Campaign commercials that should have been

I’m sure I’m not the only frustrated political junkie who writes campaign commercials in my head. Here’s a golden oldie I composed mentally for the 2004 Kerry campaign:

[Under: Comical music.]

Voiceover:

The Bush campaign has tried again and again to smear John Kerry by saying that he’s from “Taxachusetts,” hoping voters will think that tax rates in Kerry’s home state are somehow his fault.

Bush needs a lesson in how government works.

John Kerry has served nineteen years in the U.S. Senate, not the Massachusetts state legislature, and so has no authority to write or sign laws determining the tax rates in Massachusetts.

[Under: Ominous music.]

Voiceover (cont.)

But you know who does have the authority to determine the tax rates? The governor of Massachusetts. Because he signs all the bills into law. And do you know who the governor of “Taxachusetts” is?

Mitt Romney. Republican.

Damn. I swear I don’t know why I don’t get paid to do that.

Yes, the Republicans – and the press, can you believe it? – are strangely silent on the subject of the tax rates in Massachusetts so far this campaign season. And I’m confused by that, because I was in Boston last year, and I had to rent a car, and holy smokes! I paid almost 400 bucks, even though the rental charge itself was only about half of that. The rest, as the townie gal with the elaborate fingernails and the oiled/crispy hair behind the counter explained, shrugging, could be attributed to “Taxachusetts.”

So why haven’t taxes in MA been a huge issue for the Republicans? As governor, Romney has cut the budget deficit largely by raising all sorts of fees and taxes, as well as by closing many tax loopholes. I think if a Democratic governor of MA were running, the opposition, and the press, would’ve brought that up a time or two.

Don’t you?

White House Welcomes American Nobel Prize Winners

Bush: I don't see what the big deal is about this No Bell prize. I coulda won it, but I happen to like bells. Heh, heh. Bells are nice. Like church bells and such. See, the only person who should get excited about a No Bell prize is someone who really hates bells.

Gore: I could kill him now, and not a jury on earth would convict me.

Thanksgiving Leftovers Tacos

Ingredients:

About 1 C. mashed potatoes (regular, sweet, or yam – NOT candied though)

About 4 T. salsa verde (regular salsa is okay if you don’t have tomatillo salsa --although you really should keep some on hand)

A smidge of oil

2 soft corn tortillas (are there any other kind?)

Maybe a ¼ C. cranberry relish. If your relish isn’t made with lime juice and jalapenos, like mine is, you might have to spike it a bit.

Mix a couple of spoonfuls of salsa verde into your mashed potatoes. Make a patty out of the potatoes about the size of a corn tortilla. Fry with a little oil until brown on both sides and thoroughly heated.

While you’re at it, warm your tortillas in that pan as well.

Cut the patty in half, and place each half in one of the corn tortillas. Cover the top of the patties with a good amount of cranberry relish.

Toss some more salsa verde on top of your ingredients. Also, a little green Tabasco or hot sauce of your choice would not be remiss.

Serves two gabachos. Or one, if you’re hungry.

Jamestown, CA

I am, like just about every other American this time of year, thinking about how thankful I am for various things.

As I was walking by my company’s conference room this morning and looking in the window, I realized that I am thankful that I am not one of those guys who has to sit in a meeting where the Power Point presentation is titled “Gasket Update.”

I am also thankful I am not a member of the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers. Because I don’t know how I could sleep at night, knowing that I am denying the members of the Writer’s Guild from getting even one penny* of the profits that I make on the downloads of programs that they fucking wrote.

I am thankful I am not Hillary Clinton, because if someone were to ask a question about me, in public, and that question was “How can we beat the bitch?”, I would hope that the person on the receiving end of the question, even if he were a Republican, would say, “Hey, that’s not an appropriate way to refer to Bells On blogger Vikkitikkitavi in a public forum,” and not “That’s an excellent question! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

I am also thankful I am not any of the Republican presidential candidates. Because I think it would be very difficult to appeal to both 1) the idiots who still insist that Bush is NOT dangerously incompetent and a criminal worthy of impeachment, and to 2) the other sensible Republicans who are trying to salvage their party from the moral garbage heap. I mean, how do you get BOTH of these groups to vote for you? Besides giving tax cuts to fetuses who make over $200,000 a year, that is.

I am thankful I do not drive a BMW, because, well…those people all seem to be assholes, don’t they?

I am very very thankful that I am not a rape victim in Saudi Arabia. In this country, we’re all too familiar with a legal system that “adds insult to injury,” but there, it’s more like “adding vile and shameful travesty of justice to absolutely crippling physical and emotional trauma.”

I am thankful I am an atheist, because it makes me feel self-reliant in the face of chaos, which, holy shit, prepares you for just about anything life throws at you, including cat-turd-laced dog vomit.

And I am so thankful I am not a member of the armed services in Iraq, trying to deal with the distress and danger and uncertainty of my situation while my “grateful nation” tries to screw me out of my signing bonus and charge me for hospital meals after my legs get blown off.

