Friday, December 22, 2006
Ladies and germs, I am proud to announce that your very own beloved blog, Bells On, has won the 2006 Drysdale Award for "Least Influential Political Blog."
I want to thank Grant Miller - officially, and the Academy, and Jesus Christ, of course. The lord is always in my house, y'all. Whoop. Whoop. Also I would like to thank my little shithole of a Hoosier hometown, and all the assclowns and dicktards I encountered there until I was 18 and could get the fuck out of that goddamn place. Your intolerance, stupidity, and unfailing narrow-mindedness in the face of overwhelming proof of being wrongity-wrong-wrong will always be an inspiration to me. I would also like to thank my parents, and those one or two cool teachers I had, who proved to me that you could always roll your eyes, say something sarcastic, and soldier on.
I love you all!
Thursday, December 21, 2006
“Stability in Iraq ultimately depends on spreading the message of Jesus Christ, the message of peace on earth, good will towards men. Everything depends on everyone learning about the birth of the Savior.”
Congratulations, North Carolina's 8th!! You really picked a winner!!
If you haven’t yet figured out that BushCo is rejecting the recommendations of the Iraq Study Group, you have only to check out the alternative plan posted at the American Enterprise Institute’s website. Bush said in his press conference yesterday that he hasn’t finished deciding what he’s going to do yet in his “new way forward,” but you can bet he’s going to use this tired “new” idea of the “troop surge” (thanks for pushing it, John “maverick” McCain! Good to see that your head isn’t still firmly planted inside Bush’s asshole at all!) and all the other neocon reshufflings as an excuse to put together a way forward that really isn’t a way forward at all, but a way to keep us in
For a much better analysis of Bush’s dilemma of the ego, see Sidney Blumenthal’s essay in Salon today (reg. required for free day pass):
The opening section of the ISG report is a lengthy analysis of the dire situation inIf you still doubt that
. But Bush has frantically brushed that analysis away just as he has rejected every objective assessment that had reached him before. He has assimilated no analysis whatsoever of what's gone wrong. For him, there's no past, especially his own. There's only the present. The war is detached from strategic purposes, the history of Iraq and the region, and political and social dynamics, and instead is grasped as a test of character. Ultimately, what's at stake is his willpower. Iraq
Repudiated in the midterm elections, Bush has elevated himself above politics, and repeatedly says, "I am the commander in chief." With the crash of Rove's game plan for using his presidency as an instrument to leverage a permanent Republican majority, Bush is abandoning the role of political leader. He can't disengage militarily from
because that would abolish his identity as a military leader, his default identity and now his only one. Iraq
“And you're talking about legacy. Here, I -- I know -- look, everybody's trying to write the history of this administration even before it's over. I'm reading about George Washington still. My attitude is if they're still analyzing number one, 43 ought not to worry about it, and just do what he think is right, and make the tough choices necessary. We're in the beginning stages of an ideological struggle. It's going to last a while. And I want to make sure this country is engaged in a positive and constructive way to secure the future for our children. And it's going to be a tough battle.”
(Bush then mentions Medicare reform and No Child Left Behind, and asserts that he’s cut the deficit while lowering taxes – yeah, I know – but let’s stay on point.)
“So there's been a lot of accomplishments. But the true history of any administration is not going to be written until long after the person is gone. And it's just impossible for short-term history to accurately reflect what has taken place. Most historians, you know, probably had a political preference. And so their view isn't exactly objective -- most short-term historians. And it's going to take awhile for people to analyze mine, or any other of my predecessors', until down the road, when they're able to take -- you know, watch the long march of history and determine whether or not the decisions made during the eight years I was president have affected history in a positive way.”Get it? He doesn’t have to listen to any criticism while he’s alive, even. Because we don’t understand him. No one can. Because our minds are too firmly rooted in the horror of the present, and “short-term” historians are all against him. According to him, it’s going to take many, many years before history will gain the kind of hindsight that can judge the brilliance of his deeds.
But what I really want to know is, if Bush is a genius in some far off, distant future, can we just bury him in some kind of time capsule and send him there? You know, stick him in a box with an iPod, a McRib sandwich, some hair extensions and a copy of Maxim, and let some future society figure that shit out?
