Wingnuts think it's awful that Chuck Schumer invoked the ghost of Rosa Parks in discussing open racist Sammy Alito's nomination to SCOTUS. Fuck you, wingnuts. What's awful is the President parading Slammin' Sammy out to "pay his respects" at the Rotunda after the nomination was announced.
Hey, I'll bet black people are fooled.
Drudge thinks it's awful that Slammin' Sammy has been dubbed "Scalito," because it's a slur on Alito's Italian heritage. Fuck you, Drudge. What's awful is you dragging this shit up. It's a play on his judicial temperament, which is jokingly said to be similar to Scalia's. Your characterization is stark crazy, desperate, fascist propaganda.
Hey, I'll bet persons of Italian descent are fooled.
All stripes of wingnuts think it's awful that Democrats are threatening to filibuster the Alito nomination. Fuck you , wingnuts. What's awful is Republicans' disdain for the intelligence of Americans and for legislative processes duly established in line with our Constitution (which Republicans are too busy wiping their filthy asses with to read). So arrogant are they that they believe that no one will notice that Harriet Miers didn't get a fucking vote.
Hey, I'll bet Americans are fooled.
It's real simple, Republicans. You are not the lords and masters of the fucking universe here, and you don't get to slam down our throats whatever the fuck you want to. There's a process, and there's debate, and in the course thereof, there may be dissent. Your suppression of that through any means you can think of reeks of hypocrisy and totalitarianism. Your aim? To destroy the America that you claim to represent and defend.
Fuck you. Go away and start your own country in, say, fucking Utah.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Activism
Let's be clear about what judicial activism is. Judicial activism is legislating from the bench. Conservatives will tell us that judicial activism is bad, mmkay?
ThinkProgress has done us a lovely job of cataloging the attempted judicial activism of the Honorable Samuel A. Alito of the Third United States Circuit Court of Appeals, to wit:
ThinkProgress has done us a lovely job of cataloging the attempted judicial activism of the Honorable Samuel A. Alito of the Third United States Circuit Court of Appeals, to wit:
- Congress exceeded its authority in passing the Family and Medical Leave Act (overturned by SCOTUS)
- Requirement for women to notify spouses before undergoing abortion procedure was not an undue burden (overturned by SCOTUS)
- Dissents in race- and disability-based discrimination cases
- From a case that originated in my beloved Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania: It's permissible to expand the coverage of a search warrant that covers one target and his home to include strip-searching an occupant of the premises (who happened to be 10 years old). Welcome home indeed, Little Nazi!
- Disregard for established law in two dissents in deportation cases
So. The guy dissents from his circuit consistently. When he's in the majority, he is frequently overturned.
Yep. Good judge, this guy. Conservative and restrained judicial temperament.
It's pretty clearly time to filibuster. I urged restraint on Miers, and she ended up imploding (thanks for validating me, Harriet!). No such luck this time. To the Bat-Streets!
Crikey
Later, chirrens, we'll discuss the President's sinister plan to pack the court with persons of Italian heritage later on. We have more important matters to attend first.
What an awful sports weekend for the Washington area. I mean, just abysmal. We started the flesh-ripping on Saturday afternoon, when My Beloved Alma Mater (the one from which I actually graduated, as opposed to the small liberal arts college where I could not finish my degree in personal pharmacology, or the community college known hereabouts as Harvard on the Pike) spent approximately 49 football minutes Getting My Hopes Up in a huge game against the Florida State Penitentiary at Tallahassee.
No amount of private genuflection and um-yah-yah-ery could make our 21-14 halftime lead hold up, though. We chipped away a couple of figgies, but the Felonholes blew away our lead, banging in 14 points in, like, 20 or 30 seconds. We had the ball with about four minutes left, trailing the Felonholes 35-27, but the drive stalled on the Felonholes' 35 or so with 52 seconds left, because the quarterback--who is the second-string quarterback--suddenly stopped believing in peanut butter, which belief is the only thing that could possibly have sustained him to the 21-point second quarter that made the game interesting and noteworthy.
Maryland has been a disappointment in many a fourth quarter this season. Klimpsun bushwhacked the Terps with moments left in the Real season opener (there had been a previous game against some other local school of no note), and the Hillbillies put up about a googajillion ground yards on us in the fourth quarter, to go with the googoogajoobajillion yards they had already put up (and yet, the game was, until the Terps went nappies with 15 minutes left, close).
The whole thing is compounded by a shoulder injury to our starting quarterback, who blossomed into Joe Freakin' Willie Namath in the offseason; there's another presumptively decent quarterback on the roster, dressing every Saturday and acting as The Clipboard and Radio Bitch, but as I learned Saturday, we're trying to redshirt him this season (give him a season off, so that he can prolong his eligibility, which only works if the lad doesn't play at all during the season). Mister Second String, who was the starting quarterback during last year's forgettable campaign, gits all tight in the vagina and can't complete tying his shoes, let alone completing important things like passes to guys in the same color jerseys he's wearing.
Oh, I forgot to mention the metaphysical importance of games against the Florida State Penitentiary at Tallahassee. Long ago and far away, in a galaxy where words rush at you very fast from your movie screen, this august institution was admitted to the Atlantic Coast Conference, the league in which My Beloved Terps compete. No, c'mon, technically that is the correct verb, mmkay?
It will stun you to learn that I am a reactionary on this matter. My ACC consists of seven schools that consider football a hobby (although for Klimpsun, it's also an additional safety valve for criminal intent). Longer ago and farther away, Georgia Tech was admitted to the conference in an effort to buff the league's football profile (and I will admit that, given the Cremins years, Tech earned their way into inclusion in my ACC worldview). This having failed spectacularly at the design purpose, the league then admitted the Florida State Penitentiary at Tallahassee, which had, by then, been ejected from whatever conference it then played in for conduct unbecoming a penitentiary.
Sneerers and ne'er-do-wells will by now be asking me when My Beloved Terps last Won Anything like a National Title. The correct answer is this: when you weren't even a gleam. But STFU, I'm storytelling.
Over their first 12 years in the league, the Felonholes lost precisely two league games. My Beloved Terps were not the winners of either of those games. They established a pattern of games not unlike Saturday's, except after hanging in for two or three quarters, they would proceed to get blown out in a ghastly fashion, rather than being within (possibly wishful) spitting distance at the game's end. This will, of course, engender some hatin'.
Last year, things changed. My Beloved Terps beat the Felonholes, catching them when they were down and waffle-stomping them with jackbooted feetsies. We cried in joy, we um-yah-yah'd, we set College Park on fire (I'm not kidding--get over it, it's what we do, for a given value of "we" that equals drunken fratpersons).
So it's a good thing to beat the Felonholes, as it will be a good thing to beat any of the carpetbagging Big East motherfuckers who have migrated into our fair league over the last two sports seasons. Did I have a point? Oh. Metaphysics. Hatin'. Bobby Cremins. Okay, we're done with all that.