I am equally thankful that I am not an Iraqi citizen, trying to deal with an army of adrenaline-crazed, heavily-armed foreigners who have no idea, and usually about 1 second to decide, whether I am their enemy or their friend.

But I am not only thankful for those things I am not, you know. I am also thankful for those things I do have, including great friends, and family, and the best boyfriend in the world. Also: weekend morning sex, and farmer’s markets, and diner breakfasts, and coffee, and driving north on Highway 1, and sand dollars, and little silver charms, and 3 a.m. Star Trek reruns.

I am thankful my divorce didn’t make me less likely to love Spooney, but more so.

I am even thankful for this here blog, as juvenile and foul-mouthed and opinionated and intolerant as it may seem to be. I do, as you may have guessed by now, have a bit more love for my fellow countrymen than I let on sometimes. Have a good Thanksgiving Day holiday, all you Americans out there, wherever you find yourselves.

*link courtesy of Very Hot Jews

This is what a bad dog looks like

photo by Kate Levy

So, this weekend, Spooney and I were doing some cleaning, and as a result, we put the dirty cat box outside until we could get to changing it. Unfortunately, we also put Buster outside, completely forgetting that he has a fondness for cat-box crunchies.

Until then, Buster had been foiled in his quest for the crunchies recently, due to Spooney’s ingenious idea of putting the folding stool in front of the only access point to the litter box. Perhaps that is why, unbeknownst to us, the crunchie-deprived Buster gorges himself.

Cut to an hour later. Spooney is in the shower. I am doing yardwork. Suddenly Spooney is screaming blue murder. I run into the house.

There is cat-turd-and-litter-infused vomit EVERYWHERE. On the rug. On the chair. On the floor. More on the floor. Gallons of it. EVERYWHERE.

In between bouts of serious retching, we manage to get it cleaned up. The upholstery goes in the washer. The rug gets a vigorous cleaning with god’s gift to pet owners.

Then I go outside, and I find Buster hiding under a bush, drooling brown drool and looking extremely nauseated and scared. He even skips his dinner of tummy-settling boiled rice that night, which is a first in the history of Buster.

Maybe this will teach that dumb-ass dog a lesson, I think to myself, about the dangers of eating someone else’s shit. But I wouldn’t bet on it.

Ouch! That hurts.

Oh holy cripes, readers. Mama’s tired. And not just because it’s Friday.

I was reading this story about how Newsweek has hired Karl Rove as an opinionator in order to “balance” out their earlier hiring of liberal blogger (and personal friend of Grant Miller) Markos Moulitsas of Daily Kos.

Which got me thinking - remember when Jon Stewart went on Crossfire, the television program dedicated to that type of left vs. right media circus, and told them to “stop hurting America”?

Well, they’re not stopping. They’re not stopping at all. And it’s just so exhausting.

They want us all to believe that their responsibility is to merely provide us with a partisan from the left, and one from the right. Then all they have to do is shrug and say “I guess the truth lies somewhere in between, folks.”

Except it doesn’t always.

But it seems as if too often the press abdicates their responsibility to not just throw up two disparate opinions, but to actually get to the truth of the matter.

Case in point: Voter suppression vs. voter fraud.

You have to admit that the whole “rampant voter fraud” issue is a really fucking brilliantly placed red herring. The right-wing architects of this strategy really knew what they were doing. They knew the press would go for it, and they did. They so did.

Think of it this way: your future as a party depends upon being able to carry certain key districts every four years. Being able to carry certain key districts depends upon a certain amount of, how shall we say…um, keeping the non-Republicans away from the polls?

And by “non-Republicans,” I don’t mean Hollywood liberals with lotsa bucks and their lawyer’s number on their cell phone speed-dial.

I mean a different kind of Democrat. I mean poor Democrats. Democrats that, if they were to actually make the evening news with their complaint, would most likely be viewed by a certain portion of the America public with thoughts along the lines of “Those people again? What do they want now?”

I mean black Democrats.

So, how do you keep the press from crying foul when you keep the black Democrats from voting? How do you keep the press distracted from what is perhaps the most reprehensible conspiracy ever perpetrated by the Republican party?

That’s right. You counter-charge.

Thus was born the non-issue of “rampant voter fraud” in America.

Which was, of course, the issue behind the firing of all those attorneys at the Department of Justice. The guys that got fired were the guys who looked at BushCo’s “voter fraud is #1 DoJ issue” agenda and said “Are you fucking kidding me? You want me to prioritize a problem that doesn’t exist?”

And who is the DoJ mastermind behind the invention of “rampant voter fraud,”and behind the firing of those U.S. attorneys (read: fucking heroes) who refused to play ball?

Hans A. von Spakovsky.

I’m not kidding.

Formerly, he served in the Civil Rights Division of the DoJ, where he was so respected by his colleagues that they banded together to oppose his appointment to the Federal Elections Commission, calling him the “point person for undermining the Civil Rights Division's mandate to protect voting rights.”

Not that it mattered. Bush gave him one of those handy-dandy recess appointments. You know, like the one John Bolton got? Because that’s just the way he rolls, y’all.

Yes, it’s just another fox-guarding-the-hen-house appointment for BushCo.

