It reminds me of an infant child trying to jerk off, or something. Hopefully or something.
Feel free to add more on Twitter #kangaroohands.
What a pussy.
Every time Barack Obama hops down the steps of Air Force One he jiggles his little hands like a kangaroo. Every time. I honestly think he believes he is projecting the image of a loosey-goosey jock in so doing. He thinks he is projecting Muhammed Ali when he is projecting an effeminate pussy. Here's an example, but they are legion. Scroll to 4:59 for the kangaroo hands.
I swear, at this rate I'm not sure if he's going to show up in the fall to debate Romney or box Sylvester the Cat.
Remember when Harry Shearer had a sex change at the end of A Mighty Wind?
Who knew he would eventually run the International Monetary Fund?
I was going to regale you with anecdotal tales of the Senator killing Nazis in Greenland on dogsled. But as these were intelligence missions that particular war didn't happen, there ain't no records, and even his ostensible whereabouts were burned up in Kansas City in 1973 when the Records Department burned down. So I can prove nothing. He came back with 82nd Airborne patches but he was... doing something else. Killing Nazis in Greenland, yes. But no one was supposed to be in Greenland by mutual accord. Those Nazi radio shacks offically didn't exist. They sent his 19-year-old ass straight to OCS at Ft. Benning after whacking those nonexistent weather stations, though.
Of more immediate import, I have good news and bad news. The good news is I'm considering allowing you into the bunker when the deal goes down. The bad news is I like Devo. Weigh your options. And it is a Beautiful World. Thanks to people like my Dad.
That would be my Uncle Bob, who wasn't there for me and my siblings growing up. His B-24 crashed in 1944 as he was training to take the fight to the Nazis. I would have loved to have known him, for he was by all accounts a great guy. I know my father idolized his big brother. I don't think he ever got over the loss. Here is a link to the crash site memorial plaque near the Santa Fe Trail.
MSNBC host Chris Hayes infamously said he was 'uncomfortable' calling fallen American soldiers 'heroes.' While this is routine palaver from MSNBC, it was especially despicable for Hayes to spew this bilge over the Memorial Day weekend.
My uncle never had the opportunity to prove himself in combat, and was in all probability terrified shitless as his plane was augering into the high Colorado terrain. His remains did not arrive back home accompanied with medals of valor.
But he was, and is, a hero to me.
If I ever do run across the smug, cowardly Hayes, I will most certainly smash him right in his fucking hipster spectacles. For some Memorial Day fun go enjoy the Twitter thread at #HayesHeroism. My contribution: Barebacked at a Frisco bath house.
A 340-pound Georgia woman 'punched, spat at and pepper-sprayed' Piggly Wiggly staff as she attempted to make off with stolen beer, bacon, cheese and chicken wings.
Lonneshia Shafaye Appling, 26, shoved nearly $90 worth of fat-laden food and drink in a canvas bag at the grocery store in Athens on Wednesday afternoon before she 'attempted to check out, only putting one item on the counter,' according to police.
But a Piggly Wiggly staff member who had been informed of the theft by a customer quizzed her about the goods she was hiding, prompting her to make a run for the exit, the smokinggun.com reported.
When another worker, Jonathan Orr, tried to stop her, she 'pulled out some pepper spray and sprayed him in the face' then punched and spat a fellow staff member, Nick Wolfe.
Finally managing to exit the store, the morbidly obese woman was seen 'dropping beer cans out of her purse'.
... in history, Babe Ruth hit his final home run in 1935. The big 714. What we purists call the Rorer. On a lesser note, on this day in 1977 Star Wars opened.
For those of you who adore the Star Wars canon, I would give $10 to get my hands on the Babe's 42 ounce Louisville Slugger and beat George Lucas' forelock into his forehead.
There are your run-of-the-mill assholes, and your more dangerous thugs. Then there is Brett Kimberlin. A convicted terrorist bomber, he has filed over 100 frivolous lawsuits against those who would bring his misdeeds to light. Most recently he has "swatted" LA assistant DA and blogger Patterico by calling 911 and claiming to be Patterico confessing to having killed his wife. He has also sued blogger Aaron Worthing and cost Aaron and his wife their jobs. He also famously threatened Stacy McCain and his family to the point Stacy had to move his family to an undisclosed location.
Breitbart outed this guy as well, shortly before his untimely demise.
Kimberlin's sins are too numerous for me to recite, nor do I care to. They are legend and legion in the 'sphere. If you do not know, catch up.
You know, there is always that nasty, evil side to the left. Someone once recalled the Mongolian cruelty in Lenin's eyes, and I believe it. The path to power lies in convincing everyone else we should all be equal. The path to power also lies in the power of terrorism to convince them they are not only equal, but vulnerable. And this is where the Brett Kimberlins excel. Someone says you are a convicted felon? A mad bomber? Threaten his family. Threaten his job. Threaten his life.
