And So, Minions Endorses

-Alies Muskin for Montgomery County Board of Education at large, because most of the other candidates want to make sure that your children get out of high school without knowing what homosexuality is, assuming they're not altar boys; and

-Kathleen Sengstock (Richardson) for one of the four MoCo Democratic Delegate slots reserved for women.

Minions respectfully suggests that you never vote for Tommy Le or Deb Vollmer for any office in any jurisdiction (Minions voted for Vollmer twice, twice upon a time, before he realized that she was an unreconstructed Greentard). Minions notes somewhat less respectfully that Lih Young once (metaphorically) pissed in John the Daftist's tea, and appeared to enjoy it.

Minions scoffs at those who straightfacedly suggest a single fecal bacteria's worth of substantive difference between Senator Clinton and Senator Obama.* Then it laughs at them. Then it points and laughs at them, especially if they argue the case with any vigor whatsoever. Minions will, of course, vote in November for the Democratic nominee, whichever lying traitor to the liberal tradition it turns out to be.

Other than that, Minions releases you to your conscience, assuming you claim one. Minions, of course, makes no such claim.

*Minions just barely respects friend Sasha's decision to vote for Obama because The Big Dog showed her his genital warts, or some such piffle. At least she's not claiming anything of any substance, at least not out where you people can hear her. Minions suspects friend bDr just plain has a damaged circuit or two, but love is a many-splendored and, in Minions' case, pretty much unconditional thing.

Bill Belichick and Jim Zorn Are Fucksticks

I'm writing this quickly, because I have to go meet up with peeps to go to a hockey game, but there are things that cry out for bloogery goodness and a healthy dose of self-righteousness.

The flagellation of the masses over things Super Bowl cannot be ignored. I have these things to say:

1. Yes, Bill Belichick is a total fuckstick. There's no quibbling, no denial, no hiding, no nothing. He is a cruel person, incapable of graciousness. This separates him from other NFL coaches...uhm...not at all? As a fan, you have limited options here; love your team, and laugh at the fuckstick, or leave your team. I suggest the former. Your coach's downscaled humanity does not invalidate your team-love. Yes, we hate your fucking coach (and your prancing pony princess quarterback, while I'm on the topic). We have good reason. He provides it, especially when he doesn't get a win to which he thinks he's entitled. Can we please start laughing at stuff again?

2. KSK is, in fact, funny. It's a humor blog. What the fuck else are they going to talk about this week? They're gonna worship the Giants? I think not. I think it's reasonable to expect them to slip in some Pats-hating around references to a Giants lineman shitting on hookers' chests, until they've got something better to laugh at. And they will. By the way, did you notice how gently they treated the Bears and Colts last year? Funny, that.

3. Have I mentioned my team? Any of my teams? Like, say, this one? Look at me, I'm laughing. Jim Fucking Zorn? Are you fucking kidding me? After all that and hiring coordinators before coaches and doing your best to emasculate anyone who might want to come work for your blatherskite organization and waving your schlong at the Rooney Rule, you hire one of the fucktards you've already hired? Don't get me wrong, it's a step up over Jim Fucking Fassel. But Jim Fucking Zorn? Fuck you too, Dan and Vinnie. Fuck the fucking fuck outta you. It's not like you wouldn't do it to me. What am I saying? You are doing it to me. Fucksticks.

Gotta go watch hockey. More Death to Zorn later on.

Die Terps Die

I am watching a college basketball game on television. One of the teams is my beloved alma mater. I wouldn't know it to look at them, though; while there is a red team on the floor, it's not mine, it's State. My team is dressed in unis that render a look suspiciously like that of Tech.*

We must die. We must lose. We are not a yellow team.

Our student body (motto: "Hey! You suck!") has bought into this myth. They are wearing yellow t-shirts. Of course, they are all stupid, and we are, in reality, The University of Long Island, Prince Georges County campus. But usually they're smart enough to wear our actual colors.

There is a technical reason for the allowability of yellow gridkit; we actually have four school colors, since the Calvert family, progenitors of our state, apparently ate a lot of acid before they designed their crest (which served as the basis for our state flag).

Technical or not, this is wrong. The style is ugly, the color is wrong.

The officials, of course, are teh suck. But that's another rant.

We must die. We must lose. Fucking yellow team.

*Glossary: You should already know this, but there is only one State (it's in Raleigh) and only one Tech (it's in Atlanta).

They Can't Be Giants

I really owe it to two beloved friends to try to be gentle about this, and I'm really gonna try. The thing is that Patriots fans, with the absolute exception of my two friends who know who they are, are total fucksticks. Even my two beloved friends, who know who they are, couldn't help spending the weekend taunting God. And yet, I really don't like seeing them suffer along with the millions of douchebags with whom they have to share a football team. I very nearly hurt for them. In fact, I do hurt for them, even though the Patriots and all but two of their fans are fucktards.

Many of you know that I am all about the schadenfreude, and about the haterade, at least when it comes to sports. And politics. And people who piss me off. And dogs. And those kids on my yard. And that fucking Elmo video that Bam-Bam wants to watch over and over again.

But I digress.

This is way different. It is true that they had it coming, all of them, the fucksticks (who are simply fucksticks), the Patriots (who are insufferable asshats), and my two beloved friends, who couldn't stop taunting God despite their best efforts and the fact that they are not, in any way, fucksticks.

It is true that it is sad that they didn't see it coming. I considered stopping it, I really did. I gently and passive-aggressively tried to get them to respect Elisha, even a tiny bit just to offset their complete lack of unconfidence. But they couldn't do it, and honestly, it's hard for me to blame them. I mean, c'mon. Eli Manning? Get the fuck real.

And yet? And yet? They taunted God.

My Freestate homies--one of whom knows and loves my two beloved friends--understand this concept, to their very bones. It is the obligation of every Maryland fan to hang his or her head and steadfastly declaim any chance that any Terrapin team in a revenue-producing sport will ever win so much as a game of tiddlywinks, ever. In this way, we once-in-a-lifetime win the NCAA tournament, or a basketball game in Cameron, or even perhaps a football game against your sister's Girl Scout troop. It's an important obligation, one that every fan of any sporting endeavor should embrace, especially this guy when he's contemplating the potential fates of a certain greatest football team (Vamos!). It's why nobody but me knows that I sorta thought the fucking Giants might pull this off; I kept my fucking mouth shut. I freely admit that it helped that I hate the fucking fuck out of the fucking Giants, too, but that's a stumper; I kept my fucking mouth shut because I didn't want to jinx the fucking Giants? WTFF?

But I digress. It's simple. Don't taunt God, kids. She'll make a beeline for your afterquarters every single time.

And peace out to my two beloved friends who gracefully and good-humoredly sat through an evening of being tormented by fans of the fucking Giants and even bigger fans of schadenfreude.

On the Record

Lessee...douchebagowner-hired offensive coordinator? Check.

Douchebagowner-hired defensive coordinator? Check.

Black coach to carry message slips, make ownership look like something other than a pack of tawdry insenstive fucks, and take the rap when the defense reacts inevitably to the long tall piss management's been taking on them since their homie got blowed away in his bedroom? Check back with us next Tuesday.

Fire Jim Fassel

Thanks to Sasha for pointing out this spiffy new blog.

I've been pissed at the Redskins organization for a long time. Their extension of the idiot Vinnie Cerrato's contract was the key message from the organization for this off-season; everything else is just Dan and Vinnie dumping on the chests of the fans (a pursuit best left to certain Giants defensive linemen, but it's not like we have any control over these things, izzit?). Firing a popular and completely blameless defensive coordinator (in addition to not selecting him as a perfectly worthy successor to El Senor Jesus Gibbs) is just a guarantee that the defensive roster will pretty much unnecessarily turn over in the next two seasons.

Further, with new offensive and defensive coordinators hired, it's clear that whatever tool is hired as coach is just keeping the seat warm until the Two Stooges decide he's to blame for their moronic decisions. I can't imagine anyone other than Norv Turner taking that job.

