I have my own version of dropping balls to celebrate the New Year, but it takes two to teabag, as they say, so it looks like that nouvelle tradition will die aborning, as I gots no takers.
My predictions for 2009? Nothing earth shattering, so let's just cut to the dead pool:
Joaquin Phoenix: too smart to burn out at 23, too dumb to save himself now
Amy Winehouse: she's already living on transfusions of Tussionex; so skanky I would consider it a personal favor
Ted Kennedy: nothing personal, but Jesus, half his brain's missing
Dyke van Dick: bad rummy; supercalifornicationexpirationdosis
Fidel Castro: Already dead, but the cortege plans with barking seals have been finalized
Olivia de Havilland: anyone who was in Gone With the Wind should be dead already, damn it, and a constant reminder that Viven Leigh's fine ass flamed out too soon
Steven Hawking: an endoskeletonless blob attached to a talking computer; Jesus takes mercy
Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt: smothered to death by attention, and a psychopathic au pair
Bridget Bardot: an 85-pound skin cancer with heavily-mascara'd eyeballs, and an evil castrator of donkeys
Eli Wallach: aye. Tuco is 93, for God's sake. I'm going to miss the old boy, more than you can know. Sniff.
I have Bob Barker and Christopher Lee warming up in the bullpen. Just in case.
I shan't beat around the bush here, Insipids. I need 25 votes to catch the trollop for that accursed Hewitt Award. And, yes, I'm quite aware of how debasing this shameless pandering is. In fact, when Key saw me typing and asked me if I was pimping myself for votes, and I replied with a terse and cut-eyed maybe... she said That's okay. I already knew I was dating a whore.
So your slings and arrows are as Q-Tips upon a pelt of chain mail to me. I am immune. I left my dignity behind a biker bar on Tybee Island twenty years ago, and it ain't come skulking back looking for its daddy, anyhow. So cough up them votes.
I don't suppose there's any harm in voting multiple times, anywhats. That would be akin to Sullivan stopping after cramming only one solitary Sarah Palin action figure head up his anus. He knows the thrill of addiction. He won't be disfranchising you.
I'm not sure what Sully intends to give me if I win, other than a heavy dose of shrieking, self-indulgent venom. Myself, I'm a plan to give him a pair of guy-watchers, like my sisters used to wear in the mid-sixties:
This way he can scope out all the cubbies and bears in P-Town without getting the snot beaten out of him by his husband. I care like that.
In unrelated news, I attempted to retrieve my king-size bed from the house trailer at the farm, where it had been dutifully residing since my last hard whiskey bender in the spring. I haven't needed a bail-out crib in quite a while, so I figured I'd install the magnificent fucker in the house. Even though, of course, the very act of dismantling such a safe harbor in the darkest and most inaccessible corner of north Georgia made me crave red liquor so badly my left leg jerked like my right ear was being scritched.
To the sadness: the roof had apparently been leaking during my absence, and the $1500 Stearns & Foster mattress appears to be a compleat and fetid loss. To add insult to injury I believe squirrels had snuck in, and fornicated betwixt the covers. Do not ask me how I know this. So a Viking funeral for the bedding tomorrow, with high octane propellant, and I may have to immolate the entire trailer just to be sure the squirrel taint is destroyed.
To capsulize: win or lose the Hewitt Award, I'll be casting about for a new safe house. At least until the twitching in that left leg ceases. And the imagined keening of the copulating squirrels fades away.
An ancient Chinese curse, I'm told.
Anyway, I really love this. It's very Star Club, but with Clapton, and heroin, and a parasitic chimera...
My internet connection has been spottier than a Snopes pony the last few days, thanks to the fellow down the road. In his perfervid attempts to bevel his drainage ditch or dispose of his dead dog or whatever task he's embarked upon he's managed to sever the telecommunications cable several times.
Here's the rub, at least for him: labor is cheap in these parts, however free labor is even cheaper. Therefore the cable-severer should have taken note that the same convicts in stripedy britches who were shoveling asphalt like Dragline in Cool Hand Luke on Tuesday were the same gentlemen who'd been repairing the severed cable in the freezing drizzle the last two days. And boy did they look pissed off. They leaned their steam-shrouded bodies on their shovels several times to watch his wife unload groceries, or bring in the porch plants, the vapor shooting from their nostrils like rutting, agitated bucks, no doubt calculating cost-benefit as only convicted felons can do. I'm glad for her the cable's finally repaired. Things were going to get indelicate before too long. And my refusal to intercede as those boys were throttling their shelva handles had me feeling rather existential, to be honest with you. But fuck him. He cut my cable!
