There's something inherently funny about Larry King saying in his most somber, most serious voice: "Terror: Day Three," as he did tonight. One pictured Larry's suspenders slipping off his shoulders and snapping into a knot around the base of his scrotum, cutting off the blood flow to both of his heads, as he grouchily informed us that he's off to Duke Ziebert's for crab cakes and he can't imagine the Toronto Blue Jays ever winning a World Series.
It took me back to the eighties. Those of you who remember his old radio show will know exactly what I'm talking about. For those of you don't, all I can say is, you had to be there. That was back in the Dark Ages before the internet, when Newseek and U.S News and World Report were hot snot, as opposed to lukewarm, vanilla swill flavored by NutraSweet (known to cause cancer in laboratory rats). (Those magazines sucked then, too, but I didn't know any better.) People actually watched Dallas and Dynasty and Tom Selleck did commercials for The National Review. Burp. Ron and Nancy were in the White House and the Soviets, bless their red hearts, were still around to make the Olympics more exciting than they are now. Oh, happy times. I'll never forget hearing the Nicaraguan Contras compared to George Washington and learning that ketchup was, indeed, a vegetable. Who says you can't go home again?
Who knew that my salad years were spent beneath the shadow of an insidious Texan cactus whose poisonous flowers are just now blossoming to kill us all? How was I to know? I was only sixteen. I just wanted to get laid! While I was mooning over some girl who wouldn't give me the time of day, a pre-cancerous lesion was growing, mushroom-like, in the dank manure of the American aristocracy. It was called George W. Bush, and it was absorbing the lessons of Reagan in their crudest, most simplistic and most logical form, biding its time until it could hammer them into our nuts with the sweating fury of Grover Norquist masturbating to a portrait of Barry Goldwater.
The music wasn't even good. Cindy Lauper? Madonna?
I want my youth back. I've been cheated!
Okay. I'll settle for having a rational country instead. Is that a fair trade?
Thank you, Larry King. Your dusty old lungs just took me back to the prom.
Friday, November 28, 2008
And The Meek Shall Be Trampled At Wal-Mart
Whenever I watch CNN, I usually just read the ticker tape that rolls along the bottom of the screen. It's more aesthetically pleasing than Wolf Blitzer and typically more informative. Today, an item went by that needs no comment or explanation: a Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death by shoppers in Long Island, New York.
I don't know what to say. The fact that the poor guy worked at Wal-Mart is enough, in and of itself, to fill any compassionate person with grief. That he was stampeded by a herd of grasping consumers chasing after some gadget they'll throw away in couple of years leaves you breathless with despair. The poor guy just couldn't get a break.
George W. Bush never had to go through that.
I don't know what to say. The fact that the poor guy worked at Wal-Mart is enough, in and of itself, to fill any compassionate person with grief. That he was stampeded by a herd of grasping consumers chasing after some gadget they'll throw away in couple of years leaves you breathless with despair. The poor guy just couldn't get a break.
George W. Bush never had to go through that.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Show Us The Plan, Or We'll Get Really Mad!
Who says Democrats are cowards? Today, they finally showed some backbone. In fact, I'm convinced that if you combine Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid and Chuck Schumer together, they equal at least one spine.
Whenever politicians borrow cliched phrases from bad movies, you know they're not screwing around. I kept waiting for one of her colleagues to step up to the microphone and gravely intone that they were drawing a line in the sand, but no such luck.
Maybe next time. Churchill's got nothing on this band of Cicero's.
They were also, weirdly, all dressed in black, like they were speaking at an undertaker's convention about the latest advances in the science of embalming. (Okay, fairness requires that I point out they were standing in front of a video screen which might have made their clothes appear darker. In truth, I think Harry Reid may have been wearing a gray suit, ashen gray, like the complexion of a mortally wounded man just seconds before dying.)
Honestly, a bowl of oatmeal is more intimidating than these clowns.
They looked just like ... what?
Let me think. Oh, yeah. They looked just like any weak, vacillating group of gelatinous politicians that always seem to predominate in a nation that's going down. Or until an Augustus, a Napoleon or a V.I. Lenin shoves them aside and tells them to get lost already.
Or until Obama comes along and takes the heat for all of the really tough decisions.
They announced they weren't going to vote on a bailout deal for the auto industry, and insisted that the Big Three come up with a viable restructuring plan first.
How do we know the Democrats really really really mean business this time? Well, because of this:
"Until they show the plan, we cannot show them the money," House speaker Nancy Pelosi told reporters.Whenever politicians borrow cliched phrases from bad movies, you know they're not screwing around. I kept waiting for one of her colleagues to step up to the microphone and gravely intone that they were drawing a line in the sand, but no such luck.
Maybe next time. Churchill's got nothing on this band of Cicero's.
They were also, weirdly, all dressed in black, like they were speaking at an undertaker's convention about the latest advances in the science of embalming. (Okay, fairness requires that I point out they were standing in front of a video screen which might have made their clothes appear darker. In truth, I think Harry Reid may have been wearing a gray suit, ashen gray, like the complexion of a mortally wounded man just seconds before dying.)
Honestly, a bowl of oatmeal is more intimidating than these clowns.
They looked just like ... what?
Let me think. Oh, yeah. They looked just like any weak, vacillating group of gelatinous politicians that always seem to predominate in a nation that's going down. Or until an Augustus, a Napoleon or a V.I. Lenin shoves them aside and tells them to get lost already.
Or until Obama comes along and takes the heat for all of the really tough decisions.
What's That Noise?
What's that noise? Hmmm.
Dershowitz Says He Pressured Obama Not to Let Carter Speak at DNC
Harvard Law Professor Alan Dershowitz has publicly claimed he pushed Barack Obama not to allow former President Jimmy Carter to speak at the Democratic National Convention in Denver. Dershowitz told Shalom TV, “Barack Obama had to make a choice between his Jewish supporters and his anti-Israel supporters like Jimmy Carter, and he did not choose Jimmy Carter… It was a good decision, a wise decision, a moral decision.” Dershowitz has harshly criticized Carter for publishing the book Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid.
It's just the wheels of the Establishment grinding along like a steamroller, same as always. Go back to bed.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
The Real Joe Plumber
I worked with a Joe the Plumber. Really, I did. Hard times forced me into a life of laboring on a huge construction site in Kirkwood, California. They were they these gigantic condominiums being built at the base of a ski resort. In the winter, people could actually ski right off the slope into the parking lot. One day, the temperature reached a stifling five degrees at noon and then went right back down.