So today is Blog About Brett Kimberlin Day. A show of solidarity that we shall not be intimidated by the elite in power nor the occasional sinister, skulking mad bomber and terrorist.
I stand with that cause.
A bit of mea culpa: when this story was breaking I read about it through Stacy's tweets. All I could grasp was the fact that Stacy was moving his family for safety reasons. Now, Stace can be a bit o' the dramatic, because his business model is Read Me Link Me Hit My Fucking Tip Jar. And his website can be a bit o' the Olde Frenetic, as in one post having 40 links, many of the links linking back into links that were already mentioned in links in the post previously linked. Sometimes reading Stacy turns me into an epilectic on a Playstation. So all I wanted to know, because this thing was moving at 3 parsecs, was the gist, the germ, the source of the removal of his family.
So I turned to Twitter, and asked point blank if his family had been threatened. Email is the new Pony Express. Forget the fact I haven't bought a postage stamp in years. Which is unfortunate, because some folks actually like birthday cards and sech. But that is a Velocifailure for another day. The point is, Stacy replied immediately via tweet. Still waiting for the final measurements from the Hadron Collider, but let us agree it was very fast. The reply was a bit snarky, because I believe Stacy thought I was being a smart ass, but such was assuredly not the case. I just wanted to know what happened without unravelling the Gordian Knot that is The Other McCain, and the snake-eating-its-tail maelstrom that was all the other blogs and tweets moving on this thing.
I was obviously sufficiently energized by Stacy's plight. It's just that sometimes you need to know if someone needs money for bullets, or bandwidth. Or breakfast for the brood if the situation has become dire from death threats. Because sometimes it's easier for me to send bullets, if we are of a common on the calibers.
End of mea culpa, and God bless you and yours, Stacy.
And let us unite to drive the Brett Kimberlins, the demons, not underground, but to federal, nay, state penitentiary. And if Kimberlin will give me his email I will reciprocate with my address. Got a little party planned, and need a guest of honor.
P.S. For some reason Kimberlin also has a hard on for Ace of Spades' true identity. Ace never mentioned the guy, but Kimberlin surely wants to out him. Another attempt to destroy someone's livelihood from a leftist freak. Obviously Kimberlin has never read the comments at Ace's. Fuck me and a bucket of rice. He has now pissed off the entire Moron Nation. Of which I am a proud, but apparently non-voting, member.
Major media, which are of course all controlled by multinational megaconglomerates, including Fox News, have a vested interest in playing out this presidential election as the closest run thing, a veritable Waterloo or Stalingrad. There is no red state/blue state when ads are to be sold: the usual pedestrian model shows a morass of purple, up-for-grabs states.
This is bullshit, of course. The training wheels have fallen off the Democratic foot scooter, and they are fighting amongst themselves as hyenas to the carcass as to how best exploit the in-fighting amongst Republicans. The in-fighting that is not actually occurring.
The right has resolved around Romney, for better or worse. I say for better, because no other Republican could stand the scrutiny that will befall the man. Fuck all, the Democrats would assail Jesus Christ for the luxury of a foot wash if he were a Republican.
You folks can chew your fingernails election night if you wish, but barring Romney passing a multi-headed poisonous serpent through his urethra this thing is done.
The hunger gangs in the media will continue to foment discord, but that is their game. That is their business model. And far be it from me to eschew a business model. Even an obviously failed one. Creative destruction. We are all learning from their failure, their slow-motion suicide.
And remember: they'll be dusting off those curriculums vitae, and lying on them later. Because they'll think you don't remember. We shall remember.
Also: this will be my last attempt to insinuate a chick-lit Young Adult title into my header. Had to do it once, though.
That was a might impressive come-from-behind victory for I'll Have Another yesterday at the Preakness. More importantly, it snatched a victory away from trainer Bob Baffert.
I have no idea why I dislike this guy so. Never met him, and he's never done anything to me. It's just one of those inexplicable things.
Everyone has a gay-assed song they like. The one song they won't listen to with anyone else around for fear of embarrassment. I suppose mine is Hitsville UK by The Clash. Strictly a loner indulgence. But Mick Jones did gay better than anyone else. And it is the second song on Sandinista! so that lends it a bit o' heft it otherwise might not have.
What's yours? And don't pester me with Seasons in the Sun, Billy Don't be a Hero, One Tin Soldier, or Bless the Beasts and the Children. Those songs aren't gay. They're just fucking pathetic. Don't count.
This is a rather strange screen capture:
Not sure what to make of it. But the same person sent me this:
So I'm doublenonplussed.
Yes, I know. I promised myself I would embargo Jeopardy! for it's illiberal bias. And yet when I saw Thomas Friedman, The Most Brilliant Pundit In The Universe, and Anderson Cooper, The Most Brilliant Gay Cable Talk Show Host In The Universe, were on I Bostitched my little toes to the hardwood and forced myself to watch.
