Germany-Argentina. Wow. Where to begin? Once begun, can I keep from choking on my own bitter disgust long enough to finish a coherent post?
No. No, I cannot. The Argentines are clear finalists in the World I Can't Hate You Enough championships, and I'm not overfond of them as a national entity, either, being as they are the last country (other than our own) to actually manifest imperialist designs. And that not particularly competently. Or creatively. Rocks full of penguins? Morons.
As for their futbol team, one cannot spew enough misogynist invective about them. And misogyny is easy, when it comes to Argentine futbol, because they're all cranky, menstrual women, every fucking one of them. Diving, whining, passive-aggressive pussies. With handbags.
And yet, despite their whinging pussitude, they are a well-oiled fascist machine.
Marcelo Balboa, by the way, sucks ass.
I have previously opined about the Germans. But the Argentines are so loathsome, I was disappointed when they beat US arch-rival Mexico. I am within a hair's breadth of supporting Germany in this match.
There, I've done it. I've choked to death on my own pathetic and desperate anger. Gaaaahhhhh!
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
How To Find Me
I was just over at Sitemeter, and you know what that means; time to share some search referrals.
"Soviet Navy HOI"
"Nik Caner-Medley Daft"
"Groped Asians" (thanks, Mrs. Malkin!)
"Laura Bush Drunk"
"FedEx Lobstah Commercial"
"Luis Figo's Wife's pics"
and this week's top choice:
"Ecuador's Best Pussy"
Thank you. Thank you very much.
"Soviet Navy HOI"
"Nik Caner-Medley Daft"
"Groped Asians" (thanks, Mrs. Malkin!)
"Laura Bush Drunk"
"FedEx Lobstah Commercial"
"Luis Figo's Wife's pics"
and this week's top choice:
"Ecuador's Best Pussy"
Thank you. Thank you very much.
Noooooooooo!!!!!!!
Bonnie Bernstein dons mouse ears.
For those of you who don't know, I'd take a fucking bullet for Bonnie Bernstein, Princess of Terpdom. Man, if she and Juan Dixon got hitched, that'd be like the happiest day of my life.
Uhm, second happiest.
Update: Don't laugh, it could happen.
For those of you who don't know, I'd take a fucking bullet for Bonnie Bernstein, Princess of Terpdom. Man, if she and Juan Dixon got hitched, that'd be like the happiest day of my life.
Uhm, second happiest.
Update: Don't laugh, it could happen.
Caps Love Protein
He's spoogerific!
I don't usually do hockey here, but this was too good to leave on the table.
Update: Ilse correctly points out that if he gay-married Caps' prospect Alexander Semin, he could be Semen Semin.
I don't usually do hockey here, but this was too good to leave on the table.
Update: Ilse correctly points out that if he gay-married Caps' prospect Alexander Semin, he could be Semen Semin.
Yes, You Are That Batshit Insane
SCOTUS rules against Bushco in Hamdan v. Rumsfeld. Which I keep wanting to say is Hamdan v. Rushdie. I don't understand that bit of Freud, there.
So, uhm, yeah. Military tribunals not authorized by Congress are, in fact, unconstitutional. Go figure. Shocking, treasonous result, there.
Of course, if Breyer and Souter weren't total Commies, the Supremes would've ruled that military tribunals are okay for pissing in the pool.
Hang in there, Mister Justice Stevens.
So, uhm, yeah. Military tribunals not authorized by Congress are, in fact, unconstitutional. Go figure. Shocking, treasonous result, there.
Of course, if Breyer and Souter weren't total Commies, the Supremes would've ruled that military tribunals are okay for pissing in the pool.
Hang in there, Mister Justice Stevens.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Uh Oh, It's Time for a Roundup
There's only one cure for being too busy to blog: Roundup!
- It's hard to count the ways in which The National Review sucks dirty ass. But with the help of blogofascists, you can try.
- Markos Moulitsas ate my dingos.
- World Cup: All remaining teams other than Ukraine are deeply disturbing; English both more and less disturbing than others. In a related story, the entire Italian team was killed today in a horrible diving accident.
- I won't link, but in the latest chapter in her continuing campaign to impose complete self-irrelevance, the Malkinator chides us (no specifics--just us) for violating Rush Limbaugh's privacy. Haw!
- For those of you with whom Minions shares a local National capital and an ongoing Biblical-quality event: Elvis took your boats. Climb to the roof, show the helicopters your tits, and wait for rescue.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Party Like It's 1499
Does anyone know if the Netherlands and Portugal ever actually went to war, back when they were both huge imperialist colonializing influences? I mean, I know Portugal and Spain got their dicks all tangled up and some Pope had to draw a line in 1497 or so to keep them each in their own corners. But watching today's knockout game (won by Portugal, 1-0), you'd have thought these two had been at war for 500 years.
There is a lot of invective being hurled at the referee, who was some poor Russian bastard whose name I can't be bothered to look up. Stunning, that whole invective thing. It wasn't his fault. I mean, there's been a parade of stoplight-colored cards throughout the tournament, and FIFI has pretty much affirmed that this is the appropriate way for officials to act this time around. It was beginning, at times, to look like the game would finish up with each side playing 7 men.
But the poor Russian was keeping control of the game as best he could. You see, the Portos are bastards, just stone cold diving pussies who get up and take a swing at someone when the dive doesn't go their way, and swing and bite and kick when it does. They may well top the Italians for sheer diving pussitude (I will work to invent a scoring system for this, using the Italians and the Los Angeles Galaxy as benchmarks). Luis Figo is a fucking tramp, a painted, unpantied slut trolling for fouls. Deco, who as far as I could tell got red-carded for picking up the ball and trying to run away with it as a time-wasting measure after a foul was called on Portugal, is Figo's sister in gang-bangery.
The Dutch, on the other hand, are Nazis, and the combination of a one-goal deficit and all those swarthy Portuguese swaying their asses just drove the poor Gouda-gobblers plumb crazy. The result was one of the dirtiest but most entertaining soccer games I've ever seen, made the more so because I seriously dislike both teams.
I now have a new result to hope for, beyond underdog upsets or flaming meteors. I am now rooting for sheer, medieval hostility among Eurotrash teams. It's really a fucking shame that England and France can't play before the final.
There is a lot of invective being hurled at the referee, who was some poor Russian bastard whose name I can't be bothered to look up. Stunning, that whole invective thing. It wasn't his fault. I mean, there's been a parade of stoplight-colored cards throughout the tournament, and FIFI has pretty much affirmed that this is the appropriate way for officials to act this time around. It was beginning, at times, to look like the game would finish up with each side playing 7 men.
But the poor Russian was keeping control of the game as best he could. You see, the Portos are bastards, just stone cold diving pussies who get up and take a swing at someone when the dive doesn't go their way, and swing and bite and kick when it does. They may well top the Italians for sheer diving pussitude (I will work to invent a scoring system for this, using the Italians and the Los Angeles Galaxy as benchmarks). Luis Figo is a fucking tramp, a painted, unpantied slut trolling for fouls. Deco, who as far as I could tell got red-carded for picking up the ball and trying to run away with it as a time-wasting measure after a foul was called on Portugal, is Figo's sister in gang-bangery.
The Dutch, on the other hand, are Nazis, and the combination of a one-goal deficit and all those swarthy Portuguese swaying their asses just drove the poor Gouda-gobblers plumb crazy. The result was one of the dirtiest but most entertaining soccer games I've ever seen, made the more so because I seriously dislike both teams.
I now have a new result to hope for, beyond underdog upsets or flaming meteors. I am now rooting for sheer, medieval hostility among Eurotrash teams. It's really a fucking shame that England and France can't play before the final.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
The End of the Fun
We now enter the I Hate You Very Much phase of the 2006 World Cup. 16 teams, no fewer than 9 of them utterly despised (by me, anyway--you don't think I give a rat's ass what you think here, do you?). Now, sunny-siders would point out that this will increase the rate at which teams I don't like will be put out of action. While that is true, it is also true that of the teams I like, very few have much of a chance to make the quarterfinals, let alone the semis.
The tippy tops of any establishment-hatin' fool's list for knockout round fandom have to be Ecuador and Ghana, both of which are likely to get scragged (by England and Brazil, respectively, although as I noted the sentiment that Ghana is doomed is not universal.
Ecuador advanced on the strength of victories over Costa Rica and Poland, the latter something of a surprise to people, I gather (I don't understand why). Many people picked them to finish at the bottom of Group A. I didn't know enough about them to pick them anywhere. Now? I know enough to figure them for pretty easy meat for the English, who are not by any means invincible. England fans are devastated by the loss of the used-up Michael Owen; I might be too, if my next best hope were the hulking and glacial Peter Crouch. Expect either a narrow English victory or a soul-sucking draw decided by penalty kicks. Given my predictive powers, this could well mean you should expect a 8-0 Ecuadoran romp (which wouldn't be a bad outcome).
Ghana faces the Brazilians, the Borg of futbol. Ghana advanced by being plucky, destroying an overrated Czech squad, and persevering against an overrated and stunningly flat US side, benefitting from some incredibly awful officiating along the way (one can hardly blame the Ghanans for that--what were they supposed to do, say "No, Marcus Merk, you blind stinking fascist idiot dog, no one could possibly accept a penalty kick for that!"?). There are those who suspect Ghana could surprise the Brazilians. I'm not among them. The Brazilians barbecue teams like this. They howl in laughter at pluckiness and throw it in the Amazon, taking side bets on whether it drowns or gets eaten first by piranhas. It will be my privilege to support Ghana in their game against Brazil; it will also be my sorrow.
Today's games are emblematic of the other part of my problem with this round. Germany-Sweden and Argentina-Mexico? Blech. Battle of the Aryan Superstars and the Mother of All Meteor Games*. Germany and Argentina should advance, setting up in their quarterfinal matchup one of those little ironies that this tournament always perpetrates.