Good times.
We started work at seven. But from my house its a fort-five minute drive. So I used to wake up at five, slug down some coffee (sometimes with a shot of vodka), and get going, because I had to be at work on time. The boss was a raging tyrant who, I'm convinced, got a positively sexual thrill out of firing people.
I didn't have a licence at the time. The police had taken it away. Something about drinking and driving. The bastards.
So I commuted all the way with some very bizarre, very bizarre chap who was a painter. He seemed like the kind of guy who got off on fondling puppy's balls. I don't know why. That's just the impression I got. He drove a mini-van with all of his paint shit in it. The smell of lacquer thinner stayed with you all day, but since it made me light-headed, I didn't mind. It was the only way to tolerate the misery.
Anyway, he had a thermometer in his van. It told the outside temperature. In order to get to Kirkwood from my house, you have to pass through a desolate place called Hope Valley. It's aptly named because when you are there, all you do is hope to get the fuck out. Apparently, tourists flock there in the autumn to watch the aspen trees change color. I guess it's beautiful. I didn't notice. I hated the fucking hell. The only thing I imagined when passing through were nineteenth century pioneers in covered wagons devouring each other's legs from starvation. Anyway, one morning in the cold dead heart of dark winter, it was fourteen below. Fourteen degrees below zero.
More good times. And we still had ten hours of grinding labor ahead of us. Yay!
So, anyway, there was a plumber there whom I occasionally palled around with. He was a pretty god damned funny guy. He had been in the Navy and travelled all through the Mediterranean. He'd been to Saudi Arabia and Turkey.
So I asked him one day, what was Saudi Arabia like?
He said, "Picture a funeral home that is an entire country."
I asked him about Turkey.
He said, "Think of a retarded Mexican family who doesn't wash their hands before cooking."
His words, not mine.
One day, he was yukking it up with his pals. He'd been reading a plumber's trade journal, and he discovered the following interesting fact about their profession: plumbers are in the top ten percent of people who contract hepatitis.
"I guess I finally made it into the top ten percent of something," he said.
We laughed.
Good times.
We started work at seven. But from my house its a fort-five minute drive. So I used to wake up at five, slug down some coffee (sometimes with a shot of vodka), and get going, because I had to be at work on time. The boss was a raging tyrant who, I'm convinced, got a positively sexual thrill out of firing people.
I didn't have a licence at the time. The police had taken it away. Something about drinking and driving. The bastards.
So I commuted all the way with some very bizarre, very bizarre chap who was a painter. He seemed like the kind of guy who got off on fondling puppy's balls. I don't know why. That's just the impression I got. He drove a mini-van with all of his paint shit in it. The smell of lacquer thinner stayed with you all day, but since it made me light-headed, I didn't mind. It was the only way to tolerate the misery.
Anyway, he had a thermometer in his van. It told the outside temperature. In order to get to Kirkwood from my house, you have to pass through a desolate place called Hope Valley. It's aptly named because when you are there, all you do is hope to get the fuck out. Apparently, tourists flock there in the autumn to watch the aspen trees change color. I guess it's beautiful. I didn't notice. I hated the fucking hell. The only thing I imagined when passing through were nineteenth century pioneers in covered wagons devouring each other's legs from starvation. Anyway, one morning in the cold dead heart of dark winter, it was fourteen below. Fourteen degrees below zero.
More good times. And we still had ten hours of grinding labor ahead of us. Yay!
So, anyway, there was a plumber there whom I occasionally palled around with. He was a pretty god damned funny guy. He had been in the Navy and travelled all through the Mediterranean. He'd been to Saudi Arabia and Turkey.
So I asked him one day, what was Saudi Arabia like?
He said, "Picture a funeral home that is an entire country."
I asked him about Turkey.
He said, "Think of a retarded Mexican family who doesn't wash their hands before cooking."
His words, not mine.
One day, he was yukking it up with his pals. He'd been reading a plumber's trade journal, and he discovered the following interesting fact about their profession: plumbers are in the top ten percent of people who contract hepatitis.
"I guess I finally made it into the top ten percent of something," he said.
We laughed.
Some Helpful Advice For Republicans
There is a crisis in the Republican party. All of their Gods have failed, and now they don't know what to do. You can hear them lamenting aloud on Fox News and other such pornographic outlets. The party has lost its way. What to do?
In words we've come to know and love, how can the Republicans reshape their message in a way that will "resonate" with the people? How?
When I hear Newt Gingrich and all the other sweaty, piggish Republican thugs expressing their angst, I always think to myself, "You know, suicide can be a rational act, even honorable."
But they are long past rationality, and among this crew the word honor is as outdated as the Sermon on the Mount. Besides, I'm a nice guy.
I'm a nice guy, but I'm also human, so I'm not always noble. I must confess that I indulge in an orgiastic spree of schadenfreude watching these criminals squirm in confusion. It's better than eating rack of lamb or drinking a fine Cabernet with your one true love. It's divine.
Don't worry, fellow liberals. God won't begrudge us this tiny little dew drop of sweet, sugary revenge. We've suffered. We've waited. Our time has finally come. Savour it.
But I'm a sportsman, and I don't believe in kicking a man when he's down. It's just not cricket, old boys. So let's help our fellows out, okay?
You all remember, I'm sure, that during the last eight years our Republican friends engaged in a snotty and complacent parlour game on a routine basis. It was offering "advice" to liberals about what they should do to win. Predictably, their patronizing "advice" always consisted of something that can be succinctly described this way: be more conservative.
Ah, those were the days, weren't they Newty? Weren't they Brit? Back then, Grover Norquist didn't sound like the reedy voice of the zodiac killer threatening to blow up a school bus. It was the voice of God. Drowning government in the bathtub was in reach. You could almost feel its neck in your hands; you could hear it's gurgling death rattle as you soiled your dockers while gazing at your leather bound copy of The Road to Serfdom.
Oh, how they used to chortle like the pigs in Animal Farm, devouring mash and drinking booze at the old farmer's dinner table, trying to get the knack for walking upright but never quite succeeding.
We, ahem, forgive you. And from a spirit of pure, disinterested bipartisanship, we offer the following advice.