The Poop Thing? Well, as I said earlier in the week, I've only considered myself the winner if I knew the answer when the three contestants did not. That's a Poop. As in:
Normally I consider myself lucky to get two Poops a game. Three against very smart high schoolers. I got 12 damned Poops against these morons tonight. Thomas Friedman is not merely a vapid lockstep liberal. He is dumber than a bag of fucking hammers.
None of the contestants knew who Lord Nelson was, even when the clue said he died at Trafalgar! None knew Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin. Fuck all, I knew this stuff at nine, and I am a product of a pellagra-riddled Jim Crow South.
I forget the other 10 Poops, but they were equally dumbed down for these idiots. The scrunt in the middle who came in last? Don't know her. Plain, no tits, don't care. She was even stupider than the feather boyz.
The next time someone quotes a Thomas Friedman article I am going to that bag of hammers that is Friedman's brain, select a nice 16 ounce framing specimen, and claw their damned brain goo out. So help me God.
Oh, yeah. Thomas Friedman's house:
Not bad for 3,000 words a week of insane scribblings extolling the virtues of the Red Chinese political model.
P.S. Now that I think about it, I had 13 Poops today, the most meaningful of which occurred at approximately 6:35AM EDT, while reading Ace on my smartphone. Texture? Affirmative. Ease? Exemplary. Hue? A little Merlot-ish. But I'll bat .666 any day. And brag to you about it.
A white Colorado second grader was forced to leave school after a principal accosted him for dressing as Martin Luther King, Jr. as a tribute for a school event:
The lad apparently meant it as an homage, but the principal caved to pressure from the usual sources and demanded he remove the face paint, even as the child's mom told him to stand his ground (where have I heard that phrase lately?). The principal treated the kid like he was a fucking Ku Klux Jolson, or something.
I personally think this could have been handled better. Instead of bullying the child (why do school administrators bully children? Oh, yeah. Because if they tried it with us we'd beat the piss out of them), he could have taken the child aside, perhaps to his office, with his mother, and gently explained something about the history of minstrel blackface, and why it is considered inappropriate nowadays. And then let the child make the decision to keep or remove the facepaint. That's called a "teachable" moment. But there ain't no teaching in schools no more. Only bullying, and political correctness, and cowardice. I must also add the King Center had a much more mature response to this incident, which is heartening.
Mea culpa 1: I've worn that exact same outfit to a few Halloween parties myself, except I wore a Don King wig to lend additional gravitas.
Mea culpa 2: when I was a lowly swabbo at the Coast Guard Academy the swabbos traditionally put on a farce, or skit, for the graduating seniors 100 days before graduation. This was the only time the underclassmen were allowed to mock and degrade the upperclassmen, and that free pass ended immediately after the skit, normally with faux outrage on the part of the upperclassmen, the unspoken thing being that the swabbos had lasted a year of humiliation and abuse, and emerged bonded with the uppers.
I envisioned, and wrote, a skit wherein a member of my class (a black kid from Atlanta and fellow Georgian we called Bay-Bay because he t-t-t-alked like the b-b-b-boy from the B-B-Bill Cosby cartoon) is a poor unfortunate swabbo who is lynched by a group of racist upperclassmen. It was a minor masterpiece of extrapolation, if a bit insensitive to the plight of those who were truly lynched. But Bay-Bay liked it, we all liked it, and it was a fucking serious thumb in the eye to the upperclassmen. Which was the traditional point of the skit. I must also add as one of the four of my classmates from Georgia Bay-Bay was my friend. It was like the War Between the States there in terms of state pride. Well, perhaps World War II. Well, perhaps Desert Storm.
Well, that went over like the proverbial fart in the pew. Oh, the upperclassmen loved it, but an officer or two (white) took umbrage. Swabbo meetings were held, much anguish and regret were voiced, and the ultimate consensus was we should apologize as a class. Not to black people: to the upperclassmen. I don't even recall if that class graduated a black ensign.
I told my classmates to fuck off, and said you cowards may elect emissaries to go grovel, but tell them the author of the thing said to kiss his fucking ass. Lost a few friends that day, but what are friendships for, if not to be sundered? Hell, that's the only way you know you have a good 'un in the first place.
So sad for young Sean King of Colorado. He's learned his lesson. Sho 'Nuff.
Sent to me by Og. The NZ apparently stands for "Not Zulu."
The one that would be, I suppose, the Un-Christian one. The Luciferian name. I am puzzled at times why humans even have three names. In the ancient times it was enough to be known by one name. Thor, for instance. Everyone knew who you were. And they occasionally trembled in awe.
