September 28, 2012

Help!

This is a rare instance of raw video without lip syncing. Man, there was a day when John Lennon was a real rock star. Not what passes for it today.


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Rutting for the Prophet

There has been evidence that our ambassador to Libya, Chris Stevens, was sexually violated by his al Qaeda attackers prior to his death. I have no idea how true these allegations are, but they seem to come from multiple, indigenous sources. Certainly not from our State Department or Royal Media.

If true, these assertions speak to incredibly heinous conclusions: that we sent a good man, on the anniversary of 9/11, to an unprotected consulate, there to be defiled and murdered, despite the fact we had information of insurrection and attack, but chose not to act upon it. Those two ex-SEALS who died were not part of his security apparatus. They voluntarily came to the ambassador's aid. His only security were local home boys. Of indisputable reputation, I am sure.

An American ambassador. A man, also, of impeccable reputation. Brutalized, sodomized, tortured. And apparently we had the names of a few of the culprits, but have yet to act upon it. And our administration cannot speak about these things because there is an ongoing FBI investigation. Although that crack team has apparently not left the safe haven of the Georgetown Dunkin' Donuts yet.

This is maddening. Hell, the damned Libyans are pissed we haven't hung a few of these bastards. The Libyans like us. The Egyptians? Who knows. But if I were President, and I had information that an American ambassador had not only been murdered, but sodomized? I would unleash Holy Hell.

One other thing: Arabs never seem to work. They sit in cafes while their wives bust their asses, drink coffee, shoot the shit, then, eventually, get off their asses to shoot off an RPG and ass fuck a dying man. This culture has issues.

Also: to my liberal friends: if this had happened on Bush's watch it would be Big News. Why do you rekcon we aren't hearing a peep? Shame on all of you.

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September 25, 2012

Lies, Damned Lies, and Polls

One should never paraphrase Twain. He wielded words like Bill the Butcher wielded a pigsticker. But he's dead, so screw him. Just this once.

Some talk of polls here lately. Some polite, some not so polite. I don't happen to care for polls. I believe they are at best innocently inaccurate, at worst consistently skewed against my guys for political reasons. Also, polls are like enthusiasms. I'm likely to find yours perverse and filthy, while mine are perfectly sublime.

I know a bit about statistics. I've been p-Tested more than I've been pee-tested.

The point is, polls are all garbage. Some are better than others, but they are all inherently flawed. The only reason they are employed at all is because we ain't got nothing else to gauge public opinion. And, like chariot races at the Hippodrome, we all love to see a good tight race, hopefully with razors flashing, and polls somehow seem to always manage to promise that despite the eventual outcomes.

The biggest thing to remember about polls is that ludicrous term "margin of error." All polls sample, as they cannot poll entire populations, so margin of error is the supposed confidence level of the pollster. The greater the sample, in theory, the greater the confidence level, and the less the margin of error. This is elementary knowledge. But the margin of error only measures random sampling error. In political polling, for instance, the random chance that more Republicans will be polled than truly exist in that electoral population. Random sample error is impossible to ignore, and the margin of error reflects that level of uncertainty.

In polling, however, especially political polling, there are all manner of nonrandom errors. And remember in this case "error" doesn't mean mistake. It means a deviation from the actual facts. Error can be unknown, or actually introduced into the methodology. For instance, perhaps more Republicans than Democrats work, and therefore more Democrats answer the telephone at home. Pollsters attempt to "correct" this. Perhaps more under 30 people in the sample do not have landlines. Pollsters attempt to "correct" for this.

Sometimes corrections actually do eliminate some of the nonrandom error. Sometimes they do more harm than good. An assumption that under-30's are X% more Democrat than Republican (based on 2008 turnout) results in an adjustment for the voters that attempts to correct this. But what if that is no longer the case? NBC just released a poll that oversampled Democrats by +10% in Ohio. That may have been the case at the end of the day in November 2008, but is it now?

The nonrandom error in political polling is so pervasive as to be impossible to measure. For instance, having recently learned from the sages at MSNBC that the words "Chicago" and "golf" are now racist dog whistles, I would never, as a conservative, answer a poll truthfully. I don't trust the poller with my voter preference and my phone number. I don't know that guy. Fuck him!