Making Sausage

Unlike bDr, I do, from time to time, incorporate messaging into my management of the sidebar. Sometimes a link's removal indicates that the link is dead (the late Ben Olsen's Beard) or that the blogger has stopped posting (some of the disappearances from the "Friends" box, although I'll admit that one ill-tended blog remains because the blogger could kill me in my sleep, although it'd cost her an insurance payout). But in the other sections? If I remove a blog, chances are I not only stopped reading it, but it pissed me off. Firedoglake has become extremely tedious, and with regard to anything written by Josh Marshall, I take my orders from Bob Somersby--I'm grateful that the Daily Howler pays attention so that I don't have to.

We are seriously hunkered this weekend--long, bad week, the kids are away, and we've had heavy social commitments for every kid-free weekend since about October--so that's all I got.

Getting It Totally Wrong

While my good friend Sasha can't do math, mostly because she hates this man

so much that she can't even type the URL for CNN,* she got the principle spot on.The count of delegates won so far is paltry and close--38-36 in Senator Obama's favor, by CNN's count. Those who are talking about Senator Clinton's superior position and the imminent death by primary of Senator Obama have feces stuffed between their ears.

It's like Sasha and bDr and I have been telling you: the media are looking for the most entertaining race possible. The media heavily favor a Clinton nomination because it allows them to sell the most advertising--mostly by smirking: "I'm not saying Hillary's a bitch, but look at all these people who do!"

This is close. Pay no attention to the heads, because they're just giant tubs of shit. Vote your vote, and we'll see how it counts up. I'm not a fan of either candidate--for the moment, there is one for whom I would vote if you held a gun to my head, but they both reverse shitheadness with such stunning speed that this could change in a heartbeat if Hillary's race-bashing reverts to being more offensive than Obama's sucking up to Reagan while violating Ronnie's Law--and make no mistake, it will. And then it won't. And then it will. Maybe. These two are taking turns shooting their own genitalia off, in my book. Who knows who will get the last shot?

But enough about me. This is about you being lied to. Don't listen. Just vote.

*And death by broomstick to Blooger for not allowing me to type out the URL in line without loading additional characters into it because I, apparently, am too fucking stupid to know what I want to type, even in the fucking HTML editor.

Maryland 82, UNC 80

On the other hand, sometimes hate tastes good.

Yum.

All of These Things Are Exactly Like the Others

Go on, convince me there's a meaningful difference between the right-wing spew that typifies Hillary Clinton's line, the fundamentally empty mewl that is John Edwards' line, and Barack Obama's fond advocacy of Saint Ronnie as he scrambles around in his own asshole for anything to say that doesn't boil down to an attack on Hillary's manhood or womanhood.

Eat and poop first, breathe steadily, and maintain your hydration, because it's going to take you a very long time.

A very long time.

I said last week or so that voting in the general election would not be as palpably awful as in was in 2004. I may well have been wrong.

Update for Sasha (see comments):

Yes, style counts. And none of the three frontrunners has a whit of it.

They all react in times of trouble by lashing out. They all have senses of humor that are too directed at tearing down their opponents. All three have spouses who are assholes, although I'll grant that as a matter of degree, Michelle Obama is probably slightly less of an asshole than Elizabeth Edwards, and to extricate Bill Clinton the Asshole from Bill Clinton the Icon is more of a task than I wish to undertake--so I'll concede that he's an asshole and leave it there, differentiating him from the fierce mother kitty Michelle Obama and the overbearing, smug, and controlling Elizabeth Edwards not one tiny bit. They all listen enough to know how to lash out and try to correct for their perception of how people don't like them.

As I have previously said, all three are raving fucking psychopaths, which appears to me to be a qualification for the job of presidential candidate. Our three primary psychopaths are distinguishably less scary than their five or six (who the fuck's counting?) primary psychopaths.

All of these things are exactly like the others. All of these things are exactly like the others.

Things I Have To Say About Things Other People Have Said

There are a lot of people out there who are smarter than me, and the folks at Sadly, No! are among them, except for a few cultural and lifestyle choices that certain of them have made. But that's all in the aesthetics and doesn't begin to go to their probing intellects, which intellects make them much more qualified than I am to go after America's Favorite Nepotized Pseudointellectual, Jonah Goldberg, author of a little steaming pile of monkey dung called Liberal Fascism (find it yourself, it's not difficult), which is getting an undue share of media attention these days.

I'm typically not interested in the fine points, especially when it comes to the theoretical. I know a turd when I see one, whether it's a political philosophy or a liver-grounded screed about political philosophy, and I prefer turds that are short and to the point. Look, the guy is the most pathetic of lying motherfuckers; he can't keep his own argument straight, and his puerile responses to genuine intellectual criticism of his ravings are easily classified:

-"You didn't read my book." (Oh yes they did, and they can prove it.)
-"I know you are but what am I?" (Dood. You're a supposed heir to the intellectual tradition of William F. Buckley, who was at least a clever twat. Is this the best the right wing can come up with these days? I really find that pretty sad, although I'm sure that my genuine Eugene McCarthy liberal friends aren't so crippled.)
-"That's not what I said. We have never been at war with Eurasia."
-"Sputter...gzzzz...freutz!"

I'm not playing. It's awesomely fucktarded that the media are so game to goad everyone into a civil war that they find it necessary to give this fucktard a public pedestal. I leave the issue with this, the most devastating takedown I've yet seen. Goldberg is just another heir to a collection of traditions born in mean.

The Feedback Loop

It has been suggested (by Sasha, who is my Secret Alien Overlord) that I create open threads, so that those of you who drop by with some regularity looking for my offalerings feel more comfortable simply saying hi, outside of the context of whatever I've chosen to rant about.

I've decided instead that I should just tell you that all threads here are open. If you're reading this, chances are you are a personal friend, and most of y'all know each other (or know of each other). As Blackdogred is fond of saying, this thing here is for me and mine. There's no such thing as off-topic.

The rest: tired, cranky, and crankier. And tireder. Maybe more later in the weekend. Or not.

No, Really, Just Stop It

What? She won? She won? But...but...the forces of scaring asshats about race riots won in Iowa! She can't win! She's...she's awful, and fakey, and she cried, dammit, she cried! She's weak and vulnerable and she was faking it and her husband got blowjobs and she's a lesbian who makes men suck her cock and that dark Arab fellow and that hair guy are just so nice! And she'll appoint Communist right-wingers to the Court!

Recount. I want a recount. That bitch.

Seriously, people, what the fuck is your problem? Can we please understand now that leaping to conclusions on the basis of single events is a purely Republican concept? Can we understand now that process has a purpose? Can we look at the fucking scoreboard?

Let's see...delegate counts for New Hampshire...hello, what's this? Obama 12, Clinton 11? But...but...she won! That's got to be important!

Hmm, anything of interest going on in the world? Gunboats, travelling cattlehats, bombing arrests in Spain--hey, look, "terror" means "crime," not "war"--Kenya in flames, ...aw, shit, you fuckwits have even got BBC talking about somebody "winning" in New Hampshire.

Jesus, the wankery makes me tired. Fine. Go give Nevada its turn to be special. Don't expect me to be any less cranky about this until...oh, fuck, just don't expect me to be any less cranky about this until I figure out which of these three shitbirds I have to vote for in the fall. I am comforted only in that regardless, it won't make me retch as violently as I had to three (yes, three! Can we please stop making this a pointless four-year-long slowfuck with a weak orgasm?) years ago.

Special Pre-emptive Reminder: I wouldn't vote for Hilary Clinton in a primary if I knew, scientifically and for certain, that it would prevent my dick from falling off. Thank you.

The Fall of the King

In a watershed event today for the entire Chesapeake Bay...uhm...Watershed, Joe Jesus El Senor Christo Super Mayamaya Jefe Gibbs of the Crazy 21s announced that he actually has been dead for the last 3 years and is now going to crawl back into his coffin. For this we thank Jeebus. The real one, I mean. Whether or not he can hear us.