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
That people still feel like the person above feels does not surprise me. That they would express it publicly into a microphone is a little startling to me. And I’m not sure what the whole “coming from
But the best part is that the above quote is not from the kind of NRA-belongin’all-hat-no-cattle cowboy douchebag that the
I feel sorry for Nadia. I do. Because she strikes me as the kind of woman that is unable to imagine a member of her own sex being capable of strength of character and force of will, just because those are qualities that she herself lacks.
And I don’t want to hear any shit from my readers about how I cannot dissect her personality just from hearing two bullshit sentences dribble out of her dumbass mouth. If Frist can perform a medical diagnosis of Terri Schiavo that contradicted all her doctors just from watching a videotape of her poor dead head lolling about on her neck, then I can certainly call that Collin bitch out.
In fact, Nadia, let me make it easy for you. Just take this short quiz:
WHAT KIND OF WOMAN ARE YOU?
When confronted with a difficult situation, do you:
- call Daddy (note that the term “Daddy” can mean either your biological father, one of your stepfathers, or your husband)
- cry really loud
At a party, do you:
- stand in the kitchen with the other women, talking about babies
- wash dishes or otherwise help the hostess
- collect plastic surgeon references
How often do you vote?
- whenever my husband lets me
- always – it’s important to defeat pro-choice candidates
- women should never have gotten the vote
When you were a little girl, what did you want to be when you grew up?
- a ballerina
- a housewife
- a Bush sycophant
If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
- in my daddy’s house, biding my time until my bitch mama dies and I can assume my rightful place of honor beside the man I love best.
Now please tell us what kind of code we should give you for your results
__ Live Journal/Blogspot
__ My Space
__ one of those internets tube things
Congratulations, Nadia! Your results are in, and you are:
AN IGNORANT CUNT
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
I have an aversion to holiday sweaters. I know I’m not the only one, but when I see an otherwise attractive woman walking around in stirrup pants and one of these babies…
…it’s like she doesn’t want her husband to fuck her again, EVER.
They only time the above sweaters are acceptable is if you are over 75 years old AND live in the Midwest or other deeply unfashionable area of the country, or are so disfigured that you are actually trying to keep people from discerning a human body shape underneath your head.
I received a holiday sweater once. It was the holiday sweater to end all holiday sweaters. I wish I had a picture of it. But let me describe it to you. It was a red cardigan divided into panels featuring different scenes of TEDDY BEARS baking CHRISTMAS COOKIES. And buttons of the sweater? Well, they were shaped like CHRISTMAS COOKIES, of course. Were there sequins, or beads, or other embellishments on the sweater as well, you ask? Girl, you know there were. You know that sweater weighed about 28 pounds. 28 pounds of serious, serious, ugly.
At this point, one of you out there should be nodding your head in recognition. Because you gave me that sweater. Do you remember? Do you? Because, when I received that sweater I thought “This person has known me my whole life. On what freakin planet, in what kind of strange bizarro universe, do I wear a FUCKING CHRISTMAS SWEATER WITH FUCKING TEDDY BEARS BAKING FUCKING CHRISTMAS COOKIES???”
It was like you didn’t even know me. Or like you were trying to tell me that I was old, and that my days of looking attractive should by all rights be over, and that that holiday sweater was my initiation into the post-cute club or something. And that hurt.
To be fair, you’ve done fine since then, and I have never spoken to you of the Holiday Sweater Incident. But if you are reading this, and you want to acknowledge your mistake, and offer up an excuse that involves a Xanax overdose, or perhaps being pressured into the purchase by a former significant other with really bad taste, I would be willing to let bygones be bygones. You know, it the spirit of Christmas and all that.
(thanks to my sis for the awesome fugly holiday sweater montage)
Monday, December 18, 2006
That same poll showed that “more Americans express doubts about a candidate who served in Bush’s cabinet (59%) than one who is gay or lesbian (53%).”
So is that, as my friend JackJo asks, a measure of how far gays and lesbians have come, or a measure of how far BushCo has fallen?