So we can move on to the NFL. But only briefly. The Foreskins ran into a buzzsaw against the New Jersey Large Persons yesterday. It was surreal, a complete stomping, as will occasionally happen against another division team. My chief point about the game is this: it exposed Joe El Senor Jesucristo Supermayamaya Jefe Gibbs' football team for the fraud that it has, for the last six weeks, been. They are Houston with an O-line, the Niners with a defense. Every single human who has embraced, in the opening weeks of the NFL season, the notion that the Foreskins might make the playoffs should rush out right now to join Opus Dei and begin the self-flagellation. I mean it; scourge yourselves, Foreskins fans. It's the only way to get Joe El Senor Jesucristo Supermayamaya Jefe Gibbs to concede the obvious: that this football team sucks giant code words and should be disassembled and rebuilt around the team's young talent as soon as is possible, suffering, if necessary, a three-year jaunt through the wilderness of being the Titans or Niners or Browns.
Really.
And now we come to the MLS, or as my good friend Toots calls it, Pussyball. I declined BdR's kind invitation to accompany him and his family to yesterday's DC United-Chicago playoff game at Washington's...uhm...I guess we'll go with "venerable"...RFK Stadium. I declined partly because I had a lot of stuff to accomplish around The Cave, and also because I had sort of a bad feeling about the game.
Which turned out to be clever. Chicago scored 10 minutes into the game, then again 27 minutes later, and then again--on a spectacular goal--as stoppage time was about to expire on the first half. The second half consisted of desperation and grudge. It was as thorough a rout as a futbol game ever becomes. No threepeat for United this time.
Okay, it's over three hours since I started this rant (real life and the inadequacies of the Booger interface keep cutting in), and it's time for me to abandon the safe place and start blogging about SCOTUS. Ta for now.
What an awful sports weekend for the Washington area. I mean, just abysmal. We started the flesh-ripping on Saturday afternoon, when My Beloved Alma Mater (the one from which I actually graduated, as opposed to the small liberal arts college where I could not finish my degree in personal pharmacology, or the community college known hereabouts as Harvard on the Pike) spent approximately 49 football minutes Getting My Hopes Up in a huge game against the Florida State Penitentiary at Tallahassee.
No amount of private genuflection and um-yah-yah-ery could make our 21-14 halftime lead hold up, though. We chipped away a couple of figgies, but the Felonholes blew away our lead, banging in 14 points in, like, 20 or 30 seconds. We had the ball with about four minutes left, trailing the Felonholes 35-27, but the drive stalled on the Felonholes' 35 or so with 52 seconds left, because the quarterback--who is the second-string quarterback--suddenly stopped believing in peanut butter, which belief is the only thing that could possibly have sustained him to the 21-point second quarter that made the game interesting and noteworthy.
Maryland has been a disappointment in many a fourth quarter this season. Klimpsun bushwhacked the Terps with moments left in the Real season opener (there had been a previous game against some other local school of no note), and the Hillbillies put up about a googajillion ground yards on us in the fourth quarter, to go with the googoogajoobajillion yards they had already put up (and yet, the game was, until the Terps went nappies with 15 minutes left, close).
The whole thing is compounded by a shoulder injury to our starting quarterback, who blossomed into Joe Freakin' Willie Namath in the offseason; there's another presumptively decent quarterback on the roster, dressing every Saturday and acting as The Clipboard and Radio Bitch, but as I learned Saturday, we're trying to redshirt him this season (give him a season off, so that he can prolong his eligibility, which only works if the lad doesn't play at all during the season). Mister Second String, who was the starting quarterback during last year's forgettable campaign, gits all tight in the vagina and can't complete tying his shoes, let alone completing important things like passes to guys in the same color jerseys he's wearing.
Oh, I forgot to mention the metaphysical importance of games against the Florida State Penitentiary at Tallahassee. Long ago and far away, in a galaxy where words rush at you very fast from your movie screen, this august institution was admitted to the Atlantic Coast Conference, the league in which My Beloved Terps compete. No, c'mon, technically that is the correct verb, mmkay?
It will stun you to learn that I am a reactionary on this matter. My ACC consists of seven schools that consider football a hobby (although for Klimpsun, it's also an additional safety valve for criminal intent). Longer ago and farther away, Georgia Tech was admitted to the conference in an effort to buff the league's football profile (and I will admit that, given the Cremins years, Tech earned their way into inclusion in my ACC worldview). This having failed spectacularly at the design purpose, the league then admitted the Florida State Penitentiary at Tallahassee, which had, by then, been ejected from whatever conference it then played in for conduct unbecoming a penitentiary.
Sneerers and ne'er-do-wells will by now be asking me when My Beloved Terps last Won Anything like a National Title. The correct answer is this: when you weren't even a gleam. But STFU, I'm storytelling.
Over their first 12 years in the league, the Felonholes lost precisely two league games. My Beloved Terps were not the winners of either of those games. They established a pattern of games not unlike Saturday's, except after hanging in for two or three quarters, they would proceed to get blown out in a ghastly fashion, rather than being within (possibly wishful) spitting distance at the game's end. This will, of course, engender some hatin'.
Last year, things changed. My Beloved Terps beat the Felonholes, catching them when they were down and waffle-stomping them with jackbooted feetsies. We cried in joy, we um-yah-yah'd, we set College Park on fire (I'm not kidding--get over it, it's what we do, for a given value of "we" that equals drunken fratpersons).
So it's a good thing to beat the Felonholes, as it will be a good thing to beat any of the carpetbagging Big East motherfuckers who have migrated into our fair league over the last two sports seasons. Did I have a point? Oh. Metaphysics. Hatin'. Bobby Cremins. Okay, we're done with all that.
So we can move on to the NFL. But only briefly. The Foreskins ran into a buzzsaw against the New Jersey Large Persons yesterday. It was surreal, a complete stomping, as will occasionally happen against another division team. My chief point about the game is this: it exposed Joe El Senor Jesucristo Supermayamaya Jefe Gibbs' football team for the fraud that it has, for the last six weeks, been. They are Houston with an O-line, the Niners with a defense. Every single human who has embraced, in the opening weeks of the NFL season, the notion that the Foreskins might make the playoffs should rush out right now to join Opus Dei and begin the self-flagellation. I mean it; scourge yourselves, Foreskins fans. It's the only way to get Joe El Senor Jesucristo Supermayamaya Jefe Gibbs to concede the obvious: that this football team sucks giant code words and should be disassembled and rebuilt around the team's young talent as soon as is possible, suffering, if necessary, a three-year jaunt through the wilderness of being the Titans or Niners or Browns.
Really.
And now we come to the MLS, or as my good friend Toots calls it, Pussyball. I declined BdR's kind invitation to accompany him and his family to yesterday's DC United-Chicago playoff game at Washington's...uhm...I guess we'll go with "venerable"...RFK Stadium. I declined partly because I had a lot of stuff to accomplish around The Cave, and also because I had sort of a bad feeling about the game.
Which turned out to be clever. Chicago scored 10 minutes into the game, then again 27 minutes later, and then again--on a spectacular goal--as stoppage time was about to expire on the first half. The second half consisted of desperation and grudge. It was as thorough a rout as a futbol game ever becomes. No threepeat for United this time.
Okay, it's over three hours since I started this rant (real life and the inadequacies of the Booger interface keep cutting in), and it's time for me to abandon the safe place and start blogging about SCOTUS. Ta for now.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Scooter
If you think that the point of the Scooter Libby indictment has anything to do with Joe Wilson, stop reading now, and go shove your featherlight head up your corrupt ass.