But don't let me spoil your fun. There is a lot of great futbol left in this tournament. I may even watch Germany and Sweden trying to exterminate each other today, though I can't imagine what I'll be hoping for. I'll certainly watch both of tomorrow's games (the aforementioned England-Ecuador, followed by another Mostly Meteor Game, Portugal versus the Robo-Dutch). But the urgency of the whole thing has, for me, pretty much abated.
*In the event that my friend Germbabe has gone so far as to copyright the phrase "Meteor Game": thank you, Germbabe.
The tippy tops of any establishment-hatin' fool's list for knockout round fandom have to be Ecuador and Ghana, both of which are likely to get scragged (by England and Brazil, respectively, although as I noted the sentiment that Ghana is doomed is not universal.
Ecuador advanced on the strength of victories over Costa Rica and Poland, the latter something of a surprise to people, I gather (I don't understand why). Many people picked them to finish at the bottom of Group A. I didn't know enough about them to pick them anywhere. Now? I know enough to figure them for pretty easy meat for the English, who are not by any means invincible. England fans are devastated by the loss of the used-up Michael Owen; I might be too, if my next best hope were the hulking and glacial Peter Crouch. Expect either a narrow English victory or a soul-sucking draw decided by penalty kicks. Given my predictive powers, this could well mean you should expect a 8-0 Ecuadoran romp (which wouldn't be a bad outcome).
Ghana faces the Brazilians, the Borg of futbol. Ghana advanced by being plucky, destroying an overrated Czech squad, and persevering against an overrated and stunningly flat US side, benefitting from some incredibly awful officiating along the way (one can hardly blame the Ghanans for that--what were they supposed to do, say "No, Marcus Merk, you blind stinking fascist idiot dog, no one could possibly accept a penalty kick for that!"?). There are those who suspect Ghana could surprise the Brazilians. I'm not among them. The Brazilians barbecue teams like this. They howl in laughter at pluckiness and throw it in the Amazon, taking side bets on whether it drowns or gets eaten first by piranhas. It will be my privilege to support Ghana in their game against Brazil; it will also be my sorrow.
Today's games are emblematic of the other part of my problem with this round. Germany-Sweden and Argentina-Mexico? Blech. Battle of the Aryan Superstars and the Mother of All Meteor Games*. Germany and Argentina should advance, setting up in their quarterfinal matchup one of those little ironies that this tournament always perpetrates.
But don't let me spoil your fun. There is a lot of great futbol left in this tournament. I may even watch Germany and Sweden trying to exterminate each other today, though I can't imagine what I'll be hoping for. I'll certainly watch both of tomorrow's games (the aforementioned England-Ecuador, followed by another Mostly Meteor Game, Portugal versus the Robo-Dutch). But the urgency of the whole thing has, for me, pretty much abated.
*In the event that my friend Germbabe has gone so far as to copyright the phrase "Meteor Game": thank you, Germbabe.
Friday, June 23, 2006
The Unbearable Lightness of Landon
Mommy, can I get a new futbol team? No, Mommy! One without that diving pussy LA Galaxy Bundesliga washout bald guy on it! He stinky!
I've calmed down considerably. Someone I don't know all that well pointed out to me at lunch yesterday, in the aftermath of the disaster that was the US team's golden and serious opportunity to advance in the World Cup, that I seem to take sports seriously. Raucous laughter rang out from the four people surrounding the commenter--and from me. "Duke sucks!" cried one. "The Italians are diving pussies!" shouted another. "John Gilchrist's mother sucks eggs!" added a third. The fourth doesn't know enough about sports to make a good joke, but she laughed anyway.
Look, it doesn't matter. The Dempsey goal--and thank all that is holy we can get back to detesting him--had a real purdy mouth, sure. But that's the only goal these hosers managed on their own steam, in three fucking games. Reyna's an elderly fuckup, McBride's no fuckup but he's just plain elderly, and Donovan is, it is now plain, crushingly overrated (spare me any defensive whimpering). The PK awarded to Ghana was a travesty of mockery of a sham, but it doesn't matter (blah blah blah, it let the Ghanans play turtle up for 45 minutes, blah blah blah--fuck off, the best US chances on which they didn't score came against the Ghanans turtled-up defense). I'd have taken it too, if I were the Ghanans. And it's not like the US scored two goals.
There was a three-four minute stretch in the second half that did, as my friend bDr says, smell like goal. But that petered out into nothingness, and the team never resumed the attack with the same swarming ferocity. As their efforts grew more urgent, they also grew more pathetic, and had less of a feeling of something that might result in redemption.
Good luck to the Ghanans. DCeiver (and do scroll to the end of the post to view DCeiver's best argument for rooting for Sweden, which I find tasteful, if uncompelling) thinks they might have a chance against Brazil; I'd like to think so, but I don't.
We now resume our regularly scheduled program of World Cup evil.
I've calmed down considerably. Someone I don't know all that well pointed out to me at lunch yesterday, in the aftermath of the disaster that was the US team's golden and serious opportunity to advance in the World Cup, that I seem to take sports seriously. Raucous laughter rang out from the four people surrounding the commenter--and from me. "Duke sucks!" cried one. "The Italians are diving pussies!" shouted another. "John Gilchrist's mother sucks eggs!" added a third. The fourth doesn't know enough about sports to make a good joke, but she laughed anyway.
Look, it doesn't matter. The Dempsey goal--and thank all that is holy we can get back to detesting him--had a real purdy mouth, sure. But that's the only goal these hosers managed on their own steam, in three fucking games. Reyna's an elderly fuckup, McBride's no fuckup but he's just plain elderly, and Donovan is, it is now plain, crushingly overrated (spare me any defensive whimpering). The PK awarded to Ghana was a travesty of mockery of a sham, but it doesn't matter (blah blah blah, it let the Ghanans play turtle up for 45 minutes, blah blah blah--fuck off, the best US chances on which they didn't score came against the Ghanans turtled-up defense). I'd have taken it too, if I were the Ghanans. And it's not like the US scored two goals.
There was a three-four minute stretch in the second half that did, as my friend bDr says, smell like goal. But that petered out into nothingness, and the team never resumed the attack with the same swarming ferocity. As their efforts grew more urgent, they also grew more pathetic, and had less of a feeling of something that might result in redemption.
Good luck to the Ghanans. DCeiver (and do scroll to the end of the post to view DCeiver's best argument for rooting for Sweden, which I find tasteful, if uncompelling) thinks they might have a chance against Brazil; I'd like to think so, but I don't.
We now resume our regularly scheduled program of World Cup evil.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
It's So Exhausting
What does the other side think passes for logic? It is, of course, awful that two PFCs were brutally murdered in Iraq. No one wishes that on any of our troops.
But do these people understand that when you go to war, there are consequences? That when a country that lives under the rule of law explicitly rejects international conventions in a time of conflict, it's not exactly reality-based to expect the other side--regardless of the semantic definition of the conflict--to observe the same conventions? Especially when you have, in theory, gone to conflict to make the other side live under the rule of law?
Sigh.
But do these people understand that when you go to war, there are consequences? That when a country that lives under the rule of law explicitly rejects international conventions in a time of conflict, it's not exactly reality-based to expect the other side--regardless of the semantic definition of the conflict--to observe the same conventions? Especially when you have, in theory, gone to conflict to make the other side live under the rule of law?
Sigh.
The World As You Should Think You Know It
Well, gosh, that was a howling success. It appears all I have to do to generate comment is point to some random known occasional reader and issue a request for mockery. I'll remember, my pretties.
Out in the world, there's nothing new. Republicans and their minions lie, big-time. The supposedly liberal media pick up on reactionary themes and pound them into the brains of those who want desperately to believe that what's on television and in the newspaper is true. It's too much to keep track of, the lies and the pandering and the daily offenses to our Constitution and our fundamental shared values and our social contract. A run through a day's worth of Media Matters is a romp through a depressive swamp.
Futbol is only the tiniest bit more encouraging. Four teams have advanced, at this writing, to the knockout round; three were abundantly predictable, one (Ecuador) a surprise that really shouldn't so much have been. Today will yield four more teams, at least three of them no less stale (and, coincidentally, all three among my "sides most likely to wear black leather kit"), and the fourth, almost certainly Mexico.
There. Did you notice that? I worked the word "sides" in there, instead of "teams" or "clubs." Wasn't that naughty of me?
It is encouraging that stumpy little Michael Owen is out of the tournment for the English, not because we wish injury on anyone, but because it will drive the English press mad, I tell you, mad. Stumpy's words aren't gonna help--he's full of abandonment for his national team and of a fervid hope that the injury won't keep him from taking any of Newcastle's money.
And tomorrow, at the ridiculously inconvenient hour of 10 AM Eastern, our own boys will jingo off to meet their fate. Which, by the way, will be either a humiliating 2-0 loss to shortstaffed Ghana, or a 1-0 victory over shortstaffed Ghana as the Czechs beat the Italians by three or four goals. Sure, get your hopes up. Me, I'm staying in the bunker where it's safe.
Out in the world, there's nothing new. Republicans and their minions lie, big-time. The supposedly liberal media pick up on reactionary themes and pound them into the brains of those who want desperately to believe that what's on television and in the newspaper is true. It's too much to keep track of, the lies and the pandering and the daily offenses to our Constitution and our fundamental shared values and our social contract. A run through a day's worth of Media Matters is a romp through a depressive swamp.
Futbol is only the tiniest bit more encouraging. Four teams have advanced, at this writing, to the knockout round; three were abundantly predictable, one (Ecuador) a surprise that really shouldn't so much have been. Today will yield four more teams, at least three of them no less stale (and, coincidentally, all three among my "sides most likely to wear black leather kit"), and the fourth, almost certainly Mexico.