Both, I guess. Because although the G&Ls did better BushCo, they are still on a par with the Mormon negatives (53% would have “some reservations” or be “very uncomfortable” about a Mormon seeking the White House”).
Well, first of all, I blame Bill Paxton for the Mormon negatives. Because people tend to personalize questions like this, and when I think of a Mormon president I get a wicked mental picture of Bill and his fugly Mormon baby mommas overrunning the White House and setting back the already tenuous First Lady fashion sense a couple of centuries.
Similarly, I think the African-American/woman numbers are more a measure of Obama/Clinton popularity than anything else.
Obama’s been getting a lot of that “He’s too centrist!” PR lately, which is, of course, exactly what he wants right now. The Dem left accuses him of “triangulating,” or working with the enemy.
Personally, I think it is his job to work with the enemy. And when the final product is worthwhile legislation, then great. That means you are working for me.
When the final product is bad legislation, and an increase in your own personal power, then bad. That means you are Joe Lieberman.
(thanks to JackJo for both links)
But it turns out that the defensiveness of meateaters is totally justified. Because we vegetarians don't just ACT superior, we ARE superior.
(thanks to all the self-satisfied vegetarians who sent me this one)
Friday, December 15, 2006
...and spotting Ed Begley Jr. in his cute little electric car. Which is what happened to me on the way to work this morning.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
I am a certified marksman with the NRA.
This happened while I was in college. At
Yes, I became deadly three different ways, my friends. As you can imagine, this was a bit off-putting to most guys when they found out. It didn't help that I was also very tall and skinny, and fond of leather jackets and sneering. On the other hand, that whole package was VERY ATTRACTIVE to certain guys, but those ended up not being the kind of guys I really wanted to date. I mean, who wants to be a top ALL THE TIME? Not me. Too exhausting.
But back to riflery.
In riflery class, we had to learn the parts of our .22 rifles and be able to take them apart and put them back together. That was not a problem. We also had to shoot at a bulls-eye in the standing, kneeling, and lying on our stomachs positions. I would get nervous when we were being tested, what with all the “blam! blam!” and my hands would shake, making it hard to aim accurately. I did best in the lying-down position (shaddup) because I could brace my arms against the floor.
For the final exam, I shot a nice grouping in the center of my target from 50 yards. I was excited. I pressed the button to recall my target paper. It was blank. I stared at it for a minute, confused. Then in the range next to me, the guy who was just starting his test yelled out “Hey, someone shot my target!”
I had sighted the target in the lane next to me, instead of my own.
“Ssssh!” I said to him. “I shot it by mistake. Give it to me, and I’ll give you my blank one.”
The guy cooperated, and I turned in an impressive final.
The next week, when we got our results, I was handed a piece of paper from the NRA that said I was a “marksman.” It was the lowest level you could obtain, as I recall, sort of the yellow belt of the gun world, but still. I asked the instructor why the certificate came from the NRA, since this was a class offered by the university, and he smiled and said “The NRA buys our bullets.”
I got junk mail and newsletters from the NRA for a couple of years after that. At some point, I threw the certificate away or lost it. I wish I hadn’t, as I would now frame it and put it on my front porch. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the NRA, but I live in a kind of marginally shitty neighborhood and I am a big fat hypocrite, I guess.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
...but it sure helps.
Let's not forget folks, that the US of A practically invented Holocaust denying.
And carrying on that fine tradition at Iranian president Mahmoud "crazy like an Ayatollah" Ahmadinejad's "Holocaust: Imperialist Zionist Myth or Imperialist Zionist Conspiracy?" conference was our own former presidential candidate, KKK Imperial Dragon and Republican State Senator for the fine state of Louisiana, David Duke, who apparently postulated publicly at the conference that so-called "death camp" ovens were not used for the disposal of bodies, but for the defrosting of delicious Hot Pockets for the Jewish guests of Sandals Treblinka and Sandals Auschwitz-Birkenau.