Go back and read something one of your vaunted heroes once said. It might help you develop a message that will "resonate."
I have it all right here, in Charles and Mary Beard's Basic History of the United States. It's a collage of snippets from Teddy Roosevelt's speeches before Congress. You won't believe what he said! I think it's a message that just might resonate.
When all is said and done, the rule of brotherhood remains as the indispensable prerequisite for the kind of national life for which we strive.
Wait. It gets even better! Get a load of this:
Our aim is to recognize what Lincoln pointed out: The fact that there are some respects in which men are obviously not equal; but also to insist that there should be an equality of rights before the law, and at least an equality in the conditions under which each man obtains the chance to show the stuff that is in him when compared to his fellows.
An approximately level playing field. Imagine that.
I don't know, you guys. I think that basic idea just might be catching on. You might want to check it out. Ditch the young Republican "strategists" and go back to basics.
I offer this advice free of charge. I'm a patriot.
I'm also human, and I hope you fucking worms never get power again!
In words we've come to know and love, how can the Republicans reshape their message in a way that will "resonate" with the people? How?
When I hear Newt Gingrich and all the other sweaty, piggish Republican thugs expressing their angst, I always think to myself, "You know, suicide can be a rational act, even honorable."
But they are long past rationality, and among this crew the word honor is as outdated as the Sermon on the Mount. Besides, I'm a nice guy.
I'm a nice guy, but I'm also human, so I'm not always noble. I must confess that I indulge in an orgiastic spree of schadenfreude watching these criminals squirm in confusion. It's better than eating rack of lamb or drinking a fine Cabernet with your one true love. It's divine.
Don't worry, fellow liberals. God won't begrudge us this tiny little dew drop of sweet, sugary revenge. We've suffered. We've waited. Our time has finally come. Savour it.
But I'm a sportsman, and I don't believe in kicking a man when he's down. It's just not cricket, old boys. So let's help our fellows out, okay?
You all remember, I'm sure, that during the last eight years our Republican friends engaged in a snotty and complacent parlour game on a routine basis. It was offering "advice" to liberals about what they should do to win. Predictably, their patronizing "advice" always consisted of something that can be succinctly described this way: be more conservative.
Ah, those were the days, weren't they Newty? Weren't they Brit? Back then, Grover Norquist didn't sound like the reedy voice of the zodiac killer threatening to blow up a school bus. It was the voice of God. Drowning government in the bathtub was in reach. You could almost feel its neck in your hands; you could hear it's gurgling death rattle as you soiled your dockers while gazing at your leather bound copy of The Road to Serfdom.
Oh, how they used to chortle like the pigs in Animal Farm, devouring mash and drinking booze at the old farmer's dinner table, trying to get the knack for walking upright but never quite succeeding.
We, ahem, forgive you. And from a spirit of pure, disinterested bipartisanship, we offer the following advice.
Go back and read something one of your vaunted heroes once said. It might help you develop a message that will "resonate."
I have it all right here, in Charles and Mary Beard's Basic History of the United States. It's a collage of snippets from Teddy Roosevelt's speeches before Congress. You won't believe what he said! I think it's a message that just might resonate.
When all is said and done, the rule of brotherhood remains as the indispensable prerequisite for the kind of national life for which we strive.
Wait. It gets even better! Get a load of this:
Our aim is to recognize what Lincoln pointed out: The fact that there are some respects in which men are obviously not equal; but also to insist that there should be an equality of rights before the law, and at least an equality in the conditions under which each man obtains the chance to show the stuff that is in him when compared to his fellows.
An approximately level playing field. Imagine that.
I don't know, you guys. I think that basic idea just might be catching on. You might want to check it out. Ditch the young Republican "strategists" and go back to basics.
I offer this advice free of charge. I'm a patriot.
I'm also human, and I hope you fucking worms never get power again!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
My Yahoo Account is Dysfunctional
Legitimate emails are being shuffled into my spam folder, and spam is going into my regular inbox. I was just about to get on the phone and rage when I noticed a series of emails from some elusive, mysterious beauty named Latina Angel 101. Hmm. Her messages were mixed in between various others from women with handles like Trixy_slut 2000 and Jansmommy08. Pop once told me, son, you can't get a hit get if you don't swing your bat, so I gave it a chance. I don't know. Something about the the way Latina Angel 101 typed "Only $9.99 a month" was different from all the rest. I felt a connection.
I regained my senses and figured that this Latina Angel 101 is probably no different than Latina Angel 102, a street walker who once accosted me on the streets of Lima, Peru. When I turned down her offer for what I knew would be a few hours of fetid, sloppy, utterly joyless carnal degradation, she asked me for cigarettes. One for her, a few "for her friends." Uh-Huh. So, anyway, I deleted LatinaAngel 101 and she became yet another victim of my stony heart. So did Jansmommy and trixyslut.
Back to the drawing board. Oh well, laughter is better than love, and sometimes anger trumps them both.
I regained my senses and figured that this Latina Angel 101 is probably no different than Latina Angel 102, a street walker who once accosted me on the streets of Lima, Peru. When I turned down her offer for what I knew would be a few hours of fetid, sloppy, utterly joyless carnal degradation, she asked me for cigarettes. One for her, a few "for her friends." Uh-Huh. So, anyway, I deleted LatinaAngel 101 and she became yet another victim of my stony heart. So did Jansmommy and trixyslut.
Back to the drawing board. Oh well, laughter is better than love, and sometimes anger trumps them both.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Surreal Is Unreal
Surreal. It's a word that's used all of the time. Surreal. Whenever everyone wants to describe something bizarre or strange, they say it is surreal. I worked as an office drone during 9/11, and a young woman who I worked with came rushing in. "Have you seen what's happening?" she gasped. "It's surreal."
But was it?
What does surreal really mean?
I looked it up. Surrealism is an artistic movement "aimed to liberate into the creative act the image-forming powers of the unconscious and so transcend reality as it is conceived by the day to day intelligence."
To transcend reality as it is conceived by the day to day intelligence. Surrealism is unreal. That which is happening, that which is real, cannot be surreal.
I don't mean to be a grouchy old stickler for language. Language evolves. That's part of its beauty. But why smuggle inaccurate definitions into words that already have a specific meaning, particularly when there are other words that already have the meaning you seek? Why not say that 9/11 was strange, bizarre, horrific, abnormal, crazy, ghastly, awful, sickening, terrifying, evil?