Then homage kicked in, and there were scores of little Thors running about. Last names became necessary. One could not be Khan, for instance, as awesome as that is in our present thought processes. One must be Genghis Khan. Not his far less bloodthirsty, but equally formidable grandson Kublai.
I was pondering this when I read in a Jay Nordlinger column today of the possibility that Mandela was given the first name Nelson by a grade school teacher after Admiral, Lord Nelson. Heaven forfend. I also recall a rather famous statement from John Lennon that he received the middle name Winston because he was birthed during the London Blitz, and his mother had a spate, or spasm, of patriotism.
Lennon loathed it, of course, and dutifully changed it to Ono once his mind had been sufficiently reoriented by an Oriental. Which is a shame, because Winston Churchill is the greatest goddam human being to be borned in the last 2,000 years. I'm rather glad Obama sent the bust of him back to the Queen in one of his first acts of office. It would have been rather unsettling to see so magnificent a head of bronze weep blood.
But back to middle names, which was the topic before I wandered. My, how capricious the mind becomes when the jeune filles begin to knead the grapes. I was actually focused. You became unfocused. (I learned that trick from Obama, by the way).
So what is your middle name? Obviously not something worthy of being your Christian name. A filler, perhaps? A guilty salut to the nether side of the family? A transparent attempt by the mother to insinuate her family into the patriarchy? Is your middle name a nod to your creepy uncle, who became far creepier when he started talking through a tobacco-caused voice box?
For the record, my first name was explained to me by my mother alternately as that of a little Afghani spy immortalized by Kipling, and an heroic MI6 British double agent who was eventually exposed as a Soviet triple agent when I was 6, and fled to a Russian dachau amidst great scandal. Troublesome for Mom, that.
That's the easy part. I suppose my middle name is for my uncle, but I like to think I was named for the guy who played Peter Gunn. I'm pretty sure, in fact, as I write this, that my sainted mother was stoked for Peter Gunn.
So what's your middle name? And why? I seek to mock you, of course, but we can make S'mores 'round the campfire later, and commiserate. It won't be all bad for you.
Oh, and for vanderleun, because I knows he can appreciate it. My midddle namesake, sonny, and sorry I couldn't find the drunk driving scene with the Mancini score. Because everyone in a pre-.08 BAC world was drunk driving:
I've been a Jeopardy! fan since the Art Fleming days. I'm a geek like that. I recall 1964 as a particularly vicious first year, as I grappled, mano-a-mano, with some rather brilliant minds. My seven years of age certainly handicapped me, but I learned in those tender days that a victory was any answer I knew that the three contestants did not. These were few and far between, of course, but thank heaven for the occasional Snagglepuss and Baba Looey references.
Which brings me to the current iteration of some 28 years or so, and the scrub known as Trebek. I have tolerated this fucking dilettante for decades, with his smarm and charm routine, but he has now pushed me over the edge.
First it was last week's Teen Tournament, when Jeopardy! devoted an entire category to Automobiles. Every question was a video of that insane retard Biden, pimping the GM and Chrysler bailouts. It was a goddam free campaign commercial.
Tonight kicked off "Power Players Week", pitting Chris Matthews against CNN's Lizzy O'Leary and Robert Gibbs. What a crock of shit. Just like the Teen Tournament, when boys were eliminated by carefully placed queer vampire, young adult, and chick lit answers, Matthews played the dutiful role of Rip Taylor Hollywood Squares Queen for a Day, and punted obvious answers so that Gibbs, a former Administration Man! could win. These cocksuckers are so far in the bag for Obama they even let the girl lose. But then, why would the First Gay President, or Alex Trebek, or Chris Matthews, care about a girl anyway? Cooties, and shit.
CBS should have their broadcast license revoked for this kind of blatant proselytizing. And I don't appreciate some effeminate old troll of a Québécois Separatist pole smoker like Alex Trebek to AID in advancing the agenda.
I'm starting my own Jeopardy! With any luck I can get Sam Elliot on board as my Johnny Gilbert, IYKWIMAITTYD. And my own Power Players Week.
First Answer: "He is known as America's first Black President."
Correct Question: "Who the fuck is Bill Clinton, Quizmaster."
"Right you are, Ms. Perino. Sam, hand Dana my iPhone and show her her prize. And Shannon and Kimberly, you're going to have to pick up the pace in Double Jeopardy! IYKWIMAITTYD."
To all the mothers who toil without tribute day in and day out. You are not forgotten, ever forgotten. The reciprocation for your kindnesses and ministrations are often forgotten, however, and so we set this day aside to spoil you a bit. A tiny measure of gratitude that will never balance the scales.
I sometimes think, VBoy, if you were to allay the crudeness, and eschew the twin demons of blasphemy and pornography, why, you could make something of yourself on this internest. I certainly write better than Thomas Friedman, and my insights are far more pithy. Pithier. My insights are far more pithier.