Also at the conference was an advisor to the Syrian ministry of relgious affairs, who said "If the Holocaust ever occurred, it was a conspiracy against the Arab-Islamic world as today the Middle East is still paying the consequences."
The above remark would seem to suggest that the conference attendants are not so much united in their sincere belief that the Holocaust never happened, as they are that Muslims are the ones who have suffered the most because of it.
They suffer because of their empathy for the Palestinians, apparently. Bahrain, one of the countries participating in the conference, suffers unbelievably. And while their suffering is mainly of the Jew-hating, Michael Jackson-hiding, and terrorism-sponsoring variety, as opposed to the divert-some-of-your-obscene-oil-wealth-away-from-
$175-million-dollar-resorts-and-actually-help-some-Palestinians variety, still, they, you know, suffer.
You are The Star
Hope, expectation, Bright promises.
The Star is one of the great cards of faith, dreams realised
The Star is a card that looks to the future. It does not predict any immediate or powerful change, but it does predict hope and healing. This card suggests clarity of vision, spiritual insight. And, most importantly, that unexpected help will be coming, with water to quench your thirst, with a guiding light to the future. They might say you're a dreamer, but you're not the only one.
What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.
Thanks to one of my newer blog friends, Johnny Yen, for the link to the above pointless diversion.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
But then this guy pretending to be a foreign journalist gets aboard your RV, and gets you to sign a release, and then videotapes you letting loose about how you really feel about women and minorities. Or rather, how your daddy really feels about women and minorities, since it's extremely unlikely that you yourself are capable of independent thought.
Again, bonus, right? Someone is pretending that the tripe that issues from your mouth is meaningful and deep! Woo hoo!
But then it turns out that you were rather easily duped. And that footage of you and your friends gets put into a movie with wide national release, and then the movie does really well and a lot of people see it.
And you come to realize - albeit slowly - that other people are horrified by your behavior and your opinions. And then you find out that you didn't get that job at the major corporation. And then your friend, the one who was with you in the RV, doesn't get that internship that he thought he was a going to get even though his daddy pulled some strings, yo.
And you try to sue the movie studio, and also that fake journalist, saying that you were tricked into consenting. And you hope that by suing that the scenes you are in don't make it into the DVD and forever immortalize you in the annals of asshatdom. But the judge tosses out your case for lack of evidence, and further states that it is unlikely that you can demonstrate damages.
Which is funny. Because you, with your wealthy parents and your privileged lifestyle and your stupid fucking ignorant opinions had the potential to do so much damage in the world yourself. But by having those opinions taken and played not in front of your cronies, but in front of the very people you look down on, you have found, to your horror, that those opinions have damaged you instead. And this confounds you to your core.
Your life is suddenly not going the way you thought it would.
She does not act feral and is completely socialized to humans. She prefers to hang out balanced on my shoulder and purr in my ear, rather than in the carboard box with the comfy towel. She is 4 weeks old but knows how to eat wet food and pee in a box.
My email address is in my profile. If you are in the LA area and can help, drop me a line.
Monday, December 11, 2006
I will admit that I feel fairly stressed right now. It’s stupid, I know, but between the 2 trips to the mall this weekend because the embossing on my gift wasn’t finished when they said it would be, the 2 trips to Fry’s to purchase the correct size photo paper for the homemade cards, the hour and a half devoted to finding stamps and stickers for those same cards, the search for the correct pastry bag tip for the meringue Christmas cookies, the time I spent driving to 3 different grocery stores looking for 1 quart Ball jars, the 35 minutes I spent waiting in line at the post office, the $105 dollars I spent JUST ON MAILING gifts, and the soul-crushing circle of hell known as CostCo, is it any wonder we domestically inclined gals are susceptible to throwing back a case of Chardonnay and passing out on the lawn under the sprinklers?
Q: How many people do you have to kill before some fucking morons will withdraw support for your administration?
A: If Chile is any example, a lot. A fucking lot.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Readers who know me know I love me some Christopher Hitchens. If you haven’t read his latest piece in Vanity Fair on why we ladies are more than a bit crippled in the humor department, I have provided a portion of it below. Of course, I could not resist my own entirely worshipful commentary, inserted in italics. It’s a liberty for which I know - in my deeply feminine and unfunny heart - Mr. Hitchens would forgive me.