Crazy 21s owner Cliched Irish Ballad commented that he would interview a brown person, as required by NFL policy, then hire either failed mad scientist Gregg Easterb Williams ("C'mon, man, they were the freakin' Bills!") or Todd Collins' topdom Al Saunders, unless he decided to piss off Landru's wife Ilse by hiring Brian Billick, or just go for the gusto and piss off Landru by hiring Belligerent Fucktard Bill Cowher. For their part, all 88 of the Crazy 21s said they dug Williams' hip vibe and would shit on Sean Taylor's grave if C.I.B. hired the douchebag Saunders, who was personally responsible for the 21s' acquisition of Todd "Sorry, I've Only Got 19 Competent Quarters In Me" Collins.

In a thoroughly precedented development, all Washington area media outlets refused to cover anything else so they could jerk off over El Senor's corpse. The New Hampshire primary was cancelled on orders of The Liberal Media's Washington headquarters.

Just Wire Me The Royalties, Please

Shorter* Digby:

What Landru said**.

*Shorter concept stolen from someone, somewhere.

**Except better, more comprehensive and focused, and less pissed off and apathetic***.

***It's a disease, you know.

Let's Set A Few Things Straight

We are told that Obama's victory in last night's Iowa carcasses was "decisive" (a word I heard on a major radio network newscast this morning), and that (according to CNN's interpretation of the increasingly annoying and reality-dissociated John Edwards' coy remarks) Hilary's third-place finish in those same carcasses means that there are only two candidates in the Democratic race, and that people (primarily the media) are a pack of braying idiots in desperate need of lives.

Let us examine the relevant facts. At present, winning the Democratic nomination requires 2,025 votes (of 4,049 delegates to the Democratic National Convention, known in some circles as the Satanists' Ball, and the caveats on that including delegates and superdelegates and hookers and cigar vendors are too numerous to recap here or anywhere). How many of those were at stake last night? According to CNN, which will be the information source of record for this post? A whopping 45 of them. That's about 1.1 percent. Wow.

How many delegates did Senator Obama win in his decisive victory last night? Uhm...16. Senator Edwards won 15. Senator Clinton won 14. Holy shit, she must be crushed. For those of you doing the math, that's about .8 percent of the delegates required for nomination, .75 percent, and .7 percent, respectively. Jesus Christ, stone her to fucking death and bury the body under a mound of feces.

At this writing, some 327 delegates, including those won in Iowa last night, are pledged or thought to be pledged or some such, according to CNN (as of this writing, and the linked page is dynamic, so you're gonna have to take my word for it if you're reading after today). That's about 8.1 percent of the delegates. Who, you might reasonably ask, is in the lead in the accounting for that monstrously significant chunk of delegateage?

Senator Clinton, of course. She has 169 pledged (for want of a realistic word) delegates, or 52 percent. Senator Obama has 66, or 20 percent, and Senator Edwards has 47, or 14 percent. Yes, Senator Obama has cut Senator Clinton's lead by 2 votes.

All of which is my prolix way of saying this:

Shut the fucking fuck up.

All three Senators and former Senators, and all of their fellows so unfortunate as to not meet the Iowa Democrats' 15-percent threshhold for receiving delegates, are asshats. Each and every one of them has lied to you, me, and all of us, and has done so today, and in all likelihood are doing so right now, as I write this and you read it. Each of them, like every single person who seriously runs for the Presidency, is a psychotic shitheel. The only thing separating the eight Democrats who have pledged delegates from the multiplicity of discrete puddlings of diseased afterbirth pursuing the Republican nomination is that they're slightly less reprehensible in a political sense. And so I give you some facts relating to the 2008 Presidential election:

Your next President will be an asshole, personally and politically, although the degree of political stench will vary from "Run Far, Far Away" to "Hang Curtains Impregnated With Lime Chloride" to "Might Not Fuck Up the Supreme Court Too Terribly Badly."

On January 21, 2009, there will still be American troops dying in Iraq. The Supreme Court will still lean violently to the right. Americans' constitutional rights and civil liberties will still be gravely imperiled, to no end. More humans around the world will die preventable early deaths each and every single day than died on September 11, 2001, and in fact more than have cumulatively from causes attributable to terrorism, ever. I might be one of them. You might be one of them. The chance that one or more of them will be known to or loved by you or me or both of us is overfuckingwhelming. Two distinguishable income disparities--that between the rich and poor in our country, and that between those who fucking eat and those who don't around the world--will not have noticeably improved. Religious repression and intolerance will still rule an unconscionable proportion of peoples' thoughts and dreams. Your government and mine will still suffer from grave structural problems that render it, at times, completely dysfunctional, because that's the fucking way it goes when you try to govern 300 million assholes. All of these problems and more will continue to exist regardless of who is elected President. Are these problems unsolveable? Of course not. But the identity of our next President is not integral to the solution (Republicans excluded, but that's another rant).

So please. Just do me the great and good favor of drinking a nice hot cup of Shut The Fuck Up.

It's Like This

I may drop the "Self-Indulgence" tag because, after all, that's the only thing we do on this blog, ever. Oh, wait.

Merry Fucking Christmas. Have yourself some peace and love and joy and all that shit, and even if you're a Jew or something, Merry Fucking Christmas, and enjoy your day off.

Okay, so it's all about self-indulgence any more. I have previously documented my extreme disdain for the holidays...wait, that post doesn't really cover it, and nothing from the previous year does, either.

So here's the thing: I hate the fucking holidays. I hate the frenzy, I hate the impulse to give shit away--I'm perfectly happy to give shit to my friends and loved ones as I spend quality time with them and dry-hump Christ's ghost, I'm just not thrilled with the whole cultural giving/getting imperative. I hate the music. I hate the obligation. I hate the She-Nurse of the SS, although I of course love her and grow more melancholy as she ages and approaches the point where I'll have to warehouse her somewhere to keep from having to change her diapers. I especially hate the number of dead people who aren't around for me to spend time with around the holidays, because I'm morbidly hung up on that kinda shit.

And that is what I have to say, despite this guy's increasingly desperate goading for me to post something, anything, to demonstrate that I haven't spiralled into some despairful pit of dronage. Yes, beloved canine friend, I have in fact spiralled into such a pit. And no, beloved minions, if I had anything to say it would all reduce to this: I'm busy eating and fucking and beating my head against the etermal brick wall of parenting and working and working and working and phasing into utter dronedom, albeit without the Budweiser.

Is this a permanent condition? Beats the fuck outta me. I'm not thinking my haid would look pretty in that there oven or anything, I'm just feeling like things to look forward to, other than the blissful hour or two between kidderiffic unconsciousness and mine own, are a bit well-spaced, and I don't have a lot of need to blather about that or about the douchery of politics or about the vast emptiness of the sporting universe or about deep-fried Twinkies on a stick, and there's only so much you want to hear about the joy of program management or the decrepitude of Washington's NFL team or the pointlessness of a Premiership existence in a world where the Big Four and Sven destroy the universe and Boro gives up 92nd-minute goals to the fucking Hammers, although schadenfreude remains good--keep wearing your helmet to play chess, Cech-Czech.

Happy holidays to all my minions.

Important Things

1. Japanese schoolgirls, sex therewith, and bombs on the trains on which one encounters Japanese schoolgirls and has sex therewith. That, my friends, is socially redeeming poetry.

After you've done this, Google "japanese schoolgirl bomb fuck poem" and give bDr another hit from Google Porn. Heh.

2. I'm so sure that our friend D will appreciate being cited in the same post as the above that I must encourage you now to go vote for DCenters for Best Fucking Soccer Blog Ever, No, Really, Shut Up, I'm Totally Cereal. In fact, I'm not encouraging you, I'm ordering you. Go do it. Now. And then do it again every day until December 7. You Are My Minions, And This I Command.