There. Did you notice that? I worked the word "sides" in there, instead of "teams" or "clubs." Wasn't that naughty of me?
It is encouraging that stumpy little Michael Owen is out of the tournment for the English, not because we wish injury on anyone, but because it will drive the English press mad, I tell you, mad. Stumpy's words aren't gonna help--he's full of abandonment for his national team and of a fervid hope that the injury won't keep him from taking any of Newcastle's money.
And tomorrow, at the ridiculously inconvenient hour of 10 AM Eastern, our own boys will jingo off to meet their fate. Which, by the way, will be either a humiliating 2-0 loss to shortstaffed Ghana, or a 1-0 victory over shortstaffed Ghana as the Czechs beat the Italians by three or four goals. Sure, get your hopes up. Me, I'm staying in the bunker where it's safe.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Hey. You Suck.
I am in a monumentally vile mood, and I've decided to make you, my readership, suffer for it. Rather than addressing the actual focii of my anger (no, I'm not giving any hints, except to say that it's not you, Wheezy, so don't even start), I'm just going to appoint an Official Single Point of Rage Focus (OSPORF) for today's anger, and be done with it.
The OSPORF for today is Dweeze. He has done absolutely nothing to deserve this. He is a fine human being in every respect. Rumors about his corpse-fucking proclivities are, most likely, untrue. Nevertheless:
Dweeze sucks, and if he crosses my path today, I'm just flat gonna kick his ass.
This is not to say that any of you are authorized to direct your anger at Dweeze. Oh, no. He's my OSPORF, and if you use up any of his giant spongelike capacity for absorbing other peoples' fury? I'm just flat gonna kick your ass.
That is all.
The OSPORF for today is Dweeze. He has done absolutely nothing to deserve this. He is a fine human being in every respect. Rumors about his corpse-fucking proclivities are, most likely, untrue. Nevertheless:
Dweeze sucks, and if he crosses my path today, I'm just flat gonna kick his ass.
This is not to say that any of you are authorized to direct your anger at Dweeze. Oh, no. He's my OSPORF, and if you use up any of his giant spongelike capacity for absorbing other peoples' fury? I'm just flat gonna kick your ass.
That is all.
Monday, June 19, 2006
The Unbearable Lightness of Minions
Let's start with the obvious: I got nothin'. Stompdown fuckall.
You already know about the futbol thing. After Daniele De Rossi got a perfectly valid red card for deliberately elbowing Brian McBride in the face and drawing blood, evil corrupt referee Jorge Larrionda, target of allegations of ineptitude and worse before the last Cup, chose to send off Pablo Mastroeni for...uhm...I'm still not sure. It appeared to involve being American.
A miraculous, life-saving own goal sucked the US back into the game, but 15 minutes later Mastroeni was sent off, followed by the slow, elderly Eddie Pope a few minutes into the second half. Despite gallons of adrenaline, the US' was never able to convert and put away the goal that would've given them a much-deserved victory, partly because coach Bruce Arena coached the worst game of his life. He pulled off two players who were giving the team solid efforts and sparky play (Clint Dempsey and Bobby Convey), inserting self-loving wanker DaMarcus Beasley and the guy who wrote Heart of Darkness and, incredibly, never using his third sub.
So we're reduced to rooting for the Czechs to beat Italy, assuming that our boys (minus Pope and Mastroeni, which really shouldn't be a problem) can beat equally death-carded Ghana in their final group match.
See? Nothin'. Nothing you didn't already know, anyway. I'll try to have today's news along about Thursday or so.
Update: Ilse, who is a puritanical quibbleslut, points out, correctly (and just a wee bit gleefully), that I erred. If Italy beats the Czechs and the US beats Ghana, all is well in Uhmurka. A Czech victory means that the US must beat Ghana by enough goals to make up an astronomical goal differential that can barely be measured in numbers known to our mathematics. I apologize to all of my readers, including Ilse, who constitutes about 50 percent of that population. Of course, my rightness or wrongness (and yes, I was, in fact and of course, wrong) pales as a point, in the context of my beloved's puritanical quibbleslutitude.
Update II: I watched the video. Mastroeni slid on his side, and his right foot was, arguably, cleats-up. The red card was still clearly a make-up, and I think it was an unwarranted one. I'll buy the yellow card, though.
You already know about the futbol thing. After Daniele De Rossi got a perfectly valid red card for deliberately elbowing Brian McBride in the face and drawing blood, evil corrupt referee Jorge Larrionda, target of allegations of ineptitude and worse before the last Cup, chose to send off Pablo Mastroeni for...uhm...I'm still not sure. It appeared to involve being American.
A miraculous, life-saving own goal sucked the US back into the game, but 15 minutes later Mastroeni was sent off, followed by the slow, elderly Eddie Pope a few minutes into the second half. Despite gallons of adrenaline, the US' was never able to convert and put away the goal that would've given them a much-deserved victory, partly because coach Bruce Arena coached the worst game of his life. He pulled off two players who were giving the team solid efforts and sparky play (Clint Dempsey and Bobby Convey), inserting self-loving wanker DaMarcus Beasley and the guy who wrote Heart of Darkness and, incredibly, never using his third sub.
So we're reduced to rooting for the Czechs to beat Italy, assuming that our boys (minus Pope and Mastroeni, which really shouldn't be a problem) can beat equally death-carded Ghana in their final group match.
See? Nothin'. Nothing you didn't already know, anyway. I'll try to have today's news along about Thursday or so.
Update: Ilse, who is a puritanical quibbleslut, points out, correctly (and just a wee bit gleefully), that I erred. If Italy beats the Czechs and the US beats Ghana, all is well in Uhmurka. A Czech victory means that the US must beat Ghana by enough goals to make up an astronomical goal differential that can barely be measured in numbers known to our mathematics. I apologize to all of my readers, including Ilse, who constitutes about 50 percent of that population. Of course, my rightness or wrongness (and yes, I was, in fact and of course, wrong) pales as a point, in the context of my beloved's puritanical quibbleslutitude.
Update II: I watched the video. Mastroeni slid on his side, and his right foot was, arguably, cleats-up. The red card was still clearly a make-up, and I think it was an unwarranted one. I'll buy the yellow card, though.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Ride 'Em In, Let 'Em Out, Cut 'Em Out, Ride 'Em In, Rawhide!
- Rude makes a very compelling point about why it is not necessarily a good choice for me to pretty much ignore the Anns and Michelles of the world, the gist of his point being that my strategy is unsuccessful, and more to the point given the utter lack of impact of my personal strategy, leftish society's adoption of that strategy is unsuccessful. Rude is, of course, correct; but while Ann and Michelle are vile and counterproductive uses of carbon, I just can't seriously take them on any more. I'm too insignificant for it to be worth the blood pressure.
- Speaking of Ann, Media Matters does a lovely job of wondering why Jay Leno spent so much effort stroking her clit on his show last night. And it appears that the ballyhooed Carlin-Coulter bout came to nothing; if the transcript is correct and complete, George just pretty much sat there and took her shit, at least while the microphones were on.
- Sasha and others point us to Senator Santorum's sartorial elegance.
- Wonkette gives us the video of Tucker Carlson interviewing Melody Damayo, better known to some of you, like Dweeze, as Mimi Miyagi; Ms. Damayo is both running for governor of Nevada and using her candidacy as a platform to look for a fuckbuddy. While Tucker remains a smug, ungobsmacked prick, the interview is a classic. For her part, Ms. Damayo seems a bit confused about which party she should belong to, but she seems to have been, at the least, well-briefed.
- Speaking of Ana Marie Coxsucker, her Judas imitation in the wake of YearlyKos has certainly stirred up a great deal of resentment in the 'sphere, and righteous resentment it is, since the nasty bint seems to expect Time readers to ignore her writing roots as, essentially, a pornographer, while accepting her wannabe journalistic failures as worthy of Luce-quality propaganda. But Firedoglake gets the last word. It seems that Miss I-Know-What-Bloggers-Like lost her notebook at YK, and that's really a sad thing. Not.
- Sadly, No! provides a brilliant extended psychoanalysis of fascist cocklover Jeff Goldstein, who's as good a target as any, since Malkin has grown so fucking feeble. TBogg, in the course of a perfectly fine savaging of the National Review, dubs Goldstein "The Derrida of Dick."
- Wanker of the Year: Chuck Schumer. Thanks to the General for crystalizing it.
There. I think that's a little something for everyone. I surf so you have more time for porn.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Gained In Translation
My friend Blondie from Texas commented after yesterday's post about never expecting to see bunny pics on this site. Because I am such a keen observer of womens' wants and needs, I have successfully translated Blondie's comment thusly: "Please post more bunny pictures. Bunnies make me hot."
Here you go, Blondie:
Here you go, Blondie:
The pink bunnies are named Ann. The yellow bunnies are named Michelle. The purple bunny is named Liberal Faggot AntiChrist. There's a-gonna be a lynchin'.
These bunnies are cruising for tail. Ann and Michelle say, "You're next, gaymos."
These bunnies look like America. Ann and Michelle hate that. Especially Michelle. She's third from the right, on the bottom row. Note her white ears.
These bunnies look like rats.
These bunnies have been eaten by a cat.
These bunnies make it burn when I pee. Quite a lot, actually.
These bunnies are called the Lonestar Bunnies, which would make them Blondie's neighbors. I'd be deeply concerned about that, if I was Blondie.
These bunnies are going to fuck you up. Seriously.
Remember, kids. Don't look for the shoutout. The shoutout looks for you. It worked for Blondie, right?
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
U-Turns In The Night
This is a big picture of a fluffy bunny. If you are my beloved friends Germbabe or Sparkles, look at the big picture of the fluffy bunny and do not, under any circumstances, scroll down.