If you think that the point of the Scooter Libby indictment has anything to do with whether Valerie Plame's CIA status was, semantically, "covert," stop reading and go try to separate your featherlight, corrupt, demonic head from your similarly adjectived ass, if indeed you have the intellectual capacity to differentiate between them. But if that's what you think, there's evidence that removes any reasonable doubt about your possession of that capacity.
Pat Fitzgerald just stood before God and everybody and told you that he didn't have enough evidence at this time to bring charges under the Intelligence Identities Act or the Espionage Act. He told you what he did indict on; Scooter Libby apparently lied to the FBI and the grand jury.
Innocent until proven guilty, you protest? Good. Then I'm sure you'll agree that Bill Clinton was innocent of the charges brought against him. No? Then shut the fuck up, you lying, hypocritical piece of near-braindead partisan shit.
Prosecutor gone off the rails, you protest? What did this have to do with the alleged leak of the alleged identity of an alleged covert operative? Considerably more than some spooge on a blue dress had to do with anything involving land deals or savings and loans in Arkansas, you morally bankrupt hack.
Not a big deal, you protest? Missed the point? Well, gee, then I guess Scooter shouldn't have lied to a fucking grand jury and obstructed justice. I mean, if there was nothing for him to lie about, he shouldn't have fucking lied, right?
If we happen to discuss this in person, you and I? Don't even mention the names of Wilson or Plame. You won't like the conversation that ensues.
Oh, and Wolf Blitzer? Shut the fucking fuck up, you fucking fuck.
If you think that the point of the Scooter Libby indictment has anything to do with whether Valerie Plame's CIA status was, semantically, "covert," stop reading and go try to separate your featherlight, corrupt, demonic head from your similarly adjectived ass, if indeed you have the intellectual capacity to differentiate between them. But if that's what you think, there's evidence that removes any reasonable doubt about your possession of that capacity.
Pat Fitzgerald just stood before God and everybody and told you that he didn't have enough evidence at this time to bring charges under the Intelligence Identities Act or the Espionage Act. He told you what he did indict on; Scooter Libby apparently lied to the FBI and the grand jury.
Innocent until proven guilty, you protest? Good. Then I'm sure you'll agree that Bill Clinton was innocent of the charges brought against him. No? Then shut the fuck up, you lying, hypocritical piece of near-braindead partisan shit.
Prosecutor gone off the rails, you protest? What did this have to do with the alleged leak of the alleged identity of an alleged covert operative? Considerably more than some spooge on a blue dress had to do with anything involving land deals or savings and loans in Arkansas, you morally bankrupt hack.
Not a big deal, you protest? Missed the point? Well, gee, then I guess Scooter shouldn't have lied to a fucking grand jury and obstructed justice. I mean, if there was nothing for him to lie about, he shouldn't have fucking lied, right?
If we happen to discuss this in person, you and I? Don't even mention the names of Wilson or Plame. You won't like the conversation that ensues.
Oh, and Wolf Blitzer? Shut the fucking fuck up, you fucking fuck.
Fitzmas Morning
Here's the thing. You wanted the new G.I. Joe with Super Barbie-Banging Action Penis. Everyone knew it. How could Mom and Dad not know? You gave up the Santa shit years ago, everyone knows the score. G.I. Joe with Super Barbie-Banging Action Penis is the greatest and most necessary thing ever to be marketed. It's just not possible that they'd give you anything else.
That's what you're thinking, as you open the last box--everything else under the tree is Sparkle Ponies for your damn sister--the box that must, by necessity, by deduction, by all that is holy, contain G.I. Joe with Super Barbie-Banging Action Penis. You already dug out the socks and underwear and the little shirt/sweater-vest combination that Mom thought was cute, and the scarf from Aunt Ethel, who's been asleep in the rocker in the corner for the last hour but just woke up with a thundering fart by way of establishing that she hain't dead yet. This has to be Barbie-Bangin' Joe, here.
But it's not. It's that lame-ass Radio-Controlled Sea Monkey kit that takes an odd number of D cells that it burns through in four minutes. Dammit.
Enjoy your Scooter Libby indictment, kiddies. And your extended Karl Rove investigation.
Oh, and your special bonus Priscilla Owens nomination, a delightful geri-fart of a gift from your 93-year-old Aunt Ethel.
Yep. Merry Fucking Fitzmas.
That's what you're thinking, as you open the last box--everything else under the tree is Sparkle Ponies for your damn sister--the box that must, by necessity, by deduction, by all that is holy, contain G.I. Joe with Super Barbie-Banging Action Penis. You already dug out the socks and underwear and the little shirt/sweater-vest combination that Mom thought was cute, and the scarf from Aunt Ethel, who's been asleep in the rocker in the corner for the last hour but just woke up with a thundering fart by way of establishing that she hain't dead yet. This has to be Barbie-Bangin' Joe, here.
But it's not. It's that lame-ass Radio-Controlled Sea Monkey kit that takes an odd number of D cells that it burns through in four minutes. Dammit.
Enjoy your Scooter Libby indictment, kiddies. And your extended Karl Rove investigation.
Oh, and your special bonus Priscilla Owens nomination, a delightful geri-fart of a gift from your 93-year-old Aunt Ethel.
Yep. Merry Fucking Fitzmas.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
I Didn't Do It
In a triumph of obviousness over imagination, Harriet Miers pulled out of the SCOTUS race a little while ago, citing in her official statement the fact that nobody likes her and vowing a new dedication to going and eating worms. The announcement heeled to yesterday's announcement by the President that he wouldn't be coughing up any documents that the Senate wanted, because she was his damn lawyer and he had to protect future presidencies from the vagaries of that damned legislative branch.
This time? I didn't do it, I wasn't anywhere near that train wreck. The other kids did it, I was off doing my homework. Which my dog ate.
Regular readers know that I urged just going ahead and confirming the dried-up old Nazi, because anyone GWB names to replace her will be far worse (see entire list of rumored nominees in those quiet days before Chief Justice ModernMajorGeneral keeled). We're definitely talking about a Scalia clone here (Irish division), which is what the fascists have been insisting on as proof positive that they run the show and don't give a flying fuck about what half of the country thinks. The alternative, in the event that Laura interrupts GWB's drinking binge enough to convince him that the nominee should not have a Y chromosome, will be a Nazi slattern named Edith or Priscilla. And you just see what happens if we try to knock out one of them. God forbid the man actually comes up with a slightly brown Edith or Priscilla, or we'll be racist obstructionists, in addition to being sexist obstructionists of the policies of this administration noted for its dedication to advancing women in government.
Regardless, the probability that the next nominee will be kinder and gentler stands at zero. The probability that the next nominee will enhance Democrats' electability more than Miers would have would stand at less than zero, if that were mathematically possible.
There are those who tire of my advocacy of the strategy of hoping that we don't get sent to the showers before around August 1, 2006, who pout that we must resist at all hazard the forcible takeover of our government's most moderating influences by fascists and religious zealots.
No. All that should be done before that date is some subtle development and low-grade dissemination of a dominant Democratic meme. That meme should include some airing of grievances, to be sure. But it must include an answer to those who (mostly rightly) tell us that we lack a central set of cogent and distinctive policy messages, messages that go beyond "these people are crooks" (and again, that message is not to be despised).
