Ze Pehppers, Zey Are In Ordnung, Ja?

PapersPlease is an interesting site, the one-and-two pitch count of civil liberties sites. Like so many other things, I found it because General J.C. Christian told me to, in reference to the case of Deborah Davis of Colorado. Ms. Davis is a former user of public transit in the city of Denver. One day, she was riding the bus to work, and the bus entered the grounds of the Denver Federal Center, which it does as part of its normal route. Federal security contractors boarded the bus, demanding identification from passengers (apparently the bus's route passes through the DFC on its way elsewhere). They were followed by uniformed Federal Protective Service officers when Ms. Davis refused to produce identification.

The FPS truppen believed that they were asking for identification because these people were entering a loosely secured federal campus. Ms. Davis thought she was riding the freakin' bus. Hilarity did not ensue, and Ms. Davis was handed two citations relating to her failure to produce identification that she admitted she possessed. Everybody did their job; the FPS truppen made America secure, and Ms. Davis set up the court case she plainly intended to set up. Why the hell else would you not just show your drivers' license and allow the bus and its other occupants to be on their way?

Both sides are victims here. Of course Ms. Davis should not have to produce identification for no reason other than that she is riding a city transit bus. And the FPS pawns didn't have much choice but to adhere to the prescribed policies for people entering DFC (even those merely transiting).

Surely some procedural accomodation could be reached; one of my offices is on a federal campus that is located at a major transit hub. The campus is also across the street from a pretty large Navy facility. Until the government built an eight-foot perimeter fence, the campus was, at best, loosely secured. They got the idea for the eight-foot perimeter fence after our Navy neighbors built theirs. The bus and subway stops are outside of the security perimeter. To breach the perimeter, I must show my U.S. government-issued photo identification. When Tom Ridge or his descendants decree a color elevation in the security rainbow, or when our President is scheduled to speak here or across the street, I am bomb-sniffed.

That is the extent of security; absent heightened color, or secret dignitaries. On an ordinary day, I could drive in a bomb or a crate of assault rifles or an assload of immigrant gardeners. Heck, I could even drive in a carload of hookers, but we all know how I feel about violating the Mann Act.

Apparently, the Denver Federal Center houses agencies that are not remotely related to national security or law enforcement--pretty innocuous stuff. I suspect that there is additional security inside the buildings in DFC--you likely have to show ID to get past the front door of the building. In fact, I'd be quite surprised if I were wrong about that. Badging people on buses transiting the campus is probably excessive.

So I get the point, and this is a fair test. Where this one should come out is that FPS should let buses through without this sort of ridiculous delay, or the government should make Denver city buses skirt the federal campus. I suspect that, after ultimate resolution, it will result otherwise, and that we will end up a bit more of a police state.

I opened with a snide comment about PapersPlease. That's because it features two cases that are less comparable to the Denver case. One is that of Dudley Hiibel, who turned a domestic dispute with his daughter into a vendetta against the Humboldt County (Nevada) Sheriff's Department into a Supreme Court case on the merits of having to display identification to a police officer investigating a report of a crime--a Supreme Court case that Hiibel lost. The incident was captured on a video that I saw a while back; my first response was that Hiibel was drunk, and my secondary response was that, drunk or not, he was a pretty gosh-darned belligerent fellow*. Both opinions stand to this day, and I defy anyone who sees the video to disagree with me on the matter of Hiibel's belligerence (the situation was not helped by Hiibel's daughter shrieking at the sheriff's deputy who was trying to investigate).

The man's case is not one of which civil libertarians should be proud, and the site does an abysmal and biased job of presenting the facts and merits of the case. That's a shame, because the Denver case seems so much stronger and seems to make so much more sense. Unfortunately, because of the way the site presents the Hiibel case, I can't help but wonder what else I need to know about the Davis case.

The other case that is featured on PapersPlease is that of John Gilmore, who refused to present identification when he wanted to fly on a commercial flight. Do I feel any safer because the low-wage security contractors who prescreen the TSA lines at the airport look at my drivers' license (and everyone else's)? Not so much, no. Do I think it's an unreasonable violation of my civil liberties? Actually, no, I don't. Not at all. Not even close.