Why, I could be like the next George Will, if I exhibited some discipline, hewed to the 3,000 word model, and embargoed my nipple-sucking posts. I doubt I would ever have ears so well-scrubbed they shone like little neon pink flamingoes in the dark like Mr. Wills', but I could represent a reasonable facsimile if so tasked.
However I do believe the era of the 6 and 7 figure bionic editorialist are at an end. There is too much brilliance out there to absorb for free. I wouldn't be surprised if Friedman and Will and their ilk aren't being slowly poisoned by their taskmasters as we speak. A little rodenticide in the arugula here, a curious drop of quicksilver slipped up the nostril there, these economically depraved print guilds might even be able to balance their accounts for a quarter or two.
Yes, I have these thoughts upon occasion. But then I encounter Penis Bloodletting In Mesoamerica, and it's back to square one. Like the old Onion headline, I'm like a chocoholic, only for booze! I cannot resist the profane and the degraded.
So no, my ears will not shine pink in the dark tonight, well-scrubbed, but perhaps my fingertips will.
As a bonus, here is a knock-off pre-Columbian fertility figurine I call Rapes With Gout that is yours for only $58:
I'm not really sure who these folks are, anonymity and rectitude being prevalent there, but someone there likes me, and I appreciate the voluminous traffic. It's also a great site to go poking around in the archives, for they are totally MOA. They be on my Highly Recommend list. Right after Wild Turkey 101, and White Slavery for Dummies, which I am going to e-publish any day now.
You knew I was going here. There is no way I'm not going here:
Gee, was it only a few weeks ago that I was braying about psychotic mothers breast-feeding their children far beyond healthy and meaningful time frames? Why yes, it was.
This is unspeakably crude for a newsmagazine, even one as foundering and desperate as Time. The mom will be fine. She's basking in her 15 minutes of fame, speaking dat Truth To Power, and I have a crisp fitty says she's seated next to Michelle Obama at the Democratic National Convention.
Her son? Doomed, baby. At least until he's 25 or so. His will be an adolescence and young adulthood of merciless hectoring. This kid is truly fucked. And as bad as I feel for him, I am insanely jealous of the classmates that will have the exquisite joy of torturing the lad. I want in.
Will mom feel bad when this poor schmuck offs himself at 17 because mommy dearest made a titty-boy out of him for the entire world to mock? Of course not. Look at the expression on her face. ME ME ME. He's just a little tit-sucking prop. This type of behavior is why DFACS exists. Not because mom can only afford unhealthy beanie-weenies for her whelps. This is psychological torture far beyond a simple waterboarding. This shit is for life.
Mea culpa: Yes, like all the rest of you men I've imagined myself on that stool, wearing my shorts and Buster Browns, suckling that rather exemplary breast. But only because it's what I do, and it's not my Mom!
Am I Mom enough? Apparently not. And as the mother of my children was wont to say as she made a bottle of formula, breast feeding is what base animals do, of necessity. Similac is what separates the human beings from the lowly beasts of the field. I always agreed, and still do. Right up until I saw this particular tit. Got a little wishy-washy for a moment.
P.S. This is kind of the reverse of the Roman Charity thing. I seem to have something on the brain, all right. Three nipple-sucking posts in six weeks? Two with pictures? It's probably time to go spend some quality time at the Mah Jongg Relaxation and Happy Ending Emporium, so that I may move on to more important issues. As if such issues exist.
JP Morgan has announced $2 billion in losses in the last six weeks. I knew Jamie Dimon was a douche bag when Bill Pullman played him in Too Big To Fail.
Once again our populist purveyors of prevarication will blame this on capitalism run amok. But these Wall Street greedheads aren't capitalsits in the strict sense of the word. They are crony capitalists. They donate in extremely egregious amounts to Democrat politicians who in turn feather these cronies' nests with bailouts when their insane gambles invariably go tits up. Risk management was replaced by moral hazard decades ago, to be sure, and chickens don't roost in foxholes, but Wall Street didn't crash in 1987, it belched, shed its prototype versions of extreme risk like junk bonds, and grew again. Now it is merely a collection of miscreants who move in and out of government service in between stints on each others' boards, awarding each other tens and hundreds of millions in salaries and bonuses.
Who are the true capitalists? Main Street. The strip malls of America. Not the mega-malls with their pricey chain stores. The moms and pops, the crazy couple who quit their corporate jobs to open a Murphy bed store. The lady who has a $1200 a month rent nut selling fucking birdseed. I admit I cannot fathom the business models of many of these people, but I know and have known many of them, and they struggle, but they manage to pay their mortgages and rents, educate their children, and somehow save a little bit. They are insane heroes to me.