Can you guess what J.J. did not long before this picture was taken? That's right, he committed a crime. No, no, not the poetry or the crying or the .025-percent lifetime NCAA tournament shooting percentage, although all of those certainly qualify. J.J. hung a U-turn in the night. An illegal U-turn. Right in front of a police drunk driving checkpoint.
Thank you, J.J. This was a sad bunny sort of day, until you hit the news. And there's only one thing left to say.
Except, of course, it's not.
This here? Is not a big picture of a fluffy bunny. It is a picture of J.J. Redick.
Can you guess what J.J. did not long before this picture was taken? That's right, he committed a crime. No, no, not the poetry or the crying or the .025-percent lifetime NCAA tournament shooting percentage, although all of those certainly qualify. J.J. hung a U-turn in the night. An illegal U-turn. Right in front of a police drunk driving checkpoint.
Thank you, J.J. This was a sad bunny sort of day, until you hit the news. And there's only one thing left to say.
Except, of course, it's not.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Today in Futbol
And yesterday, as it happens, but let's get to today's headline first:
Boy, do we ever suck. We should all be diving into sewers and not floating to the top to atone for today's Shit Medal performance by the US team against the Czechs. An early defensive breakdown led to a 1-0 lead, and things never improved for more than the half-second it took for a pair or three of shots to clang off of the uprights or disappear into walls of Slavic bodies.
bDr addresses it at greater length and in more technical detail, but the thing was just bloody awful. No decent ball movement in the midfield, a decided dearth of technical skill, wretched field coaching, and two beautiful goals by Tomas Rosicky (both of which were occasioned by slightly less glaring defensive breakdowns) combined to produce the worst US defeat (3-0) since, oddly enough, the last time our boys played Czechs. The greater average age of this team (over the 2002 team) was supposed to produce corresponding increases in wisdom and treachery, but this was only evident in one glorious moment, when Claudio Reyna delivered an ingeniously well-placed and crippling knee, from behind, to the hammie of Pavel Nedved and didn't get carded for it. Other than that? Suck, suck, and suck. Slowly.
This brutalization left us with high hopes for a draw in the Italy-Ghana match, of which I only saw part, but those were dashed, too. The Ghanians were spirited and quick, and held Italy off for much of the game, but the Italians' speed, skill, and bribery, combined with the stunning rectitude of their female fans' barely haltered breasts, roundly brought down both the Ghanians and the US team's hopes of escaping Group E.
The early game today was the best of the lot. Japan scored on Australia fairly early in the game, with a cheap shot from a midget submarine. I'm only partly kidding. In the 26th minute, Shunsuke Nakamura launched a ball toward the goal from outside the penalty area. In a development now being downplayed in the game highlights, a Japanese player whom I cannot identify cut the legs out from under Australian goalkeeper Mark Schwarzer as he was in the air, knocking the keeper to the ground and allowing the ball unimpeded progress to the net. On the Reality Planet, we call this both a foul and a booking. On whatever planet is occupied by referee Essam Abd El Fatah, it is called a goal.
This recomplected the game, of course; a 0-0 game is worlds different from a 1-0 game. For 55 minutes, the Aussies struggled. Then, on the strength of three late--and, in hindsight, brilliant--substitutions, they plugged home three goals in 8 minutes, starting in the 84th minute, to notch a 3-1 victory. All three goals were scored by substitutes. It was the finest kind of karmic retribution over the little Japanese bastards.
My wife thinks it's cute when I'm a racist.
The game from yesterday that I forgot was the stinky Orange Cheeseheads and the Serbs, who include Montenegrans on their squad as a gesture of good faith. The Dutch are one of the four or five teams in this tournament who'd look about right in black leather trimmed with silver (lightning bolts, for preference). They're precise, they're overwhelming, they're methodical, they're relentless. Arjen Robben is a wizard with the ball.
Y'know, if unis are kit, and the field is a pitch, and shoes are boots, shouldn't there be some cutesy affected name for the ball, so that hypersnob, America-hating watchers of EPL and Bundesliga games on channel 149--people who casually call Barcelona "Barca" and Juventus "Jew-vuh"--can give us one more way to know that we're shite and they're not? Actually, my favorite is the Irish commentator--I think his name is Tommy Guinness, or something--who keeps referring to the goal as the "onion bag," as in, "Oy, he punched that right into the old onion bag!"
Yes, Ilse, darling, all jokes are about you, except for the ones about bDr. Why do you ask?
Anyway, the Serbs are best described as a Hobbesian life: nasty, brutish, and short. The game was pretty uninspiring, the Dutch kit is second in sheer unmitigated ugliness to the Swedes (so far--reports on Croatia's kit make their jerseys out as something your grandmother in Kansas uses to cover her kitchen table), and the stinky cheese people won the game without much of a threat, even though it was only 1-0.
Not so much for the next three days, since I have to pay some attention to work. I'll try to tape a game a day and avoid the news. Tuesday, the highlight game is France and Switzerland; I'll pass on Brazil-Croatia, since the Brazilians make me hurl, and on Togo-Korea, because I have a hard time believing that I might find that entertaining. Wednesday, we have two brilliant games, Spain-Ukraine and Germany-Poland ("It'll be a war!"), coupled with the less exciting Tunisia-Saudi tilt; I'll probably go with Spain-Ukraine, since it rhymes and the war's outcome will be pretty predictable. Thursday, we have sacrifices to make, with interesting matches in Ecuador-Costa Rica and England-Trinidad. I'll pass on the yellow-pajama'd Swedes beating Paraguay, while hoping that the Swedes salt away five or six goals to yield some hope that Team USA will manage to finish 31st, instead of 32nd. I'll try to be back for six hours of futbol on Friday, but that's gonna be sort of a boring day, with (in decreasing order of interest) the Stinky Cheese-Cote d'Ivoire matchup, Mexico-Angola (outside shot of interest), and the totally unpromising Argentina-Serbia match.
In the meantime, play hooky and watch futbol.
Boy, do we ever suck. We should all be diving into sewers and not floating to the top to atone for today's Shit Medal performance by the US team against the Czechs. An early defensive breakdown led to a 1-0 lead, and things never improved for more than the half-second it took for a pair or three of shots to clang off of the uprights or disappear into walls of Slavic bodies.
bDr addresses it at greater length and in more technical detail, but the thing was just bloody awful. No decent ball movement in the midfield, a decided dearth of technical skill, wretched field coaching, and two beautiful goals by Tomas Rosicky (both of which were occasioned by slightly less glaring defensive breakdowns) combined to produce the worst US defeat (3-0) since, oddly enough, the last time our boys played Czechs. The greater average age of this team (over the 2002 team) was supposed to produce corresponding increases in wisdom and treachery, but this was only evident in one glorious moment, when Claudio Reyna delivered an ingeniously well-placed and crippling knee, from behind, to the hammie of Pavel Nedved and didn't get carded for it. Other than that? Suck, suck, and suck. Slowly.
This brutalization left us with high hopes for a draw in the Italy-Ghana match, of which I only saw part, but those were dashed, too. The Ghanians were spirited and quick, and held Italy off for much of the game, but the Italians' speed, skill, and bribery, combined with the stunning rectitude of their female fans' barely haltered breasts, roundly brought down both the Ghanians and the US team's hopes of escaping Group E.
The early game today was the best of the lot. Japan scored on Australia fairly early in the game, with a cheap shot from a midget submarine. I'm only partly kidding. In the 26th minute, Shunsuke Nakamura launched a ball toward the goal from outside the penalty area. In a development now being downplayed in the game highlights, a Japanese player whom I cannot identify cut the legs out from under Australian goalkeeper Mark Schwarzer as he was in the air, knocking the keeper to the ground and allowing the ball unimpeded progress to the net. On the Reality Planet, we call this both a foul and a booking. On whatever planet is occupied by referee Essam Abd El Fatah, it is called a goal.
This recomplected the game, of course; a 0-0 game is worlds different from a 1-0 game. For 55 minutes, the Aussies struggled. Then, on the strength of three late--and, in hindsight, brilliant--substitutions, they plugged home three goals in 8 minutes, starting in the 84th minute, to notch a 3-1 victory. All three goals were scored by substitutes. It was the finest kind of karmic retribution over the little Japanese bastards.
My wife thinks it's cute when I'm a racist.
The game from yesterday that I forgot was the stinky Orange Cheeseheads and the Serbs, who include Montenegrans on their squad as a gesture of good faith. The Dutch are one of the four or five teams in this tournament who'd look about right in black leather trimmed with silver (lightning bolts, for preference). They're precise, they're overwhelming, they're methodical, they're relentless. Arjen Robben is a wizard with the ball.
Y'know, if unis are kit, and the field is a pitch, and shoes are boots, shouldn't there be some cutesy affected name for the ball, so that hypersnob, America-hating watchers of EPL and Bundesliga games on channel 149--people who casually call Barcelona "Barca" and Juventus "Jew-vuh"--can give us one more way to know that we're shite and they're not? Actually, my favorite is the Irish commentator--I think his name is Tommy Guinness, or something--who keeps referring to the goal as the "onion bag," as in, "Oy, he punched that right into the old onion bag!"
Yes, Ilse, darling, all jokes are about you, except for the ones about bDr. Why do you ask?
Anyway, the Serbs are best described as a Hobbesian life: nasty, brutish, and short. The game was pretty uninspiring, the Dutch kit is second in sheer unmitigated ugliness to the Swedes (so far--reports on Croatia's kit make their jerseys out as something your grandmother in Kansas uses to cover her kitchen table), and the stinky cheese people won the game without much of a threat, even though it was only 1-0.