Gilmore is described on the site as a philanthropist. That's all well and good, and I applaud his choice to "use his fortune" to "defend the Constitution." I think that this time, he chose a lousy constitutional issue over which to fight (and the photos on the site make clear that he, too, planned this as a constitutional challenge from the git-go). The Ninth Circuit will hear his appeal in December. He will lose, even though one of the most sensible things that conservatives say is that the Ninth Circuit is populated by wackjobs. Not only will he lose, he invites the Ninth Circuit or the Supreme Court to develop an even harsher legal climate, one that more substantively and overtly violates the First and Fourth Amendments.

Yes, you with the tattoo on your forearm? Yes, yes, of course you're right, we can't count the number of movies where we've seen Nazis demand peoples' pehppers on trains. Of course you are right that this isn't supposed to be that kind of country. Of course John Gilmore is right, in a narrow and technical constitutional sense, that it should not be required for us to display identification to board airplanes, Lockerbie and 9/11 notwithstanding (identification requirements didn't prevent either of those from happening). And of course, Deborah Davis is really, really right that she shouldn't have to show ze pehppers to ride ze bus. I'll leave aside any of-coursing in the matter of Dudley Hiibel, whose case isn't doing anybody any good, least of all Dudley Hiibel.

But to return to point: Is now really the time to contest the constitutional aspects of these questions? Not so much, no.

*Fuck you, Purple.

I Told You So

Missed here in these pages, in last week's orgy of vegetation, wallowing, feastification, and eventual mother immersion, was any mention of Representative Jean Schmidt's declamation of Representative John Murtha on the floor of the United States House of Representatives. Schmidt, it seems, referred to the decorated Vietnam Marine veteran Murtha as a coward, then backed away from the accusation when called on it. Sasha reports it just fine, with documentation, so I don't have to.

I don't have to spend time going into what I think of it, either. You know. But what I do need to remind you of is this:

I fucking well told you so.

Brilliant excerpt:

...this Schmidt person's entire being seems focused on making lampshades from human skin.

Go on. Worship me.

Can You Spell H-Y-P-O-C...I Knew You Couldn't

The UberCunt goes batshit today (or maybe yesterday--I can't be bothered with facts and figures unless I feel like it) over Senator Reid's disclosure that he heard that Osama Bin Laden was killed in last month's Pakistani earthquake. She launches a diatribe on protecting intelligence sources and methods. She claims that there may be good reasons for concealing the information, even if it is true.

Yeah, that's sensible. If, in fact, the avowed number one target of your so-called war on terror is dead, I can see how you wouldn't want anyone to know it, because that wouldn't be like winning the so-called war or anything. Especially if your so-called war on terror was a complete sham that depended on lies to galvanize the public in the face of a perceived enemy. That I can understand.

It really is moonbatty of me to call that fascist, innit? Maybe there are some sort of drugs I can take to cure my unhingement.

If it's untrue that Bin Laden is dead, then I can, of course, understand why you might want to protect the intelligence chain that developed that information. It's clearly a useful source, right?

And of course, I'm not thinking about anybody who may or may not have outed a CIA operative in an attempt to do political damage to her husband.

Michelle Malkin is a hypocritical, propagandizing, fascist cunt. And I do not care to be accused of choosing those words lightly.

Where You Came From

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Wading Ashore at Leyte

I am returned. I could have returned yesterday, but it's hard for me to motivate when I'm not at the office. The temptations of the television and the book and the PS2 and the laptop, which burns through a day of HOI2 in about 10 seconds (and for a game that simulates every hour from 1936 through 1947, speed is sort of a bonus) are just too much to bear, and I tend to keep Internetting to a minimum on days off. I know that I should develop good habits and fix this problem. I know that you clamor for a dose of my clap every day of your otherwise colorless lives. I know, I know, I know.

Okay, quick news roundup: as noted in the last post, I elected, for reasons that really aren't any of your fucking business, except to the extent that I whined and bitched about this during the argument process, to prostrate myself before the magnificence that is my employer/customer, and settled for a lot less money than they should be paying me. I mean "a lot less" as in "half a car," and not a freakin' Ford Fiesta, either.