While you're there, I would encourage you (really encourage--the only important thing here is voting for DCenters, but while you're there...) to vote for anyone but Landon Donovan or Freddie Adu in any player or game category. For the record, my votes:

Best Goal (Men): Benny Feilhaber v. Mexico. Easy call. Anyone knowledgeable who votes for anything else is just fucktarded, although I'll admit that Frankie Hejduk's career-capping goal against Ew Canada and the bitch Patrick Onstad was pretty freakin' cool, for something Frankie Hejduk did.

Best Goal (Women): Carli Lloyd v. New Zealand. Another easy call, although you can't go wrong voting for anything involving Abby Wambach, either.

Best Performance (Player): I'm partial to Abby Wambach v. Sweden on this one (unlike bDr, who's partial to Abby Wambach, period, but then again he's got a thing for tall girls), but you would not be ill-advised to vote for Tim Howard v. Mexico, Josy Altidore v. Brazil, or Christie Rampone (who I don't like) v. England, either.

Best Performance (Team): Men v. Mexico (June 24 in Chicago), or Women v. England, depending on your preference. Beating Mexico is always good, but the Womens looked really pretty damn good against an England team that seriously should've given them a lot more trouble than it did.

But really, there's only one thing here that's important. Right? DCenters. Do it. Now. Don't ask questions. Right?

Blaming Norman Mailer

He was no Kurt Vonnegut. But it would be hard for me to come up with a dyad that better summed up my serious formative reading than Vonnegut and Mailer. The lessons stuck at different times; it was not until far too late in my life that I realized that being kind was of some importance. On the other hand, the lessons of Miami and the Siege of Chicago stuck early and often, and still do.

I'm not saying that my level of respect for the two icons is equal, or that it should be. Mailer was a bundle of external-facing issues, while Vonnegut's issues were more inwardly focused. I'm just saying that a guy who gets drunk and stabs you at a party, or extols the virtues of sweaty people punching the crap out of each other, is probably more likely to move down on your social networking pyramid than a guy who tries to off himself with Pall Malls or more immediate means.

I'm just saying that if I had to name two deadly serious and important guys who helped to form my thinking when it was forming--before I realized that thinking was forming--I'd be naming two guys who died this year.

And of course it's about me. Who the fuck else would it be about? If I ever seriously fuck up and get noticed? Then maybe I'll think deep thoughts that don't involve the bottom two levels of the Maslow pyramid:


Or my cock--it's really not all that clear to me where Maslow intended that to fall.

Speaking of esteem needs and self-actualization, enjoy this piece of art produced by one of the unfortunate souls that call me "Boss:"

Ta.

Yet Another Update

And for the last time this season: Fuck.

The positively excrescent collapse of DCU in the opening round of the MLS playoffs (and I'll leave it to this guy to rant about the idiocy of the MLS playoffs) doesn't nauseate me nearly as much as the thought that I may well have just seen Jaime Moreno and Christian Gomez (among others) in United kit for the very last time.

Or as much as the thought that I'd really rather see New England win a game on Saturday. The vomiting may never stop.

Update/Comments Response: Let's not get all irrationally exuberant here, Jolene. I would really rather see a localized black hole open and swallow everything from Kennebunk to Cherry Hill, save the people and restaurants I like. I'm just talking about preferences in the range of likely outcomes, is all.

On DCU Losing Its Final, Meaningless Game While Suffering Injuries of Unknown Severity or Duration to Two of Its Most Important Players

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Fuck.

Update (3 minutes later): Fuck.

Fat Man's Head In A Circle of Flowers

Memes circle their prey. Take this meme right here, which I first propagated 376 days ago. I gave up on it after a time, because in spite of Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty head, the football Terps ended up not all too bad last season. But we're back. I once again want Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head impaled on a stake in the middle of the M Circle as a warning to his kind. A very tall stake. And I want it right fucking now.

Back on Satan's birthday, a birthday he shares with his father-in-law...shit, I'm so pissed off at that fat stupid twat I'm talking about myself in the third person.

My father-in-law and I have the same birthday, and on that day (which this year really sucked pretty fucking fantabulously, because my stepson has the same birthday too, and being a reasonable and kind person I was absolutely deferential about who came first, that day) my wife and my mother-in-law gave us tickets to the Maryland homecoming game, against Virginia, a game that was just played, this very day. My in-laws are, you see, Motherfucking Hoos Fans, in addition to a few other faults I am forced by common decency to forgive. Last time we did this, two years ago, the Hoos were a total suckjob and Maryland won by something on the order of 30 points.

This evening, Maryland dominated the first quarter, didn't lose a lot of ground in the second quarter, sucked but basically held in the third quarter, and spent the fourth quarter putting itself in a position, thanks to the Fat Man's ill-placed cockiness, followed by unfathomably ill-placed gutlessness, to lose the game by a single point on three consecutive questionable calls in the last two minutes of the game. Should all three calls have gone the Hoos' way? I have no idea. They only show you the replay once, inside the stadium, if at all. This is probably a reasonable riot-control measure. I will leave it to Sasha to weigh in on this, if she happened to be watching this nationally televised disaster.

Should any football team go for it on fourth and one at their opponent's 35-yard line with 6 minutes left in the game? Let me rephrase the question. What kind of fat fucking pussy of an inept excuse for a fucking Division I football coach doesn't go for it on fourth and one at his opponent's 35-yard line with 6 minutes left in the game and a 5-point lead, at home, on Homecoming Night?

Ralph Fucking Friedgen, that's the fuck who. Dribbling fucking idiot.

And another thing: the University of Virginia Band must die. Die die die. I suggest public sacrifice on the intramural athletic fields at Route 1 and Campus Drive. Y'know, just below the M Circle. While we're impaling Ralph Friedgen's fat but empty fucking head on a stake in the middle of it. Soon. Cocksucking, chicken-bucket swilling, lard-brained sack of wasted protoplasm.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Fuck.

Update (7 hours later): Fuck.

Things That Happen To Me

So no, I'm not so much better. I mean, I'm not in constant agony. But if I eat anything less bland than buttered macaroni, I feel it. I really, really feel it. So Mister Doctor ENT Surgery Guy can lick my sac. Except, he can't, because he'll probably find some reason to put third-degree burns on it. And, of course, I'm not really interested in guys licking my sac.

Be all that as it may, and it is, I've continued my duties as Chief Demimicroregional Bandit at a little organization I like to call Banditry R Us, and today those duties took me, along with one of my few personality-deprived drones, to a gathering of librarinas. You may question my spelling. If you did, you wouldn't be Sasha or bDr, both of whom have had librarinas up their respective wazoos for years, but there's only about a 2 in 3 chance that you're them anyway.

Two things were notable about my visit to the gathering of librarinas. One is that some fucking twit of a librarina brought her fucking nursing infant to the gathering. This is a large, annual-meeting type gathering, say 300 people, with serious speakers and shit. And this moron brought her baby. Her screaming baby. If I had been any closer than three tables away, I'd have hurled the little fucker (both of them, come to think on it) out into New Hampshire Avenue.

Don't get me wrong. I support mothers working and bringing their nursing infants to work. There should be lactation rooms in the workplace, and they should be sacrosanct. Mothers with nursing infants should have offices, with doors that close and keep smells and sounds safely sealed inside. But bringing your screaming, unhappy, apparently ravenous little monkey to a professional meeting? Bite me. Except don't, because I'm not really interested in stupid people touching me with their mouths.

The other thing of note is the desperation with which the librarinas clung to the topic of the conference, which was on the potential applicability of social networking sites to librarina-ing. See, I went because the...well, let's be honest, I went because I wanted the librarina portion of my burgeoning empire to feel loved and respected. But I chose this as a venue for that show of support for librarinas because I thought we were going to talk about the applicability of networking sites in business.