Not so much for the next three days, since I have to pay some attention to work. I'll try to tape a game a day and avoid the news. Tuesday, the highlight game is France and Switzerland; I'll pass on Brazil-Croatia, since the Brazilians make me hurl, and on Togo-Korea, because I have a hard time believing that I might find that entertaining. Wednesday, we have two brilliant games, Spain-Ukraine and Germany-Poland ("It'll be a war!"), coupled with the less exciting Tunisia-Saudi tilt; I'll probably go with Spain-Ukraine, since it rhymes and the war's outcome will be pretty predictable. Thursday, we have sacrifices to make, with interesting matches in Ecuador-Costa Rica and England-Trinidad. I'll pass on the yellow-pajama'd Swedes beating Paraguay, while hoping that the Swedes salt away five or six goals to yield some hope that Team USA will manage to finish 31st, instead of 32nd. I'll try to be back for six hours of futbol on Friday, but that's gonna be sort of a boring day, with (in decreasing order of interest) the Stinky Cheese-Cote d'Ivoire matchup, Mexico-Angola (outside shot of interest), and the totally unpromising Argentina-Serbia match.
In the meantime, play hooky and watch futbol.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Why ABCDisnESPN Must Die
I have now devoted nearly 16 hours (over 16, by the time the Angola-Portugal revolution, which I am now watching, ends) to watching group play in the World Cup on various Disney-controlled media outlets. I have experienced the play of 16 world-class soccer teams, some of them beautifully exciting (Ecuador, Trinidad, Costa Rica, Ivory Coast), some merely interesting (Iran, Serbia), some exciting but evil (Mexico, Argentina), and some merely evil (Sweden, Germany, Netherlands). And then there's England, Poland, Paraguay, Angola, and Portugal. In that time, I have heard far more--what seems like a total of five hours, in the course of other games--about a team that hasn't played yet, that being Our Local National Team.
ABCDisnESPN is mercilessly hyping tomorrow's US opener against the Czechs (Ilse almost hit me when I made a joke about playing the Balances). Now, admittedly, they're an American network, and the US games are likely their best shot at ratings. But as my friend Sasha pointed out (in a phone conversation, not in something I can link to), it's getting pretty Olympics-like in the search for pathos and human interest. Shut the fuck up, ABCDisnESPN. If we watched a game that ultimately ended up being mostly a dog (the Dutch and the Serbians), we're damn sure going to watch the US game, if we can break free from our wage slavery. I mean, just shut the fuck up.
Ilse was over for the weekend, and given a between-games choice between banging Ilse and blogging the Cup, it's an easy call. So you got nuffin' yesterday, but here's my uniquely objective and responsible take on what happened yesterday and so far today:
Ecuador/Poland: It occurs that I said nothing about this, having blogged about German-hatin' during the space in between the opener and this game, then filled the remaining time before Ilse's arrival with cleaning and shopping, things Ilse expects in return for an occasional crack at marital bliss. The game was great--there was a lot of raving about Ecuador's awful record on the road, and intimations that they only qualified because they play half their games at an extremely high altitude in Quito. The Ecuadorans appeared unimpressed by this line of reasoning, holding the large, bruising Poles off on defense and striking twice, once in the middle of the first half and again around the 80-minute mark, both on sudden bursts. For their part, the Poles appeared surprised, and perhaps offended, that the Ecuadorans did not curl up at midfield and whimper for their homes and mommies, and what happens when solid Eurotrash teams make such assumptions is what happened here; Ecuador 2, Poland 0. Good game.
England/Paraguay: Marquee match, an alarm-clock game at 9 AM Eastern on Saturday. The Paraguayans were pretty pathetic, and I think they're a pretty good pick for 32nd place in the tournament, although that honor may go hotly contested since the English rested on the laurels of an early own-goal by the unfortunate Paraguayans. This is truly the best of both worlds; England won, perpetuating the possibility that the insane English football press will get a healthy feeding of chum, but they did it really, really badly, claiming the only 1-0 victory in Cup history that owed to an own-goal. The English, frankly, sucked, and except for the excitement of it being their first game, the whole thing was pretty effing dull.
Trinidad/Sweden: A scoreless draw that was the best game of the tournament so far. The Swedes are big, ugly, and brutal. I detest them. Trinidad was scrappy and quick, and the referee hated them--I wasn't real pleased with the officiating in this one, which seemed to allow the Swedes all manner of rough play while calling the Trinidadians (I'm not forgetting Tobago, it's just a lot of typing, and calling them TNT is just suckage). There were a ton of chances, more for the Swedes, and the Trinidad goalkeeper, last-minute replacement Shaka Hislop (who plays for West Ham but is best known, I am told by ABCDisnESPN, for leading Howard to either the 1988 NCAA title or the title game, I forget which and don't feel like looking it up), was nothing short of spectacular, making hard save after hard save on the hapless and overconfident Swedes. Further, the Trinidadians played most of the second half short a man, as Avery John was sent off with his second booking (a fair court, the second one, since the man knew he'd already been carded once, but the first booking was a tad sketchy, I thought). This game was the best answer I've ever seen to soccer critics--probably the most exciting scoreless draw I've ever seen. It also introduced an element of considerable interest to this group--both Trinidad and Sweden should beat the Paraguayans, leaving their performances against England as the deciding factor in which team advances to the knockout rounds.
Argentina/Cote d'Ivoire: Yuck. Brutal. The Ivory Coast team was pretty cool, as African teams tend to be, but the fucking Argentines just overwhelmed them. The Africans scored in the 82nd minute and then pressed demonically to make the 2-1 match interesting, but overall, the game was sort of unsatisfying, marked by a lot of whining and macho bullshit from the Argentines, who are despicable. The Ivoirians (?) needed a point out of the match to make the group interesting. Combined with the Dutch dominance of the thuggish but potentially interesting Serbians Sunday morning, it's hard to imagine this group ending with anyone but Argentina and the Dutch advancing.
Mexico/Iran: What a great game for wingnuts and those who dislike them. I mean, are there two nations on Earth that better focalize right-wing passions? Sadly, I wasn't watching with a wingnut, and while I'm stereotyping, I might as well note that wingnuts would tend more to think that soccer, black helicopters, and world Communism are linked, so there probably weren't many of them paying enough attention to be confused. Anyway, the Mexicans are stone evil--they're archrivals of Our Local National Team, and they probably got a seed in the Cup draw that our boys deserved, thus tossing our boys into a very dangerous group. But damn, the Mexicans are good, and they had the most compelling sort of human interest story--their goalkeeper's father died, and the poor keeper was just back from the man's funeral. They were pretty fired up, the Mexicans. But the Iranians aren't patsies--they're pretty quick, although they've a tendency toward ineffective attacking tactics--long balls for quick strikes against good teams tend not to be your best strategy in Cup play. For about 70 minutes, it was a really good game, maybe a little chippy (not a bad thing--anyone beating on Mexicans in this game is a good thing) at times, but the Iranians broke through and scored about 10 minutes after the Mexicans did in the first half. At around 75 minutes, the Mexicans scored again, then again five minutes later to seal the deal. The first of those pretty much deflated the Iranians, who might have a shot if Angola can get a draw out of the game I'm watching now.
Angola/Portugal: The Portos are dirty, whiny bitches, and this is one of those political dream games--former colony versus former imperialists. I hear the last time they played, the game had to be suspended after 68 minutes and four red cards. That's a game with some potential, there. We're in the 63rd minute with Portugal up 1-0, and I haven't been paying a lot of attention, so I might have more to say about this later, or tomorrow.
And tomorrow? I heard the US are going to be ready for some futbol. And it'll be my last day of complete coverage, at least until the weekend, since the Germans are inconsiderate enough to schedule all Cup games between 9 and 5 Eastern.
ABCDisnESPN is mercilessly hyping tomorrow's US opener against the Czechs (Ilse almost hit me when I made a joke about playing the Balances). Now, admittedly, they're an American network, and the US games are likely their best shot at ratings. But as my friend Sasha pointed out (in a phone conversation, not in something I can link to), it's getting pretty Olympics-like in the search for pathos and human interest. Shut the fuck up, ABCDisnESPN. If we watched a game that ultimately ended up being mostly a dog (the Dutch and the Serbians), we're damn sure going to watch the US game, if we can break free from our wage slavery. I mean, just shut the fuck up.
Ilse was over for the weekend, and given a between-games choice between banging Ilse and blogging the Cup, it's an easy call. So you got nuffin' yesterday, but here's my uniquely objective and responsible take on what happened yesterday and so far today:
Ecuador/Poland: It occurs that I said nothing about this, having blogged about German-hatin' during the space in between the opener and this game, then filled the remaining time before Ilse's arrival with cleaning and shopping, things Ilse expects in return for an occasional crack at marital bliss. The game was great--there was a lot of raving about Ecuador's awful record on the road, and intimations that they only qualified because they play half their games at an extremely high altitude in Quito. The Ecuadorans appeared unimpressed by this line of reasoning, holding the large, bruising Poles off on defense and striking twice, once in the middle of the first half and again around the 80-minute mark, both on sudden bursts. For their part, the Poles appeared surprised, and perhaps offended, that the Ecuadorans did not curl up at midfield and whimper for their homes and mommies, and what happens when solid Eurotrash teams make such assumptions is what happened here; Ecuador 2, Poland 0. Good game.
England/Paraguay: Marquee match, an alarm-clock game at 9 AM Eastern on Saturday. The Paraguayans were pretty pathetic, and I think they're a pretty good pick for 32nd place in the tournament, although that honor may go hotly contested since the English rested on the laurels of an early own-goal by the unfortunate Paraguayans. This is truly the best of both worlds; England won, perpetuating the possibility that the insane English football press will get a healthy feeding of chum, but they did it really, really badly, claiming the only 1-0 victory in Cup history that owed to an own-goal. The English, frankly, sucked, and except for the excitement of it being their first game, the whole thing was pretty effing dull.
