The Omen

Je suis heureux que l'Espagne ait vaincu l'Allemagne. Pourquoi ?
The last major title that Spain won before today was also the European championship.

In 1964.

Someone else last won it all in 1964.

Hey, I'll take whatever I can get.

Land of Sunshine

Does life seem worthwhile to you?

HERE'S HOW TO ORDER!

Yes, hmm hmm, now for the next question --
Does emotional music have quite an effect on you?
Do you feel sometimes like age is against you?
Sing and rejoice and sing and rejoice
Yes, hmm hmm, that's interesting.
But tell me, do you often sing or whistle just for fun?
Do you feel sometimes like age is against you?
I, I can help -- I can help you -- I can help you help yourself!

Does life seem worthwhile to you?

HERE'S HOW TO ORDER!

Varicose
Comatose
Senile

Pot pourri

"Hey, man. What's on the tube?"
"Dude, first things first. I'm hungry. Gimme some links."



















"No fucking way man, that shit's bad for you. Here, eat some asparagus.
But don't bogart my strawbs, man."



















"Dude, are you saying I'm from Mars?"
"No, man. Just fucking relax, okay? Let's check the draft."



















"Dude, that's who we got? Dy-no-mite!"



















"No, man, the other J.J.."



















"Dude, I wish it would've been this dude."
















"No fucking way man, your dealer can't play."

"Dude, I know, but at least he ain't a dick. You know who's a dick?"
"A dick bigger than Lucas, man?"












"Hell yeah dude, this dude. What a dick."
"Holy fuck man, if Al-Qaeda is watching teevee, and we're watching teevee,
that means Osama can see us!"















"Dude, we better get outside!"



















"No fucking way man, they're everywhere!"
"Dude, you're right, wingnut bloggers wouldn't lie."
"No way, man. Unless they were dicks, and what are the odds of that?"

Boy, it sure is drafty in here

Let's clear something up before we go any further: contrary to popular opinion, no, the single suit I own isn't as hideous as this Karl Malone original. I'm a snappy dresser.

Clever post title, huh. For the first time in aeons, we actually have a first round draft pick, the nineteenth. Yes, I'm conveniently ignoring the Shannon Brown bust of 2006.

To give us a rough idea of the quality available near the final third of the first round, here are some worthy -- or at least serviceable -- players chosen at #19 or below during the LBJ era:

2007, no Cavs first round pick: Jared Dudley, Carl Landry, Glen Davis.

2006: Rajon Rondo (how's he doing?), Josh Boone, Kyle Lowry, Jordan Farmar, Sergio Rodriguez, Paul Millsap. The aforementioned Shannon Brown was nabbed at #25. We did find Boobie Gibson in the second round, so it wasn't a complete washout.

2005, no Cavs first round pick: Hakim Warrick, Nate Robinson, Jason Maxiell, Linas Kleiza, David Lee, Brandon Bass, Monta Ellis (ouch), Andray Blatche, Ryan Gomes.

2004, no Cavs first round pick: Jameer Nelson, Delonte West, Kevin Martin (ouch again), Beno Udrih, Anderson Varejao.

2003: Boris Diaw, Travis Outlaw, Kendrick Perkins, Leandro Barbosa. We drafted some dude who moves a lot of sweatshop product.

I have no idea who we'll choose. It's possible that shooting guards Chris Douglas-Roberts of Memphis and Courtney Lee of Western Kentucky will still be on the board. As for point guards, I wouldn't mind us taking Mario Chalmers of Kansas, but the problem with all of these guys is that none are ready to log copious amounts of NBA starter minutes for a team that's honestly only one All-Star calibre player from a championship.


















Or we can draft the guy with the wackiest hair.

Hell, just trade the damn pick, but you won't be getting a top-flight point guard or wing guy in return, even if we spice up the offer with some of our bench dudes. Remember, Isaiah T. Coyote, Super Genius isn't around anymore. I still believe Boobie Gibson can give us quality time at the 2, but a full-fledged point guard has remained absent from the roster since the days of Andre Miller. Who we once traded along with some clown for some other clowns and one über-clown of legendary status, Darius Miles.

Hang on a sec, I have to go throw up.

I'm back. We can play defense with the best of them (just ask the last two NBA champions about that) but we score about as often as a Republican congressman a eunuch I do after pissing off my wife.