What I got was a day of whining about how much fun everyone has on Facebook and why librarinas should embrace networking and how stodgy the librarina-ing bidness is and, in one instance, how Web 2.0 is dead and is already Web 3.0. Which it isn't.

Excuse me, I have to go burn the back of my throat with my own stomach acids now.

I Remember

When we all had blogs, and posted on them, and bDr was not the only one among us to have the discipline to post every day, even when he's utter shite (I'm warning you not to click) or spastically depressive (Yes! wayback before he started sucking Greg Vanney's dick while taking electified pliers to The Dreamy One's), not to mention his annoying habits of being coherently organized and consistently thematic and usually spot-on and uncommonly incisive and way the fuck smarter, wittier, and better-looking than me. Bastard.

What the fuck was I talking about? Right. Blog posts. The kind I don't do, and my other friends now seem to do mostly as a mechanism for showing each other a little leg in public. Good on 'em.

Here is what I have to say:

1. Suck it, Ilse's ex.

2. Suck it, Gore-haters.

3. Suck it, SCHIP-haters.

4. Suck it, Trojans.

5. Suck it, Diplomacy.

6. Suck it, Doctor Ear-Nose-Throat Medical Surgery Person.

I think that about covers it. More expansively:

1. No. Not more expansively. Just trust me on this one.

2. No, I don't see how averting nationalistic or otherwise jingoistic competition over scarce resources could possibly relate the environment to peace, and anyone who does is a terrsymp.

3. Really, people. 12 years old. Injured in accident. Family that does what Republicans tell them to--i.e., stay married, parent their children, own a small business. How cannibalistic do you have to be?

4. High school, reunions, homecomings. Never mind. I'm already home.

5. Fini. Let us say simply that sometimes, doing favors for friends is not brilliant.

6. "The pain should go away in a couple of days. You can manage it with Tylenol." Uhm...no. It got worse, after two days of extreme discomfort and two days of apparent slight improvement, preceded by a very pleasant little procedure in which Doctor ENT Medical Person essentially burned some shit out of my throat that wasn't supposed to be there (the stuff was benign but not stuff that should be left alone). Today's forecast is that extreme discomfort is likely for five more days. I want heroin, and the guy would've given it to me, cheerfully, but I'm a little smarter than that.

But not smarter than bDr. See? Homecoming without the assholes. Fooking brilliant.

About Last Night

I went to this here futbol game last night with bDr and the one that you know as the Hamster. It was quite odd, being outnumbered at the home ground by supporters of the other team (Steinberg suggests in the story above that it was 50-50, but it didn't feel that way--we were, of course, on a very black loud side, and quiet side and the end zone looked mighty red and white). The game itself was damnably strange, and very, very tense after beloved Terp phenom Marc Burch was (more or less justifiably) sent off just before half time. United had a lot of difficulty possessing the ball to any effect--indeed, even possessing the ball at all--and a lot of the game was played on defense.

But I leave it to bDr and these guys to report the facts. The item of interest, from a purely self-validating perspective (and what else matters here?), is that I was on the concourse, smoking a cigarette, wearing my DCU jersey with number 45 (my brand-new age when bDr gave me the jersey) and my nom de bloog sprayed across the back, and a guy walks up to me suggesting that Landru is an unusual name. I replied, as I usually do, that it's an old nickname, not going into the Trekkie-cereal killer-rhymes-with-orange spiel that you four faithful readers know so well. He smiled and allowed as how he knew a blogger by that name, and after I cautiously admitted that I might know of such a thing, he introduced himself as D. Joy and celebrity worship ensued. Me worshipping him, I mean--no one other than my cat could possibly think of me as an object of worship, and even he's a little sketchy on the concept when I'm not obeying orders from the Kitty Planet.

I can report that D is a fine human being and that I'd have had a hard time putting that persona with his blogging voice (what I'm saying is that in person, he effervesces, while I think his blogging voice is a lot more neutral and steady and objective). Nothing unusual about that.

Great to meet you, D. Let's do that again.

Existifascism

My buddy bDr was suffering some bit of existential angst yesterday as he blogged most abstractly about some bit of abstract existential angst related to news I didn't see, most probably (as far as I can tell) some insignificant and patently ridiculous admission by an editorially right-wing newspaper that its advertising department is a pack of pinkos. So the fuck what? Petraeus is a self-serving jackass. We're gonna whine because we called someone a traitor when the same someones have been far more calling us traitors and far worse over far less for six fucking years? Blow me.

In fact, put so starkly, it's incomprehensible that this is worth gnashing over. So I'm not. I've got the moral high ground regardless of what sort of idiocy the Times spews. And while I'm not a big lover of MoveOn, their rhetoric hits close to the moral high ground--a height with which the other side cannot be accused of familiarity.

And now that I deconstruct a little better, it's clear to me that this must be the topic at hand, because otherwise I'd be reading about something more significant at some right-wing fucktard site, or my homeboy would be a lot less abstract. And so I must conclude: get a fucking grip, dood. A firm one. Use lotion if you have to. Non-climactic masturbation is a fucking tragedy no matter who does it. One need only look as far as Saturday's presidential radio address, in which the President tells us that Democrats are "irresponsible" for wanting to expand the SCHIP (subsidized health care for children in low-income families, if you're not as acronym-happy as my ilk) program.

This shit writes itself. They hate children, until it's time to put them in uniform to die uselessly, and we gotta worry? Only if we apologize for calling a thing the thing that it is, and that's not acceptable. Let us sit back, tell truths, using jarring language if'n we ought, and wait 16 months. And we must assume that, at that point, They will transition power peacefully.

It's like I said last week; kittens are dying, and fast. Days crush us. Bam-Bam is whining on the couch because he doesn't really want to be up this early (even though he done it to himself), and he wants me to fix it by cuddling with him as he watches some dumbass, previously long-forgotten kidvid that Mommy was dumb enough to reintroduce yesterday. While I'd like to write a little about DC United, which should be happy to have escaped the hellfires of Toyota Park with a point yesterday, I'm gonna go do the things that have to be done, and some that should be done: cuddling with my kid while he unwittingly becomes a Disneytool; going to work supervising the drones and fellating the customer (and going far too soon, having spent most of the weekend fellating my in-laws in the interest of family harmony); and, if the stars align correctly--and they will--making my date two days hence, the prom of middle-aged smartasses, the Prince of Existential Angst and the Prince of Existifascism darting out of suburbia to stand amongst the demonstrably insane in support of something that doesn't matter, but has far more right to be done than anything involving Fucktardia.

Special short cryptic notes section: Get a fucking room, felon-lovers. I don't care what continent it's on.

Hallooooooo

Yeah, yeah. I don't blog, I don't phone, I don't email. The Earth's rotation appears to be unaffected. You still, in all likelihood, ate dinner last night. It's even possible that, since you last gazed upon these works and despaired, you got laid. Woot.

Bullets:

-bDr is mining old Star Trek pics and can't stop. An intervention is scheduled.

-The New England Patriots are cheater cheater fofeaters. NBC spent four fucking hours last night justifying Coach Hobo's decision to spectacularly and remorselessly cheat by showing carefully constructed footage of legal football espionage. Let me do the math for you, Whispers and Jolene: everything your little "football team" has ever "done" constituted the "fruits" of cheating. The two of you have personally made Jesus cry, a thing which both of you, for different reasons, do with stunning regularity (and come to think on it, it's past time I introduced you two crazy kids--Whispers, that's Jolene, she's a scorching hot Boston lawyer chick transplanted to a convertible in Southern Cali; Jolene, that's Whispers, a sexy math geek who speaks three languages and lives on two continents. Jolene's only flaw is that she's just too fucking brilliant. Whispers' only flaw is that he once failed to bet on the Patriots to win the Super Bowl at 150-1 even though he knew perfectly well that they were cheating. You both commit unnatural acts with Boston sports teams. Have at it.).