Why surreal? Surreal is unreal, not real. When we flush out the true meaning of a word and insert a new definition into it, we don't grow our language. We shrink it. And when we shrink our language, we shrink the range of our thought.
Incidentally, when I was looking up the definition of surreal, I came across the word Sugar Daddy. Yep. Sugar Daddy has made its way into The New Lexicon Webster's Dictionary Of The English Language. The definition is as follows, and I quote: (pop.) an elderly man who provides luxuries for the young woman he keeps as mistress.
That's progress! I would say it's surreal, but that's not the case. It's just plain ugly reality.
But was it?
What does surreal really mean?
I looked it up. Surrealism is an artistic movement "aimed to liberate into the creative act the image-forming powers of the unconscious and so transcend reality as it is conceived by the day to day intelligence."
To transcend reality as it is conceived by the day to day intelligence. Surrealism is unreal. That which is happening, that which is real, cannot be surreal.
I don't mean to be a grouchy old stickler for language. Language evolves. That's part of its beauty. But why smuggle inaccurate definitions into words that already have a specific meaning, particularly when there are other words that already have the meaning you seek? Why not say that 9/11 was strange, bizarre, horrific, abnormal, crazy, ghastly, awful, sickening, terrifying, evil?
Why surreal? Surreal is unreal, not real. When we flush out the true meaning of a word and insert a new definition into it, we don't grow our language. We shrink it. And when we shrink our language, we shrink the range of our thought.
Incidentally, when I was looking up the definition of surreal, I came across the word Sugar Daddy. Yep. Sugar Daddy has made its way into The New Lexicon Webster's Dictionary Of The English Language. The definition is as follows, and I quote: (pop.) an elderly man who provides luxuries for the young woman he keeps as mistress.
That's progress! I would say it's surreal, but that's not the case. It's just plain ugly reality.
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Timid Parade
The timid parade goes marching on,
Its dull music deafening from nine to five;
The spiritless patter of careworn feet upon
An exhausted world more dead than alive.
Just another Monday morning, ha ha.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
A Carlin Quote For Sunday
If crime fighters fight crime, and fire fighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight?
The immortal G.C.
The immortal G.C.
A Disturbing Rumour
There was a disturbing rumour flying around the talkies today that Obama might retain Robert Gates as Secretary of Defense. I guess war, occupation and theft are tricky things, and we need an experienced hand at the wheel to see us through.
Country First. Change we can believe in!
Country First. Change we can believe in!
Football Day In America
It's football day in America. Time to break out the credit card, buy a ten dollar hot dog and a fifteen dollar beer, and go watch the gladiators perform their awesome feats of strength for our vicarious pleasure.
I've long believed that America began declining when football replaced baseball as our national pastime. It's a just a theory I'm working on. Seriously, the growth of the Pentagon corresponds almost exactly with the rise in popularity of football. Perk up, grad students. Ohollern has a thesis for you. Somebody once said that football contains the two worst aspects of American society: violence and committee meetings. I would add crass commercialism into the mix.
But I can't help myself. I love it. Maybe I have a thing for violence and committee meetings, ha ha. I don't cheer for a specific team. I generally just want the underdog to win. The announcers are insufferable. And all the graphics flashing on the screen, egads. It's enough to give an epileptic siezures. It's like they're broadcasting to children or something, trying to wow us with all their cool and neat and super radical technology.
Wait. They are broadcasting to children. Children with fat guts and bald heads. Sorry guys, a forty year old man should not leave the house wearing a football jersey. It's just wrong. When you live in a country that now practices torture, it's obscene.
On more thing. No more Peyton Manning commercials, okay? Enough is enough.
I've long believed that America began declining when football replaced baseball as our national pastime. It's a just a theory I'm working on. Seriously, the growth of the Pentagon corresponds almost exactly with the rise in popularity of football. Perk up, grad students. Ohollern has a thesis for you. Somebody once said that football contains the two worst aspects of American society: violence and committee meetings. I would add crass commercialism into the mix.
But I can't help myself. I love it. Maybe I have a thing for violence and committee meetings, ha ha. I don't cheer for a specific team. I generally just want the underdog to win. The announcers are insufferable. And all the graphics flashing on the screen, egads. It's enough to give an epileptic siezures. It's like they're broadcasting to children or something, trying to wow us with all their cool and neat and super radical technology.
Wait. They are broadcasting to children. Children with fat guts and bald heads. Sorry guys, a forty year old man should not leave the house wearing a football jersey. It's just wrong. When you live in a country that now practices torture, it's obscene.
On more thing. No more Peyton Manning commercials, okay? Enough is enough.
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Jehovah's Witnesses Just Stopped By
The Jehovah's Witnesses just stopped by. I really don't mind. They're usually surprised when I tell them I have, indeed, read the bible (I don't tell them that's precisely why I'm not a Christian, ha ha). Once I quote some scripture, they sense they might have a convert on the hook. The problem is, I quote Deuteronomy. At that point, they sense their quota slipping. It's pretty easy to confound them if you know your stuff. But I'm a nice guy and usually hold back. I typically accept their literature and send them on their merry way. I offered them a drink once. That was funny. So, anyway, I've been flipping through their latest and read the following:
What Happens to Us When We Die?
What The Bible Teaches: At death, humans cease to exist. "The dead . . . are conscious of nothing at all," states Ecclesiastes 9:5. Since the dead cannot know, feel, or experience anything at all, they cannot harm - or help - the living. - Psalm 146:3,4.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but if that's the case, what's the point? And from what this says, the dead sound a hell of a lot like many living people I know.
The only reason I've ever considered being saved was so I could go to heaven and meet all of my dead heroes, like James Madison, Lord Byron and Sammy Davis Jr. (Okay, Lord Byron probably didn't make it, but two out of three ain't bad.)
Further down, it says we should avoid repeating set formulas in our prayers. That's the problem. I guess my constant prayer, "Dear Lord, let me have sex with her just once," is a set formula. No wonder He's not answering!
I'm going to go make cornbread. Be back soon.
What Happens to Us When We Die?