And they used to prosper at times, and hire, and provide jobs. This is all funneling down the toilet now, counter-clockwise I suppose. It is a Coriolis economy. If you work for a Fortune 500 now, enjoy it. I can see the target on your back from here. And I wouldn't put too much faith in your defined-contribution plan, either. There is not a major corporation now that isn't neck-fucked, and borderline criminal. When many of them implode, possibly as early as August, the last people left will be the human resources screwheads and the diversity counselors.
My advice? I don't have any. Other than stay out of the way when Wall Street and Main Street finally find themselves facing off in the octagon. Wall Street's only MMA move is to withhold credit. Main Street's only MMA move is to hide their money in a mattress. Learning a trade might be useful. I'd opt for plumbing, because hot's still on the left, anf there will be a ton of shit flowing downhill very, very soon.
"Don't get crosswise with me," a former CEO barked at me once upon a time. I wasn't sure what he was getting at, other than I was delivering some rather sobering market forecasts at eight o'clock of the morning over coffee in his office, and his ego and hangover were having none of it. I went from rising princeling to jackanape that day, never to recover. One messenger, duly shot. Fortuitously, that type of dress down has never affected my erections, conveniently compartmentalized as I am. Man does not live by bread alone.
Speaking of crosses, I have an old dear liberal friend who resides in Woonsocket, Rhode Island, where there is an astroturf campaign to remove a World War I memorial cross honoring slain veterans outside of a fire station. Common ground, separation of church and state, that sort of thing.
Now, understanding that Rhode Island is naught but the porn fluffer for Boston, a tiny rump fiefdom known primarily as the site of a Great White pyrotechnic clusterfuck of a concert burn down, I feel for the little folks there. When they are not ignored by the rest of the country they are ridiculed, so this mighty civil liberties fight must stir their loins.
The only thing I know about the separation of church and state is it is not in the Constitution. There is a passing mention that the government shall not force a religion upon the people, otherwise the document be mute.
Here's the thing: I know another place where there are Christian crosses galore blighting the public commons. Damned Jewish Stars of David, too. It's called Arlington National Cemetery.
I would propose we raise private funds to purchase what is technically known as a fuckload of sledge hammers, select a day in the not distant future, and invite our secularist and separatist anti-Christer and anti-Semitic friends to converge upon Arlington, hoist their free sledges, and commence to smashing those crosses and stars befouling our public lands.
I know they have the courage to do it. Their lawsuits convey the high moral dudgeon of the True Believer, and I have seen them defecate in public on the internet. Let them #OccupyArlington.
Longtime readers know I have a miniature pick axe handle, given to me by Lester Maddox in 1976 outside his Underground Atlanta restaurant, because he was friends with my dad. It was a souvenir evocative of his more calamitous days, when he gave away the full-sized real deal in his original restaurant to bash the heads of integrators. I think Lester was poking fun of his old ways, although I don't believe his taste in such matters was, shall we say, quite Emily Post. One might even think it contumely.
Regardless, it is an unthinking piece of wood, boned to great hardness. I think it would be just deserts to take that thing to Arlington, there to exercise it upon the thick skulls of bigots, and reactionaries.
The great thing about religions, regardless of God philosophies, is they give us an immutable set of laws, which current favor and whim cannot challenge. These laws save us from our own everyday weaknesses and folly. This is why we protect and enshrine them.
They also empower us to crack heads with tiny pick axe handles, when our rights are abridged. At least, that's what I got out of Sunday School.
In 1967 the United States Supreme Court decided in Loving v. Virginia that, when I became of legal age, I would be able to marry a black woman.
Well played, sirs! Several delicious specimens come to mind immediately.
Now President Obama has come out of his glass door closet to admit that he wishes that I also could marry a black man. Presumably not him, but I imagine Snipes is tiring of the prison down low, and would welcome a nice pen pal. Gay marriage is a done deal, for those not focused exclusively on their rear-view mirrors. The progress of an enlightened species is ennobling, indeed.
Therefore, given the inexorable path of Progress, I am elated to aver that in the very near future I shall be able to marry several black men and women. At which point I shall rename my abode Tara.
For at what point does a slope become not slippery? Like the venerable Slip 'N' Slide, as long as you have your hose gushing, that slide will always be slippery. I know whereof I speak.
In light of the fact of the ever-slippery slope, please allow me to introduce you to the next Mrs. Velociman:
Meet Ja'Nel. Her personality is as fetching as her instinct for sticks. And my, what a tongue! Ja'Nel was actually born Tarboy, and had nuts the size of, well, those chrome nuts hanging off the hitch receivers of pick up trucks. But we had that fixed, didn't we, girl? Yes, we had it all fixed.
Marketing types call us early adopters. And while I may not have had the first iPhone 4s on the block, I will certainly have the first transgendered Labrador Retreiver bride.