-In other sports news, the US Womens National Futbol Team is in China. They need your support, even though their overall hotness level dropped staggeringly when Mia Hamm allowed herself to be penetrated by Nomah Gahciapahhah. Get up on Tuesday in time to provide it as they play Nigeria in their last group stage game, having stomped a bunch of hot Swedish girls, some perfectly ordinary Swedish girls, and some downright mannish Swedish girls into the Chinese earth, and having shamed themselves by allowing dirty Red Commie Koreans to tie them. This is important. bDr agrees, although he's just in it because he wants to splash Abby Wambaugh's bones. To each his own.

-Have I mentioned that the Patriots cheated?

-My Terps suck. Look it up yourself. Factually incorrect Terp-bashing here, which is a shame, because the facts speak for themselves.

-The Patriots are cheaters.

-Shh. DC United has been playing well.

-Bill Belichick is an unindicted felon.

-Politics: Just shut up. You're making me very, very tired. Every word written about politics right now saps my will to live. Seriously. Every time someone writes about Petraeus or the Justice Department or the Small Business Administration or right-wing fucktards, God kills a kitten, and every time God kills a kitten, a little part of me dies inside.

-All Boston sports teams are blights upon decency and upon humanity itself. And their best defense is that they're not the Yankees. Fie on you, I say! Ka-plah!

-How am I? Tired. Really, really fucking tired. And put upon. And tired. Really, really fucking tired.

This has been another edition of Death by Free Association.

Once Upon a Time in the West

ern portion of MoCo (actual name of town conveniently pre-deleted from this map, evidently in the interest of preserving real estate values),




there were two little boys. One was a dick. One wanted to be a dick, but he was way too ineffectual to be a dick, so he was mostly just a weenie. The boys played together:



and separately, albeit often together in a large group of similarly awkwardly attired persons:



Storyteller would now take this moment to thank Ba'al that back then, the awkwardly attired group didn't take that whole Trojan motif quite so seriously (this is the group's actual more-or-less current incarnation, and again Ba'al must be thanked that digital imagery did not survive that dark age). Let us also thank Ba'al that they went where they did, and not to this godless wasteland:


Yes, yes. It is quite amazing what a little non-librarina search work will do, innit?

Anyway, time passed:







No, no, c'mon. Lots of time.






I know, I know. Isn't unsafe image searching just the best thing evahr?

Anyway, the dick,



who was no longer a dick, and the weenie,




who had, more or less, passed through dickhood and regressed back to weeniedom, acquired some number of quite astonishingly faithful companions:




And some number of faithless twats who shall go unnamed and unimaged here. Except for this guy, who someone decided to randomly dredge up from repressed yuck not long ago.



More time passed, and things changed, but not so much for the former dick and his weenie sidekick. People got fat, people got thin. Avataristic icons turned to wankage, and back again (maybe).

But the former dick and his erstwhile weenie buddy kept on truckin' (no image inflicted).

Then, the former dick got really old.



The end.

By the way, his birthday's tomorrow. I'm just not going to have time to take care of this between now and then.

New Employment

Things are now official, and I can now report that Goth's worst fears are true: I am, in fact, the new Professor of Religion at his school, Repressed Jailbait High in Flynt, Oklahomianinois. What's especially exciting is that the girls in my 4th period The Somewhat Messy and Thoroughly Degrading Aspects of Satan Worship go straight from my class to to Goth's 5th period History, Dissection, and Frottage of Semiotics class. We expect them to learn real good.

Okay, okay, I got the aforementioned top-secret job. It puts me back in the people management business. Fear for them.

Vacay

Knowing how you love it when I offer you some bullshit excuse for being far too lazy to post, I offer you this not particularly amusing, not quite a story about what I'm up to.

So I wandered off from Save the World after they offered me a 26-percent pay cut to take a job that would've had me doing 33 percent more work (and a big goofy wave to occasional Save the World readers Molly and Slim, and former Save the World reader and consummate lifesaver Amelia). I been on vacation since, except for the parts where Save the World CFO Iosef Stalin keeps calling me to do little stuff (I did jack a few consulting days out of him for periodically exciting Databoy and Bam-Bam by ringing my phone).

I spent four days in Maine, communing with the moose, my father John the Daftist, and stepmum Lucretia Borgia. There was lobster, there was a boat ride, there were fiddles, there was a lot of veering around the Maine coast in John's Prius looking for food. I had fun, but by the end of the four days Ilse was smearing the walls with graffiti written in feces and blaming an imaginary talking poo. Okay, I'm lying. I had fun for about 24 hours. But the thing about Ilse? God's own truth.

I'm also looking for a job. It appears that good things are happening, but I can't discuss them yet, lest appearance become ether. Two more days. Two more days, and perhaps we'll have another amusingly named workplace. We'll see.

And now? It's 10 AM and Databoy and Bam-Bamm are still asleep. Why am I blogging?

Futbol blogging later. Ta.

Legislative Watch

President Bush today signed into law a provision prohibiting bridge collapses such as the one in Minneapolis last week. The law was passed as a rider to an amendment funding The Troops for next Thursday, August 9. "We just couldn't face the political consequences of hating the troops yet again," said Senator Christopher Dodd (D-Connectilieberman).

The President launched an impassioned defense of the provision in his remarks accompanying the signing. "America is under threat from these terrist river crossings," stammered the President. "This legislation gives the government the power it needs to bomb bridges that conspire to buckle and collapse as a means of carrying out their terrist agenda. They threaten everything we hold dear, including fetuses and nucular families. We will never cave in to their aggression, and will not allow them to hate us for the things that make us great."

The new law gives the President the power to wiretap bridges to determine whether they plan to collapse, to incarcerate rogue bridges for interrogation without criminal charges, and to invade Iowa. Leading Congressional figures were highly supportive. Senator Joseph Lieberman (Self-Mars) exulted, "The President's cock tastes very good. I think I'll have another helping of it." Vice-President Dick Cheney, asked for comment, looked a television reporter in the eye and said, "Go fuck yourself."

No bridges have collapsed since the President signed the legislation this afternoon; media analysts called this a clear showing that the President's policy was an unqualified success and suggested that the powers of the executive branch be further broadened. Respected pundit David Broder said that "peoples' use of language that I find unpleasant clearly militates in favor of giving the President unlimited power." Thomas Friedman of the New York Times was willing to waive his usual six-month waiting period; "The President's cock tastes very good. I think I'll have another helping of it," he wrote.

Terrorist news network Al Jazeera posted a video purportedly made by Osama bin Laden mocking the measure. "Even the bridges will cry jihad against your evil ways," said an unidentified narrator of the video, who could not be positively identified as bin Laden. Intelligence analysts were working to establish the validity of the report.

Presumptive President-Elect Fred Thompson was supportive. "The President's cock tastes very good. I think I'll have another helping of it," he rumbled before feeling up his pneumatic and bubbly wife for the cameras.

Fuck Your Calendar

The calendar is a pain in my assholes.

This, On The Other Hand?

This is handsomely uniform.

This has been another edition of What Happens When You Ask Me To Post.

Your Wish Is But My Command

What a silly uniform. Marilyn Monroe is so trite. Your face wasn't made for cats-eye glasses. You ought to have your moustache removed. A goatee looks silly on a girl. And what's with the Heiniken? Can't you drink American beer, you terrorist-loving Commie? I mean, the Dutch are serious cheese-eating hippie surrender monkeys.

This has been another edition of What Happens When You Ask Me To Post.

Once Again, Our Most Special Guest

It's a special day here at Minions as we welcome back our favorite guest, Landru.

Landru: So...fucking...tired...

YAMM: So what brings you back as our guest today?

Landru: The fact that you're my blog. And I haven't been your guest for like eleven days now. And I'm too lazy to write you in anything but this hackneyed hackney of a formackney.

YAMM: Oh, it's not like you barged in and threatened us at gunpoint.

Landru: Of course it is. Dimwit.

YAMM: So what's stuck in your shitter, Landru?