What The Bible Teaches: At death, humans cease to exist. "The dead . . . are conscious of nothing at all," states Ecclesiastes 9:5. Since the dead cannot know, feel, or experience anything at all, they cannot harm - or help - the living. - Psalm 146:3,4.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but if that's the case, what's the point? And from what this says, the dead sound a hell of a lot like many living people I know.
The only reason I've ever considered being saved was so I could go to heaven and meet all of my dead heroes, like James Madison, Lord Byron and Sammy Davis Jr. (Okay, Lord Byron probably didn't make it, but two out of three ain't bad.)
Further down, it says we should avoid repeating set formulas in our prayers. That's the problem. I guess my constant prayer, "Dear Lord, let me have sex with her just once," is a set formula. No wonder He's not answering!
I'm going to go make cornbread. Be back soon.
Purchasing History
The day after Obama's victory, I had the novel idea of going out and buying a few newspapers. You know, purchasing a little piece of history that I can pass on someday. Little did I know, several million people had the same novel idea. Someday, Ebay is going to be swamped with copies of the New York Times featuring news of Obama's win. Oh well, I still have a Hungarian coin from 1618 that a local coin dealer tells me is worth about a buck. Maybe in four hundred more years it will be worth two.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
What Ever Happened to Riverbend?
For those of you unfamiliar with Riverbend’s blog Baghdad Burning, I’d highly recommend it. A while back, a collection of her posts were published in book form. If I were a teacher, I would make it required reading for my students. You can learn more about Iraqi culture and the American occupation from spending one hour on her blog than you can watching the MSM for a year. Her last post was on October 22, 2007, at which time she and her family had emigrated to Syria. Since then she hasn’t posted again. One hopes that she and her family are safe and well. I’ve added Baghdad Burning to my blog roll. Give it a read, if you haven't already. In the beginning, she expresses a lot of sympathy for the American soldiers, aware that they are mostly just young kids thrown into a chaotic mess in a country they neither know nor understand. Towards the end, however, she is genuinely angry and just wants them to leave. Her anger is compelling in that it is sincere and totally non-political. Take a few minutes and give her a read. Her English is superb and sprinkled with American idioms, which leads me to believe that she must have studied in the United States at some point. (She merely notes that was she was educated in a western, English speaking country). She’s also a very talented writer and often quite witty. She writes better in English, her second language, than most American college grads.
The Party's Over, The Empire's Not.
I hate to be a skunk at the picnic, but it's time to put away the party hats and focus on reality again. This was lifted from Antiwar.Com, which is required daily reading.
US Ambassador Ryan Crocker said today that the United States’ general policy towards Iraq will not change after the election of Democratic Party nominee Barack Obama to be the next President of the United States.
This seems to also be the view of Iraqi officials, with presidential cabinet chief Nusseir al-Aani saying “only approaches and strategies” will change in Iraq, “but the aim will remain as it is.” Iraqi Foreign Ministry Hoshyar Zebari also said the cabinet does not expect that the new administration will make “surprising changes” nor did he expect President-elect Obama to embark on a “quick disengagement” policy with respect to Iraq. . . .
. . . President-elect Obama initially spoke of a 16 month plan to withdraw American combat forces from Iraq, he later clarified that with numerous pre-conditions which made it more of a best-case scenario. Eventually, Obama was praising the “success” of the surge and the differences between his position and that of the current administration were unclear at best.
So, for the time being at least, the only change we can believe in is a difference in tactics, not in long term strategy. The Empire will totter along, unchanged.
Incidentally, why is withdrawal such a bad word? Why does everyone hmm and haw about the dangers of a 'precipitate withdrawal,' or, excuse me, "quick disengagement"? None of the geniuses responsible for this catastrophe gave two shits about the complications inherent in a 'precipitate invasion,' or, excuse me, a "quick engagement" when they rashly decided to invade Iraq and steal its oil. We could have bought Iraq's oil for cheaper than the cost of this God-awful folly. Can't we just turn the tanks around and go back to Kuwait? I think the Iraqi people would shower us with candy and flowers as we left.
But that's not an option, because we ain't going anywhere, not until the Iraqi people pry away our Fortress-Embassy from our cold, dead hands.
US Ambassador Ryan Crocker said today that the United States’ general policy towards Iraq will not change after the election of Democratic Party nominee Barack Obama to be the next President of the United States.
This seems to also be the view of Iraqi officials, with presidential cabinet chief Nusseir al-Aani saying “only approaches and strategies” will change in Iraq, “but the aim will remain as it is.” Iraqi Foreign Ministry Hoshyar Zebari also said the cabinet does not expect that the new administration will make “surprising changes” nor did he expect President-elect Obama to embark on a “quick disengagement” policy with respect to Iraq. . . .
. . . President-elect Obama initially spoke of a 16 month plan to withdraw American combat forces from Iraq, he later clarified that with numerous pre-conditions which made it more of a best-case scenario. Eventually, Obama was praising the “success” of the surge and the differences between his position and that of the current administration were unclear at best.
So, for the time being at least, the only change we can believe in is a difference in tactics, not in long term strategy. The Empire will totter along, unchanged.
Incidentally, why is withdrawal such a bad word? Why does everyone hmm and haw about the dangers of a 'precipitate withdrawal,' or, excuse me, "quick disengagement"? None of the geniuses responsible for this catastrophe gave two shits about the complications inherent in a 'precipitate invasion,' or, excuse me, a "quick engagement" when they rashly decided to invade Iraq and steal its oil. We could have bought Iraq's oil for cheaper than the cost of this God-awful folly. Can't we just turn the tanks around and go back to Kuwait? I think the Iraqi people would shower us with candy and flowers as we left.
But that's not an option, because we ain't going anywhere, not until the Iraqi people pry away our Fortress-Embassy from our cold, dead hands.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
One Small Glitch In An Otherwise Swell Evening
I just read that, here in California, Prop 8 passed. For those of you not in California, Prop 8 is a wingnut ballot initiative to change the state's constitution to redefine marriage as being strictly between a man and a women. That's nice, soft, Chamber of Commerce language for, don't let the fags get married. Last night, before going to bed, I got a little nervous when I saw it was passing.
No problem. Never happen. This is California.
Then I wake up this morning and read . . . wait. That can't be right. More coffee.
It passed?