What should be in there? Beats me. I'm not a policy wonk. Universal health care, a coherent plan for ending our involvement in Iraq, a restoration of some sense of progressiveness in the Tax Code (along with a rejection of the Orwellian notion that regression is progressive). All presented in ways that are, if not bulletproof against snipings about socialism, at least capable of being sustained by the Starbucks-swilling preppy fucks that we run as Democratic candidates at the local and state levels, even in the face of remorseless non sequiturs by the fascists and their ilk.
You mark my words, this bitch's withdrawal will soon be as much our fault as Rove and Libby getting busted for perjury technicalities, and as much as or more than the Hammer getting busted for politicizing crime.
This time? I didn't do it, I wasn't anywhere near that train wreck. The other kids did it, I was off doing my homework. Which my dog ate.
Regular readers know that I urged just going ahead and confirming the dried-up old Nazi, because anyone GWB names to replace her will be far worse (see entire list of rumored nominees in those quiet days before Chief Justice ModernMajorGeneral keeled). We're definitely talking about a Scalia clone here (Irish division), which is what the fascists have been insisting on as proof positive that they run the show and don't give a flying fuck about what half of the country thinks. The alternative, in the event that Laura interrupts GWB's drinking binge enough to convince him that the nominee should not have a Y chromosome, will be a Nazi slattern named Edith or Priscilla. And you just see what happens if we try to knock out one of them. God forbid the man actually comes up with a slightly brown Edith or Priscilla, or we'll be racist obstructionists, in addition to being sexist obstructionists of the policies of this administration noted for its dedication to advancing women in government.
Regardless, the probability that the next nominee will be kinder and gentler stands at zero. The probability that the next nominee will enhance Democrats' electability more than Miers would have would stand at less than zero, if that were mathematically possible.
There are those who tire of my advocacy of the strategy of hoping that we don't get sent to the showers before around August 1, 2006, who pout that we must resist at all hazard the forcible takeover of our government's most moderating influences by fascists and religious zealots.
No. All that should be done before that date is some subtle development and low-grade dissemination of a dominant Democratic meme. That meme should include some airing of grievances, to be sure. But it must include an answer to those who (mostly rightly) tell us that we lack a central set of cogent and distinctive policy messages, messages that go beyond "these people are crooks" (and again, that message is not to be despised).
What should be in there? Beats me. I'm not a policy wonk. Universal health care, a coherent plan for ending our involvement in Iraq, a restoration of some sense of progressiveness in the Tax Code (along with a rejection of the Orwellian notion that regression is progressive). All presented in ways that are, if not bulletproof against snipings about socialism, at least capable of being sustained by the Starbucks-swilling preppy fucks that we run as Democratic candidates at the local and state levels, even in the face of remorseless non sequiturs by the fascists and their ilk.
You mark my words, this bitch's withdrawal will soon be as much our fault as Rove and Libby getting busted for perjury technicalities, and as much as or more than the Hammer getting busted for politicizing crime.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Pirouettes
Ballet has become real popular over on the Right. The impending possibility that Patrick Fitzgerald's grand jury might come up with some indictments has induced twirling artistry at a level not seen since the President's penis was more important than...uhm...well, anything. Let's review:
- According to various blogs (too many to link to, and you visit them all anyway, but Crooks and Liars offers a video sampling done by Bill Maher, and ThinkProgress has more), The Wall Street Journal and Faux News have launched a campaign to suggest that Fitzgerald's investigation is intended to "criminalize politics." I should say that they and others are abetting this campaign, because it pretty clearly originated in the Rovian lizardbrain. The idea is that outing Joe Wilson's wife as a covert agent of the U.S. government amounted to acceptable politics as usual, rather than being a despicable, attention-diverting, deliberate attempt to endanger someone serving her country in a covert role. I remember what Republicans would've called outing a covert operative when I was a lad: treason.
- Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison apparently gave a virtuoso performance on Meet the Press over the weekend, complaining that she sure hopes this darned prosecutor fellow won't stoop to charging anyone with perjury or obstruction. Video is also at Crooks and Liars; Senator Hutchison likened the possibility of perjury charges to what they did to poor Martha Stewart, "where they couldn't find a crime and they indict on something that she said about something that wasn't a crime." Yow.
More from America's favorite cheerleader Senator: she hopes that if there is an indictment, "it is an indictment on a crime and not some perjury technicality where they couldn't indict on the crime and so they go to something just to show that their two years of investigation was not a waste of time and taxpayer dollars." Yow.
Jake Tapper, former grunge reporter turned very pretty television star, blogs about this, contrasting Senator Hutchison's one-time feelings on perjury as they concerned President Clinton's penis. Feelings she expressed in the Congressional Record. As she was voting to convict the President in his impeachment trial. For perjury.
Kay Bailey Hutchison is just too goddam stupid to be allowed in the United States Senate.
We're not, of course, surprised by any of these feats of terpsichory. A rose is a rose is a rose. And a lying, corrupt maggot is a lying, corrupt maggot. Is a Republican pundit or politician.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Toddling
There are those who say that the city I visited over the weekend toddles. While I am loathe to disparage places beloved of my friends, I will say that I came home unconvinced of any toddling. I will also say that Ilse had a harder time than usual in assisting me with anger management during key parts of the journey.
I did get to see a futbol game in Soldier Field, which is a pretty cool edifice. And the game ended with a not-unfavorable result for my side.
I can also say with great assurance that U-boats are way cool. Please do me the favor of making some small effort to act surprised. There, that wasn't so hard, was it?
Sadly, the Museum of Science and Industry does not sell actual Kriegsmarine caps in the museum shop devoted to its captured U-boat, the U-505. That? Would've made it all seem worthwhile.
I also report that Sparkles, an occasional denizen of the comments section of this space, is a damned fine human being and I am grateful for the opportunity to have spent time with her. She funny, the Sparkles.
See? Good things about the city that some of you love. Good beef, a fine museum, an outstanding stadium, difficult company to top. Not a word about temperature, moisture, air movement, cab drivers, or the most uncompelling art museum I have ever experienced. Not even a rant, huh?
I know. I'm a disappointment to you all.
I did get to see a futbol game in Soldier Field, which is a pretty cool edifice. And the game ended with a not-unfavorable result for my side.
I can also say with great assurance that U-boats are way cool. Please do me the favor of making some small effort to act surprised. There, that wasn't so hard, was it?
Sadly, the Museum of Science and Industry does not sell actual Kriegsmarine caps in the museum shop devoted to its captured U-boat, the U-505. That? Would've made it all seem worthwhile.
I also report that Sparkles, an occasional denizen of the comments section of this space, is a damned fine human being and I am grateful for the opportunity to have spent time with her. She funny, the Sparkles.
See? Good things about the city that some of you love. Good beef, a fine museum, an outstanding stadium, difficult company to top. Not a word about temperature, moisture, air movement, cab drivers, or the most uncompelling art museum I have ever experienced. Not even a rant, huh?
I know. I'm a disappointment to you all.