Speaking of early adopters, I wonder if I could find a preacher hereabouts to perform the banns of marriage between me and the Malibu Beach Barbie head I inserted in my rectum yesterday for safekeeping? And, more importantly, what would Ja'Nel think?
Nah, it's all a pipe dream. The sturdy cross-truss of social opprobrium is obviously firmly welded across the slide of desire, right at the gay marriage notch. They'll never allow us more open-minded folk to slide farther than that. Surely.
USAID worker Warren Weinstein is a terrified man. Held captive by al-Qaeda in Pakistan, he has participated in a videotaped plea to President Obama to agree to Zawahiri's demands, and release "every single person arrested on allegations of links with al Qaeda and Taliban." As well as the Blind Sheik.
I don't blame Mr. Weinstein. I'd be terrified, too. He doesn't want his head sawed off, and Zawahiri is certainly a man of his word in that regard. Having said that, I believe Zawahiri's terms are a bit ostentatious. If I did not know better, in fact, I would suggest he is not negotiating in good faith.
I don't want my head sawed off, either. Which is precisely why I am not in a war zone full of berserkers, unarmed. I can appreciate Mr. Weinstein's good intentions, but someone should have told him we already have aid workers over there. They are called Special Forces. Yes, even in Pakistan.
Surely Mr. Weinstein, terrified as he is, realizes that we do not negotiate with terrorists (except the Taliban at the behest of Karzai, apparenty). Especially when the bargain is one innocent life in exchange for releasing hundreds, if not thousands, of terrorists.
This will not end well. My heart goes out to Mr. Weinstein, and he shall be in my prayers. But sometimes you just gotta die like a man.
When I was 12 years old I found it hilarious, and informing, that the local radio stations would bleep the "Christ" out of The Ballad of John and Yoko. Oh, those poor fools, thought I. Afraid of a little in your face attitude, man.
As I was proceeding to the grocer today the radio ran across a classic rock station. The song? Dire Straits' Money For Nothing. The bleeped out word this time? Faggot. Actually, the forces of intolerance don't bleep anymore. The bleep at least was a wink and a nod that something hinky had occurred, nudge nudge. Now they just vaporize the offensive words, much as Yezhov, Trotsky, and others were airbrushed out of Stalin's pictures. No more water commissar for you, comrade.
It seems to me the same people who were indignant and asputter at the censorship of the Beatles are of the same intolerant ilk as those who find it quite justifiable to censor that which they find disagreeable. I suppose it depends on whose ox is being gored. Or stump broken, as the case may be.
I don't wish to offend Christians or homosexuals, but if it happens, that's too fucking bad. Suck it up. Or not, please. Hell, I get my feelers hurt every time I see a pack of crackers in the store. They're wafers, damn it!
The real crime of Knofler, of course, is not that he mocked faggots in the music industry, but that he made light of the fact that most '80's music was full of lightweights, no-talents, and faggots. And the progressive forces of intolerance who still secretly enjoy their hair band and Steve Perry CDs do not like to be reminded that their taste in music, as in politics, generally sucks.
I do not like progressives. They always want to progress me to the Place du Carrousel in 1793, or Red Square in 1917. If you're going to progress me to the past, I prefer Concord, Massachusetts, 1775. But I truly prefer the here and now. What most of us refer to as Reality. And I want to hear "Christ" in The Ballad of John and Yoko, if only to laugh at Lennon's presumptions, and I want to hear "faggot" in Money For Nothing, if only to laugh at Sting's overwrought misgivings for participating in the first place.
I normally don't write about My Quotidian Life© unless the United States Postal Service is involved, but this story bears sharing. Set up: I am on the back patio, enjoying a cup of joe, my cat perched quietly at the base of an oak tree, dozing.
Now: comes a feral squirrel down the tree, head first like Dracula on his parapet, barking like a carnival worker at the cat, and apparently in high dudgeon. Aside: I've been a good sport about allowing the squirrel pests to live around here, despite their widespread aggressive behavior. Primarily because I'm too lazy to harvest their carcasses and dispose of them. Yet they continue to abuse my ruddy good nature.
Back to the scene: the squirrel is barking away, and inching towards the cat. The cat is now awake, alarmed, and terrified. No fighter, she. It dawns on me this damned squirrel is going to attack the cat. My odds lay on the cat, of course, but I'm thinking a bloody little skirmish, vet bills, and the likelihood the cat will be beheaded for rabies tests.
Not having time to fetch a pellet gun I picked up a rock and tried to hit the tree to at least scare the beast away. It was impervious to my remonstrations. The second rock hit it squarely in the noggin, and felled the foul thing. I really hadn't meant to hit it, but that rock cracked on like smoke and oakum, and smote the fucking tar out of that bushy Beelzebub. It was akin to the beaner that destroyed Tony Conigliaro's career in '67. Just devastating.