What the fuck? Here, in California? Home of San Francisco and Hollywood? We invented the liberal elitist. This is our house, motherfuckers! Isn't Mississippi and Arkansas and Alabama enough for you? It's not like we were planning to force feed arugula to your kids or make them write book reports on Heather Has Two Mommies. They must have got every cowboy in Bakersfield to get to the polls for that one.
I'm not gay and I'm not married. The first by choice and the second by lucky circumstance (I dodged a bullet once). But I just don't understand why people are so uptight over the subject of gay marriage. Who cares? Let them discover for themselves what nearly every single married human being I've ever known my entire life has told me: marriage is slow death. Wait, no. Marriage is, um, difficult.
This could be the start of a dangerous trend. Those conservatives never rest. This could be the first assault wave of a coming conservative invasion. What's next, a constitutional amendment banning brie cheese?
I didn't think this idiot measure had a hope in hell of passing here. Oh well, it was an otherwise splendid night.
No problem. Never happen. This is California.
Then I wake up this morning and read . . . wait. That can't be right. More coffee.
It passed?
What the fuck? Here, in California? Home of San Francisco and Hollywood? We invented the liberal elitist. This is our house, motherfuckers! Isn't Mississippi and Arkansas and Alabama enough for you? It's not like we were planning to force feed arugula to your kids or make them write book reports on Heather Has Two Mommies. They must have got every cowboy in Bakersfield to get to the polls for that one.
I'm not gay and I'm not married. The first by choice and the second by lucky circumstance (I dodged a bullet once). But I just don't understand why people are so uptight over the subject of gay marriage. Who cares? Let them discover for themselves what nearly every single married human being I've ever known my entire life has told me: marriage is slow death. Wait, no. Marriage is, um, difficult.
This could be the start of a dangerous trend. Those conservatives never rest. This could be the first assault wave of a coming conservative invasion. What's next, a constitutional amendment banning brie cheese?
I didn't think this idiot measure had a hope in hell of passing here. Oh well, it was an otherwise splendid night.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Barack Obama is President Of The United States
MSNBC just projected that Barack Obama is President of the United States!!!
Rejoice!
Rejoice!
Meanwhile, Back At The Legion Of Doom
I checked in with my buddy Brit Hume on Fox news earlier. He was discussing the why's and wherefore's of McCain's impending defeat. Bill Kristol said it had something to do with the Surge in Iraq.
Yep.
He said McCain stuck his neck out, maverick that he is, and supported the Surge when all about him doubted it. Brit then interjected. Is it possible then, that since the Surge worked so well, it took that issue away from McCain and he didn't have much else to run on?
Yep. McCain lost because he was right about Iraq and the whole country is wrong. Silly us.
Yep.
He said McCain stuck his neck out, maverick that he is, and supported the Surge when all about him doubted it. Brit then interjected. Is it possible then, that since the Surge worked so well, it took that issue away from McCain and he didn't have much else to run on?
Yep. McCain lost because he was right about Iraq and the whole country is wrong. Silly us.
One More Reason To Defeat McCain
On CNN earlier, they showed McCain speaking at a rally. After he finished, they played Whitesnake. Whitesnake!?!
If you needed any other reason to vote against McCain, that's it. We simply can't afford four years of that.
If you needed any other reason to vote against McCain, that's it. We simply can't afford four years of that.
Don't Forget, Dubya Is Still In Charge
De Tocqueville said the most dangerous moment for a bad government is usually when it begins to reform itself. I'm not sure how apt that quotation is under present circumstances. Regardless of who wins, the new president will most likely be what he's been for the last sixty years, a high paid spokesman for the Pentagon (as well as the lesser imps and demons of the Military Industrial Intelligence Complex -- CIA, NSA, Lockheed-Martin, Northrup Grumman, et al.) Nevertheless, there is some small hope that, should Obama win, some reform might happen. More importantly, given how paranoid the Republicans are about a Democratic takeover, they will think radical reform is going to occur, and they are going to prepare accordingly. Bush still has a few months left, and you can be sure he and his ghouls are doing everything they can to undermine the success of an Obama presidency. They've already saddled the newcomer with a dizzying array of intractable problems. But I have a scary foreboding that W ain't finished breaking all the crockery yet.
Let's be cautiously hopeful, but realistic.
Let's be cautiously hopeful, but realistic.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Fractured Fairy Tales
I once read that the best way to understand a culture is to read the fairy tales it teaches its children. I decided to apply this theory to our own country. Let's take a look at a popular fairy tale that we all know and see what we can learn about ourselves. Let's try Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
Snow White's wicked stepmother orders a huntsman to take Snow White out into the woods and kill her. Why? Because she's envious of Snow White's beauty. Moral of the story? Women are superficial, envious creatures willing to murder someone they perceive as more beautiful.
Also, why stepmother? What happened to Snow White's real mom?
The huntsman, smitten by Snow White's booty, can't bring himself to do it. He lets her go instead. Moral? Men are suckers for hot tail.
Snow White, lost and afraid in the woods, stumbles across a cabin. No one's home, but, noticing the place is a mess, she goes inside and cleans up.
Good girl.
The owners are a bunch of homely little dwarfs who work in a mine, most of whom are named after their most salient flaws -- Dopey, Bashful, Grumpy. One of them, however, is named Doc. He wears spectacles and examines the jewels they dig up to make sure they're real. Hmm. You don't supposes he's Jewish, do you? (He may also double as an amateur apothecary. The Dwarfs aren't in a union and probably can't afford health insurance. Somebody has to treat them for black lung and reset their broken bones when the mine collapses on them. I'm particularly worried about Sneezy.)
The Dwarfs trudge home and find the luscious Snow White sprawled across their beds. They also notice the place is spotless. They agree to let her stay. Except Grumpy. Grumpy, being himself, will have none of it. (Repressed homosexual, perhaps? That might account for his perpetual grumpiness. It must be hell, sleeping in close quarters with all those sweaty male dwarfs everynight, unable to express his true desires or act on those increasingly irresistable urges. Maybe he should drop some hints to Happy. He might be game.) Then they discover something new about her. Not only does she clean house and look hot, but she can cook too! Grumpy relents. Snow White can stay.
What man among us doesn't dream about having a sexy maid? No wonder they whistle while they work.
But she brings baggage. Her wicked stepmother, having discovered Snow White's whereabouts, uses trickery and poison to put Snow White into a coma. There's only one thing that can revive her: love. That is to say, a man.