In addition to attempts to massage the numbers to correct for perceived nonrandom error, there is also intentional manipulation. All pollsters vote, I would imagine. They all have their fair-haired boy, and even subliminal bias that affects their methodologies. Finally: pollsters don't just release polls; they sell them. They sell internals, they pre-sell public polls, they are in the business not of polling, but of making money, of course. And they, like the media, make more money when races are close. Polling indicating a blowout makes the poll less valuable to a candidacy. Possibly even worthless. The tighter the race, the more valuable the polling data, especially the leading and lagging demographics. An entity in the business of making money from polling is always going to walk the fine wire between reliability on past performance and skewing the model to tighten that race up.

I haven't really mentioned the pressure the media places on polling firms to arrive at optimal optics. It happens. All the day long.

Polling? Bah. You can have it. It is the modern version of phrenology, without the cheap thrill of skull frottage. It is as corrupt as an excommunicated bishop, as foul as three day old chicken innards. Actually, reading those chicken entrails might prove more illuminating. Polls aren't worthless, as long as you have some grasp of what's truly lurking behind that whore's makeup. But grain of salt, and all.

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September 23, 2012

An Incumbent's Worst Nightmare

Gallup released this today. Note the Romney bounce after the 47% "gaffe":


OvsR.png


But to hear Skippy arguing with the voices in his head, Romney is running the worst campaign since "Daisy" Goldwater. And this is just registered voters. Likely voters will always attend the polls in greater numbers than the malt liquor crowd, our majesty's cohort of choice.

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September 22, 2012

Bad Days at Blackrock

Unemployment is at 8.1%. The truer unemployment rate, U6, is at 15%. The federal debt has climbed to $16 trillion. Thousands upon thousands of Muslims are protesting in the street, and killing each other. Not because of a film which may or may not exist, but because they preternaturally hate us. Particularly, they hate Barack Obama. Just like they hated Bush. We are also, as a salacious aside, on the precipice of global economic ruin.

Should be good times for alarmist journalists. But all they can focus on is Mitt Romney making the rather truthful and casual statement (back in May, in remarks to donors) that 47% of the citizenry are on some level of the dole. Every presidential hopeful or president running for reelection for the last 200 years has known 47% of the elecorate are against him. Their eggs are in the other guy's basket. Fine. In Republicans' case this is the 47% who do not wish their teat removed. Romney seems to want to supplant the teat with a job. This is some kind of fucking heresy?

The world burns, the world burns. And our President and Secretary of State run advertisements on Pakistani television apologizing for our First Amendment. Groveling. On their figurative knees. They should have just fellated a goddam imam. By the way, your tax dollars paid for that exercise in dhimmitude.

This is the worst global and political environment our nation has ever been in. It is possibly past the fail safe point. But you know what? Mitt Romney overpaid his taxes. And he obviously overpaid them to artificially inflate his tax rate. That dissembling, untrustworthy Mormon bastard. That is what we are spoon fed by the goon squads that pass for journalists in this souring country. They text and collude and come up with the Two Minute Hate against Romney every day. Orwell was clever: Emmanuel Goldstein was an apparent Jew, ripe for excoriation. Romney is a damned Mormon. Gives 30% of his filthy ill-gotten gains to charity. And charities he chooses! How dare he, the preening shit? The State must collect, and dispense to those they deem worthy. I.e. Democrat voters.

The world burns. But you wouldn't know it watching that goddam idiot box. 7 of the 10 richest counties in this country surround Washington, DC. That is where the wealth of this nation resides. In the thousands of lawyers, lobbyists, hangers-on, groupies, and politicians that rape our pocketbooks to buy themselves favors. Forget nuking Mecca. That shithole will collapse upon itself eventually anyway. We should nuke Fairfax County, Virginia.

This election is close enough the Democrats will successfully steal it. 99% of all voter fraud is committed by Democrats, and always has been, all the way back to Boss Tweed days. They will steal it in Cincinnati, in Norfolk, and in Miami. That's an easy task. And those are the only 3 cities you need to deliver 3 states, and the brass ring that will become brass knuckles. If you think Obama was an arrogant ass unwilling to work with the loyal opposition in his first term, you ain't seen nothing yet.

I believe I would rather be governed for the next four years by the chicken that plays tic-tac-toe at Wonderworks in Orlando than Obama. At least, statistically speaking, the chicken will only get half her decisions wrong.

Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumfuck ride.