I survived the mother, and the mother survived me. I got considerable aid--to be fair, I'd have to say we both did--because there was a sports orgy on television from the time I got there until the time I left, and we spent any non-sports-orgy time eating or shopping. I did slip out for a couple of hours to visit the radical vegetarian Heel-fan commune occupied by the extended other side of my family (Dad's wife's relations), which also helped a lot. They even offered to take me to that night's UNC whupping of...whoever it was the Heels were "playing." They withdrew the offer when I refused to take off my bright red shirt with the big M logo. They were afraid someone would mistake me for a State fan.

For a change, my flight home on Saturday was not only on time, but early. So early, in fact, that I spent an extra 10 minutes lingering in the lovely smoking bar at RDU, which has wireless. It is appalling how many airports don't offer decent wireless access. I don't care about free--I just want it available. BWI just built a brand-new concourse for Southwest; it's not rigged for wireless. Who the fuck builds a new building in this day and age and doesn't riddle it with the right fixin's? Assclowns, that's who.

Anyway, I got to the gate 30 minutes before departure, and the flight was already half boarded. I still got an aisle seat, but it was touch-and-go, and I sure nuff didn't get an aisle seat in row 4, as my big ol' A boarding pass should have. Another day in my ongoing love affair with SWA.

I'm still catching up on politics and other blogs, and will be for a day or two. Fear not, something will soon outrage me almost as much as the lack of substance in this blog outrages you. Vaya con dios, cucarachas.

Itemses

I am at my mother's for the holiday. I will resurface eventually.

Cancel the homelessness alert. Ilse's children reminded me that they expect to be fed, so I threw myself on the hand grenade of my pride and came to completely unsatisfactory terms with the money persons. Ilse's children will eat well. And yeah, I just called them fat.

Have a great holiday, my chirrens.

Stuffies

Not to whine, but I'm busy and tired and stressed and other stuff. I may post sometime before the end of the holiday weekend, or I may not. You'll get over it either way, I reckon; you're strong that way.

Have a lovely American feast day.

Why I Have Nothing To Say Today

1. See "Capitalism", below.

2. Bob Woodward? Yawn.

3. Canada is an evil regime (see the unlinkable place)? Yeah, I could manage some outrage, if I weren't so fucking self-absorbed.

4. Pajamas Media? Yawn.

5. People attacking Pajamas Media? Yawwwwwwn.

6. On top of everything, with only 12 business days left in my association with my employer, I'm having a really cranky-inducing week at work.

7. Actually, the General does give us a link to this story about a guy infiltrating a PromiseKeepers event. This story? Did not make me yawn. But I have nothing to add to it.

8. The President thinks my side is irresponsibly manipulating facts about how we went to war in Iraq? Wow. Nothing like a good game of Pot and Kettle, huh? Yawn.

9. Rude and Auguste are way smarter than I am. Why bother? Yawn.

10. Frank DeFord, decried by anyone who pays attention and this bloviating Dookie fascist, whines about why people don't like Duke basketball. It's simple: Coach K is a smug bully. His players are self-absorbed prima-donnas. Loyal minions should visit Truth About Duke, which should be Mecca for anyone who isn't a Dookie. Interesting poll results here indicate that by and large, the only people who give a rat's ass about Dook, or at least about the TAD site, are fans of UNC, Maryland, Dook, and UK. Stunning, that.

Capitalism Update

Unresolved. Apparently Big Johnson and Big Vagina had difficulty connecting, and now Big Johnson is gone for a couple of days, and I'm gone all of next week, and the chances of a successful capitalist conclusion are dying out like the embers of a star that went supergooeykablooey a cranketybajillion years ago.

Capitalism

My friend Sasha is interested in the history of capitalism in America.

I got your history right here, Sasha: give me your freakin' money. Then go find more money and give that to me.

Wait, maybe that's the history of something else. Never mind.

One problem with capitalism--materialism, really, I guess--is that when it works, it's darned attractive, and when it doesn't, it leaves painful infected teeth marks in your pretty ass. At the moment, I am an ointment junkie.