Why Women Aren’t Funny
By Christopher Hitchens
Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: "He's really quite cute, and he's kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff…
Guilty as charged! We gals just can’t resist a guy who knows stuff!
…and he's so funny … " (If you yourself are a guy, and you know the man in question, you will often have said to yourself, "Funny? He wouldn't know a joke if it came served on a bed of lettuce with sauce béarnaise.")
Ho ho ho! That is so SPOT ON, Hitch! I mean, if I’ve heard a guy use that “sauce béarnaise” analogy once, I’ve heard it a hundred times. Seriously, Hitch, the next time my boyfriend brings up that bed of lettuce with the sauce thing, I am so going to be chuckling, thinking of you.
However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: "She's a real honey, has a life of her own … [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] … and, man, does she ever make 'em laugh."
Hitch, you forgot the part where he goes on to say “And she absolutely loves it that I talk like a character from a 1940s Frank Capra movie!”
Now, why is this? Why is it the case?, I mean. Why are women, who have the whole male world at their mercy, not funny? Please do not pretend not to know what I am talking about.
Wow, Hitch. You busted me. I WAS going to pretend like I didn’t know what you meant by women having the whole male world at their mercy. I was going to bring up retrograde anti-choice laws in the US, and Muslim sharia law, and then segue into a listing of all the major world religions that treat women as inferior and reinforce cultural repression against women - including female genital mutilation and honor killings, and even talk about the still pervasive fear, even among American women, that the streets of their own neighborhoods, no matter where they live, are not as safe and as free to them as they are to men, and how that affects your understanding of your place in the world, which would most definitely NOT be a place of holding men at your mercy, but…well, like I said: I stand busted, Hitch. At my mercy you most certainly are.
All right—try it the other way (as the bishop said to the barmaid).
Can I just interject here and say that I bow down to you, Hitch? I totally would have gone for a “that’s what she said,” but you took the high road with the whole bishop/barmaid reference, and that sentence is all the funnier for it. Bravo.
Why are men, taken on average and as a whole, funnier than women? Well, for one thing, they had damn well better be. The chief task in life that a man has to perform is that of impressing the opposite sex, and Mother Nature (as we laughingly call her)…
Holy cow, you know, I DO call her that laughingly! How do you know that, Hitch? It’s like you can see right into the depths of my soul.
…is not so kind to men. In fact, she equips many fellows with very little armament for the struggle. An average man has just one, outside chance: he had better be able to make the lady laugh.
I couldn’t agree more. Superior physical strength, good looks, money, a cushy job at a national glossy magazine – none of those things really impress women. Go to your local comedy club and survey those guys, and you’ll see that in terms of attracting rich, powerful, and desirable women, those open mike stand-up guys have got it made.
Making them laugh has been one of the crucial preoccupations of my life.
And it shows!
If you can stimulate her to laughter—I am talking about that real, out-loud, head-back, mouth-open-to-expose-the-full-horseshoe-of-lovely-teeth, involuntary, full, and deep-throated mirth; the kind that is accompanied by a shocked surprise and a slight (no, make that a loud) peal of delight—well, then, you have at least caused her to loosen up and to change her expression. I shall not elaborate further.
Out of modesty, I have no doubt.
Women have no corresponding need to appeal to men in this way. They already appeal to men, if you catch my drift…
If only I had known this when I was a skinny, pimply, bespectacled, no-boob-havin’ teenager with braces! Then I totally wouldn’t have had to develop a personality!
*…This is not to say that women are humorless, or cannot make great wits and comedians. And if they did not operate on the humor wavelength, there would be scant point in half killing oneself in the attempt to make them writhe and scream (uproariously).
Hitch, you scamp. I think you’re making a sly reference to the notion that a women laughing is very similar in attitude and vocal inflection to a women in the throes of sexual ecstasy! Am I right? Did I get it?
Wit, after all, is the unfailing symptom of intelligence.
I couldn’t agree more.