Landru: John Edwards' haircut, Bill Clinton's cock, Sarah Gore's engagement dinner, impending unemployment, worksuck despisement and an overwhelming desire to not be employed there, the return of the pain-in-the-ass child from a blissful two weeks at Grandma's, and losing to that stink-dicked cocksucking futbol traitor Bruce Arena the other day. And bDr not being incensed enough about it and pussywhinging that we're becoming a parody of our badfan selves. That guy just makes me want to poop vomit sometimes.

YAMM: You're deeply disturbed.

Landru: And you're not? What are you, retarded?

YAMM: That's not a very nice word.

Landru: It's okay, my retarded son doesn't mind.

YAMM: You're really very cruel.

Landru: Okay, clearly, you're new here. Anything else?

YAMM: Well, sure, we were talking.

Landru: No, I was ranting. You were transcribing. It appears to be an appropriate level of relationship.

YAMM: Is there nothing good about your life?

Landru: Sure. Pork products. A lovely HD television on which I play FIFA 07 and watch actual grown men kicking actual futbols and each other. A nubile and pliant wife who keeps the pitcher full of iced tea and whom I fuck and you don't. The phantasmagorical array of links to your right. The knowledge certain that if I keep swilling sausage while smoking Camels and sitting on the couch playing FIFA, I won't have to keep worrying about politics, unemployment, DCU, and Bruce Arena's shit-cock. My seething hatred of Dook, the Cowboys, the Red Scum, the Devolution, the Yellow Football Team, the Fire, the Galaxy, the Burn, the Dynamo, and Real Salt Lake, coupled with knowing that Kansas City and Colorado are too consistently insignificant to hate, Toronto's too new to hate, and my secret inability to hate Chivas makes them no less worthy.

YAMM: Is there anything that can be done to bring you under control?

Landru: Nothing short of the Grim Reaper himself. Or perhaps Jonathan Bornstein.

YAMM: That's really sad.

Landru: You could really stand to read some Nietzsche.

YAMM: Thanks, Landru.

Landru: Fuck off. See you the next time I feel like doing some pathetic attention-seeking.

The Greying of the Panther

Kind of bDr to remember, although it appears he may be a little stressed from 25 years' lack of meat and cigarettes.

I'll dig up a different TooYoob for his this year. I'll just post it on the wrong day, is all.

Off to Richmond for a few hours to do what my in-laws say for my fucking birthday. Go figure. Worship me in the comments.

The Sainted Dead

I'd have to say that I was a fan.

I think that LBJ was a severely underrated president. The man had a hard run. He suffered mightily for a series of bad decisions that led him to cave in to the then-strong impulse to fight Commies. No one had yet disproved the Domino Theory (for some real fun, read the Wikipedia article on the same topic). Postwar babies were fueling all kinds of scary stuff like cultural upheaval and civil rights. Johnson himself was a product of smoke-filled rooms, of ticket-balancing, and of the yellow-dog era of Democratic politics.

And yet? He propelled forward his sainted predecessor's civil rights agenda, the single most important sociological development of the century, let alone the decade. He guaranteed himself a place where he could be reviled by peaceniks and racists alike.

Into all this stepped his lovely and gracious wife--an early political manifestation of the nascent environmental movement, among other things, a woman who sealed her place in the American consciousness as the person comforting a blood-soaked Jackie Kennedy on the day every boomer remembers. No one could hate Lady Bird and still face their God in the morning. It just couldn't be done.

Now, some might say that putting up with a rattlesnake-and-bunny-rabbit-dicked motherfucker like Lyndon Johnson and holding a blood-stained Bible on America's Bad Day, Part One, were funny ways for a nice old Southron lady to achieve a state of grace in the hearts of the American people. But it was a funny time. And there's no cause to hold anything against her. Rest nice, Lady Bird.

And Now For Something Completely Different

It's been an awful week. Let's do some bad German disco video. With English subtitles.

Disclaimer: Put down all food and drink. Ensure that your sinuses and other airways are clear. Do not, under any circumstances, forget to breathe while watching this video. I did, and it led directly to this post.



Eternal gratitude to Sadly, No! for the tip that led to this find.

Tony Snow: Lying Motherfucker

Welcome to the Parade of Assholes, Tony Snow, you Lying Motherfucker, Whore Prince of Lying Motherfuckers. From USA Today via TBogg:

That qualifies as a stern penalty for a first-time offender with a long history of public service.

Shut up, you Lying Motherfucker. As you know perfectly well, it qualifies within the mandatory federal sentencing guidelines that you and your Lying Motherfucking ilk like to force on others, primarily as a method of keeping the brown people down, you hypocritical sack of infected pus.

In contrast, no president in recent history has made more careful use of the pardoning power than George W. Bush: The president believes pardons and commutations should reflect a genuine determination to strengthen the rule of law and increase public faith in government.

Shut up, you Lying Motherfucker. Bush's "careful use" of the power consists of meting out as little mercy as possible. And for the record, the commutation of Libby's sentence took a giant typhoid dump on the rule of law and pissed on the public's faith in government, you maggot-eating necrotic hemorrhoid. Shut the fucking fuck up, you Lying Motherfucker.

After a highly publicized trial, involving calm legal analysis in the courtroom (but vicious vilification outside)

That a Lying Motherfucker like you has the unmitigated balls to refer to anyone's "vicious vilification" of anyone on your side is a crime for which one hopes you will stand judgement in the Hell in which you pretend to believe, and be found wanting. Shut up, you Lying Motherfucker. You are one arrogant and disdainful piece of shit to try to pass that off, in an official role, on the American people.

Many analysts cleverly avoid grappling with either of these issues, and instead try to analyze the commutation as a raw political exercise. That sort of analysis is off-base. The president was not motivated by politics in making this decision. If he had made the decision based on opinion polls, he wouldn't have lifted a finger.

It is possible that even more sad than the fact that a Lying Motherfucker like you would try to pass this malignant bile off as reason is the fact that you are genuinely so stupid and evil that you believe it to be true. Speaking of "clever," no one suggested that the President considered opinion polls, except perhaps to the extent that he wanted to know how many Americans he was pissing on in committing this crime against the rule of law and decent government. And the analysis is off-base only in the confines of your wicked and crippled lizard brain, you Lying Motherfucker. Have a nice hot steaming cup of shut the fuck up, you lying motherfucker.

Tony Snow, Lying Motherfucker, made it pretty big in the news today. He apparently railed at the Clintons' statements on the commutation in his diseased remarks to the press:

"I don't know what Arkansan is for chutzpah, but this is a gigantic case of it," presidential spokesman Tony Snow said.

Rubber and glue, you Lying Motherfucker. The foul stench of the disease that rocks you to sleep at night permeates the entire downtown of My Local Locality, and I'm tired of it. Shut the fucking fuck up.

Snow's brave, brutal, and tiny-dicked rape of a freshly constructed straw man here refers to President Clinton's last-minute pardon of the truly scummy Marc Rich. Here's the thing, Tony, you Lying Motherfucker, you facist twat: Clinton pardoned Marc Rich. If Rich had any goods on Clinton or any of Clinton's cronies, he could have been compelled to testify to that effect. By way of the commutation Scooter Fucking Libby retains his Fifth Amendment rights to keep from incriminating anyone in the Bush White House. So don't even have the balls to look an American in the eye and compare this to anything done by a Clinton, you Lying Motherfucker, you fucking traitor of a civil servant.

Shut the fucking fuck up, Tony Snow, you lying motherfucker.

This has been another edition of Shut Up, You Lying Motherfucker.

Updated to remove bloody Bloggery Bloggerfication.

Tim Noah: Lying Motherfucker

I gave up on Slate a while ago. Sure, it has Doonesbury. And the incomparable and the always-correct Dahlia Lithwick. It also has a Coulter-fucker and a pedant who pretends to know his ass from his elbow while espousing intelligent design in the middle of his formulaic ravings about the NFL (no link there--you can find it yourself).