You may know that I am essentially (and legally) self-employed. After having every reason to believe that I had gotten my business house in order, I came to find yesterday that, after mid-December, I will have very, very little business unless I go find more, on a pretty immediate basis. This is an uncomfortable prospect--for three years now, I've had a plentiful supply, and until yesterday, I had every reason to believe that that supply would continue for at least two more years. At the moment, it appears that as of December 14, I will be markedly underemployed.

Like any good capitalist, I carefully planned this year's annual assault on the piggybank, taking into account high-and-mighty economic principles like supply and demand. I forgot one key thing--my key customer is the government, which is dedicated to levelling off the effects of that key driver of all things.

It should have been simple: I am the supply, and my customer demands me. It has good reasons for doing so; I clean up well, I'm smarter than I look (even after I clean up), and--I think this bit will surprise you--I have something of a knack for getting people to do things I want them to do. I set a market-based rate (and really, it wasn't an extravagant rate) for the supply of me.

Sadly, an entrenchified government person did not like that market-based rate, and preferred to compare my value to that of, say, sand or zucchini or those guys from the jail who pick up litter on your local highways. Said person dug in, and as the sound of progressively larger dicks being slapped on tables grew really quite deafening, I remained confident that the biggest dick slapped down on the table would be slapping in my favor.

I appear...to...have...miscalculated.

As I write this, the biggest johnson on my side is over at the headquarters building I like to call The Big House, playing a little game of Dueling Johnsons with The Big Cheese (who, it must be admitted, is actually playing Dueling Johnsons using her vagina). It'll be the final game of Dueling Johnsons in this little saga. The meal ticket of poor Ilse and her poor urchins, DataBoy and Bam-Bam, rides in the balance. Such is the tragedy of capitalism. On the other hand, capitalism been berry, berry good to me. More later.

More News for the Squeamish

Every so often, it comes to the attention of the Minions editorial staff me--sorry, I forgot about that whole referring-to-oneself-in-the-third-person thing--that we are I am--sorry, really--just so darned rude that I should just crawl under a rock and assuage my bitter, horrible, unreasonable, partisan anger with some milk and cookies. And that perhaps I'll be better able to hugandkiss unabashed fascists, just like Jesus wants me to do, once I've done that. This is, of course, absolutely and incontrovertibly true, an unassailable position that cannot be dug out from its fortress of mighteousness.

So I think we should return to the safe place to which we usually retreat during these difficult times of stress, turmoil, and opinionation, and I present to you another edition of:

News for the Squeamish

Terror Alert

The holidays are coming up, and you know what that means! Yes, the Brown People are going to gaily wrap themselves in bombs and ammunition belts and try to disrupt the sacrament of your holiday shopping! It's uncomfortable that these killjoys want to blacken the spirit of Christmas and deny your right to worship the Baby Jesus by purchasing the Laura Ingraham Barbie for your precious Snookums, but we all have a responsibility to remain alert to protect the Homeland! Some tips:

-Carry your shotgun to the mall when you go out to do your holiday shopping. The Second Amendment guarantees that, if you're carrying a firearm, you are a member of the militia.

-If you see Brown People, open fire. The Fourth Amendment restricts their right to search you and seize your hard-earned holiday bounty!

-Sneak up on Brown People who look larger than normal people. They're probably wearing bombs under their coats. Make each shot count!

-Don't donate to Toys for Tots and similar terrorist organizations. Studies have shown that, when given any toy, a poor child will always pretend it is a gun.


War Is Peace

A rigorous scientific study by the Krovecheni School of Government has proved that war is peace! By making war in countries that promote non-Americanism, we actually make the world a more peaceful place! Support Our Troops by supporting our wars! I mean, our peace!


Bad People Are Bad

A recent Fox News poll showed that, by an overwhelming margin, the American People believe that bad people are bad. Significantly, bad people enjoyed more support among less American Persons. The proportion of Brown People who believed that bad people were not bad was close to 100 percent.

This concludes our latest presentation of News for the Squeamish. More news when it becomes available.