But the recess appointment term is up, and Congress must now consider whether to allow BushCo to push through a regular 6-year term on the FEC for this, um, criminal.

Senator Obama opposes the appointment, and wrote an editorial in the Chicago Defender saying so. Good on him.

But Edward Blum at the conservative Weekly Standard contends that Obama, by opposing von Spakovsky is…get this…“playing the race card.”

I know! It’s so fucking…I don’t know…ironic and disgusting and just so completely shitty and perverse that I don’t know whether to, as my momma used to say, shit or go blind.

But the best part? The absolutely best motherfucking part of this whole sad, sick deal?

The Democrats might vote to allow von Spakovsky on the FEC, as long as they get to appoint a liberal member to “balance” him.

Yup.

Y’all must think I’m some kind of bringing-it-all-full-circle kind of god or something, but I swear on my life it’s all true, folks. It’s all too fucking true.

The Hobbit mullet

Quest in the front, revelry in the back.

Nostradamus, Schmostradamus

So some crackpot anti-choice group in Colorado has just been cleared to start collecting signatures for a ballot measure that would “define a fertilized egg as a person.”

First of all, let me just say that I used to be the kind of gal who would sign any petition, anywhere. What the hell, I used to think, let them have their day. The voters will sort it out.

No more. Voters are, for the most part, appallingly stupid and can no longer be trusted, I’ve decided, to act sensibly. Look, I’ve already got a female-film-crew-member-groping action star for a governor. Keep the crazy shit off the ballots in my new motto.

To that end, I have some questions for the proponents of this legislation, and for those Colorado residents who may find themselves tempted to sign the petitions to put this joke on the ballot:

1. Are you crazy?
2. Seriously. Are you fucking crazy?
3. How’s Crazytown? Because that’s where you live, you fucking crazy asshole.

If Colorado does put this measure on the ballot, I have a couple of predictions for their future that I would like to share.

First of all, I predict an all-out war between the north-of-Denver liberal Boulderites and the south-of-Denver conservative Colorado Springers, and the entire city of Denver will become their battlefield. At first the Springers will appear to be winning due to their superior firepower, but then the Boulderites will threaten to cut off the Springers’ Croc supply lines, and the Springers will be forced to either surrender, or wear actual non-clown shoes when they go to the Wal-Mart.

Secondly, if the measure gets on the ballot and passes, then of course abortion and stem cell research will be deemed illegal. Also, most female-controlled methods of contraception will be denounced as murder, since their effectiveness relies on preventing fertilized eggs from implanting in the uterus, and instead expelling those eggs into, I don’t know, probably the toilet. Women convicted of using those kinds of contraceptives will be forced to register with the state, notify their neighbors of their presence in the neighborhood, and wear t-shirts identifying them as “baby toilet-drowning whores.”

Also, many fertility clinics will be forced to close or move out of state, due to the considerable legal ramifications of performing in-vitro fertilization. One prominent fertility specialist will proclaim the state of Colorado a “fucking medical minefield.”

Women will be required to apply for a pre-birth certificate for every pregnancy, and if a child is not presented to the authorities within the proper time frame for birth, a criminal murder investigation will be mandated. No longer will a woman’s word be sufficient to account for a so-called “miscarriage.” Investigators will be authorized to inquire about the eating, drinking, smoking, driving, running, flying, skiing, biking, skating, sunbathing, fucking and praying habits of all expectant mothers.

Lastly, I predict the bankrupting of the state of Colorado, due to the billions of dollars owed in settlements to 20-year-olds convicted of underage drinking who contended that, counting from their fertilization date, they were actually 21.

Thank you, thank you very much

And now, a tour of "the Elvis room."

This is the spare room I stay in when I am at my mom's house.

It is located in mom's beautiful finished basement. And yes, there is simulated wood paneling and plush pile carpet, thank you for asking.

There is also Elvis memorabilia.


More Elvis memorabilia.

The only Elvis memorabilia of my mother's that is not in this room is her 1956 Elvis Presley Fan Club membership card. She gave that to me several years ago. It is one of my most prized possessions.


Hey, James Dean! Git on outta here! This here room belongs to The King of Rock-n-Roll.


You know I totally turned on the lava lamp while I played the officially merchandised Elvis Presley Hand-held Slot Machine®.

And then, the King himself serenaded me to sleep.

Corny

I am a muller. I like to mull. If you went to a movie with me, and you asked me, as we were leaving, what I thought of the movie, I would say “Hmmm…”

And then two or three hours would go by.

And then, quite suddenly, usually without prompting, I would start spewing forth on the film. Then the momentum of my opinion would be quite unstoppable. It just takes a little while to get started, is all. I guess it is the last remnant of my Hoosier reticence.

And so I’ve been thinking quite a bit these last couple of days about Nebraska, where my mom lives. I was there over the weekend with my sister. I flew into Denver, where sis lives, and then one six-hour drive with incredibly monotonous scenery later we were at my mom’s house.

You know how you know you are in the Midwest? When you ask for hot sauce at the Taco Bell off the interstate, and the girl behind the counter has to go ask where they keep it.

