To recap, last week, we dealt with fires and hostages and chemical spills.

Today, I walk into work to find out that a bunch of freakin’ hippies painted up the Statehouse here in Indy. Not that its a major deal, aside from some taxpayer dollars that it’s gonna take to get it cleaned up, but I hate freaking protestors. Hate ’em. You wanna make a difference? Try doing it in front of a bus. And what made this group more enjoyable is that they apparently had no real stake in what they were protesting (a LONG overdue extension of highway to bring BFE Indiana at least 2 hours closer to the rest of civilization — at least figuratively). They were “professional protestors”, a group of snot-nosed early 20-somethings with dirty t-shirts, unwashed hair, and that sense of self-worth and dedication that just SCREAMS out “I’m over here, someone please shoot me. Really, I deserve it.” Even better is that the little shits, almost to a man (and lesbian) denied having any involvement, even as they sat on the lawn in handcuffs, waiting to be hauled off to the pokey. And their beefy-law-school-dropout “friend” who thought it “seemed silly” to arrest 20-some people for one or two minor infractions. Go eat a steak, freak.

I know this won’t be in good taste, and I apologize to those that it offends ahead of time (one person in particular), but really, where is Jim Rhodes when you need him?

Answer: He’s dead, but that’s not important right now.