Trinidad/Sweden: A scoreless draw that was the best game of the tournament so far. The Swedes are big, ugly, and brutal. I detest them. Trinidad was scrappy and quick, and the referee hated them--I wasn't real pleased with the officiating in this one, which seemed to allow the Swedes all manner of rough play while calling the Trinidadians (I'm not forgetting Tobago, it's just a lot of typing, and calling them TNT is just suckage). There were a ton of chances, more for the Swedes, and the Trinidad goalkeeper, last-minute replacement Shaka Hislop (who plays for West Ham but is best known, I am told by ABCDisnESPN, for leading Howard to either the 1988 NCAA title or the title game, I forget which and don't feel like looking it up), was nothing short of spectacular, making hard save after hard save on the hapless and overconfident Swedes. Further, the Trinidadians played most of the second half short a man, as Avery John was sent off with his second booking (a fair court, the second one, since the man knew he'd already been carded once, but the first booking was a tad sketchy, I thought). This game was the best answer I've ever seen to soccer critics--probably the most exciting scoreless draw I've ever seen. It also introduced an element of considerable interest to this group--both Trinidad and Sweden should beat the Paraguayans, leaving their performances against England as the deciding factor in which team advances to the knockout rounds.
Argentina/Cote d'Ivoire: Yuck. Brutal. The Ivory Coast team was pretty cool, as African teams tend to be, but the fucking Argentines just overwhelmed them. The Africans scored in the 82nd minute and then pressed demonically to make the 2-1 match interesting, but overall, the game was sort of unsatisfying, marked by a lot of whining and macho bullshit from the Argentines, who are despicable. The Ivoirians (?) needed a point out of the match to make the group interesting. Combined with the Dutch dominance of the thuggish but potentially interesting Serbians Sunday morning, it's hard to imagine this group ending with anyone but Argentina and the Dutch advancing.
Mexico/Iran: What a great game for wingnuts and those who dislike them. I mean, are there two nations on Earth that better focalize right-wing passions? Sadly, I wasn't watching with a wingnut, and while I'm stereotyping, I might as well note that wingnuts would tend more to think that soccer, black helicopters, and world Communism are linked, so there probably weren't many of them paying enough attention to be confused. Anyway, the Mexicans are stone evil--they're archrivals of Our Local National Team, and they probably got a seed in the Cup draw that our boys deserved, thus tossing our boys into a very dangerous group. But damn, the Mexicans are good, and they had the most compelling sort of human interest story--their goalkeeper's father died, and the poor keeper was just back from the man's funeral. They were pretty fired up, the Mexicans. But the Iranians aren't patsies--they're pretty quick, although they've a tendency toward ineffective attacking tactics--long balls for quick strikes against good teams tend not to be your best strategy in Cup play. For about 70 minutes, it was a really good game, maybe a little chippy (not a bad thing--anyone beating on Mexicans in this game is a good thing) at times, but the Iranians broke through and scored about 10 minutes after the Mexicans did in the first half. At around 75 minutes, the Mexicans scored again, then again five minutes later to seal the deal. The first of those pretty much deflated the Iranians, who might have a shot if Angola can get a draw out of the game I'm watching now.
Angola/Portugal: The Portos are dirty, whiny bitches, and this is one of those political dream games--former colony versus former imperialists. I hear the last time they played, the game had to be suspended after 68 minutes and four red cards. That's a game with some potential, there. We're in the 63rd minute with Portugal up 1-0, and I haven't been paying a lot of attention, so I might have more to say about this later, or tomorrow.
And tomorrow? I heard the US are going to be ready for some futbol. And it'll be my last day of complete coverage, at least until the weekend, since the Germans are inconsiderate enough to schedule all Cup games between 9 and 5 Eastern.
Friday, June 09, 2006
I Hate The Fucking Germans So Very Very Much
You are accustomed to me spewing venom and bile at those who would dare to oppose me politically or philosophically. Now is the time on Sprockets when we get down to some pure and unmitigated nationalistic hatin', because the World Cup started two hours ago.
There are some regulars in this life who consider futbol to be "pussyball." To them, we say now, shut the fuck up and pretend you like it.
You also know that I am not, in general, an advocate of hatin'. In fact, I limit it to the world of sports. Typical major targets involve Duke basketball and the Dallas Cowboys, although there are certainly some lesser hate objects in the big wide world o' sportin'. Go ahead, call me a bad person for abandoning my hate-free philosophy for something so mundane and ephemeral. There are those who say that anyone who cares about the outcome of a sporting event more than 20 minutes after its end suffer from arrested development.
Those people are smug, arrogant prigs who suffer passionless lives and should just go to fucking hell and die.
With that, let us begin the hatin'. I hate the fucking Germans, and that's a sad bunny foo-foo, because this here Cup thing is being played in their country.
The real Kraut-hatin' began, of course, four years ago. They thugged it up in beating the US team in the Cup quarterfinals, aided by an uncalled handball and unreservedly filthy play from their glamor-boy captain Michael Ballack, secretly French pissant Oliver Neuville, and a host of others, and a whinging performance by (now non-starting) goalkeeper Oliver Kahn. They're just fucking bitches who should play in black leather with silver collar tabs. Then, they had the nerve to choke on the Brazilians in the final.
As host country, they get the honor of playing the opening game. Here's a funny thing: get 90,000 Germans together, and no matter what they're chanting, it sounds like "Sieg Heil"; no matter what they sing, the words include "Uber alles." And so Germany took on exciting Costa Rica (known as the Ticos) in the opener just now, in front of thousands of chanting, singing Germans.
Their methodical style pretty much overwhelmed the Ticos, who look to rely on speed and surprise. They managed a pair of surprises (both by the graceful and exciting Paulo Wanchope) against Team Uberyou, mostly because the Germans were relying on a defensive strategy of playing an offsides trap about 30 yards out from the goal, which is a strategy that relies on perfect timing and officials who are willing to put up with mincing pussy tricks like mid-zone offsides traps. But any kind of defense is not the Ticos' strong suit, and the Germans scored four times, including two goals by Miroslav Klose, who was celebrating both his birthday and his perfect Wehrmacht haircut, and a closeout goal by Torsten Frings, who should be Danish.
The Frings goal was interesting in a couple of respects; one was that he scored it from about 35 yards out on a surprise shot that he positively hammered. The other was that Frings and his flowing locks were up and around, after he spent five minutes on the ground nursing his pussy after diving on a non-foul midway through the second half.
Expect a few things here over the next weeks, as the Cup progresses. One will be a lot of German-hatin' (the team, not the peeps--what, I'm going to be a racist against my ancestral homies?). Another will be large measures of USA-lovin' and USA-hatin', because our side is simultaneously loveable and detestable. Go figure. You can also expect visceral diatribes about various world futbol powers like Brazil, Argentina, Italy, and France. And you can expect ambivalence about the English, who are good, and might be some fun, but who really must lose three games and score little or not at all, because the resulting British press blood orgy would be one of the most entertaining things in the history of history.
What you cannot expect? Is pussyball, because this ain't it. If you can't handle two hours of beauty, speed, grace, and passion, then just go...I dunno, watch "Gilligan's Island" reruns or whatever it is you do instead of watching the World's sport.
There are some regulars in this life who consider futbol to be "pussyball." To them, we say now, shut the fuck up and pretend you like it.
You also know that I am not, in general, an advocate of hatin'. In fact, I limit it to the world of sports. Typical major targets involve Duke basketball and the Dallas Cowboys, although there are certainly some lesser hate objects in the big wide world o' sportin'. Go ahead, call me a bad person for abandoning my hate-free philosophy for something so mundane and ephemeral. There are those who say that anyone who cares about the outcome of a sporting event more than 20 minutes after its end suffer from arrested development.
Those people are smug, arrogant prigs who suffer passionless lives and should just go to fucking hell and die.
With that, let us begin the hatin'. I hate the fucking Germans, and that's a sad bunny foo-foo, because this here Cup thing is being played in their country.
The real Kraut-hatin' began, of course, four years ago. They thugged it up in beating the US team in the Cup quarterfinals, aided by an uncalled handball and unreservedly filthy play from their glamor-boy captain Michael Ballack, secretly French pissant Oliver Neuville, and a host of others, and a whinging performance by (now non-starting) goalkeeper Oliver Kahn. They're just fucking bitches who should play in black leather with silver collar tabs. Then, they had the nerve to choke on the Brazilians in the final.
As host country, they get the honor of playing the opening game. Here's a funny thing: get 90,000 Germans together, and no matter what they're chanting, it sounds like "Sieg Heil"; no matter what they sing, the words include "Uber alles." And so Germany took on exciting Costa Rica (known as the Ticos) in the opener just now, in front of thousands of chanting, singing Germans.
Their methodical style pretty much overwhelmed the Ticos, who look to rely on speed and surprise. They managed a pair of surprises (both by the graceful and exciting Paulo Wanchope) against Team Uberyou, mostly because the Germans were relying on a defensive strategy of playing an offsides trap about 30 yards out from the goal, which is a strategy that relies on perfect timing and officials who are willing to put up with mincing pussy tricks like mid-zone offsides traps. But any kind of defense is not the Ticos' strong suit, and the Germans scored four times, including two goals by Miroslav Klose, who was celebrating both his birthday and his perfect Wehrmacht haircut, and a closeout goal by Torsten Frings, who should be Danish.
The Frings goal was interesting in a couple of respects; one was that he scored it from about 35 yards out on a surprise shot that he positively hammered. The other was that Frings and his flowing locks were up and around, after he spent five minutes on the ground nursing his pussy after diving on a non-foul midway through the second half.
Expect a few things here over the next weeks, as the Cup progresses. One will be a lot of German-hatin' (the team, not the peeps--what, I'm going to be a racist against my ancestral homies?). Another will be large measures of USA-lovin' and USA-hatin', because our side is simultaneously loveable and detestable. Go figure. You can also expect visceral diatribes about various world futbol powers like Brazil, Argentina, Italy, and France. And you can expect ambivalence about the English, who are good, and might be some fun, but who really must lose three games and score little or not at all, because the resulting British press blood orgy would be one of the most entertaining things in the history of history.