The Mystery of the Paranoiac-Critical Method As Applied to Random Encounters in a Vast Space-Time Array
This happens to you all the time, right? You're standing in line to purchase tickets to enter an art museum (seriously flawed concept, by the way), standing out there on, say, a street very much like Michigan Avenue in a city far from your home, a city very much like Chicago. It's sorta blustery, because that's how it would be in October in a city very much like Chicago, yes? Perhaps it's raining or drizzling. Perhaps you've already marched through one museum and you're older and tireder than you should be, and you have shooting pains in your legs and your back hurts and you don't really like this city, which you have visited mostly for the sake of visiting its ownself, and for the sake of being A Good Person.
And down the sidewalk comes someone you know, a friend of sorts, a casual associate of other sorts. Someone horribly out of context, someone who is also far from his home, which is not in the same city as yours, someone for whom you have some degree of affection tempered by some lesser degree of caution owing to circumstances beyond this person's control (perhaps he is a reporter, who has taken, for no reasons discernable under any rational framework, an interest in something once dear to you).
"Dirk!" (not his real name, and believe me, he'd be snortaciously--possibly even cripplingly--amused at my choice of pseudonyms for him) you yell, "Dirk Steelgod!" And you and Dirk (who is in this city and on this street and in this part of the physics weave for reasons as random and unrelated to Anything as your very own) embrace warmly in the cold and wet on this street much like Michigan Avenue in a city much like Chicago, and there is much conversation and gladness and catchup, as Dirk walks with you in line for a bit so that you can all catch up (Dirk knows your companion, as well, and in some ways they've as much in common as you and Dirk ever do).
And some not-large number of minutes passes, and everyone embraces warmly again, and goes about their paths through the multiverse, thence back to their homes in cities much like Washington and New York, having unexpectedly dealt with some of the duties--and joys--of friendship.
All the freakin' time, right?
And down the sidewalk comes someone you know, a friend of sorts, a casual associate of other sorts. Someone horribly out of context, someone who is also far from his home, which is not in the same city as yours, someone for whom you have some degree of affection tempered by some lesser degree of caution owing to circumstances beyond this person's control (perhaps he is a reporter, who has taken, for no reasons discernable under any rational framework, an interest in something once dear to you).
"Dirk!" (not his real name, and believe me, he'd be snortaciously--possibly even cripplingly--amused at my choice of pseudonyms for him) you yell, "Dirk Steelgod!" And you and Dirk (who is in this city and on this street and in this part of the physics weave for reasons as random and unrelated to Anything as your very own) embrace warmly in the cold and wet on this street much like Michigan Avenue in a city much like Chicago, and there is much conversation and gladness and catchup, as Dirk walks with you in line for a bit so that you can all catch up (Dirk knows your companion, as well, and in some ways they've as much in common as you and Dirk ever do).
And some not-large number of minutes passes, and everyone embraces warmly again, and goes about their paths through the multiverse, thence back to their homes in cities much like Washington and New York, having unexpectedly dealt with some of the duties--and joys--of friendship.
All the freakin' time, right?
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Old Business
Regular viewers know that I reserve a special place in my heart for lying, hypocritical, racist UberCunt Michelle Malkin, although I must credit her with giving me a one-stop shop for collecting the very finest in fascist demagoguery, a service not to be entirely despised. Some of you have noted that my zeal for slamming Malkin may even be indicative of some dark fetish related to female persons of Asian extraction, or perhaps related to female persons of the whackjob persuasion. I deny this.
I can't deny, though, that I have invested considerable energy in trashing the bitch. But I'm going to slim down my zeal for this pursuit, because based on some tips and some Googling, I've found two sites that do a better job of Malkin-bashing than I ever could. The first is Malkin(s) Watch, which is apparently blogged by a guy named Auguste. He is actually able to chronicle the UC's follies without resorting to much pottymouth; as you know, that sort of thing is most unappealling to me as a writer.
Another site, Liberal Avenger, has posted here and here about the possibility that not all of the work published under Malkin's name is her own, in that her equally fascist, equally cuntish husband Jesse, a "stay-at-home" dad, may in fact script some percentage of what appears on the Malkin site under her name. The person who tipped me off to this story thought there was something out there involving a statistical recounting of an analysis of the site's writings, purporting to demonstrate that Jesse writes something like 70 percent of what appears there. I can't find that bit, and I welcome input from anyone who can.
Anyway, I've now linked to both of these sites, and hopefully I can stop spending so much time ranting about someone who's only trying to bait me anyway.
I can't deny, though, that I have invested considerable energy in trashing the bitch. But I'm going to slim down my zeal for this pursuit, because based on some tips and some Googling, I've found two sites that do a better job of Malkin-bashing than I ever could. The first is Malkin(s) Watch, which is apparently blogged by a guy named Auguste. He is actually able to chronicle the UC's follies without resorting to much pottymouth; as you know, that sort of thing is most unappealling to me as a writer.
Another site, Liberal Avenger, has posted here and here about the possibility that not all of the work published under Malkin's name is her own, in that her equally fascist, equally cuntish husband Jesse, a "stay-at-home" dad, may in fact script some percentage of what appears on the Malkin site under her name. The person who tipped me off to this story thought there was something out there involving a statistical recounting of an analysis of the site's writings, purporting to demonstrate that Jesse writes something like 70 percent of what appears there. I can't find that bit, and I welcome input from anyone who can.
Anyway, I've now linked to both of these sites, and hopefully I can stop spending so much time ranting about someone who's only trying to bait me anyway.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Brownian Motion
I'm a tad bored. I have concluded that I will make no more actual work happen this day, and I've done my Web rounds. And yet, I have nothing to write about, really. So I'm just going to sit here and riff on whatever comes to mind until I bring things to a conclusion that does not suck obviously. Maybe.
I am extremely bored by Harriet Miers, and by the continuing furor. Fascists? Hello, I know you're there and listening. Shut the fucking fuck up. She's one of you. I know that you're worried, because she's old and dried up and might die before you're ready for her to do so (although my confidence in Your ability to lie and skank your way back into power by the time she completely turns to dust and blows away remains unshaken). I know that you think that she's not enough of a broomstick up the virgin ass of your mortal enemies. But really? Your hypocrisy is just making the floor all slippery on this one. Shut the fucking fuck up and back your goddam President on this one.
And Liberals? Give it the fuck up. What do you think, you're going to get a Roe supporter nominated or confirmed? Not unless we're talking about sturgeon. Suck it up and start screaming along about August 15. Any earlier than that, and you're going to lose the dumbfucks' attention. And starting the drum circle even 90 days before Election Day is kinda risky. Give. It. Up.
Fuck You:
I am extremely bored by Harriet Miers, and by the continuing furor. Fascists? Hello, I know you're there and listening. Shut the fucking fuck up. She's one of you. I know that you're worried, because she's old and dried up and might die before you're ready for her to do so (although my confidence in Your ability to lie and skank your way back into power by the time she completely turns to dust and blows away remains unshaken). I know that you think that she's not enough of a broomstick up the virgin ass of your mortal enemies. But really? Your hypocrisy is just making the floor all slippery on this one. Shut the fucking fuck up and back your goddam President on this one.