Got that girls? She must slumber along, a comotose maid, until a man comes along and kisses her. Only then can real life begin. What a healthy thing to teach your daughter.
But what man? Not the dwarfs. They're nice guys, sure. But they're short, ugly, and poor. Besides, they're too busy chasing the wicked stepmother away. They run her up a cliff, corner her, and a bolt of lightening strikes her down, finishing the job.
Hurray! Our stoic, if flawed, blue collar friends have vanquished Snow White's nemesis. How does she pay them back?
Snow White dumps them flat for a foppish young aristocrat who has done nothing, nothing, except live a life of idle luxury on his daddy's fortune, all of which was extorted from workers like the dwarfs.
Now think about Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty. Dumbo, for heaven's sake. It's just too awful to contemplate.
Politics seem pure by comparison. Back to the election!
Snow White's wicked stepmother orders a huntsman to take Snow White out into the woods and kill her. Why? Because she's envious of Snow White's beauty. Moral of the story? Women are superficial, envious creatures willing to murder someone they perceive as more beautiful.
Also, why stepmother? What happened to Snow White's real mom?
The huntsman, smitten by Snow White's booty, can't bring himself to do it. He lets her go instead. Moral? Men are suckers for hot tail.
Snow White, lost and afraid in the woods, stumbles across a cabin. No one's home, but, noticing the place is a mess, she goes inside and cleans up.
Good girl.
The owners are a bunch of homely little dwarfs who work in a mine, most of whom are named after their most salient flaws -- Dopey, Bashful, Grumpy. One of them, however, is named Doc. He wears spectacles and examines the jewels they dig up to make sure they're real. Hmm. You don't supposes he's Jewish, do you? (He may also double as an amateur apothecary. The Dwarfs aren't in a union and probably can't afford health insurance. Somebody has to treat them for black lung and reset their broken bones when the mine collapses on them. I'm particularly worried about Sneezy.)
The Dwarfs trudge home and find the luscious Snow White sprawled across their beds. They also notice the place is spotless. They agree to let her stay. Except Grumpy. Grumpy, being himself, will have none of it. (Repressed homosexual, perhaps? That might account for his perpetual grumpiness. It must be hell, sleeping in close quarters with all those sweaty male dwarfs everynight, unable to express his true desires or act on those increasingly irresistable urges. Maybe he should drop some hints to Happy. He might be game.) Then they discover something new about her. Not only does she clean house and look hot, but she can cook too! Grumpy relents. Snow White can stay.
What man among us doesn't dream about having a sexy maid? No wonder they whistle while they work.
But she brings baggage. Her wicked stepmother, having discovered Snow White's whereabouts, uses trickery and poison to put Snow White into a coma. There's only one thing that can revive her: love. That is to say, a man.
Got that girls? She must slumber along, a comotose maid, until a man comes along and kisses her. Only then can real life begin. What a healthy thing to teach your daughter.
But what man? Not the dwarfs. They're nice guys, sure. But they're short, ugly, and poor. Besides, they're too busy chasing the wicked stepmother away. They run her up a cliff, corner her, and a bolt of lightening strikes her down, finishing the job.
Hurray! Our stoic, if flawed, blue collar friends have vanquished Snow White's nemesis. How does she pay them back?
Snow White dumps them flat for a foppish young aristocrat who has done nothing, nothing, except live a life of idle luxury on his daddy's fortune, all of which was extorted from workers like the dwarfs.
Now think about Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty. Dumbo, for heaven's sake. It's just too awful to contemplate.
Politics seem pure by comparison. Back to the election!
I Voted
The only tangible benefits I've ever received from voting are jury duty and those silly "I Voted" stickers.
What's the deal with those, anyway? It's like we're sixth graders getting a gold star on our papers for acing a spelling test. There's something worse about people who show them off by sticking them on their hats or shirts, as if that makes them more special than non-voters, I voted -- what did you do, huh? It's a cheap, puerile way for people to feel superior.
Big deal. Not voting is also a vote. It's a way of voicing discontent. George Carlin, as always, was the best on this subject. He didn't vote, he said, which meant he wasn't responsible for putting any of those assholes in power. Those of us who played ball and participated in what is largely a sham had only ourselves to blame when some crook got into office and ripped us off. Therefore, it was he, not us voters, who had the right to complain. Touche, Master Carlin, touche!
Regardless, I'll be voting anyway. I always do. I might even sweet talk one of the poll workers into giving me a handful of those stickers. I'll plaster them all over my "God Bless America" baseball cap when I go to jury duty, which I have to do on December 1st.
What's the deal with those, anyway? It's like we're sixth graders getting a gold star on our papers for acing a spelling test. There's something worse about people who show them off by sticking them on their hats or shirts, as if that makes them more special than non-voters, I voted -- what did you do, huh? It's a cheap, puerile way for people to feel superior.
Big deal. Not voting is also a vote. It's a way of voicing discontent. George Carlin, as always, was the best on this subject. He didn't vote, he said, which meant he wasn't responsible for putting any of those assholes in power. Those of us who played ball and participated in what is largely a sham had only ourselves to blame when some crook got into office and ripped us off. Therefore, it was he, not us voters, who had the right to complain. Touche, Master Carlin, touche!
Regardless, I'll be voting anyway. I always do. I might even sweet talk one of the poll workers into giving me a handful of those stickers. I'll plaster them all over my "God Bless America" baseball cap when I go to jury duty, which I have to do on December 1st.
Fill Up Your Tank
A friend of mine just reminded me to fill up my gas tank. He's right. I almost forgot. After tomorrow, that mysterious invisible hand, operating in accordance with the inscrutable laws of the marketplace, will probably decide to raise gas prices.
To quote my latest credit card statement, this is just a friendly reminder.
To quote my latest credit card statement, this is just a friendly reminder.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
The Quasi-Incumbent
John Fund just introduced a new concept into American politics, "quasi-incumbency." John is a columnist for the Wall Street Journal but his greatest achievement is having ghostwritten Rush Limbaugh's The Way Things Ought To Be. I know you'll all want to take a moment, bow your heads, and give silent thanks for that. He was on Late Edition With Wolf Blitzer answering the question of the hour. Does John McCain have a chance to win, will the election be close, or will Obama win in a landslide? John Fund's response was inspired.