Corrupted internet being my lame excuse for not responding earlier to Van der Leun's tag concerning previous jobs. He's unaware of my staunch opposition to memes, mules, and bi-curious experimentation. However, as luck would have it, I'd posted about this very thing back in '05. Prior gainful employment below the fold, with the added caveat that my new job is, of necessity, unlisted at present. I want to fail there on my own terms, thankee.
Drug dealer (okay, that was an avocation)
Electrical supply salesman
Stained glass artist
Mutual funds broker
Trucking company manager
Real estate agent
Unpublished novelist (and let this post serve as notice to Gerard that he is my new agent, which also entitles him to 15% of my hate mail from the Pernicious Vipers of Sullivan. Which would make a great name for a band, if I wasn't already using Mucus Plug).
Nothing brings out the pacifist in me like superior firepower. When you are the boogey man, what could possibly be hiding under your metaphysical bed? Like the Strategic Air Command, our Christmas mission statement was Peace Through Strength - Victory Through Devastation.
Key's poppa broke out a few play purties in honor of the mission.
First up was the FAL (Fusil Automatique Léger), the venerable NATO light assault rifle:
This little beastie, chambered in .308, was incredibly accurate using the bipod, but far more fun fired Tony Montana style.
The other big toy was a Smith & Wesson 500 .50 caliber magnum, "The Most Powerful Production Revolver in the World", which, of course, would "blow your head clean off":
Shooting the 500 is like slapping a whore: the first couple of times are shamefully exciting, but after that you wonder what the point is. This thing is made to hunt 2 things: bear and homo sapiens. Anything else is small game, best handled with a more appropriate weapon.
Did Santy bring me one of these toys? Nein. Do I want one? Nah. A little testosterone goes a long way, after all. And terrifed chipmunks aren't exactly the most dangerous prey.
Still, fun to play with, especially with sippy cups of whiskey on hand (Safety First!). Happy birthday, baby Jesus.
Long after the last voter has been reinterred in Cook County, and scant milliseconds before Al Franken quite possibly steals the Minnesota senate race in the most egregious example of voter fraud, ballot manipulation, and hubris in my lifetime, the final, final ballots must be cast.
I speak, of course, of the Hewitt Awards, one of Andi Sullivan's almost clever by two-thirds annual awards for opinions that fall outside the scope of his more, ah, nuanced approach to politics.
The Hewitt Award, named after the absurd partisan fanatic, Hugh Hewitt, is given for the most egregious attempts to label Barack Obama as un-American, alien, treasonous, and far out of the mainstream of American life and politics.
Thanks to the evercool Rob Sama for the headdup.
Oh. I almost forgot:
I stumbled upon this contemptible piece of buffoonery at NRO today: How to end the South's economic war on the North, by one Michael Lind, in Salon. Seldom does one encounter such a perfect combination of regional prejudice, economic ignorance, class hatred, and overrarching dimfuckwittery in one small précis. Nor does one expect such bigoted tripe to be foisted upon the unwitting by such a nominally esteemed venue.
The premise, if such it can be labelled, is that the South is waging war upon the North, and the Detroit automobile industry in particular, by conniving with inscrutable slopes and Eurotrash to build superior vehicles of surpassing quality at lower cost. But allow Mr. Lind to set up his shot, then we shall examine his wobbly tee of a foundation:
As the regional politics of the automobile bailout controversy demonstrate, the Civil War continues. If the major U.S. automobile companies go under, it will be partly because timely federal aid for them was blocked by members of Congress like Tennessee Senator Bob Corker, whose states have created their own counter-Detroit in the form of Japanese, Korean, and German transplant factories[...]
The most shocking thing about the alliance between the Southern states and America's friendly but earnest economic rivals to destroy America's most important industry is the fact that so few people find it shocking[...]
The economic Axis is collaborating with the neo-Confederates against their common opponent -- the American Union.
At each of the defining crises in American history, a major expansion of federal authority was necessary to overcome a division between North and South that threatened the future of the U.S. as a democratic, middle-class nation. The division between slave and free states was overcome by the defeat of the Confederacy and the Reconstruction amendments that abolished slavery and established national citizenship for the first time.[...]
Today the division is no longer between slave and free states, or agrarian and industrial states, but between two models of industrial society -- the Northern model, based on adequate public service funding and taxation and unionization, and the Southern model, based on low-tax, low-service government and low-wage, non-unionized, easily exploited labor.