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September 8, 2012

Letting One's Freak Flag Fly

This should have been the theme song of the Democratic National Convention. Rome is burning, but some spoiled rich bitch who just graduated college at 31 can't get the revanchist Papists to pay to keep her eggs in the ovulatory hoosegow. Because she needs to fuck something, and you need to pay for it.



As an aside, this is a great song, and Crosby is a smart fellow, despite his shortcomings. I understand and appreciate his irony here. Still...

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September 5, 2012

The Scooping of the Innards

Watching the Democratic National Convention last night I was nonplussed at the raging pro-abortionism being displayed. It was rabid, and incessant. And totally distasteful.

Regardless of where one stands on this particular issue, it is simply amazing that the Democrats felt the need to fight a battle they won 40 years ago, as if that victory had never existed. Good Sweet Christ, 55 million abortions have occurred since 1973. Who, precisely, is being denied? And why this fight? Why now? Is this, finally, the only thing the Democrats have to run on?

I have no great personal stand on the issue. Feelings, certainly, but I am at heart a pragmatist. I do not look around me and see a sacrosanct species. We are certainly the most clever creatures on the block, but at the end of the day we are parasites on the biosphere. Probably not harmful ones, but definitely not creators. We've built no mountains, formed no seas. Sometimes our cupidity in fiddling with Mother Nature causes great fires to scorch great swaths that would otherwise have simply rejuvenated the forest. But at the end of the day we are ants. Cursed with our sense of mortality, which in turn informs our various senses of morality.

To the scraping of the guts: as I said, I'm a pragmatist. If someone doesn't want their child, I'll be fucked if I want to raise it for them. It's probably rotted seed anyway. I have no desire to protect the unborn of a meth slut any more than I wish to protect the zygote of Kate Middleton. If you don't want it, neither do I. And if you desire to speak to me of the wonders of adoption, great. The foster homes continue to overflow. If you truly desire to raise someone else's child go there. There are thousands of needy, damaged children in this country who could use you. Unless, of course, your desire is confined to wanting a perfectly special little white infant whose parents have acceptable pedigrees. I would counsel, however, that if that is what you want, call the AKC and buy a fucking dog.

Now that I have recertified myself as a callous bastard, let us look at the two sides of this mighty moral dilemma. First, the pro-lifers. Say what you will about their need to force themselves upon your right to choose what to do with your very own body, at least they honestly believe that a fetus is a human life. This is the only thing that drives them. Mostly for religious reasons, but not always. Some secularists sanctify humanity, of course. You may disagree with their need to intrude into the interior depths of your body, but they take a rather more nuanced approach to that: to wit, you abrogated certain human rights when you willfully misused your body and created an unwanted life. You created another life to be respected. You complicated the shit out of things, God damn you, and now there aren't any easy answers.

I rather respect that opinion. I also respect the fact that I wouldn't want anyone dictating to a female loved one of mine that anyone is going to control their bodies. I'll shoot someone for breaking into my car, for heaven's sake. Well, I'll wound him. I would of consistency have to consider a uterus the ultimate in private property. After my prostate, of course. I fully understand the pro-choice side's position here. Borning a creature inside oneself is unlike anything else in our rather vivid imaginations. Forcing a woman to carry a child to term ain't much different that forcing Elian Gonzales back to Cuba. You just have to hold the gun to their head a great deal longer.

Which brings us to the generally unspoken thing here. The fetus. What is that thing? Very few pro-choicers will tell you that it is a human being. To them it's something different. Something they seldom call by name. They used to call it a blob, a cluster of cells, a mishmash. Usually it's just "the fetus." Although premature children survive terrifying odds, I find it amazing that so many secular pro-choicers feel the designation of "human being" is only conferred when the spark of life is conveyed while exiting the vagina. What a horrifying, backwards superstition! It is so primitive as to defy logic. Does my Caesarian birth, for instance, make me a beast? Does breath alone endow a soul?

Me? I believe what we know as "life" begins at conception. Because it has to start somewhere, and I reckon when cells merge is as good a place to start as any. No sliding scale for me. Because then you are counting angels dancing on the head of a pin. Picking pepper out of fly shit. Having said that, I'm not going to prevent someone from killing the human being growing inside her. It isn't mine, after all (whew!). If the slag whore down the street wants to kill that human inside her I'll chip in, in fact. Done it before for friends in distress. Wasn't happy about it, but I did it. If you don't want your gruzzly little whelp in the world I don't either. You know better than me on these things.