What you cannot expect? Is pussyball, because this ain't it. If you can't handle two hours of beauty, speed, grace, and passion, then just go...I dunno, watch "Gilligan's Island" reruns or whatever it is you do instead of watching the World's sport.
I Might Have Been Wrong
This is an official YAMM alert: I may have blown a prediction.
Now, this shouldn't be news. Lots of people, including me, screw up predictions all the damn time. However, fairness demands, that since I tout successes like my conclusively proven assertion that Jean Schmidt decorates her home with lampshades made from human skin, I must also fess up on some small percentage of the things I get wrong.
Now, it's not yet clear that I was wrong, but it's beginning to look like I might have done. In fact, it's beginning to look like, in the event that I was only partially wrong, I was, still, a wee bit wrong.
The topic is The Bughammer, of whom I wrote this. It appears, at this writing, that it will be pretty much technically impossible for The Bughammer to be a member of Congress on September 29, 2006, the first anniversary of the above post. However, there is an ongoing fight to keep him on the ballot for the general election in his district in Tejas, and if he's there? He'll be elected, convict or not.
So the sum is this: I was almost certainly wrong about the date. It is possible that I was wrong about The Bughammer regaining his leadership position. I'm not giving up on the possibility that he will, even while getting ass-plowed in the Texas State Prison at Scorpionville, get re-elected. And you shouldn't either.
Now, this shouldn't be news. Lots of people, including me, screw up predictions all the damn time. However, fairness demands, that since I tout successes like my conclusively proven assertion that Jean Schmidt decorates her home with lampshades made from human skin, I must also fess up on some small percentage of the things I get wrong.
Now, it's not yet clear that I was wrong, but it's beginning to look like I might have done. In fact, it's beginning to look like, in the event that I was only partially wrong, I was, still, a wee bit wrong.
The topic is The Bughammer, of whom I wrote this. It appears, at this writing, that it will be pretty much technically impossible for The Bughammer to be a member of Congress on September 29, 2006, the first anniversary of the above post. However, there is an ongoing fight to keep him on the ballot for the general election in his district in Tejas, and if he's there? He'll be elected, convict or not.
So the sum is this: I was almost certainly wrong about the date. It is possible that I was wrong about The Bughammer regaining his leadership position. I'm not giving up on the possibility that he will, even while getting ass-plowed in the Texas State Prison at Scorpionville, get re-elected. And you shouldn't either.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Today's News...WTF Do You Mean, Today?
Woot. We killed us one a them Bad Brown People. U!S!A!
Mission accomplished, right?
WTF do you mean, no?
Oh, I see. It's about exterminating all Bad Brown People, in a decidedly non-racist way. Gotcha. So it doesn't matter that we killed one particular Bad Brown Person, right?
WTF do you mean, "no" and I "hate our troops" for asking? Can't you fucking people make any fucking sense whatsoever?
And WTF do you mean, "no" and you're not hatin' on all Brown People? How can I tell them apart? By profiling? But...but...they all fit the same profile, don't they? Yes? Jesus. Can't you fucking people make any fucking sense whatsoever?
Dog knows what directions asshat memery will take over the next 24 hours. I'm sure my above imaginary conversation with an imaginary nonentity doesn't even scrape the surface of the stupid and hateful nonsense we're sure to see in the blogosphere before the sun next sets (on the East Coast, the only place the rising and falling of the sun matters, of course).
Here's what to think: the military did something right. Lots of people in the military do things right every fucking day. Some of them don't. Sometimes they don't do it right, in a spectacularly impactful way.
Here's what else to think: kill a terrorist and make 10 more. And do nothing about the rates of unnecessary deaths from other causes, here and around the world, rates that dwarf the number of people killed by terrorist acts. Focus your entire national policy around killing terrorists, in the interest of pumping up Mister Jingo, and do worse than nothing about far more workable problems.
Oh, and you should also think that Ann Coulter is seriously pathetic, but I just can't imagine that's worth a whole lot of Thinking Cap, there.
Mission accomplished, right?
WTF do you mean, no?
Oh, I see. It's about exterminating all Bad Brown People, in a decidedly non-racist way. Gotcha. So it doesn't matter that we killed one particular Bad Brown Person, right?
WTF do you mean, "no" and I "hate our troops" for asking? Can't you fucking people make any fucking sense whatsoever?
And WTF do you mean, "no" and you're not hatin' on all Brown People? How can I tell them apart? By profiling? But...but...they all fit the same profile, don't they? Yes? Jesus. Can't you fucking people make any fucking sense whatsoever?
Dog knows what directions asshat memery will take over the next 24 hours. I'm sure my above imaginary conversation with an imaginary nonentity doesn't even scrape the surface of the stupid and hateful nonsense we're sure to see in the blogosphere before the sun next sets (on the East Coast, the only place the rising and falling of the sun matters, of course).
Here's what to think: the military did something right. Lots of people in the military do things right every fucking day. Some of them don't. Sometimes they don't do it right, in a spectacularly impactful way.
Here's what else to think: kill a terrorist and make 10 more. And do nothing about the rates of unnecessary deaths from other causes, here and around the world, rates that dwarf the number of people killed by terrorist acts. Focus your entire national policy around killing terrorists, in the interest of pumping up Mister Jingo, and do worse than nothing about far more workable problems.
Oh, and you should also think that Ann Coulter is seriously pathetic, but I just can't imagine that's worth a whole lot of Thinking Cap, there.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Aren't You Cute?
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
June 6
Much will be made in the blogosphere today of comparisons between events and currents 62 years ago and those of the here/now. All of them are crap. There's no parallel at all, except to the extent that then, as now, our military was called upon to do violence. Honor your fathers, mothers, grandfathers, grandmothers--those whose generation dropped everything to go fight the true face of evil.
Why was that a good war? I'm certainly invested in the notion that it was, and that it was, in all likelihood, the last good war. It's surely the last war about which there's any certainty as to the rightness of our country's actions and choices. Those who argue that evil is evil, in any of its forms, and who would compare the fundamental, world-sweeping evil of Nazism to the evil of today are missing a point of scale.
It is hyperbole to suggest that terror looms as the same kind of threat to our way of life as did Nazism. Globally, more infants die needlessly in a day--every day--than the number of people who died in the horrors of 9/11. Between 40 million and 60 million people were consumed by World War II, depending on whose figures you believe. The scale of the threat of terrorism is miniscule by comparison.
That doesn't make terrorism right, or something to be ignored; it means what it says, that the threat needs to be viewed in scale. More people died in auto accidents in 2001 than died in the World Trade Center. It may be a hard idea to confront, but by way of scale, terrorism is a pretty mundane threat.
This matter of scale tends to diminish the war metaphor, but more importantly, I think (and certainly today), it diminishes other--real--wars, and it's a bit of an insult to those sacrificed in them. Like World War II, which took a significant step toward ending, 62 years ago today (I'll spare you here my usual argument about the suffering of the Russian people in making a more significant contribution toward bringing about that end).
Does this itself diminish the contributions of those Americans who've died or otherwise suffered grievously in Afghanistan and Iraq? Of course not. They are brave people who signed on to serve their countries and followed the orders they were given in doing so. It doesn't demean them to suggest that their political leadership was flawed; in fact, it's a compliment to their patriotism and professionalism.
Today should be a day for contemplating the deeds of the generation that won World War II. Please don't spoil it by comparing our invasion of Iraq to the deeds done by those magnificent men and women.
Why was that a good war? I'm certainly invested in the notion that it was, and that it was, in all likelihood, the last good war. It's surely the last war about which there's any certainty as to the rightness of our country's actions and choices. Those who argue that evil is evil, in any of its forms, and who would compare the fundamental, world-sweeping evil of Nazism to the evil of today are missing a point of scale.
It is hyperbole to suggest that terror looms as the same kind of threat to our way of life as did Nazism. Globally, more infants die needlessly in a day--every day--than the number of people who died in the horrors of 9/11. Between 40 million and 60 million people were consumed by World War II, depending on whose figures you believe. The scale of the threat of terrorism is miniscule by comparison.
That doesn't make terrorism right, or something to be ignored; it means what it says, that the threat needs to be viewed in scale. More people died in auto accidents in 2001 than died in the World Trade Center. It may be a hard idea to confront, but by way of scale, terrorism is a pretty mundane threat.
This matter of scale tends to diminish the war metaphor, but more importantly, I think (and certainly today), it diminishes other--real--wars, and it's a bit of an insult to those sacrificed in them. Like World War II, which took a significant step toward ending, 62 years ago today (I'll spare you here my usual argument about the suffering of the Russian people in making a more significant contribution toward bringing about that end).
Does this itself diminish the contributions of those Americans who've died or otherwise suffered grievously in Afghanistan and Iraq? Of course not. They are brave people who signed on to serve their countries and followed the orders they were given in doing so. It doesn't demean them to suggest that their political leadership was flawed; in fact, it's a compliment to their patriotism and professionalism.
Today should be a day for contemplating the deeds of the generation that won World War II. Please don't spoil it by comparing our invasion of Iraq to the deeds done by those magnificent men and women.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Instant Karma
Y'all know that I love the Maryland Terrapins unconditionally. Sure, my unconditional love suffered some hits during the probation 15 years ago and the Bob Wade era that immediately preceded it. And my patience has been tested for the last two basketball seasons, and an unaccountable number of football seasons.
But this? Is positively Biblical, here. A Driesell has its foot back in the door of Maryland basketball. Which means that its father, Leftuh, will be in the house. I believe that I have previously noted that Leftuh in the house is the spiritual equivalent of mixing urine with your breakfast oatmeal. It's certainly the aesthetic equivalent.