The alternative to the Southernization of the U.S. is the Americanization of the South -- a process that was not completed by Reconstruction and the New Deal and the Civil Rights era, which can be thought of as the Second Reconstruction. The non-Southern states, through their representatives in Congress and the executive branch, and with the help of enlightened Southerners, need to use the power of the federal government to put a stop to the Southern conservative race-to-the-bottom strategy once and for all.
Call it the Third Reconstruction.
This means that more tax money, not less, will flow from blue states to red states. But it is the price the blue states must pay for the survival of their own way of life in their own regions. Ruthless Southern state governments have been willing to underfund public education and other public services, while lavishing hundreds of millions of dollars to bribe Nissan, Toyota, and other foreign corporations into opening up factories in their borders.
I can hear the objections already: "We agree that the South's beggar-thy-neighbor and race-to-the-bottom strategies should be thwarted -- but the methods that you suggest, a high national minimum wage, greater equalization of state and local public spending by increased federal revenue-sharing, and a national economic development framework built to align the existing state economic development systems are politically too difficult to achieve."
"I worked night and day for twelve years to prevent the war, but I could not. The North was mad and blind, would not let us govern ourselves, and so the war came.”
Now there's a fucking précis.
Update: Welcome, Insty readers! I'll understand your desire to wash your hands after leaving.
Of course, Joe Biden already told us that. However, I speak of Obama's stern and unalloyed investigation into whether his team had played the footsies with Blago to sell that Senate seat. And whether Barack himself had entertained some under the table grab ass. To quote the LA Times:
Obama clears himself and staff in Blagojevich case(!)
The president-elect says an internal review shows there were no inappropriate conversations with the Illinois governor about who would fill the vacant Senate seat(!)
That certainly puts an end to the madness, eh what? Never mind that pesky investigation by the United States Attorney's Office. It will merely confirm what Obama has already discovered: he's so clean you could punch out microchips in his thorax.
The rube media will certainly agree. As do me. Hell, when I was 15 years old I dutifully investigated myself and was able to inform my parents, to their immense relief, "This boy's not smoking no pot". Works like a charm.
The gullibility of the press in swallowing this jitload of audacity in Lovelacian gulps reminded Key of Obi-Wan's Jedi mind trick:
Obi-Wan: "You don't need to see his identification."
Stormtrooper: "We don't need to see his identification."
Obi-Wan: "These aren't the droids you're looking for."
Stormtrooper: "These aren't the droids we're looking for."
Obi-Wan: "He can go about his business."
Stormtrooper: "You can go about your business."
Obi-Wan: "Move along."
Stormtrooper: "Move along... move along."
Obi-Wan: "The Force can have a strong influence on the weak-minded."
So move along, cretins. Nothing to smell here.
Besides, I still count seven trash cans in Wasilla that have yet to be upended by the phalanx of investigative journalists asking the tough questions. And at the rate the press is downsizing they should hoard any delicacies they come across, in order to pay tribute to the local cat tongs:
"You'll be handin' over them press credentials and fishbone skeletons, me bitches."
I, for one, am not in the least shocked by the revelation that Caroline Kennedy is "interested" in being anointed with her Uncle Bobby's Senate seat. The seat currently being snailtrailed by Hillary Clinton. Although oft-lauded as one of the very few non-retarded members of her generation of the Kennedy Klan, I find her tethered senses of noblesse oblige, hubris, and condescension simultaneously predictable and disheartening.
Disheartening because I hold no brief against Ms. Kennedy. In fact, I've always rather liked her. We are the same age, and our daughters are likewise of similar knots in the time rope. I've always felt a kindred bond with the lady since my whelp days. Additionally, I admired the way her mother raised her children discreetly and with a sense of high purpose, despite the fact that she was in fact the prototypical jet-setter, and the avatar of the gold-digging whore. Designer sunglasses obviously mollify my sense of inappropriateness.