But what is that thing? It may not be human, but it's certainly alive. It's a creature. One that absorbs and exsorbs oxygen, albeit in a somewhat primitive manner. It feels pain. It feels distress. Like a monkey undergoing cosmetics testing, it can be hurt. Just throwing a stupid strawman out there, but if I can destroy someone's laboratories for testing vaccines on mice I should probably destroy an abortion clinic for snipping the skulls of fetuses. If I am consistent about the sanctity of all life. That fetus is a creature, and infinitely more helpless than a rhesus monkey. At least the monkey can bite the fucking shit out of you, given the chance.

My ultimate take? This won't be decided in courts of law. It will be decided by moral suasion. As the viability of premature births continues to improve, as nanotechnology allows us to gaze deeper and deeper into the development of the human body in utero, we shall become fascinated with these developments. Imagine having nanodevices not only recording the development of fingers and toes, but actually repairing heart and lung defects on 12 week old fetuses. To remove them at 12 weeks and incubate them in artificial amniotics. It's going to become more popular than Jersey Shore.

In 100, or 200 years, abortion will be looked on as we look upon the sacrificial removal of slave hearts by crazed Incan priests. Barbaric, bloodthirsty, and shameful. Of course, we will be able to remove those unwanteds instead of killing them (what are those things?) and raise them to viability. In fact, there will probably be a thriving and frisky trade in 10 week old fetuses. And our descendants will look upon us as murderous lynchers.


P.S. An aside to Olbermann: I know exsorbs isn't a word. I made it up just to draw you out of the closet.

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The DNC

Sometimes you just have to post something to make the last something go away. I have no comment on the resurrection of Barack Obama as their once and future king, at this point.

This is their circle jerk. My alimentary canal has not processed it, as yet. But the cilia be abiding, and inexorable. Shan't be quiet for too long.

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September 1, 2012

Joxygen

Joxygen is that rare air that sports writers breathe when in the locker rooms of their idols. It is a debilitating tocsin that renders them incapable of coherent thought or action. It makes them say strange and ludicrous things. Homoerotic things, for the most part.

Other fields of endeavor, the worlds of letters or cinema or theater, for example, have critics. Likewise incapable people, to be sure, but at least people who endeavor to deconstruct and inform us via their knowledge. The world of sports does not have critics. Only enthusiasts. They seldom explain why Team A sucks. They want to tell you why Team B rawks! Or, more tellingly, why player C is the shits of their dreams.

To watch a Bob Costas, or a Keith Olbermann in his ESPN days, is to see an unabashed jock sniffer so oblivious to his own primal absorption with feral, muscular men as to be an abject fucking retard.

I am utterly convinced that Bob Costas would rather have Zeke Mowatt sit on his face than Kate Upton. The only Sports Illustrated edition sports writers never devour cover to cover is the swimsuit issue. I find it a truly strange profession, insofar as these sports writers are never called out for their flagrant and erotic love of sweating, corpustulent men.

Having said that, I live in Athens, the Belly of the SEC Beast, and Georgia just beat Buffalo like a rented mule. And that is a good thing. I just don't need to be in the team showers around the players' freshly-scrubbed schlongs to appreciate it. Keith.

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No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

My airing of grievances so long before Festivus was possibly ill-considered, but awakening with a clear conscience every day is so bourgeois. I'm sure that fat polyclod Sartre would have had none of it.

On a more important note I helped a friend of a friend move today. I'm usually quite selfish when inebriated, and this works for me, but in an expansive moment last night I thought What Would Mitt Do? And so I volunteered for the task.

The person in question is a hoarder. I was not aware of this fact beforehand, but set my teeth and plunged into the moment, the previous night's cabernet oozing from my ruined pores like a tar sands strike.

I'd forgotten my work gloves, but in this instance latex gloves would have been more appropriate. With a Georgia game pending, and the cabernet again persistently beckoning, I returned home upon completion and thoroughly showered, only to emerge from my ablutions with a horrid red rash on both hands.

I'm unsure what this is, but I am very reluctant to prepare my own repasts at this point. Not going to pick my nose. And my opportunities for self-abuse are obviously severely curtailed.

What Would Mitt Do? Show up with his damned work gloves, for one thing.

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