And Liberals? Give it the fuck up. What do you think, you're going to get a Roe supporter nominated or confirmed? Not unless we're talking about sturgeon. Suck it up and start screaming along about August 15. Any earlier than that, and you're going to lose the dumbfucks' attention. And starting the drum circle even 90 days before Election Day is kinda risky. Give. It. Up.
Fuck You:
- Jacob Weisberg, fascist sympathizer;
- Jeffrey Bell and William Kristol, whining, logic-challenged hypocritical fucktards;
- Judith Miller, no link necessary;
- anyone who espouses the opinion that wanting Sadaam Hussein to be dealt with under the rule of law constitutes sympathizing with the motherfucker--in fact, if someone has the unmitigated gall to say something like this to your face, just fucking punch them in the gob, because by spouting such horseshit they've given up any right to due process or American citizenship, and if they protest, punch them again; and
- UberCunt Michelle Malkin, who fits into the above category but deserves something more prolonged, deadly, and communications-impairing than a mere "Fuck You."
Kudos to blackDogred, who wins this week's prize for outstanding news analysis.
Yes, the picture is an inside joke and you don't get to know what it is.
New episodes of South Park, and a new season of Drawn Together, start airing on Comedy Central tonight. Be there.
And with that, I'm off to be The Good Boyfriend and take Databoy to the dentist for his face-tightening, because Dog knows I don't get to hear enough misery and whining in my life.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
You Piss Me Off
I am sometimes asked this:
"Andy, why are you such an angry and bitter little man?"
Of course, I am rarely asked this more than once by the same person, although there are those with pretty flat learning curves. Mom comes to mind. My mother, that is, not our Mom?, who is a perceptive fellow and understands the response range associated with such a question, having no small challenge in the area of emotional response-suppression his ownself.
I digress, of course, because that's what I do.
There is no simple answer to the question, although like everything, it probably goes back to some weird environmental thing that occurred between the ages of four and seventeen and is therefore almost certainly BdR's fault. BdR and I are verging on 35 years of friendship, no small accomplishment given what incredible honking jackasses each of us has managed to be during occasional years of those 35, and considering how very, very few other things have attained any sort of permanency for either of us--the few that come to mind are my smoking and his not ripping baby bunnies to shreds with his bare hands at mealtime.
BdR neither asks nor wonders why I am such an angry little man, because he's angrier about some of the same stuff, and not-at-all angry about more stuff. And the stuff I'm angry about, he understands perfectly fine, having had most of a geological age to study its development. It is likely enough that he will comment on this post to tell you something cryptic and funny about my anger, and you will laugh. It's remotely possible that he will enlighten you, although I doubt it. It's not like he's your fucking monkey or something.
Of course, it all goes back to parents, because everything does, yes? I'm not here to say bad stuff about my parents, who did, after all, a pretty good job of escaping the weird strictures of having been young adults when Eisenhower was President. Life had to have been pretty odd back then, even for people whose minds were relatively open to the massive cultural and social changes of the times.
This is not to say I'm not angry at my parents. Dad and I handle it pretty well, recognizing a common strain when we see one. My mother and I are handling it better than we used to; she niggles at me about why I'm so uncomfortable around her, and I scream, "Because you're a goddam Nazi control freak, Mom, why don't you just Fuck the Fucking Fuck Off and worry about your own Fucking Shit for a Fucking change, BITCH!"
Then we just talk about politics. I mean, all I wanted was a Pepsi.
This post is dedicated to Psyche, talky-talk doc extraordinaire.
"Andy, why are you such an angry and bitter little man?"
Of course, I am rarely asked this more than once by the same person, although there are those with pretty flat learning curves. Mom comes to mind. My mother, that is, not our Mom?, who is a perceptive fellow and understands the response range associated with such a question, having no small challenge in the area of emotional response-suppression his ownself.
I digress, of course, because that's what I do.
There is no simple answer to the question, although like everything, it probably goes back to some weird environmental thing that occurred between the ages of four and seventeen and is therefore almost certainly BdR's fault. BdR and I are verging on 35 years of friendship, no small accomplishment given what incredible honking jackasses each of us has managed to be during occasional years of those 35, and considering how very, very few other things have attained any sort of permanency for either of us--the few that come to mind are my smoking and his not ripping baby bunnies to shreds with his bare hands at mealtime.
BdR neither asks nor wonders why I am such an angry little man, because he's angrier about some of the same stuff, and not-at-all angry about more stuff. And the stuff I'm angry about, he understands perfectly fine, having had most of a geological age to study its development. It is likely enough that he will comment on this post to tell you something cryptic and funny about my anger, and you will laugh. It's remotely possible that he will enlighten you, although I doubt it. It's not like he's your fucking monkey or something.
Of course, it all goes back to parents, because everything does, yes? I'm not here to say bad stuff about my parents, who did, after all, a pretty good job of escaping the weird strictures of having been young adults when Eisenhower was President. Life had to have been pretty odd back then, even for people whose minds were relatively open to the massive cultural and social changes of the times.
This is not to say I'm not angry at my parents. Dad and I handle it pretty well, recognizing a common strain when we see one. My mother and I are handling it better than we used to; she niggles at me about why I'm so uncomfortable around her, and I scream, "Because you're a goddam Nazi control freak, Mom, why don't you just Fuck the Fucking Fuck Off and worry about your own Fucking Shit for a Fucking change, BITCH!"
Then we just talk about politics. I mean, all I wanted was a Pepsi.
This post is dedicated to Psyche, talky-talk doc extraordinaire.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Personal Growth
Owing to strict adherence to my personal principles, I had managed, for over 45 years, to avoid cleaning up other persons' medical waste. My principles have been heretofore bolstered, late in my thus-far life, by an Ironclad No-Diapers Policy, under which I get to periodically bang Ilse like a screen door in a hurricane at a cost not involving really even thinking about little Bam-Bam's diapers, except to the extent that the little poop machine occasionally makes me wrinkle my nose with one of his less pleasant deeds. And it's a net benefit to Ilse on those rare occasions when I'm around to notice such things, because honestly? Her sense of smell ain't all that sharp. Not so I could count on it; I mean, I only hang out in strip clubs where the dancers don't wear perfume.
All things must pass, however, and yesterday, phony history and Ilse's parents conspired to topple my principles like a statue in Dzerzhinsky Square (also known, apparently, as Lubyanka Square--who knew that Iron Feliks merely lent a nickname to this place beloved of Ian Fleming and Tom Klancy?).
See? That's real history, albeit of a populist sort. Columbus Day, while no less populist, is certainly a welcome holiday, but hardly much of a commemoration of real history. The guy found islands. The guy never really knew where the hell he was. The guy got run out of Italy (whose American sons and daughters now embrace him fervidly on the second Monday of each October, and well they might, given the bounty of Americanness which has descended upon the millions of descendants of Italian immigrants to this country) and basically soaked the Queen of Spain for a job. He died syphilitic and useless. Okay, I made up that last sentence, but given the prevailing winds of the times, I estimate a 70-percent chance that it's actually true. I'm sure that Minions' official history grad student will be along to advise on this shortly, having earned beaucoup bonus points with his agreeable assessment of this writer's theories--dismissed by many of you as purely Frenchified lunacy--about George Washington. Who has a holiday of sorts, too.