Men will laugh at almost anything, often precisely because it is—or they are—extremely stupid.
Wow. I am so moved, really, by your attempt at self-deprecation. It is charming, and utterly convincing.
Women aren't like that.
It’s so true. Women do NOT laugh at stupid things. I am reminded of that universal truth every time my mother forwards to me an email about the antics of cats.
And the wits and comics among them are formidable beyond compare: Dorothy Parker, Nora Ephron, Fran Lebowitz, Ellen DeGeneres. (Though ask yourself, was Dorothy Parker ever really funny?) Greatly daring—or so I thought—
You know what I think? I think the test of a truly great mind is the ability to define the confines of the opposition’s argument, and then to destroy their argument by tearing down the definition of it that you yourself have concocted! And all in two and a half sentences!
I resolved to call up Ms. Lebowitz and Ms. Ephron to try out my theories. Fran responded: "The cultural values are male; for a woman to say a man is funny is the equivalent of a man saying that a woman is pretty."
And good for you, Hitch, for not taking this statement and inferring the larger (and surely ludicrous!) point that perhaps it’s not that women are not as funny as men, but that their humor is not being defined by the people that share their experiences, at least to some extent. I would hate to see you stoop so low. Like if you drew some analogy to those intelligence tests they used to administer to school children that always showed that minority and poor children weren’t smart because they didn’t know that, for instance, in a exercise wherein one must link words from two lists that are often paired in speech, the word “cup” must of course be linked to the word “saucer.” Because saucers are a universal truth of the lives of children, rich or poor, black or white. As is the humor of men. It is universal to both sexes. I can see that, Hitch. With a little help from you, of course.
There is, as you might have guessed, more to Mr. Hitchen’s argument. I invite you to immerse yourself in the world of his wisdom here. Martinis optional.
*At this point I have edited out a small section on a Stanford study of humor recognition in men and women that was so asinine it was difficult to make fun of effectively. But check it out in the original article. It’s all about whether women think some cartoons are as funny as men think they are. I’m not kidding.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
If it ain't broke, don't, you know, say that it is, just so you can make more money and stuff, ya greedy bastard
Doesn't it seem like a smart investor would want to buy into companies that are forced to comply with strict accounting regulations? And if the US markets are losing share, isn't simply part of the natural growth of other world markets?
Well, it turns out that Robert Reich agrees with me.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
It's gone in and out of style several times since those days, but it was always there, like an pale, mellow old friend. A friend who doesn't shout for your attention, but rather, hangs out, waiting for you to re-discover how good its company is. And I loved that about Rolling Rock.
When Anheuser-Busch bought up the brewery and shut down the Latrobe, PA bottling plant, I vowed to never drink it again.
And I've stayed true to my promise. No problem.
But it's not enough that A-B killed the integrity of Rolling Rock, now they're dragging its corpse through the streets and pissing on it.
Giuliani hired Bill Bratton as police commissioner, and Bratton put together a team of cops who transformed the way America polices itself. Deputy Commissioner Jack Maple had invented a statistics-based system called Compstat that entailed "flooding the zone" with cops in whatever physical location showed an uptick in crime. As head of the city's transit cops Bratton had applied the "broken windows" theory, which posits that cracking down on petty crimes catches perps guilty of bigger crimes and sends a message of order, and had cleaned up the subways. Together, Compstat and "broken windows" and Bratton's team helped push New York's crime numbers down.
They also pushed Bratton to center stage, and that drove Rudy crazy. Only a year into Rudy's first term, when Bratton was praised in the pages of the New Yorker, NYPD press spokesman John Miller was asked to downsize his staff of 35. The former ABC newsman refused, saying he wouldn't be "a loyal Nazi," and quit.
In 1996, Bratton's face appeared on the cover of Time. Giuliani got rid of him. He also, apparently, initiated an investigation into whether a Bratton book deal constituted a conflict of interest. It was speculated that Rudy fired the man many called the nation's best police chief because he was, simply, insanely jealous.