There are them what argue that Gary Williams' inability to keep high-quality assistants is an indicator of the program's success. There are them what argue that his inability to keep high-quality assistants is an indicator of Gary's assitude. The truth may be anywhere along that spectrum, but here's a real encouraging quote from the Post story:
There is no No. 1 assistant, Williams said, adding, "It's a staff."
Great. The staff consists of two loyal former Williams players and a new coach that the fan community has already dubbed "Clefty." And Gary has asserted territorial dominance. And recruits are bailing out--a Pennsylvania four-star recruit just reneged on his verbal commitment to the Terps.
While I'm a long way from bailing out, I'm not a happy little turtle.
Oh, fuck. The Redskins just signed former Terp defensive back Dennard "Goddammit Dennard What The Fuck Are You Doing?" Wilson. Am I safe? Anywhere? Jesus.
But this? Is positively Biblical, here. A Driesell has its foot back in the door of Maryland basketball. Which means that its father, Leftuh, will be in the house. I believe that I have previously noted that Leftuh in the house is the spiritual equivalent of mixing urine with your breakfast oatmeal. It's certainly the aesthetic equivalent.
There are them what argue that Gary Williams' inability to keep high-quality assistants is an indicator of the program's success. There are them what argue that his inability to keep high-quality assistants is an indicator of Gary's assitude. The truth may be anywhere along that spectrum, but here's a real encouraging quote from the Post story:
There is no No. 1 assistant, Williams said, adding, "It's a staff."
Great. The staff consists of two loyal former Williams players and a new coach that the fan community has already dubbed "Clefty." And Gary has asserted territorial dominance. And recruits are bailing out--a Pennsylvania four-star recruit just reneged on his verbal commitment to the Terps.
While I'm a long way from bailing out, I'm not a happy little turtle.
Oh, fuck. The Redskins just signed former Terp defensive back Dennard "Goddammit Dennard What The Fuck Are You Doing?" Wilson. Am I safe? Anywhere? Jesus.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Brief Substance
No, it's not a post about cotton.
However, as I get down to it, I find I still have nothing of substance to say. I could go on extended rants about Al Gore, the fascists' treatment of the doings at Haditha, the idiocy of comparing Harry Reid's acceptance of boxing tickets to anything resembling actual corruption, or David Broder's obsession with burying his sniffer in Hillary's panties. All of these are worthy targets, but I must debunk them as things I'm capable of competently addressing, to wit:
However, as I get down to it, I find I still have nothing of substance to say. I could go on extended rants about Al Gore, the fascists' treatment of the doings at Haditha, the idiocy of comparing Harry Reid's acceptance of boxing tickets to anything resembling actual corruption, or David Broder's obsession with burying his sniffer in Hillary's panties. All of these are worthy targets, but I must debunk them as things I'm capable of competently addressing, to wit:
- Of course Al Gore's been sodomized by the media. He's smarter than they are. And his obsessive sorta personality isn't helping him any when it comes to dodging mockery. But when so many people have it so very, very wrong, my little Landru voice isn't going to make a dent in it. Besides, to do the job properly, I'd have to revisit a topic I've forsworn: Tucker Carlson. Last year's Tucker obsession led me down the road to perdition. I'm not going back, and you can't make me.
- Yes, bad things happened at Haditha. The military justice framework is taking care of it. It took them a while. Saying any of those things does not evidence a disrespect for the military. Accusing a Marine-veteran member of Congress of disrespect for the military for calling attention to the issue is rank propaganda in the finest traditions of Goebbels and McCarthy. Shut the fuck up. Of course, to do this job properly, I'd have to revisit that whole Our Lady of the Concentration Camps thing, and I'm just frightfully done with that there.
- Golly. Harry Reid accepted boxing tickets, then voted against the interests of the people who provided them? Hang him high.
- As for Broder, shouldn't he be off somewhere having a circle jerk with his fellow lovers of Bushcock, like Richard Cohen? Shut the fuck up, Broder.
See? Everyone else does it better than I do. And you're really tired of hearing me piss and moan about fascist squawkboxes, when you can go read other people doing it more politely.
Besides, I'm hungry.
Quiz Answers
1. Shouldn't you leave ass-sex jokes to the professionals, Landru?
2. It's a trick question. There was no prevailing moral climate in the 1960s, as any good rightist will tell you.
3. Mark Brunell, who was obviously exposed to the nuclear waste carried by the train that was mistakenly routed through Jacksonville and DC.
4. It's a trick question. All bards have long swords, if'n you get my drift, and I know you do.
Extra Credit One: None of them.
Extra Credit Two: All of them, with a smile and a request for another.
2. It's a trick question. There was no prevailing moral climate in the 1960s, as any good rightist will tell you.
3. Mark Brunell, who was obviously exposed to the nuclear waste carried by the train that was mistakenly routed through Jacksonville and DC.
4. It's a trick question. All bards have long swords, if'n you get my drift, and I know you do.
Extra Credit One: None of them.
Extra Credit Two: All of them, with a smile and a request for another.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
The Simplicity of It All
One of my clients is a non-profit, non-governmental organization called, for our purposes here, Save the World. These are the folks for whom I went to China (yes, I know, I haven't completed that assignment, and you're all dying to know whether Vivian really did give me a tug job). About 80 percent of Save the World is dedicated to work in other countries.
I used to be the finance officer for one little program, the program that sent me to Beijing. I worked with the guy who was the finance officer for all of Save the World's other Commie, poverty-loving programs. He left. I (a lowly consultant) am now the uber-finance-officer for all of Save the World's one-world stuff. Starting today.
This means that I have acquired two part-time administrative assistants, Molly and Amelia. Both are Earnest and Dynamic Young Things, each in Her Own Way. Neither should be an administrative assistant, but they're both young, and assistanting is their first job out of school. Molly's more cerebral, and Amelia's sort of an untermother type (but by no means un-smart).
Molly isn't around today, but Amelia accompanied me into the lair of my predecessor, Job, to see what needed doing. We don't get to keep the lair--we just get the headaches, so some salvage was necessary. Within 15 minutes, Amelia had, while I watched, mostly speechless, reduced Job's three years of packrattery into a pile of salvage-worthy paper about an inch high.
We likes us some Amelia.
Typical Amelia-Landru interaction:
Landru: What is this?
Amelia: Don't worry about it, you won't understand it, no, stop fidgeting, sign this, no, sign there, I told you not to think about it, this is important, look at it, no, actually read it, dumbass, and by the way, I'll have that quantum trans-wave particle defibrillator built by 11:22.
Landru: What?
15 Minutes Later: World Peace Is Our Fault. Landru wins Nobel Prize, forgets to mention Amelia, who thanks him anyway.
I used to be the finance officer for one little program, the program that sent me to Beijing. I worked with the guy who was the finance officer for all of Save the World's other Commie, poverty-loving programs. He left. I (a lowly consultant) am now the uber-finance-officer for all of Save the World's one-world stuff. Starting today.
This means that I have acquired two part-time administrative assistants, Molly and Amelia. Both are Earnest and Dynamic Young Things, each in Her Own Way. Neither should be an administrative assistant, but they're both young, and assistanting is their first job out of school. Molly's more cerebral, and Amelia's sort of an untermother type (but by no means un-smart).
Molly isn't around today, but Amelia accompanied me into the lair of my predecessor, Job, to see what needed doing. We don't get to keep the lair--we just get the headaches, so some salvage was necessary. Within 15 minutes, Amelia had, while I watched, mostly speechless, reduced Job's three years of packrattery into a pile of salvage-worthy paper about an inch high.
We likes us some Amelia.
Typical Amelia-Landru interaction:
Landru: What is this?
Amelia: Don't worry about it, you won't understand it, no, stop fidgeting, sign this, no, sign there, I told you not to think about it, this is important, look at it, no, actually read it, dumbass, and by the way, I'll have that quantum trans-wave particle defibrillator built by 11:22.
Landru: What?
15 Minutes Later: World Peace Is Our Fault. Landru wins Nobel Prize, forgets to mention Amelia, who thanks him anyway.
Today's Pop Quiz
Which is more important? "Shake Well," or "Point Arrow on Button Towards Red Mark on Can"? Discuss.
In the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood," John Lennon presumably lights a girl's apartment on fire because she cock-teased him at great length. Given the prevailing moral climate of the 1960s, was this acceptable behavior?*
One train leaves Denver at 4 PM, travelling at 82 mph. Another train leaves Boston at 6 PM, travelling at 91 mph. Both trains are travelling on double track, without traffic restrictions, carrying similar loads of unrefined nuclear waste. Given these factors, which quarterback is more reprehensible, John Elway or Tom Brady?
A fifth-level rogue with a Ring of Authority surprises a seventh-level bard with a +4 short sword. Is bard the dumbest character class ever, or what?
Extra Credit: Name three sex acts that you wouldn't perform for your instructor.
Extra Extra Credit: Name two sex acts that you would.
*If you weren't alive during the prevailing moral climate of the 1960s, just STFU.
In the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood," John Lennon presumably lights a girl's apartment on fire because she cock-teased him at great length. Given the prevailing moral climate of the 1960s, was this acceptable behavior?*
One train leaves Denver at 4 PM, travelling at 82 mph. Another train leaves Boston at 6 PM, travelling at 91 mph. Both trains are travelling on double track, without traffic restrictions, carrying similar loads of unrefined nuclear waste. Given these factors, which quarterback is more reprehensible, John Elway or Tom Brady?
A fifth-level rogue with a Ring of Authority surprises a seventh-level bard with a +4 short sword. Is bard the dumbest character class ever, or what?
Extra Credit: Name three sex acts that you wouldn't perform for your instructor.
Extra Extra Credit: Name two sex acts that you would.
*If you weren't alive during the prevailing moral climate of the 1960s, just STFU.
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