BECAUSE NO ONE EVER ASKS FOR HOT SAUCE.

The best part is when she looked at my sister, who had not ordered yet, and asked “Are you going to be wanting taco sauce, too?” As if something about our (decidedly non-familial) resemblance to one another, perhaps our expensive eyewear, or the studied dishevelment of our hair, marked us as exotic condiment aficionados.

Somewhere in between the famous stubbornness of Iowans, and the “show me” obstinance of Missourians are the Nebraskans, who seem to me, at least in the rural areas, to have a unique talent for ignoring their own self-interest in the most perverse and infuriating ways.

I remember sitting watching tv with my stepdad several years ago, and there was a health alert on the local news warning people not to drink water from the garden hose, on account of the dangerous chemicals that leach into the water from the hose when it sits in the sun. “That’s ridiculous!” he blurted out. “Everyone I know’s been drinking outta the hose their whole lives. Nothing ever happened to them.”

I remember the moment like it was yesterday, because at the time, my stepdad had begun to take pills so that his stomach could digest food properly. It was a medical condition I had never heard of before, and yet there were several people living in his area that were all suffering the same affliction.

I’m sure they didn’t get it from drinking from the garden hose, and yet my stepdad’s attitude was a typical one, both for him and for most residents of Nebraska farmland: governmental health and environmental groups are big over-reacting sissies out to ruin their way of life.

No agency is more hated in that part of the country than the EPA, and the EPA is seen as an invention and instrument of the Democratic party. Farmers, and the myriad of economic systems that support the farming economy, are of the opinion that a man ought to be able to do what he wants with his own land.

That sounds like a fine and patriotic sentiment, except that in order to stay afloat, farmers will put just about anything on their crops in order to bring them in with a profit sufficient to keep them going. And if, in doing that, they also, say, poison the water table that supplies the entire community, their reaction generally is to stick their collective heads in the sand. The water table’s not poisoned, you sissies. We’ve been drinking out of this water table our whole lives, and nothing’s happened to us.

Nothing except that they’re all fucked-up physically. All of them. My stepdad died still sucking on the nebulizer that had kept his respiratory system functioning for years. And if you’d asked him, I’m sure he would’ve denied that it had anything to do with any of the herbicides, pesticides, fertilizers, or other crop-enabling poisons that he handled over the years.

But there has been progress. My mom told me that, so far, her community had successfully kept a feedlot from opening less than a mile from where she lived.

“Hold on,” I said. “You just told me yesterday that if everyone went vegetarian like me, that Nebraska would be ruined. That the economy was built on beef. And yet, you don’t want a feedlot anywhere near you.”

But of course she doesn’t. Because it would ruin the value of her land. Because feedlots stink. They stink for miles and miles and miles. And if you think the chemical cocktails that farmers use are bad, you should see what a couple thousand gallons of cow piss per day will do to your groundwater. So of course she’s all NIMBY on that issue, but in a state like Nebraska, NIMBYism can be considered progress. Because at least they’re admitting that there’s a problem.

I am not from Nebraska. And it makes me sad, I will admit, to see my mom, who moved back to her family home after her children were grown, growing old in such a place. I understand why Nebraskans love their land, because it is so beautiful sometimes, like when the early evening shadows fall over the dales, that it makes my heart ache in my chest. But I couldn’t live there, not just because I’m too liberal, but because rural Nebraska is changing. No young person who goes to college ever comes back. And those who are not inclined or can’t afford to go to college are lucky if there is a job opening in one of the few remaining small-time meat packaging plants in the county. Mostly they become part of the service economy. They hold two or three jobs in order to make ends meet. They struggle. They spend a lot of money on medicine.

And like those gigantic WalMarts that obliterate not only local businesses, but also acres and acres of countryside, big agribusiness is turning Nebraska into one never-ending facility. Farmers die. The heirs sell the farm to the likes of Archer Daniels Midland. The feedlots grow from 5 acres to 500 acres each, and the way of life for those remaining dies a little each day.

Like I said, it’s sad. I hope my mom’s little corner of Nebraska stays mostly beautiful until her days on the land are done, but in the meantime, I’m glad she finally bought that water filtration system.

I've seen it rainin' fire in the sky

Don’t let all those Gore-tex®-encrusted tree-hugging liberals fool you with their “look over there, is that patchouli incense?” skills of misdirection: Colorado is a red state. In fact, it’s a red state with an obnoxious Republican ruling class, which is the most exciting kind of red state to, you know, sort of live in. If you can call that living.

Yes, just like Indiana has, or at least had, the Quayles, Colorado has the Coors, supporters of the ultra-evil Heritage Foundation and the American Enterprise Institute.

Hm. Maybe their money would've been better spent on the Rockies payroll.

Hey, I'm just sayin.

Anyhoos, I don’t like their beer, and I don’t like them. But since I believe that they run in slightly different social circles than my sister, they shouldn’t be too difficult to avoid during my visit to her new digs in Boulder.

What I won't be able to avoid in Boulder: Crocs. I believe they were "invented" there.