To replace Bratton, Giuliani brought in Howard Safir -- a move that alienated the remaining players on Team Bratton, particularly Bratton's No. 2 man, John Timoney. When a visibly dismayed Timoney referred to Safir as a "lightweight," Giuliani, in a move that would set the tone for his zero-tolerance policy toward dissent, first tried to demote Timoney to captain, then forced Timoney out of office, ordering him to take a leave of absence until his retirement. Jack Maple, the man responsible for Compstat, resigned days later.
Giuliani, having destroyed what might have been the best management team in NYPD history, had to start from scratch. Bratton's successors continued using the tactics of the men Rudy had canned, but twisted and distorted them. Giuliani and Safir, in trying to one-up the strategic balance of the Bratton team's approach to law enforcement, opted to jack up the "enforcement" and not pay so much attention to the "law."
(The post title quote is how Jimmy Breslin once described Giuliani.)
I swear, if Bush handed them a big plate of shit, they'd say "Hey, at least he didn't kick us in the balls when we ate it!"
It seems pretty clear that in the past Robert Gates has been guilty of...wait for it...cooking intelligence in order to provide cover to the administration in power. If we put this guy in charge of the Pentagon, how does that help us get the fuck out of Iraq and stay the fuck out of Iran?
Goddamn Senate Democrat ass clowns. You'd think they lost the last midterms, not won them.
Monday, December 04, 2006
BushCo nemesis Hugo Chavez was easily re-elected in Sunday’s Venezuelan presidential election. In his acceptance speech, he unveiled a new nickname for our own president: “Mr. Danger.”
Even given that something might be getting lost in the translation, “Mr. Danger” is WAY too cool a nickname for 43. It makes him sound like some kind of a mildly retarded James Bond villain, an achievement that would be significantly beyond the abilities of our commander-in-chief. I mean, "Now watch this drive” - yes. “Now say goodbye, Mr. Bond” - uh...no.
If I may suggest, Mr, Chavez, why not call him “Cabeza Arbusto”? It’s original, it’s demeaning without being obscene (at least as far as I know), it's a spin on a famous Texas explorer, and it makes reference both to the inarticulate stuffing of his noggin, and his first mismanaged Daddy-funded venture. I think it’s kinda cute. And it’s yours. No attribution necessary.
I’m sure there’s going to be a lot of editorial hand-wringing about the Los Angeles City Council’s recent decision not to plant any more palm trees on streets and medians, but you won’t hear any from me. I fucking hate palm trees, and here’s why:
1. Where’s the shade, bro? It’s a hundred a twenty degrees out; I could do with a patch of shade that’s more than eighteen inches square.
2. Have you ever had a palm frond fall on your head from a seventy-five foot tree? Surprisingly painful.
3. You can’t really count yourself as a citizen of LA until you’ve driven over a frond and had it wrap around your wheel and disable your car.
4. Once palm trees reach a certain height, they must be professionally trimmed every couple of months or citrus rats will nest in the dead fronds. And in a city where a domestic beer in a bar is seven bucks, gas is still over $2.50 a gallon, and the median home price hovers around half a million dollarinos, professional palm tree trimming is so what I want to be spending my money on.
Friday, December 01, 2006
While I always applaud the investigation of fraud, I can't help pointing out here that Diebold, whose crimes are too numerous to mention here now (especially with TGIF nearly upon us), continues to operate with impunity. The officers and directors of Diebold, who have lied and dissembled time and time again about the technology and systems upon which our most important right relies, walk the streets of this nation, scot free.
So yeah, let's for chrissakes make sure no one in any office of elections in VENEZUELA got bribed at all. That's an excellent priority. Good job, Justice Department. You continue to surprise and delight.
Hey parents, are you tired of listening to that Barney CD your kids have now played 28 times in a row?
How about you pick up a copy of Brats on the Beat, a kid-friendly tribute to the Ramones?
My man, Spooney, sings a track on the record. You can also hear Brett Anderson of The Donnas, Matt Skiba of Alkaline Trio, and Nick Oliveri from Queens of the Stone Age.
And if you don't want to peruse their MySpace page, and just want to skip to the part where you buy the fucking thing - look! Look! It's on fucking Amazon, baby!