in both senses of the word, walked by.
“Got to go now, bitches,” said the Author of Liberty with a wink, a man way, way ahead of his time.
 It goes without saying (he said) that Jefferson held this truth to be as self-evident as the proposition that all men are created equal.