It's My Potty And I'll Lie If I Want To

A close friend who has, thus far, appeared in this little corner of the universe oncet, suggested to me over the weekend that I might do a better job of reaching diverse audiences that are not predisposed to believe me, if only I would tone down my tendency to explore the various conjugations of various sex- and scat-related words. And stop calling the other side names. And just not be so darned upset and hyperbolic all the darned time. Do these things in some combination and to some degree, my friend suggests, and perhaps my message will start to filter in to some of those on the other side, or at least those on the near side of the other side. This, he further suggests, might be better than preaching to the choir that is you, my minions.

My friend is not ignorant, and he knows me quite well, actually. He's really rather brilliant, both in a couple of areas of intellectual/academic interest that we share, and in other areas less scathed by the scorching heat of my interest. Unlike me, he is creative, leaving me in constant fear of boring him so much that he'll dash off to something else shiny.

He also styles himself more or less a moderate. I think he's actually more of a Social Capitalist or a Material Socialist, and I see no shame in either (I can fairly be characterized in the same way, only I have an edge on him in anger management, for a given value of "edge" defined as "there is an edge to my anger management that makes it pretty ineffective as management"). Most importantly, he is a fellow who sees shades of grey. I suspicion that that's why he is able to style himself a moderate, even though he's clearly more one of us than one of them (he has the gift or hindrance, take your pick, of having originated in The Middle Place--and I think that colors his political origins with good old-fashioned rural American sensibility).

It's worth a think; much of the blogosphere is drawn from the 20-30 percent of relative extremists at each end of the political spectrum. This blog is no exception, whether or not I fancy myself more level-headed than many libruls. Part of the reason that the middle is the middle is that it's offended by the level of rhetoric shrilling from each end of the spectrum. Doesn't matter to the middle who started it. Right is right, bad is bad, and while there may be grey, there's black and white, too.

Alas, I'm not trying to win hearts and minds here, not really. I mean, if I happened to say something that allowed some state-loving theocrat to completely toss over his or her ideology, hey, great. But right-wingers don't listen to strangers, you know, so I just don't see that as the route to goal fulfillment. No, as long-time readers know, Minions is all about ventaciousness and pressure management and hyperbole and righteous outrage.

And so? Fuck you, you fucking fucks. John Hindraker did, in fact, eat my baby. Or at least he roasted it up nice and crispy with some garlic and rosemary and fed it to a gleeful Sam Alito. Bill Frist is a pederast, and Jeb Bush...well, blame my middlefriend, he happened to sojourn in Florida for a spell, and who knows what that horror did to his voting finger? I mean, just ask Broward Jews for Buchanan.

France

It's difficult to get worked up about France, what with the right wing having adopted and thereby rendered extremely unfashionable my long-time disdain for all things French. I've even tried to start liking the cheese-eating surrender monkeys; I spent a week in Paris last year and enjoyed many French things, including wine, food (even cheese!), the gigantic wooden sarcophagus containing the damn good and dead remains of Napoleon, the ability of the Paris Metro to reliably and inexpensively deliver you just about anywhere in the city, the Christmas lights on the Champs Elysees, and French broads' asses. I am, officially, a friend of the French.

And there's no doubt that it's sad that France is plagued with cultural unrest. I have Parisian friends, and friends with interests (family, friends, other loved ones) in various places in France. It's not like I wish ill on the arrogant Gaulnoses whose loserhead asses we've bailed out of two consecutive world wars.

But on the Daily Show the other night, Rob Corddry pointed out a key issue here: who will surrender to whom? Who will win, if both sides are busy surrendering to each other? Clearly, there can be no winners here. It's time to save the French from themselves. I nominate the Germans for the job.

Oh, you wanted intelligent comment on the situation in France? You know you hit the wrong link. But Juan Cole makes sense to me.

Beat the Victim

So you know that I watch television sometimes. Not much, but as you can see from the sidebar links, there are a couple of things in addition to South Park and Drawn Together and the entire body of Jon Stewart's work and various non-baseball, non-NASCAR sports that appeal to me. At least one of you does not understand my fascination with Survivor and The Not-At-All-Amazing Not-Really-So-Much-A-Race, and he's gotten over that every bit as much as I've gotten over his fascination with Derridà and other smart-people stuff. All that aside, despite the many hours I spend slaving over Minions for you, I do on occasion vegetate in front of my television for a spell. I mean other than by playing NCAA Football 2006 on my PS2 and making the Terps undefeated for 30-40 game years at a time.

