You have your annual rites, I have mine.

Surely the top news item of the week comes to us from the turbulent Ohio River, itself paying no attention whatever to ephemeral human affairs, and rising up to interfere with profits generated by Flatulence Over Louisville.

Louisville’s annual exaltation of phantom King Larry-sized male packaged potency generally attracts a half-million easily amused people to the vicinity of the riverbank in an orgiastic expectation of raising their middle fingers to the planet during the militarized air show (“precision bombing -- coming soon to a Third World backwater near you”), and an unspeakably garish fireworks extravaganza that will allow them to forget – if only for a brief span of time – that the dollars in their pockets are increasingly worthless, but at least somewhere there’s a NASCAR race underway here in the last, greatest hope for mankind.

No, I’m not a fan of Louisville’s foremost annual celebration of bread and circuses, which inaugurates Derby Festival and signals the beginning of mint julep season in the metro area. However, I know that many of my friends and acquaintances enjoy the pomp and circumstance. Have fun. I’ll be in hiding until the idiocy ceases.