I’m not sure what she’s got in store for me, other than shopping, shopping, a lot of kitteh scratches on my hands and feet, and shopping.

Actually, in spite of their addiction to comfortable footwear, Boulder/Denver is a pretty fun place to hang. Plus, they have the best Japanese restaurant ever. That's a hint, sis.

Oh, yes. We will also be making a foray into Nebraska, a state so red even the Democrats are Republicans, to visit the Moms. More shopping. Feats of Strength. The Airing of Grievances. At least one trip to Red Lobster.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

See you next week.

The postman never thinks twice - Special Halloween Edition

So today, the postman walked into my office, handed me my mail and said "Happy Halloween!"

I pointed at him and said "Mailman...right?"


Fucker did not laugh.

C'mon. That's funny.

Karen Hughes resigns in order to spend more time with her shock over how it could have all gone so horribly, horribly wrong.

First she was in.

Then she was out.

Then she was back in.

And now she's out again, although I'm not sure if it counts, because she did miss BushCo's Labor Day 2007 olly-olly-oxen-free deadline.

You remember, the one that was cited as definitely, positively, without-a-doubt the for-sure reason why Karl Rove resigned so suddenly?

The United States of Rainbows and Unicorns

Our National Seal

Anyone out there who still believes in a politician who is without strategic lapses of morality, even his or her own morality, please come and stand next to me.

So that I can kick you in the ass.

Look, baby, politicians compromise. That’s what they do. They can not, and do not, get where they are without compromising. A lot. More than the most jaded among us would like, in fact.

Ad infinitum, in perpetuity throughout the universe, forever and ever, amen.

So please, please, PLEASE stop telling me that your guy is different from all those other guys. And specifically, please stop telling me that Barack Obama is not like other politicians. Because he is exactly like other politicians. He wants to win. There is no point if you don’t win. The trick is, to compromise enough to win, but not so much you lose. That’s it. That’s the whole idea. Bill Clinton was really good at walking that line. John Kerry, not so much.

Obama, who has been trailing Hillary Clinton not just generally but also among African-Americans, a group whose ranks he may or may not be even admitted as a member, has just decided that it was time to take a big hit for what he hopes is a big gain.

Specifically, he has refused to disassociate himself from gospel singer Donnie McClurkin, one of those “gay can be cured through the lord” types, even though his campaign is getting some pretty tough publicity because of it.

Obama is making a big-time play for devout blacks with his South Carolina “gospel tour,” and support for gay rights among that group is almost nil. Support for gay marriage rights among blacks generally is only at about half what it is among white Democrats: 22% vs. 43%.

His campaign is hoping to spin Obama’s whole “better voting through the Lord” tour as yet another example of their candidate’s ability to bring people of opposite views together. That’s what they’re spinning to the left wing of the party, who are understandably appalled by McClurkin’s views, which range from “homosexuality is a curse,” to “homosexuals are trying to kill our children.” No spin necessary for the homophobic wing of the Democratic party, who are already getting Obama's message loud and clear.

So, well, good luck with that strategy, Senator. Meanwhile, the next time one of your followers tells me I should vote for you for any reason other than your stand on the issues, I’m going to tell them to kiss my blue state hiney.

Because I am tired of you fucking idealistic Democrats. Because once you find out your candidate is human, you become the most tiresome, whining, petulant, bitter people on the face of the earth. You swear you will never vote again, ever! You issue stern warnings to your friends that even though you do not agree on any issue, you will vote Republican, because at least they’re not stupid Democrats! You are the people I see walking around with a martyred expression and a “Ron Paul for President” button. You are the people standing at those tables outside the grocery store, trying to convince me that Lyndon LaRouche is not a card-carrying loon.

And so people, I hope that this little incident from the Obama campaign drives home my point, which is that there is no magic candidate. There is NO ONE running in this race who hasn’t done some pretty stinky things because he or she thought it would help them politically. There are no fairy tale contenders. No Prince Charmings, no wizards, no vaguely Christ-like talking lions – nothing.

Except for Kucinich, who I’m pretty sure is some kind of elf.

Ministers United for Tolerance

Wow. 80 Christian ministers in Atlanta signed a manifesto that urges tolerance and cooperation, and an end to the suppression of the rights of others. An excerpt:

HATRED and scorn for those…who hold a position different from our own, can never be justified. It is only as we approach our problems in a spirit of mutual respect of charity, and of good will that we can hope to understand one another, and to find the way to a cooperative solution of our problems. God is no respector of persons. Every human personality is precious in His sight. No policy which seeks to keep any man from developing fully every capacity of body, mind and of spirit can be justified in light of Scripture. This is the message of the Hebrew prophets as it is of Christ and His disciples. We shall solve our difficulties when we learn to walk in obedience to the Golden Rule: "Therefore, all things, whatsoever you would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them for this is the law and the prophets.

Impressive.

The only problem is, it was written 50 years ago.

It was written and signed by a group of white ministers as a response to the violence surrounding the impending integration of schools throughout the south.

So here’s what I’m thinking: If only Christian ministers of all persuasions would urge the same kind of tolerance toward the rights of gay people. Think what could be accomplished.