I don't have the transcripts, but I remember the answer well enough to accurately sum it up, if that's possible at all. It goes like this. Obama has been the front runner so long, people have basically resigned themselves to the fact that he's going to win. So, in a sense, Obama has been the incumbent, the quasi-incumbent. But people want change, and since Obama has been the quasi-incumbent for so long, it still could be a close election. In other words, people might change their minds after so many months of living under Obama's quasi-incumbency and decide to vote for a different kind of change, in this case, John McCain.
The mind reels. If only the conservatives displayed this much ingenuity and imagination in their policies, they might not be losing right now.
I don't have the transcripts, but I remember the answer well enough to accurately sum it up, if that's possible at all. It goes like this. Obama has been the front runner so long, people have basically resigned themselves to the fact that he's going to win. So, in a sense, Obama has been the incumbent, the quasi-incumbent. But people want change, and since Obama has been the quasi-incumbent for so long, it still could be a close election. In other words, people might change their minds after so many months of living under Obama's quasi-incumbency and decide to vote for a different kind of change, in this case, John McCain.
The mind reels. If only the conservatives displayed this much ingenuity and imagination in their policies, they might not be losing right now.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Having Our Cake And Eating It Too.
Oh, Sarah. We're going to miss her when she's gone, admit it. She's a daily source of wonder and amusement, that Sarah Palin; an exquisitely ridiculous creature who could have only come from the womb of the good old U.S.A. Imagine, an ambitious, back-biting politician who adheres to the most primitive Christian fundamentalism. She enjoys shooting animals, speaks like someone from the cast of Fargo, and has a kinky, librarianish demeanor that many deprived conservatives find sexy. An African evangelical minister performed some weird exorcism on her, and she has a brood of children with names like Piper, Trig, Track and Bristol. Her husband, a somewhat seedy looking fellow, is a former member of the Alaska Independence Party who runs a snow mobile shop, except they don't call them snow mobiles. They call them snoh machines. Priceless. We just can't let these people go, now. But we can't let Sarah advance her political career either.
I have an idea. How about a new reality show? At Home With The Palins. It's a win-win idea. Sarah is kept out of politics, to the benefit of humanity, but she remains in the limelight, giving us fresh weekly doses of Palin to make fun of (or admire, whichever you prefer). Who says you can't have your cake and eat it too?
I'll have to look up the copyright laws on this.
True, if McCain loses the election, she's probably finished in national politics anyway. There's a lot of talk she's got her sights set on 2012. She might, but her appeal doesn't extend beyond the lunatic base of the Republican Party. If she believes otherwise, she's even more delusional than we thought. Then again, she believes the world is only six thousand years old, so maybe she is that delusional. It won't matter. After four years of Democratic dominance, the conservatives will be frothing for a victory, and they're not gonna let Juneau Jenny mess it up. The Mitt Romney faction will try to chop her off at the knees, probably with the connivance of the Republican establishment. If reports are accurate, they've already begun the process. Also, by then, it's likely some new conservative star will have emerged to wow the base and steal her thunder. She's a transient phenomenon who will barely make it as a caption in history books.
So, chances are, the show won't be necessary as a public service. It will be strictly entertainment. But you never know.
Who's with me on this? Episode one, Sarah falls into a trance and starts speaking in tongues at a Wasilla PTA meeting. Scott, tormented by lecherous thoughts about Trig's teen aged babysitter, gets drunk and crashes his snow machine into a tree. You get the idea. If the Palin's don't go for it, we just make it a traditional television comedy/drama instead of a reality show (think Eight Is Enough meets Northern Exposure). We've already got someone to play Sarah. Seek out one those guys from Beverly Hills 90210 to play Scott (one of them ought to be sufficiently withered by now) and let Katie Holmes Norton audition for the role of one of the Palin daughters. We throw in a lot of footage showing Alaska's natural beauty, which will boost the state's tourist trade, and donate some of the profits to fruitfly research (but only if it's not in France). We'll even let McCain have a cameo appearance. Everyone gets a piece of the action. It can't lose.
It just might win an Emmy Award and a Nobel Peace Prize.
Oops. Sarah Palin's husband is named Todd, not Scott. My bad. But we can work out all those inconsequential details later.
I have an idea. How about a new reality show? At Home With The Palins. It's a win-win idea. Sarah is kept out of politics, to the benefit of humanity, but she remains in the limelight, giving us fresh weekly doses of Palin to make fun of (or admire, whichever you prefer). Who says you can't have your cake and eat it too?
I'll have to look up the copyright laws on this.
True, if McCain loses the election, she's probably finished in national politics anyway. There's a lot of talk she's got her sights set on 2012. She might, but her appeal doesn't extend beyond the lunatic base of the Republican Party. If she believes otherwise, she's even more delusional than we thought. Then again, she believes the world is only six thousand years old, so maybe she is that delusional. It won't matter. After four years of Democratic dominance, the conservatives will be frothing for a victory, and they're not gonna let Juneau Jenny mess it up. The Mitt Romney faction will try to chop her off at the knees, probably with the connivance of the Republican establishment. If reports are accurate, they've already begun the process. Also, by then, it's likely some new conservative star will have emerged to wow the base and steal her thunder. She's a transient phenomenon who will barely make it as a caption in history books.
So, chances are, the show won't be necessary as a public service. It will be strictly entertainment. But you never know.
Who's with me on this? Episode one, Sarah falls into a trance and starts speaking in tongues at a Wasilla PTA meeting. Scott, tormented by lecherous thoughts about Trig's teen aged babysitter, gets drunk and crashes his snow machine into a tree. You get the idea. If the Palin's don't go for it, we just make it a traditional television comedy/drama instead of a reality show (think Eight Is Enough meets Northern Exposure). We've already got someone to play Sarah. Seek out one those guys from Beverly Hills 90210 to play Scott (one of them ought to be sufficiently withered by now) and let Katie Holmes Norton audition for the role of one of the Palin daughters. We throw in a lot of footage showing Alaska's natural beauty, which will boost the state's tourist trade, and donate some of the profits to fruitfly research (but only if it's not in France). We'll even let McCain have a cameo appearance. Everyone gets a piece of the action. It can't lose.
It just might win an Emmy Award and a Nobel Peace Prize.
Oops. Sarah Palin's husband is named Todd, not Scott. My bad. But we can work out all those inconsequential details later.
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