All of which is probably an unduly long introduction to today's topic, the Weaver family. As those of you addicted to TNAAANRSMAR know, the Weaver family is an obnoxious little band of snotty hypocrites from some part of Florida notorious for producing crunchy bits of crackerassedy goodness. They storm about the world country making noxious remarks about the other contestants, complaining when the other contestants retaliate in kind, and making much of their personal relationship with Jesus, emitting prayers like, "Dear Lord, please help me know which hand to wipe my ass with, in Jesus' name we beg you, Amen," and "Dear Lord, please smite the outboard motor of the boat those God-hating Gaghans are riding in that we might consign them and their harmless and adorable 8-year-old to the fiery Hell they deserve, in Jesus name we beg you, Amen." Then they tell us what fabulously fine Christians they are.

"The other teams hate us because we're different," they whinge.

No. The other teams hate you because you're assholes. You apparently come from some branch of Christianity, or some other cultural tradition, that makes it okay for you to dump basic civility in dealing with your peers in a given social situation. You call people names, then whine when they throw names back. You ceaselessly invoke the tragedy of your late husband/father's senseless death (and it was, too be sure, a senseless death, as the poor man was run over on the racetrack at Daytona) and insult those who try to give you any kind of comfort in its wake.

You are, in fact, flaming assholes mostly unworthy of being human beings. You forfeit that privilege with your every word.

This reached new heights on last night's episode of TNAAANRSMAR, when upon reaching the finish line, one of the simpering Weaver children complained to Phil that the other teams were mean to them because they were the only contestants in the race "trying to live Christian lives."

Let's review:

1) No. They're mean to you because you're mean to them, and because you are flaming fucking assholes, consistently and without relent. That you make a giant pretense of your Christianity is certainly not helpful, and probably contributes to the absolutely correct perception that you are unconscionable hypocrites. But no one's being mean to you because you're a Christian.

2) Your assumption that the remaining contestants are not attempting to live Christian lives is a base and arrogant insult, one for which you should be bitchslapped repeatedly and venomously. Various Web sites testify to the notion that even many Christians wish that you would shut the fucking fuck up and, at a minimum, lose the "race" right fucking now, so vile and base are you as representatives of what Christians are or ought to be.

3) You wanna be victims? I'll be happy to personally nail your asses to crosses alongside some highway, preferably in a desert populated by buzzards that won't wait until you're deceased before they decide to make a meal of your whinging, lying, hypocritical, downright mean asses.

The same goes for anyone else in this country claiming to be victimized by their Christianity. Something like 80 percent of Americans self-identify as Christians. Sound like an oppressed minority to you? Not if you're at all connected to reality, it doesn't. But if you continue to insist, I'll be happy to start making crosses and stocking up on nails.

All That Glitters

So I went to Vegas for a hobby-related event, and to see some friends. Ilse tagged along, partly because she believed all those stories from last year's trip about me and my buddy Hooley Whoremonger and the massage industry, and partly because she'd never been there and wanted to find out how easy it would be to break into the massage industry. Once it became apparent that she was going along, our friend Hamsterpuss and her husband, The Right Reverend Mister Hamsterpuss, came up from their desert lair near the bar featured in From Dusk Till Dawn to meet us.

Vegas is, of course, a marvel of human...uhm...something. Human inhumanity, maybe. Human nature, perhaps. Human hydraulic and electrical engineering, certainly. My favorite thing there is the fountain at the Belaggio, which I could just stare at for hours. It is, of course, way pleasurable to watch the fountain show (except for the Celine Dion songs) and pretend you're one of Ocean's Eleven staring at the fountain contemplating the cool cranketybajillion you just heisted from Andy Garcia, and all the massages you're going to get for that kind of heist-haul. Even Hamsterpuss was caught up in the dream, even though the Right Reverend Mister Hamsterpuss keeps her little rodent butt rolling around in fabulous multibling. While he massages it, presumably, but there are some things you don't ask even good friends.