Perhaps we wouldn’t use the Bible as an excuse to oppress homosexuals anymore. Perhaps we would begin to understand that the realization of civil rights for all people makes us all happier and more peaceful. Perhaps we wouldn’t have to pander to the homo haters in order to appear more acceptable to the so-called “normal” people.

And yes, I’m looking at you, Obama. You’ve said that the black community must confront its homophobia. This seems to me more along the line of kissing homophobia’s ass.

Glen Beck is like, totally a hater. So not cool.

I’m sure most of you have heard by now about conservative asshat Glenn Beck’s comment that the homes of America-haters were burning in the California wildfires:

When I say on the air, and I've said it a lot lately, that we need to come together and we need to get back into the center, we're being pushed on to the edges -- I want you to understand, that is not on policies. I don't mean that we come in the center on policies. We come to the center on principles. We come back to the center of the melting pot, that we're all one America, that just because I disagree with you doesn't mean you hate America, and I love America. We all love America. We just disagree on how we should function, what we should do, big government, small government. It doesn't mean you hate America. I think there is a handful of people who hate America. Unfortunately for them, a lot of them are losing their homes in a forest fire today.

Yes, how unfortunate for them, indeed.

Leaving aside the fact that even at the time of his remarks on Monday, a good deal of those affected by the fires were the citizens of Orange and San Diego counties, which are overwhelmingly Republican. Let’s just assume that he was talking about the people in Malibu.

The America-haters in Malibu.

He has now responded angrily on his show, railing of course against liberal bloggers and such, who he figures intimated that he wanted some people’s houses to burn down. He says we all need to get a sense of humor, because he was joking, and he would never want anyone’s house to burn down.

Not surprisingly, Beck has missed the point entirely.

Beck’s producer has countered that his remarks were not “uncivil,” because “unfortunately’ still means ‘unfortunately.”

Of course one could quibble this point, because Beck did not simply say “unfortunately,” he said “unfortunately for them.”

But I’ll concede that point as not really worth arguing, because Beck’s hostility to the people of Malibu is made apparent by the statement he did not bother to refute or explain, which is, that they hate America.

Beck says at first that we all love America, but then immediately contradicts himself by saying that there are indeed a “handful” of people that do hate America. And apparently they live in Malibu, California.

Rick Sanchez of CNN, on location to cover the wildfires in SoCal, made some equally interesting remarks, as HuffPost’s Mona Gable points out:

Sanchez appeared to be dumbfounded by the idea that Californians, whom he breathlessly described as most familiar to Americans as "laidback, Chardonnay-drinking, quiche-eating" hedonists, were helping each other through perhaps the state's worst natural disaster.

First of, Rick, Californians would not be caught dead eating quiche. Hello, ever hear of carbs? Secondly, anyone who would describe Californians as laidback has never driven on the 405.

Thirdly, fuck you. You think that because we say “like” a whole lot that we don’t care about our neighbors? You think because we regularly declare the weather to be “awesome,” that we don’t recognize a person in need?

Fuck you again. Fuck you, you fucking asshole. Fuck you.

Now, I’m not a big fan, collectively, of the residents of Malibu. They can be some selfish fucks. They have tried many times, for instance, to block the hoi-polloi from accessing the public beaches and hiking trails that they would prefer to make private. Also, their restaurants are overpriced. The sales help in their stores are frequently snotty. Their hyper-aggressive driving habits have made their little stretch of Highway 1 one of the most dangerous automotive clusterfucks in the state of California.

And that’s saying something.

But you know what they’re not? They are not, generally, politically apathetic. They care about 2 things, basically: money, and their causes. And those that support liberal or Democratic politicians do so because they believe in them, and not – and here’s the important part – because it benefits them monetarily.

I mean, sure, they’re obscenely rich, and sure, they spend way too much on handbags and golf clubs, but they also, overwhelmingly, vote for people who favor the government taking more money away from them, and giving it to people who don’t have as much as they do.

Therefore, if you wanted to call them selfish, the worst aspersion you could cast upon their politics is that they believe that a rising tide lifts all boats.

That’s a bit different than the obscenely rich people who vote Republican, isn’t it?

So how is it, exactly, that they are hedonists? How is it, exactly, that they hate America? By trying to do the things they believe will make it better, against their own economic interest?

Lord knows it pains me to defend the residents of Malibu, with their complicated coffee drinks and their pretentious dogs and their painfully full lips, but in a comparison between Glenn Beck and them as to who loves America the most, Beck is not fit to kiss their excruciatingly well-pedicured feet.

With fires raging all around, let's take a moment to consider the upside of CA

In the glorious San Fernando Valley, the sky above my head is still blue, but every horizon now has that brown-red apocalyptic smoky haze of color, and today the ashes on my car weren't just a light dusting, but were visible chunks falling out of the sky.


But still, I know my readers are dying to know how my weekend with Spooney in Pismo Beach went.


Well, here's the view from our hotel room. Not too shabby, eh?

Pismo Beach is one of those completely charming California seaside towns that hasn't yet been ruined by overdevelopment.