It also has Tim Noah, Lying Motherfucker:

President Bush's commutation of I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby's 30-month prison sentence will likely prompt many people with politics similar to my own to cry bloody murder.

Not unless you're lying about your politics. Which you are, although you've concealed it well until right about now.

What Bush did was just and fair. It was the right thing to do.

No, you Lying Motherfucker. It was an act of contempt for the rule of law and the law itself. No one with any claim on rationality could claim that this was just, fair, or right. You're in a tailspin, Tim.

I don't take lightly the fact that Libby lied to federal prosecutors about his role in unmasking Valerie Plame as a covert CIA employee.

Clearly, Tim, you are a Lying Motherfucker, because you do, in fact, take it lightly, as evidenced by your entire essay.

But Judge Reggie Walton went overboard in sentencing Libby to 30 months. This was about twice as long as the prison term recommended by the court's probation office, and if Libby hadn't been a high-ranking government official, there's a decent chance he would have gotten off with probation, a stiff fine, and likely disbarment.

Y'know, Tim, you Lying Motherfucker, there'd better be some material upcoming about how often judges have gone overboard in imposing cripplingly long sentences on lesser felons. Of, say, different shades than this tightass whitey bitch. Or I might start to think you don't care so much for brown people. In addition to your lies about your politics.

The voluminous pleas for leniency from Libby's A-list friends seem to have annoyed Walton, who erred on the side of severity not in spite of Libby's high position in government but because of it. Walton wanted to make an example of him.

Yes, that's part of the point of prosecuting government officials, dickweed. You're quickly closing in on babbling, you Lying Motherfucker.

What's the matter with that? Two words: Bill Clinton. No fair-minded person can deny that the previous president committed perjury about Monica Lewinsky while serving in the Oval Office. The country knew it, and it let him get away with it.

Oh. Bill Clinton's blowjob caused you to change your mind about Chappaquiddick.* Got it. Shut up, you Lying Motherfucker. One has nothing to do with the other, as you know perfectly well. One involved blowjobs. The other involved outing a covert intelligence agent, as you yourself admitted when you started penning this pack of foma. Shut up, you Lying Motherfucker.

Bush did not intervene to spare Libby further disgrace, as Ford did with the Nixon pardon, and he didn't pre-empt a prosecution that might reveal embarrassing facts about himself, as Bush's father did. He waited until it was all over, and he acted humanely.

No, Tim, you Lying Motherfucker, he didn't. He commuted the sentence well before it was over, and in a way that allowed Scooter to prevent himself from incriminating his superiors, although it is eminently plausible that those incriminateable superiors did not include Bush himself. You're really not all that bright, are you, Tim? You Lying Motherfucker?

Shut up, Tim Noah, you Lying Motherfucker.

* This phrase the intellectual property of Lawyers, Guns, and Money and used utterly without LGM's permission.

This has been another edition of Shut Up, You Lying Motherfucker.

Irony-Proof

Some other media jackass, at TNR:

The Senator's Son
I assume he'll serve at least as long as Paris Hilton.

The self-same jackass, in his very next post:

The Commutation
The way I see it, Lewis Libby was about to become a political prisoner and the president prevented that.

The way I see it, you're a liar with no capacity for rational thought. Leaving aside your defense of treason, your claim that a man who perjured himself in a national security investigation concerning the leak of an intelligence officer's covert status--and don't even think about lying and telling your readers that it was anything else--could be a "political prisoner" invalidates any claim you might have had to an intellect.

Shut up, you fucking traitor.

This has been another edition of Shut Up, You Lying Motherfucker.

Opinionation in Defense of Treason

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!

My greatest cultural accomplishment ever. Scroll down to the letters.

Take THAT, published author friend!

Moving the Furniture

I've completed reworking the links. I don't care if you like them, because they're my navigation tool, and as Kimmah admits in the comments in the post immediately below, she loves it when I talk about my navigation tool. And don't think Ilse doesn't know about it.

I would like you to click on some of the links, because that's an affirmation that you care about the things I care about. But if not, no problem, I'll still love many of you unconditionally anyway, and pretend to love the rest.

Hello to: too many to count. Lots of futbol and politics, futbol especially because, as I descend toward unemployment and unshaved depression and drinking and a long death spiral, I'm looking for things to do other than look for a job. Futbol fits the bill nicely. Expect more blogging, too.

Goodbye to: Oh, let's not embarrass them. I know that being cut from the blogroll at Minions is destructive to peoples' self-esteem. Especially people whose blogs are actually read.

Things to Tell You

I am insanely busy right now, hence the radio silence.

The Supreme Court is five-ninths of a pack of flaming assholes. Anthony Kennedy is the worst of the lot. While Roberts, Alito, Scalia, and Thomas can't help themselves in the face of their deeply ingrained hypocrisy, Kennedy knows better. Oh yes he does.

The Democrats in the Senate who allowed Sam Alito to be confirmed should be impeached, disbarred, shunned, and discommodated. And it was obvious at the time of his confirmation that this was the case. For shame. Today's decision on voluntary school desegregation is an affirmation that a small band of racist scum are trying to impose their disease on the rest of us. I'd like to say that the Court is the best evidence of why the President has done incalculable damage to this country. But there's too much evidence for me to make that statement.

Who says summer's not for futbol? USMNT wins the Gold Cup, and USMNT Lite is going to get treated like cows in a slaughterhouse later this eve against the evil Argentines. Meanwhile, DC United needs to take tonight and recover from its failure, last Saturday, to remember what it's supposed to do on the pitch.

New link to your right: Who Ate All the Pies? is a lovely blog on the world futbol scene. Take a look. Or not. More links--futbol and politics--will come when I have time, because I really need to update my navigation tool.

I'll be back.

Once Again

The Man Booker Prize has not gone to bDr.

I'll take them seriously when they get at least a little closer to the mark. Silly bints.

Dear David Chase

You're a dick.

Sincerely,
Landru

P.S. You're a dick.

UPDATED FOUR MINUTES LATER: You're still a dick.

LATE UPDATE WITH AN HOUR OF ADDITIONAL PERSPECTIVE: No, seriously. You are still a complete, unmitigated dick.

FINAL UPDATE: Fuck you. You're a dick.

They Pull Me Back

Just when I think I'm done blogging for a bit, something screams for attention:

It seems that science is on the march, having proved to the satisfaction of some anthropologist and Yahoo! News that humans must necessarily have transported Polynesian chickens to Chile. Of course, this challenges conventional and long-proven notions of how chickens got to Chile. Why scientists would bother to be challenging this when they should be out proving that the Earth is flat is beyond me.

Some days? Shit just makes itself up.

Add A Year

To this.

Blogging R Hard

It's been a while. Life is pretty overwhelming right now. There was a delightful visit from the Wheezus and her husband Mister Wheezus that, most pleasantly, consumed a buttload of time, and there's this thing going on to the effect that right now, Purple would, in all likelihood, most kindly characterize me as a hemorrhoid* despite our mutual thousand-million-white-hot-suns passion, and there's an extended legal struggle with Ilse's ex, and it appears that Save the World will have no further use for me in about 60 days, so I have to get a job get a job get a job.

If you got anything from me right now, it would be whining, and of course there's plenty to whine about, from fucktards actually celebrating the death of Steve Gilliard and deigning to compare the commentary on his passing to the commentary on the passing of Jerry Falwell, to the high comedy of fucktards trashing the President that they, in their pig-ignorance and hatred, brought down on us, to the impending untimely demise of the only team in the Stanley Cup finals not named after a Disney movie, to the distracting and damaging futility of presidential debates 18 months before a presidential election, to one of Lindsay Lohan's multiple addictions not being mindless and very, very dirty sex with me.

See? Wasn't that eclectic? And marvelously substance-free? That's what you'd get. If I were blogging, I mean. Which I'm not. Go read the links. Those people actually post things.

*I'm sorry. I meant "infected hemorrhoid." Didn't mean to short-sell you, there, buddy.