The squirrel fell to the ground atop the cat, who wisely executed a retrograde movement to the interior of the abode, post-haste. Now I am pissed. At myself. I hadn't wanted to kill the creature, merely shoo it away. Now I was going to have to fetch the pellet gun and dispatch it. But. But! It might just be stunned. It might recover. And so I sipped my coffee, and observed the little Nimrod. It lay on its back and tried to screech its hatred at me, but it was enfeebled, and could only manage some gutteral ad hominems.
After a couple of minutes the tail went erect, and the little Rasputin managed to turn himself upright. In that position he lay quite still for ten minutes, but never taking his weather eye off me. Eventually he was able to turn in circles like a punch drunk boxer. This went on for at least twenty minutes. Eventually, after at least half an hour, he felt capable of facing me, quietly, plotting some measure of revenge.
At this point a tuxedo cat sprang from the bushes, leapt upon the squirrel, smashed its face into the dirt, and scampered off. Another aside: I know this cat. His reward picture has been up by the mailbox for a week. I know where he lives in the shrubbery, I just don't find one hundred dollars worth the effort of ensacking a clawed animal bent upon survival. And I always forget to telephone the grieving owners about his whereabouts.
The squirrel? He bolted, dizzily, finally convinced he was not Napoleon on this day, but perhaps Marshal Foch a century later.
I don't understand these squirrels. They are insane, and aggressive. Unlike any I've known. Why, not an hour after this incident, I saw two outside my bedroom window, copulating in a tree. Their crude gyrations were in fact not dissimilar to my own fumblings in the boudoir, however I attempt to keep my peccant ways to myself, therefore I claim the moral high ground here. Just this once.
This reminds me of something else I've been meaning to mention, as well, and you ladies pay heed: don't let your men watch Sam Elliott movies. Because the sad truth is most men secretly lust for sex with Sam Elliott, and desire his scruffy moustache to graze their necks while he purrs, in that gravelly yet comforting voice It's alright, son. It's gonna be alright. Which is why I don't have too many friends. Because I can't trust you guys. Seriously. What? You thought they loved Roadhouse for Swayze? Hell, that's even more gay. Let your man watch a Sacketts movie, but I'd draw the line at the Lifeguard poster.
Crime photographer's image of Feral Squirrel after Velocifeat:
From the Jehmu Greene Guide to Diversity Training:
Bow-tyin' White Boy:
Bow-tyin' Black Boy:
Bowtie-less Indian Girl:
Hope that clears things up.
In reference to a comment Joanie made, I thought I would share a briefing video I found in the desk of Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack. It was labeled Probability Indicators of this Year's Crop Of Dragon's Teeth:
Rubio looks pretty cool with a beard, eh?
Me? I was just rifling around for some surplus peanut subsidies.
Shall be broken, so that the Campaign processes nicely. Blind (although not visionless) Chinese dissident Chen Guangcheng is being returned from the United States embassy in Peking to the nurturing arms of his family, and the communist state. There is some confusion as to the wisdom of this move, the joint Sino-American communique indicating all parties are soon to enjoy the best of all possible worlds, while the peripatetic Chen tells CNN he fears for his family, and feels "let down" by his supposed American benefactors. He was in a United States embassy! The safest place on the planet! Other than Teheran 1979, of course, which is still officially a nut up. And yet we managed to fuck him.
Who brokered this horrifying deal? Hillary Clinton. What does it remind me of? Elian Gonzales. Once again the world sees a poor soul yearning for freedom, or at least whose mother died yearning for her child's freedom, bartered off by yet another goddammed huckstering Clinton. As long as any Clinton has a whore's mouth's hold upon the tailpipe of American diplomacy no potential political refugee is safe.
Who else was involved in this arrangement? Timothy Geithner. Just because he happened to be there for, ah, meetings. I don't recall too many Treasury Secretaries in the past being involved in foreign negotiations. Then again, the United States has never had its entire full faith and credit, its currency, its IOU's, and its pecker in the pocket of a communist regime.
So there's that.
Just as in the Elian case, we will no doubt be subjected in the months and years to come to wonderful stories of Chen's rapprochement with The State, and his family's incredible metamorphosis from disgruntled anarchists to rictus-plastered fans of the regime.
In Velociworld, which is only one recalcitrant Petri dish away from realization, one would be able to marvel at the surgically removed Fallopian tubes of Chelsea, the penii of Bill and Hillary, and the uterus of Barack, preserved in amber under protective glass at the Smithsonian Institution Museum of Natural History. Right next to the Titanoboa Monster Snake fossil, which would be emblazoned with I Tread On You pennants.
Only then will I feel confident in attacking the federal budget with the gasoline-powered, double-edged razor cock I found under my bed this morning after a night of bad weegee, precipitated by the discovery of three 35-year-old placidyls I found in some old foul weather gear.