It's so small that in spite of the Clam Festival being the biggest event of their year, the band headlining the parade is still from the local high school.

Spooney and I had a blast walking the beach, sampling the local brews, and just kicking around. We spent some time Saturday night at the local watering hole, where the resident cover band featured not one, but two keytars. Awesome.

I suspended my vegetarianism long enough to join Spooney in the chowder cook-off, which was several different kinds of yummy. For four bucks, you get to taste chowder from 8 different restaurants (that is, every restaurant in town) and vote on your favorite.

As you might be able to tell from the size of the butts standing in line, it's only creamy New England-style chowdah being served here, thank you very much. I asked a couple of the chefs, real loud-like, "What's a gal got to do to get some Manhattan-style chowder up in this mug?" Stony silence was the reply. They take their chowder pretty seriously in Pismo Beach.

At this point, I have to share with you a short video I took of the world's lamest pelican.



See? Lame. That's Spooney off camera throwing squid right at his mouth, which he misses. He missed it like 15 times in a row.


During the festival, they had a clam dig for the kids. It's not a real clam dig, because Pismo clams are practically extinct. The kids dig up clam shells with prizes written on them.

They had a lot of good prizes, including a bike, and some boogie boards. Once those were gone, though, the kids weren't getting nearly as excited about what they had won.

One of the moms that Spooney and I were standing next to on the pier said, near the end of the event, that her friend's kid won a coupon for $1 off a large Domino's pizza.

Spooney started laughing. "What kind of prize is that?"

I said "What, did they just bust open one of those coupon books you get in the mail? Here, kid, it's 20% off your next dry cleaning!"

"2 for 1 Weight Watcher memberships!"

The moms started laughing at us, so we kept up our little routine.

"One free month of monitoring from Brinks Home Alarm!"

"1/2 off your next drapery cleaning!"

"Free medium coffee with purchase of one dozen donuts from Winchell's!"

"15% off your next oil change or tire rotation at Jiffy Lube!"

We laughed so hard it knocked what residual LA tension I was still carrying around right the fuck out of me. Then we drove home and watched the last ALCS game. Red Sox won. Awful racist logo team lost. Life is good.

Spoiler Alert!

Dude, get over yourself. It's a Subaru.

Pussy-whipped

It is tough sometimes, to stop complaining about the disparity between how Republicans and Democrats are treated by the media.

And I’m not talking about how much press went into the blowjob scandal as opposed to the one where the president lied so he would have a better excuse to send service men and women to their deaths. Let’s look at a more direct comparison.

For instance, W and Bill Clinton both evaded the Vietnam draft. W is beloved by most members of the military, while it was implied many times during Clinton’s tenure that he should excuse himself from ceremonies honoring veterans, because he was not “qualified” (read: “good enough”).

And while Hillary has not yet committed vehicular homicide, (Although can you imagine the massive shooting of media spooge if she did? It would be like every Christmas and and Easter and Fourth of July since the beginning of time all wrapped up in one over at FoxNews.) one can imagine that her treatment by the press would be somewhat different than their treatment of our current first lady, who killed her high school sweetheart while behind the wheel. Although the story is somewhat sad on the surface, its tragic glossy veneer starts to look a little thin when one learns that she was, according to some reports, drinking when it happened, and that her politically-connected family did manage to get her record expunged.

And anyway, what better qualification is there to be First Lady than a drinking problem?

My point is not that we should condemn Laura Bush, but that we perhaps should give others the same benefit of the doubt. After all, Hillary got raked over the coals just for knowing a dead guy.

And so on to Hillary’s latest press problem, which is, as Media Matters has pointed out, that Sarah Baxter at the London Sunday Times, and professional idiot Caitlin Flanagan at The Atlantic have resurrected an old non-story from 2001 and are using it to – surprise, surprise – insinuate that Hillary is a cold-hearted bitch.

Baxter’s article is titled “Ouch! Hillary Clinton’s Softer Image is Clawed Over Dumped Cat.” The story is about how the Clintons allowed Bill’s personal secretary Betty Currie to adopt their cat, Socks, when they moved out of the White House. And the “proof” that Hillary’s image has been damaged? Why, Flanagan’s article, of course.

Don’t you love it when members of the press use an article written by another member of the press as proof that they have tapped into the American zeitgeist, as opposed to performing an act of mutual masturbation?

Baxter says that Socks “allowed ‘chilly’ Hillary Clinton to show a caring, maternal side,” and that therefore Hillary used Socks, and when she was done using Socks, she dumped him on the…you know…hired help. Flanagan says: “In the annals of human evil, off-loading a pet is nowhere near the top of the list. But neither is it dead last, and it is especially galling when said pet had been deployed for years as an all-purpose character reference.”

You know what I say? I say that I don’t remember a single photo op of Hillary knitting little booties for Socks. In fact, I don’t remember any photos of them together at all. If Socks was being employed to soften Hillary’s image, his job performance was about what you’d expect from a cat: indifferent.

In reality, the Clintons got rid of Socks because he tortured their dog, Buddy. And Buddy was Bill’s dog. So why isn’t the re-gifting of Socks being spun as a story of how subservient Hillary is to her man? Why isn’t it being spun as a story of how the Clintons raised a daughter so selfish that she put her preference for college housing above her love for her childhood pet?