Since we still owe Ben Wallace Halliburton-type cash, I wouldn't be surprised if they try and exchange Sideshow Bob (perhaps with the pick) for anything resembling a shooter -- please, take Wally World while you're at it, trading partner to be named later. I'd hate to lose such a valuable role player in Anderson, but GM Danny Ferry knows what he'll never say publicly: the championship window has two years remaining. For you, I, everyone's grandmother, her cat, Uncle Rory, the plumber, the butcher and the baker (but not the candlestick maker, he doesn't follow hoops) recognizes that LeBron is going to exercise his player option, become a free agent, and get out of Northeast Ohio as we then descend into that circle of Hell only spoken about in hushed tones, Perpetual Lottery Land.

Maybe we can kidnap Michael Redd and brainwash him to tear up his contract with the Bucks and sign with us for the midlevel exception.

Hey, it could happen.

Flights of fancy. That's sporting life in Cleveland. We wouldn't have it any other way. It's nice having a built-in excuse for heavy drinking, believe me.

Correction!
I completely -- subconsciously purposely -- forgot all about our 2004 first round pick, Luke "I can't even cut it in Europe" Jackson. My apologies to no one.

Quelques choses qui sucent.

1. The Indians' offense.










"Boy, we sure do suck."
"Yup."
"Yup."

Evidence? Yesterday's 7 for 32 that manufactured two measly runs against Dirty Sanchez and the San Francisco Giants, and being 16th out of 30 teams in runs scored since Opening Day. Not that bad, you say? Well, try singing this next tune.


2. The Indians' bullpen.

















"Their bullpen sure does reek of the sewer."
"Like you."
"Fuck off, it's strong enough for a man."

Evidence? Yesterday's two runs allowed in 2.1 innings, wasting a solid Aaron Laffey performance, and a 4.87 ERA since Opening Day, 29th out of 30 teams. Frightening, no? I've got something even scarier.


3. The Republicans.









"The American people need to understand that turrists want to buy you ballet slippers -- dammit, Unka Dick, don't do that! Why da still have to wear a wire anyway? My speaking English is the goodest!"

Evidence? The last eight years. But wait, we already know that they're evil incarnate, so what could be the one thing that is even more disheartening, more soul-shattering, a far stronger stimulus to heavy drinking?


4. The Democrats.












"C'mon Sid n' Nancy, my strategery is workin'."
"Yes, your kingship."

Evidence? The last eight years. I trusted you man, now I don't believe in nothin' no more! I'm goin' to law school! Where oh where is our last, final, ultimate hope? Who will save us? Can you?


5. The American voter.

















Evidence? The last eight years. And the next few months.


















"Gawrsh, McCain has experience!"




My sentiments exactly, Dr. Smith.

Fetuses and spice, and everything nice, that's what little fruitcakes are made of

If you embiggen, you can almost make out the pieces of Constitution and pureed unborn babies. Yum!

As Barack Obama broadens his outreach to evangelical voters, one of the movement's biggest names, James Dobson, accuses the likely Democratic presidential nominee of distorting the Bible and pushing a "fruitcake interpretation" of the Constitution.

Have you ever tried making fruitcake with the Constitution? I'm certainly in favor of getting my share of roughage -- who doesn't like to be regular? -- but this is ridiculous. The Democratic Senator from Illinois agrees with me, and sent a cuddly warning shot at the fundie loon:

"Folks haven't been reading their Bibles," Obama said.

Oh, if only that were the case, Senator. I pray for the day.

As for Fetish Boy himself, after grumbling some mumbo-jumbo about right and proper interpretation of a bunch of creaky old shit that fuckers hadn't right and properly interpreted when the creaky old shit was creaky new shit:

"Am I required in a democracy to conform my efforts in the political arena to his bloody notion of what is right with regard to the lives of tiny babies?" Dobson said. "What he's trying to say here is unless everybody agrees, we have no right to fight for what we believe."

Bloody 'ell, what a bleedin' ponce. Oh, Super Atheist Candidate, where are you?

Wait. We're not number one anymore? Xenu, baby!

The Waiting

Wow, an actual video the UniversalNoMusicGroupForYou hasn't prevented from being embedded. Guess I'll have to buy the albums now like I have been and plan to. Assholes. Anyway...



-- was indeed the hardest part. But on Sunday evening, Tom Petty, a real rock god -- I've got to stop linking each post to the previous one lest this blogging thing become actual work -- and his band of merry pranksters rocked and/or rolled Northeast Ohio and yours truly, along with my not-always-better-but-always-better-looking-half, was there in addition to other yokels (including a non-blogger! They do exist!) from these parts.