Columbus Day, then, deserves a certain amount of disrepect as a holiday. We don't go around hammering this home on our fervidly Italian friends; why rock their boat? They're entitled to their worldview, and I'm entitled to an official U.S. Government holiday. Everyone can remain happy without causing anger and hurt and conflict. Which are bad.
Even schools in My Local Neighboring State of Gilead respect this holiday. As do day-care centers. Sadly, this lofty example is not followed by many Gilead employers, including Ilse's. This left a slight void in the child-care department, since Databoy and Bam-Bam, Ilse's wee persons, are not noted for their ability to sustain themselves.
Fortunately, this void was filled by Ilse's parents, to whom I shall decline to assign a moniker. They were able to watch the Ilseissue until about mid-afternoon, but were on their way to somewhere and had to be gone by then. So I stepped in to care for the little crackers, because I am, after all, The Good Boyfriend.
Upon my arrival, Mrs. Ilse's Mom told me that little Bam-Bam's personal hygiene system had just been cleaned and recharged, and I greeted this news with much joy and glee and salaaming. I even promised, silently, to be nice to the Jesus for a short time in honor of Mrs. Ilse's Mom, who thinks that such things are important.
And I was nice to the Jesus for a short time, refraining from throwing Databoy, Ilse's smartass punk seven-year-old who thinks he's unassailably cute, out of any windows or other egresses for a good 15-20 minutes after his grandparents/bodyguards left town.
In truth, the little peckerwood was reasonably well-behaved, needing no corporal punishment and only one short term of imprisonment during my stewardship, and that only after a half hour of very nearly good behavior preceded his sudden and unexpected infraction. Usually, Databoy is a slow learner, but his seven-minute confinement convinced him that his most reliable forms of verbal communication were limited to "Yes, SIR!" and "No, SIR" and "I don't know, SIR!" For Databoy, this is the equivalent of monkeys speaking Mandarin, so we're gonna put that one in the win column.
We played our version of living-room soccer, which consists of Databoy trying to hit a target with a soft soccer miniball while I guard said target from a thoroughly encouched position. Databoy thinks this is soccer, and pretends to be his hero, Brian Carroll.
Yeah, everything's a fucking conspiracy, innit?
Bam-Bam, who is five and is, as you may know or recall, autistic, spent his time weaving through the room, or off in his own room, bouncing and shrieking. Bam-Bam is built like a linebacker/tight end/fullback--I can't decide yet which role he'll best fulfill, but the need to settle that just now isn't great--and likes to do about five things: shriek, run, bounce, chew on or play with strings, and eat. This last, of course, has consequences.
After a time, I noticed a rubbery odor. I ascribed this to the fact that Bam-Bam was chewing on three rubber bands, the closest thing to strings upon which he could manage to lay his grimy little paws yesterday. But after a time, he began to emit demanding shrieks that were not diminished by offerings of grape juice and potato chips. I investigated and discovered that my time was at hand.
I'll leave the details to clinicians. Suffice it to say that this was a five, count 'em, FIVE babywipe event. I emptied the babywipes box and started a new one, which created a convenient depository for the remains of the day. Later, upon hefting the hermetically sealed package, Ilse pronounced a birth mass of about five pounds. For my part, I am convinced that priceless hoards of Japanese war gold discovered in the Philippines have weighed less.
I recovered from the sensory assault in time to choke down some dinner. And it is actually moderately horrifying, in a tribal responsibility sort of sense, that I managed to go 45 years without changing a diaper. But I am no longer entertained by my own farts. Little Bam-Bam's weapons of mass destruction have robbed me of my innocence.
All things must pass, however, and yesterday, phony history and Ilse's parents conspired to topple my principles like a statue in Dzerzhinsky Square (also known, apparently, as Lubyanka Square--who knew that Iron Feliks merely lent a nickname to this place beloved of Ian Fleming and Tom Klancy?).
See? That's real history, albeit of a populist sort. Columbus Day, while no less populist, is certainly a welcome holiday, but hardly much of a commemoration of real history. The guy found islands. The guy never really knew where the hell he was. The guy got run out of Italy (whose American sons and daughters now embrace him fervidly on the second Monday of each October, and well they might, given the bounty of Americanness which has descended upon the millions of descendants of Italian immigrants to this country) and basically soaked the Queen of Spain for a job. He died syphilitic and useless. Okay, I made up that last sentence, but given the prevailing winds of the times, I estimate a 70-percent chance that it's actually true. I'm sure that Minions' official history grad student will be along to advise on this shortly, having earned beaucoup bonus points with his agreeable assessment of this writer's theories--dismissed by many of you as purely Frenchified lunacy--about George Washington. Who has a holiday of sorts, too.
Columbus Day, then, deserves a certain amount of disrepect as a holiday. We don't go around hammering this home on our fervidly Italian friends; why rock their boat? They're entitled to their worldview, and I'm entitled to an official U.S. Government holiday. Everyone can remain happy without causing anger and hurt and conflict. Which are bad.
Even schools in My Local Neighboring State of Gilead respect this holiday. As do day-care centers. Sadly, this lofty example is not followed by many Gilead employers, including Ilse's. This left a slight void in the child-care department, since Databoy and Bam-Bam, Ilse's wee persons, are not noted for their ability to sustain themselves.
Fortunately, this void was filled by Ilse's parents, to whom I shall decline to assign a moniker. They were able to watch the Ilseissue until about mid-afternoon, but were on their way to somewhere and had to be gone by then. So I stepped in to care for the little crackers, because I am, after all, The Good Boyfriend.
Upon my arrival, Mrs. Ilse's Mom told me that little Bam-Bam's personal hygiene system had just been cleaned and recharged, and I greeted this news with much joy and glee and salaaming. I even promised, silently, to be nice to the Jesus for a short time in honor of Mrs. Ilse's Mom, who thinks that such things are important.
And I was nice to the Jesus for a short time, refraining from throwing Databoy, Ilse's smartass punk seven-year-old who thinks he's unassailably cute, out of any windows or other egresses for a good 15-20 minutes after his grandparents/bodyguards left town.
In truth, the little peckerwood was reasonably well-behaved, needing no corporal punishment and only one short term of imprisonment during my stewardship, and that only after a half hour of very nearly good behavior preceded his sudden and unexpected infraction. Usually, Databoy is a slow learner, but his seven-minute confinement convinced him that his most reliable forms of verbal communication were limited to "Yes, SIR!" and "No, SIR" and "I don't know, SIR!" For Databoy, this is the equivalent of monkeys speaking Mandarin, so we're gonna put that one in the win column.
We played our version of living-room soccer, which consists of Databoy trying to hit a target with a soft soccer miniball while I guard said target from a thoroughly encouched position. Databoy thinks this is soccer, and pretends to be his hero, Brian Carroll.
Yeah, everything's a fucking conspiracy, innit?
Bam-Bam, who is five and is, as you may know or recall, autistic, spent his time weaving through the room, or off in his own room, bouncing and shrieking. Bam-Bam is built like a linebacker/tight end/fullback--I can't decide yet which role he'll best fulfill, but the need to settle that just now isn't great--and likes to do about five things: shriek, run, bounce, chew on or play with strings, and eat. This last, of course, has consequences.