Everyone, including the Right Reverend Mister Hamsterpuss, was also impressed with the street show at Treasure Island, which is, as you may know, called The Sirens of TI and features a couple of fake pirate ships and a bunch of lingerie-clad ho-bags dancing and singing suggestive songs to muscular, piratey sorts of men dancers. This is impressive, because the Right Reverend Mister Hamsterpuss is an actual Reverend, except he tends to leave off the fire and brimstone and judgment and stuff. I don't know how this affects his career in reverending, but his willingness to sportingly enjoy nearly nekkid ho-bags makes it way fun to hang out with him on the Strip.

I had some warm and fuzzy moments at the blackjack tables at the lowdown, carnival-tent casino where we were staying (my friend John Cusack, who was the King of this year's event, had trouble procuring us a decent venue and we ended up at the Boardwalk, which is slated to be demolished), and even more at the Aladdin, where the cocktail waitresses are much better-looking and there are fewer people who live in trailers in real life. I actually won a whole crapload of bling at the Aladdin, which I managed to piss away at both the Aladdin and the Boardwalk in a phenomenal orgy of loserheadedness on my last day in town.

There was also food. And alcohol. And that hobby thing, which was a tournament won by my good friend Frodo Hobbitfoot, which was sort of a random and puzzling thing to many of the attendees, which is unsurprising given that, when we were assessing the scoring and deciding who won, John Cusack and I pretty much pulled Frodo's name out of our collective ass. Our buddy Constantine the Hair-Free put down a crapload of collected money on the roulette wheel, playing a number special to our hobby, and won enough money so that we can do next year's event (for which I am, officially and in fact, the King of Vegas) at a casino with better-looking whores.

Speaking of whores, anyone who's spent time on the Strip knows about the slappers, the little immigrant persons who stand on street corners slapping packs of whore cards against their hands and offering them to all of the men who walk by. We were puzzled by this; in fact, Ilse and Hamsterpuss were vaguely insulted that they were apparently perceived as not good enough to be offered whores. It's also puzzling that, even when I'm walking down the Strip arm-in-freakin'-arm with Ilse and Hamsterpuss, these people want me to free up a hand to take one of their little whore cards. What's with this? With two stunning babes on my arm, these little people think I need to call Dial-A-Whore?

Okay, enough cryptology. In plain English, yeah, we had a blast, no, we didn't get married in the Chapel of Paratrooping Elvis, and yes, I still wanna be Brad Pitt in Ocean's Eleven. Actually, I wanna be Brad Pitt in Ocean's Twelve, because that's where he gets to bang Catherine Zeta-Jones, but that's a story for another day, methinks.

Radio Silence

I probably should have mentioned I'd be off the airwaves for a bit. I'm in Vegas for a conference on world peace, how best to hit conservatives in the face with freshly baked quiche, and whether that hooker has chancres or just an untimely acne outbreak.

I'll return to reality on Monday, but it's possible that I'll blog something before then about the magnificence that is this fine town. Where the hotels don't have Internet connections because they want your ass seated at a gaming table, where you belong.

Holy Unhingement, Moonbatman!

I peeped at Amazon yesterday after reading on a number of other sites that it was the release day for UberCunt Michelle Malkin's new book. I noted 8 reviews, all of them 5-star reviews. I thought that odd, until I noticed that one of them was a pasting disguised as a 5-star review, and that a number of other reviews seemed only to trash other reviews that weren't there. The lightbulb went on, and I realized something was up.

Tbogg confirms it, or at least confirms that he reached the same conclusion I did: that the UC or her agents were whimpering about anyone who disagreed that her book was the greatest thing since concentration camp showers. Thanks, Tbogg. For a minute, I was worried that I might be unhinged or something.

P.S.: Check out the link, if only for the great picture of the pouting temptress herself.

Update: And The General weighed in, too. From his Amazon review:

Every ten pages or so, I'm overcome with the urge to get out my big bag of M&Ms and segregate out all of the brown ones. I then take these "unter-kandies" and lock them away in a baby food jar where I taunt them while touching myself inappropriately.

