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.
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