Back to Caroline: I intuit no backlash against this deal. She certainly seems qualified for the United States Senate. Unlike that uterus-fixated snowbilly from the Klondike, for instance. In fact, since we are all of an accord that Sarah Palin was sublimely ill-prepared and unfit for the position of vice president, let us compare the two pretenders' curriculum vitae for affirming comfort:
Brearley School: tony finishing school
Convent of the Sacred Heart: Papist indoctrination camp
Concord Academy: Elitism Training Levels III and IV
Harvard College: legacy, had to take her
Columbia School of Law: here's an idea: let's put a fucking lawyer in the Senate! Nobody's ever had that brainstorm before
9 month art course, Sotheby's of London (nonremunerative)
President of the Kennedy Library Foundation (needed a Kennedy)
Director of the Commission on Presidential Debates (wanted a Kennedy)
Director of the NAACP Legal Defense and Education Fund (wanted a Kennedy)
Honorary Chairman of the American Ballet Theatre (needed a beard)
Adviser to the Harvard Institute of Politics (needed a Kennedy)
Head of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, Wasilla High: perfect cover to get high. See, viz. Young Life
Hawaii Pacific College (first semester dropout; see, viz. Young Life)
North Idaho Community College (major - deer processing)
University of Idaho (Nickname: Firebox, winner, Doc's Bar Drink 'N' Drown Wet-T contest)
Miss Wasilla 1983 (pix property of the Secret Service)
Miss Alaska 1984 (2nd runner-up & Miss Conjugal Visit)
Sports reporter, KTUU-TV, KTVA-TV, Mat-Su Valley Frontiersman (measured Magic's Johnson)
Wasilla City Council (2 terms, punched head librarian in the cunt)
Mayor of Wasilla (3 terms, flayed the pelt off previous mayor with a Cold Steel Boar Hunter)
Commissioner, Alaska Oil and Gas Conservation Commission (had fellow commissioner and head of the state Republican party resign for malfeasance, then drink his own urine)
Governor, the State of Alaska (the youngest governor and the first female governor, first governor of any state to pose in Hustler as the Terminator Next Door)
Now, perhaps you see my point: Palin, bogged down in the minutae of local political machinations and Natty Bumppo beast-flensing, versus a Manhattan-bred entre-nous member of the kulturata. How dare the chillbilly presume?
Here's another thought, unrelated and yet tangentially tied to the prior gravitassitudes: Caroline gave Obama her endorsement for a quid pro quo, that payoff being the Senate seat. To clear that particular deck Obama had to proffer Hillary the SecState role, which, given the stage she loves to strut upon, she could not refuse. Now Obama has a beholden Camelot ally in the New York Senate seat, and he may, at any time after 18 months, grimly unfold his Hillary Clinton dossier, stamp FAIL upon her forehead, and summarily fire her ass with extreme prejudice, never to be pestered by the uppity bitch again.
I wouldn't bet my firstborn upon such a scenario, but I'd bet a dog. Not my dog, of course. Hillary always was just like a largemouth bass: you can't just let her bite the bait and then set the hook on her; she'd just spit it back out. You have to let her run deep with it, turn, and swallow it greedily under a sense of false security. Then you set it. Hillary be treble-hooked now.
Oh. I almost forgot. Ultimate proof that Palin is demonstrably unqualified for higher office, as opposed to the divine Ms. Kennedy. Just below the fold.
Sarah Palin's ass:
Caroline Kennedy's ass:
In my neverending quest to brings you Intrepids the highest in quality entertainment I give you the Late Night Special. My nephew forwarded this, with the singularly apt caveat that it was "gayer than a sackful of penises." True dat.
So... who was your favorite? They're all obviously quite talented, however I'm going with Relentless, just because I'm such a huge fan of the double-pump. Cast ye ballot below:
I've enjoyed watching the rightosphere gin up the Outrage Machine over the Blago the Terrible melodrama. And Beelzebama knows its been a rough year for conservatives. Having to rally 'round the execrable John McCain, and watching with stunned dubiety as a callow and inscrutable will o' the wisp materialized from the bowels of the most corrupt political snakepit in the Northern Hemisphere, there to ride triumphant upon the shoulders of an hypnotically credulous press to the greatest gig in the land, would give any conservative a horrid case of the marthambles.
I feel that pain. Aye, I've shared that particular distress, when one realizes a majority of one's fellow citizens are absolutely and irrevocably stupider than a bag of Chinese drop-forged bolts. Or venal. Or gullible. Or guilt-besodden. For there were no rational reasons to vote for the fucking cypher, other than greed and stupidity. (Which reasons are, admittedly, at the end of the day, pretty fucking rational).
To the Blagojevich affair: it is indeed the tip of an especially loathesome iceberg, a floating block of unscrupulousness. Pretty much what everyone has always known and understood Chicago-style politics to be. Abominable? Certainly. Shocking? You have to be fucking kidding me. As a dog returneth to his vomit so a fool returneth to his folly, the Good Book (as opposed to the evil Araby one) tells us. And a Chicago whistle-stopper must needs always return to that pile of puke that greases his ambulation.
Back to my frothing brethren: I am dismayed and saddened at their exhiliration. It is the selfsame sense of giddiness and euphoria I felt upon learning of the Lewinski chicanery, or the last time I inhaled an entire E cylinder of nitrous oxide. Believe me, Intrepids, that Panglossian feeling will pass rather more quickly than a kidneystone in a bouncing boat.