Butterstick

Wonkette reminds us:

Tired? Angry? Scared? Confused? We recommend a full helping of Butterstick. And not that way. Pandas will not overturn Roe. Pandas will not give you bird flu. Pandas will not close the Senate. Not unless it's really important. What do they do? They take first steps. The chew bamboo contentedly. They restore our faith in the world.

Butterstick is the National Zoo's baby panda, born around four months ago. He is, of course, adorably full of creamy goodness, hence the Thinking Person's name for him (Chicom-pandering do-gooders at the Zoo have given him some poncy name like "Tai-Shan"). He makes his public debut next week, thus far having only been exposed to us through the good offices of the media.

Wanna bang Wonkette (I mean, assuming you haven't already; bitch is holding out on me for some reason)? Pretend to like Butterstick.

What A Cute Lil Troll!

It appears that, as a result of having the balls to put my handle and a link to this page in the comments section of another blog, I have attracted an anonymous troll. Regardless of the method of attraction, I have acquired one such, and since the troll refuses to do the Minions reader community the courtesy of even giving itself a handle, we'll just call it Trollbaby.

I usually ignore trolls. However, having one show up here at Minions is so liberating, so empowering, so validating that I have to take note. So welcome, Trollbaby. This is America, and this is the Internet, and we're happy to give you the platform you desperately need to vomit mindlessly and anonymously on those around you. Welcome, indeed. And thanks for reading Minions.

The Senate

It's like this, Republicans: You are not the masters of the fucking universe. You can piss and moan and whimper all you want about holding a majority, but the facts are that it's a slim majority, and you owe America the respect of governing it on that basis. You don't have a mandate to run wild over the Constitution and on issues where American opinion is closely divided--or especially, as on the issue of reproductive freedom, markedly against your puritanical course.

When you abuse power, you face consequences. The Republicans have done nothing for six years if not abuse the power of the majority. Recent events have brought to a crescendo the outcry against your corruption and arrogance. Today's events in the Senate are a reflection of that, and are in the finest American tradition of getting a blowhard to shut the fuck up and listen for once. And as far as consequences go? Having to shut the fuck up and listen for once is really not so awful, especially compared to the gravity of your disrespect.

If, Mr. or Ms. Republican, you do not recall Republican minorities in the House or Senate using procedural mechanisms to make noise, to call attention, you need to get better memories. Yours--as they so often are--are badly flawed. Spare us your paternalistic whining about temper tantrums and about Senator Reid's trustworthiness. You act like you loaned him the fucking car and he cracked it up in a drunken stupor. Of course, paternalism and arrogance are about all you have to resort to when your idea of governance is killing the poor and telling those who remain to shut up if they know what's good for them.

And Senators Frist and Lott? Change your fucking panties, you arrogant, prissy bitches. I mean, I know it's okay for you to make noises diagnosing persistent vegetative states from a thousand miles away, or saying it's okay to horsewhip the Negroes, and expect us all to treat you like the dignified, patrician godheads of American leadership that you are. But for now? Change your fucking panties.

More Activism

NYT gives us a breakdown of how often the justices of the Rehnquist Supreme Court engaged in the purest form of judicial activism, that being voting to strike down a law passed by Congress.

Guess what?

Thomas 65.63 %
Kennedy 64.06 %
Scalia 56.25 %
Rehnquist 46.88 %
O’Connor 46.77 %
Souter 42.19 %
Stevens 39.34 %
Ginsburg 39.06 %
Breyer 28.13 %

Hello, right wing? You're a pack of lying, propagandizing douchebags. Fuck you.

News Flash

This just in: Patrick Fitzgerald is totally a three-dollar bill, according to the WaPo's Reliable Source. Well, that's not exactly how they put it, but you can read between the lines as well as I can. Just think about what a hunky couple he and the Chief Justice would make!

Lest We Forget

Remember that whole Scooter Libby thing, the...uhm...what was it called...oh yeah...the

INDICTMENT?

Yeah, remember that? I thought you might.

And so does Mr. Sun, who brings us the casting for the Plamegate movie. He all right, Mr. Sun.

Missed in Transliteration

And? The guy ruled that Congress doesn't have the right to regulate machine guns. You go, Sam! Way to not legislate from the bench!

Big Box Man, he come.