Because that wouldn’t fit the media’s favorite wanking-off point: that Hillary is, you know, a bitch.

And I have to admit that it irks me when I see women participate in this kind of stereotype mongering. I mean, why the tired-ass “bitch” angle, ladies? If you wanted to slam Hillary on the issues, there’s more than enough fodder there. But…that might require an actual knowledge, or understanding of the issues, and I’m guessing that’s not so much what we expect from your Sarah Baxters and your Caitlin Flanagans. We expect bitchiness, right gals? Because you’re women. Women writers. Women who have careers outside the home as writers. And we all know what THAT means.

They’re bitches. Ambitious, castrating bitches.

So listen up, catty bitches! If you’re looking for a “animal cruelty” angle involving a presidential candidate, check out this story about how Mr. Latter-Day Saint tied his dog carrier with his dog inside it to the top of his car, and then drove down the freeway while his terrified dog let loose his bowels all over the roof. This story is wide open gals, I’m telling you.

Because for some reason, the press is just not leaping on this one.

I can’t imagine why.

World's Largest Clam

Hey y’all, this weekend, Spooney and I are headed to the Pismo Beach Clam Festival.

And no, that is not a euphemism.

Spooney, a native of Massachusetts, is a big fan of the clam, so he’s really been looking forward to the annual chowder cook-off.

And I, being a native of Smartasserville, am looking forward to a weekend of sniggering at Spooney’s pronunciation of “chowder,” which falls somewhere between Mayor Quimby and the brothers Affleck.

See you next week!

The house is on fire

So by all means let's not take action, but instead argue about whether the drapes caught the couch on fire, or vice versa.

Popozygote

Okay so the first S-CHIP bill, you know, the one W vetoed?

It was marked as a “key vote” piece of legislation by the geniuses over at the National Right to Life Committee. That means that, in this case, a vote for the bill would give a legislator a huge black mark with the organization.

Why? Because a previous version of the bill contained provisions that supposedly “rationed care and government-sponsored euthanasia.”

What the fuck does that mean, you ask? Look, let’s just not even go into that part of the issue, because, well…because it’s late and they’re just fucking nutjobs, okay?

Also, I guess they were upset that some prenatal care was phrased as care for “pregnant women,” instead of, yes, “fetuses.”

According to so-called “pro-life” people, every sentence looks better with a “fetus” in it. See? I just did it. Very nice, isn’t it? In fact, I don’t know why they don’t just make “fetus” a new slang word for good, you know, like “dope,” or “fresh,” or “da bomb.”

On second thought, they might have to recruit some black members into their organization in order to pull that off. Or at least K-Fed.

“Yo, ‘sup? This be K-Fed in da house. Check it, my new kicks are fetus!”

That might be a tough sell, seeing as how serial baby daddy K-Fed is now pretty much a poster child for choice.

Annnnnnnnnnyhoo, so, the S-CHIP was rewritten, and the offending provisions were removed, and several anti-choice House Dems, who by the way DO exist, are asking why the NRLC won’t now support a bill that EXPANDS HEALTH INSURANCE FOR CHILDREN?

Could it be, perhaps, because their boyfriend George W opposes the bill, because it takes food out of the mouths of hungry defense contractors in Iraq?

Could it be that they really, secretly, don’t care very much at all about the welfare of children? Or for that matter, anyone at all who can’t help advance them in their quest to become the premiere organization for hypocritical, women-repressing, no-awesome-sex-having, ugly-ass moron asshats everywhere?

Also lately I've been thinking that if everyone has a blog now why do I still get all those damn newsletters every Christmas?

Howdy, y'all. Sorry I've been so busy.

A while ago some of you mentioned that you might enjoy seeing an updated photo of Hoosier Pond.

I now oblige:

My sister brought me a couple of large flat rocks that I incorporated into my waterfall. I can't stop messing with that damn waterfall. Someday, the placement of each stone will be perfect, but until then there are always minute adjustments to be made. Such is my sickness.

In the photo you can see my goldfish & minnows are hanging out in their feeding spot. Any time I come near the pond, they go to that spot and wait for me to bestow upon them the fish flakes. It's not that they're particularly fond of me. They also do it for Spooney. They also do it for The Banana, who luckily has not yet realized that fish are a food item as far as cats as concerned.

Also, I thought you might enjoy this picture of Spooney getting so loaded at the LA County Fair Beer Garden that he mistakes some lettuce for a full, leafy-green mustache.


And lastly, here's a picture of me with a llama.


See? You can tell I am thinking about a post wherein I contrast the relative worths of George Tenet and that medal that he got for missing the intelligence on 9/11 and pulling the intelligence out of his ass on Iraq and the media shit storm that never happened over that, versus the huge fucking fuss everyone is making over Al Gore's entirely well-deserved Nobel Prize.

Can't you?

Is that a diminutive midwestern congressman in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

Dennis Kucinich proves that he's an exceptionally good sport:

and take that, haters