The O-vulator is impalpably untouchable, lest ye have forgotted. He is diaphanous, a gossamer creature you will never lay brute paws upon. The Pellucid One will certainly be implicated in all manner of improprieties as this malodorous onion is peeled, however there will be no Judgment Day for Him. No reckoning of the soul.
To convolute a truism, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there, does it make a sound if the forest refuses to be a fucking forest? There is no press, no Fourth Estate any more, any way. That responsibility was fully and finally abdicated over the last grievous election cycle. Combine that notion with the sad fact that the average citizen is a torpid brute with no intellectual curiosity, and the fact that the bellies of even the most "poverty-stricken" of our fellowmen are bloated with
foodstuffs entitlements, and you have a perfect storm of civic disaster.
Lookee: Barack Obama could literally erect an altar upon the heights of the Supreme Court, and practise Mayan sacrifice, and he would be absolved. The still-pulsating hearts he held aloft would be evocative of centuries-old slavemaster brutality. The severed heads he toppled down the steps would evince proof of his unwilling absorption of corrupt western values.
Am I being overwrought and excitable? Sadly, I think not. Every day we are feted with far worse examples of media exculpation of this insipid fraud. One actually cannot make this shit up.
Paint me mercurial and intemperate, for I am alarmable. Then visit me in four months. For even as the Terror swept France, and the Committee for Public Safety found much solace, and safety, in the disconnexion of tête from corps, so events can ofttimes move at speeds faster than we may capably osmose.
A bold predication, which I might walk back at whim: 27 miscreants guilty and incarcerated, including three minor pupgullions from Obama's transition team. No more. The O-bstinate One might possibly have to throw a first tier vampire such as Rahm Emmanuel under the bus in order to shoot his cuffs and dust his sleeves of taintitude, but that sort of bus-begrinding was made for the Executive Pardon, so weep not for Rahm.
I bewail and bemoan our circumstance as citizenry. Having said that, good luck. See you in the Archipelago. And don't ask for any shitpaper. It will be far too dear. We'll be writing our travails and history upon it, after all.
Same as the old boss...
At least I assume Lt. Governor Pat Quinn will replace Blagojevich. Until the rest of this investigation spools out, and his number comes up. Who knows how many corrupt Chicago gangsters will ultimately go down? Except for O, of course. He will remain bulletproof even as every person he has ever said Hello! or Boo! to ends up in a federal penitentiary. Funny how that shit works.
Ultimately, however, we relish the few joys we find in the day, our nuggets of schadenfreude. Fucking jolly, it is.
How this eventually shakes out I have no idea. Like a particularly dubious cut of meat in the wardroom of a Punjabi freighter, I'll have to digest it before I know what I've actually swallowed.
Meanwhile, as my Fitzmas is right around the corner, I'd like to give my liberal brethren a Dirty Sanchez as I revel in the frog march they'd envisioned for Karl Rove. As Uncle Pecos taught us:
Froggy went a marchin' and he did ride,
And now, after all these years, I believe I know what Crambone means.
P.S. That's a very nice Les Paul riff Uncle Pecos lays down. How High the Moon? Something akin to that.
What is the new Pepsi logo evocative of?
How about O?
Hope, Change, and Sodie Pop. I can't believe RC Cola wasn't all over this blatant attempt to curry favor with the carbonated beverage market's new regulatory overlords.
I confess I don't get it, but I'm always a cultural laggart. If you get it, please don't tell me. Because I don't want to fuckin' know, man.
Am I the only person who is personally offended by the twin visages of Greta Van Supperation and Laura Ingrahamchapman being foisted upon me every night on Fox News?
They're dudes, right? They both sport Ivan Drago maxillae, and speak in lisps. And belong to the Livers for Liza 12-step support group.
Lookit: I'm from Savannah, goobs. I know a fucking drag queer when I see one. I've been crashing gay bars since I was 16. I've downed Chilly Crowns with Magnolia Thunderpussy and lived to tell the tale.
Here's another thing: Patrick and Bay Buchanan are the same person. "Bay" is just that paddy Irish bastard getting his freak on.
Okay. I'm done here.
And Juan Garcia. And Julio Garcia. And Esteban Munoz. And that Zorro fellow.
The fucking Mexicans are beheading each other again:
At least 38 people have been killed in Tijuana since Saturday, nine of them decapitated, in escalating drug-related violence that appears to have left in tatters a Mexican military offensive launched two weeks ago.