After a time, I noticed a rubbery odor. I ascribed this to the fact that Bam-Bam was chewing on three rubber bands, the closest thing to strings upon which he could manage to lay his grimy little paws yesterday. But after a time, he began to emit demanding shrieks that were not diminished by offerings of grape juice and potato chips. I investigated and discovered that my time was at hand.
I'll leave the details to clinicians. Suffice it to say that this was a five, count 'em, FIVE babywipe event. I emptied the babywipes box and started a new one, which created a convenient depository for the remains of the day. Later, upon hefting the hermetically sealed package, Ilse pronounced a birth mass of about five pounds. For my part, I am convinced that priceless hoards of Japanese war gold discovered in the Philippines have weighed less.
I recovered from the sensory assault in time to choke down some dinner. And it is actually moderately horrifying, in a tribal responsibility sort of sense, that I managed to go 45 years without changing a diaper. But I am no longer entertained by my own farts. Little Bam-Bam's weapons of mass destruction have robbed me of my innocence.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
What If Prairie Home Companion Had A Fight Song?
My Beloved Alma Mater (the one I graduated from) has a fight song (actually, it's called the Victory Song; the actual fight song pisses me off because it should be called the We're Getting Our Panties Jammed Up Our Crack By A School We Hate Song) that can, sometimes, bring tears to my little mob-mentality eyes. The Victory Song (and the Alma Mater, to which I have repenned the lyrics to pay homage to the things that make state schools great) bring me to my feet reflexively every time. Music, of course, has great power. Just ask Wagner.
From today's edition of NFL.com's very fine (JOlene's disdain notwithstanding) Tuesday Morning Quarterback, by Gregg Easterbrook comes an item about the fight song of Saint Olaf College, in Northfield, Minnesota. It is, stomp-down, the greatest fight song in the history of the universe.
Listen to it here. Don't argue. Just go listen to it. Now. Imagine as your own.
From today's edition of NFL.com's very fine (JOlene's disdain notwithstanding) Tuesday Morning Quarterback, by Gregg Easterbrook comes an item about the fight song of Saint Olaf College, in Northfield, Minnesota. It is, stomp-down, the greatest fight song in the history of the universe.
Listen to it here. Don't argue. Just go listen to it. Now. Imagine as your own.
Bread and Circuses
Theories abound on the hidden meanings and deeper significances of the Miers nomination. Bad joke? Work-wife divorce? Democrat mole? Stealth Scalia? 60-year-old virgin? Treacherous plot to blame her rejection on a recalcitrant Senate (even though it's not going to be Dems who fail to confirm her--in fact, every single Democratic Senator should be standing on the Capitol steps right now, chanting, "Up or down vote!") and force through someone demonstrably awful? All of the above and far more than we mere mortals can possibly imagine?
bDr pointed out to me in a non-citable form that Atrios probably has it right. The real issue for fascist angst over the nomination boils down to this:
They wanted Bush to extend a giant middle finger to everyone to the left of John Ashcroft. They wanted to watch Democrats howl and scream and then ultimately lose a nasty confirmation battle. They wanted this to be their "WE RUN THE COUNTRY AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT" moment.
Hard to argue with. It's also hard to quibble with the pure entertainment value of nasty self-righteous fucktards like the UberCunt Michelle Malkin directing flaming, hate-laden bilespew at someone who is quite obviously one of her own. Nothing could possibly better show Them for what They are.
Let 'em spew. My only worry is that it's too far in advance of the mid-term elections for anyone to remember, when it counts, Their arrogance, hatred, treachery, and simple downright meanness.
bDr pointed out to me in a non-citable form that Atrios probably has it right. The real issue for fascist angst over the nomination boils down to this:
They wanted Bush to extend a giant middle finger to everyone to the left of John Ashcroft. They wanted to watch Democrats howl and scream and then ultimately lose a nasty confirmation battle. They wanted this to be their "WE RUN THE COUNTRY AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT" moment.
Hard to argue with. It's also hard to quibble with the pure entertainment value of nasty self-righteous fucktards like the UberCunt Michelle Malkin directing flaming, hate-laden bilespew at someone who is quite obviously one of her own. Nothing could possibly better show Them for what They are.
Let 'em spew. My only worry is that it's too far in advance of the mid-term elections for anyone to remember, when it counts, Their arrogance, hatred, treachery, and simple downright meanness.
Monday, October 03, 2005
280 Million Valiums, Please
This is a really entertaining day. I told you earlier about my conversation with a good friend who's apoplectic about the Miers nomination. As Dweezil notes in a comment to that post, the fascists are going absolutely batshit crazy about it, too. Dweezil and I ask you, if something pisses off that segment of the population so thoroughly, can it possibly be a bad thing?
Seems some of their objections center on the same things as ours; she's never been a judge, she has no record, and she's a Bush crony. Their bigger objection is that she's a woman. If God had meant for women to be Supremes, he'd have given Scalia a pussy.
Roll with it, kids. We can't win the fight. She profiles out as a classic botched Republican nomination. If that profile's wrong, we end up where we'd end up if Bush nominated Leni Reifenstahl, except that we won't have turned some Republican into a fucking martyr and looked like a bunch of fucking moonbats. The time to fight is in about eight or nine months.
Roll with it.
Seems some of their objections center on the same things as ours; she's never been a judge, she has no record, and she's a Bush crony. Their bigger objection is that she's a woman. If God had meant for women to be Supremes, he'd have given Scalia a pussy.
Roll with it, kids. We can't win the fight. She profiles out as a classic botched Republican nomination. If that profile's wrong, we end up where we'd end up if Bush nominated Leni Reifenstahl, except that we won't have turned some Republican into a fucking martyr and looked like a bunch of fucking moonbats. The time to fight is in about eight or nine months.
Roll with it.
My Indefensible Lack of Substance
I'm having a lot of trouble finding my morally outraged center over the nomination of Harriet Miers as a replacement Supreme. In fact, I just got off the phone with an outraged friend, who is sputtering mad--"upset," actually, was her word--about the nomination. I spent most of the phone call asking her if she expected the President to nominate Michael Moore or Hilary Clinton (actually, that last woulda been sorta brilliant, now I think on it). Or if it really would've been better had he nominated (and thereby either martyred or infiltrated onto the Court) Prissy Owen or Janice Brown.
With Miers, there's the crony card. G'wan, confirm her relatively quietly--no procedural posturing necessary. Just scream about the President nominating his buddies to key positions, vote against her, and serve your revenge cold in some enchanted upcoming November. There's really no need for Democratic Senators to piss people off by doing their jobs in this case; it makes the American people very impatient when the legislature does its job. And any sort of lasting negativity here hands the moral high ground back to the fascists.
Choose your battles wisely, and fight them to the death. This one ain't worth a deathmatch.
With Miers, there's the crony card. G'wan, confirm her relatively quietly--no procedural posturing necessary. Just scream about the President nominating his buddies to key positions, vote against her, and serve your revenge cold in some enchanted upcoming November. There's really no need for Democratic Senators to piss people off by doing their jobs in this case; it makes the American people very impatient when the legislature does its job. And any sort of lasting negativity here hands the moral high ground back to the fascists.
Choose your battles wisely, and fight them to the death. This one ain't worth a deathmatch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