The Good: Opener Steve Winwood was in fine form, belting out classics from his long career, mixed in with tracks off of his new album, Nine Lives. Unsurprisingly, Higher Love and set closer Gimme Some Lovin' received the loudest plaudits from the crowd, but the unquestioned highlight for me was an absolutely molten version of Dear Mr. Fantasy that dripped with bluesy chords and raw guitar power.

The men of the hour charged out with a rollicking You Wreck Me, followed by one masterclass in songwriting after another: the wonderful pop of I Won't Back Down and The Waiting, the turbocharged blues romp of Honey Bee, the jangly Traveling Wilburys' gem End of the Line, the psychedelic Don't Come Around Here No More, whose whimsical menace benefits from a more organic live setting, the anthemic Refugee which, though a classic on record, becomes an unbreakable monster in the flesh. Petty and his band were in top form, shaded by a Zeppelin-esque tight-but-loose vibe that filtered through the Campbell/Petty/Tench (an underrated musician if ever there was one) duels that finished tracks such as Mary Jane's Last Dance, Runnin' Down a Dream and Saving Grace, which morphed from a propulsive, three-minute driving song into a thunderous, six-minute highway jam. This band can flat out fucking rock with the best of them.

One final note on the professionalism of the gig: the show started at 7h30, Winwood played an hour, his gear was cleared out without hassle, and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came out shortly after 9h. Given my personal experience at Blossom Music Center of molasses-in-the-dead-of-winter logistics, this was a nice change of pace.

The Bad: Speaking of changes of pace, 30 or 45 minutes tops is what it has taken in the past to exit that directionless, grassy parking lot. Last night, it took around 90 minutes, a good 80% of that consisting of cars not moving in every conceivable direction. Next time, I'll just bring some lawn chairs and grill some burgers after the show. Fucking jokers. And make sure the lawn chairs don't extend past a certain size as the helpful rent-a-cop made sure to let the concertgoers know.

The Ugly: Morons buying a ten dollar can of beer. People, purchase an easily-hid flask -- they only check your bags -- and fill it with some of the good stuff. Ugliest of all -- well that one chick was certainly easy on the eyes -- the obviously ecstasy-laden row of clowns in front of us. I've seen dancing at rock shows before, both joyful and sultry, but I've never seen club-worthy grinding and partner-swapping going on virtually the entire show with the actual music a mere soundtrack afterthought. A beautifully sad yet wistful Learning To Fly gets you all hot and bothered? Or the dark Americana of Mary Jane's Last Dance? Honey Bee, I could understand. It was fucking bizarre, believe me. And short little dude worthy of a spot on Hot Chicks With Douchebags, what was with your histrionic, air traffic controller hand signals at every. single. line. sung by Petty? Oh, well, it wasn't my money.

Overtime: I remember reading on some sports blog back in January a number of complaints about the NFL having chosen Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers for the Super Bowl halftime show, most variations on the theme of 'they're too old.' Hey, young people, they are pushing 60, but they'll still rock your millennial punk ass. I witnessed two hours of undeniable proof last night.

The Fuckin' A State

In my last post, I ragged on the dumbassery of my home state, this swingin' pad, hep cats. Wait, that was too McCain-y and I'm not that old. Anyway, not to say we didn't deserve such a blow to our diminishing pride -- we did help deliver Bush -- twice! -- but there have been times in the past when we've risen above such suffering all-too-common within the human condition to be trailblazers in American society.












For example, when the sporting world still thought that no one could top the laughable -- I remember it now! -- play of the 1876 Cincinnati Reds, who, in the National League's inaugural season, won their games at a robust .138 clip, along came Spiders; the 1899 Cleveland Spiders, to be exact, flaunting a record of 20-134. That's .130. One. Three. Zero. Beat that. Even the exploits of legendary outfielder Sport McAllister weren't enough to stem the tide of diamond disaster, and with a nickname like Sport, you just know he tried his gosh darn best.












Cleveland also boasts of the first black mayor of a major American city, Carl Stokes. That's Carl on our left, flanked by Nazi-smashing track legend and Ohio State alumnus, Jesse Owens.



















Along side that accomplishment, Springfield, Ohio claims the first black mayor of any American city in Robert C. Henry. Though Mr. Henry was born on July 16, the previous gentleman made his initial appearance on this day.

Other famous folks hatched on June 21 were witch burning fanatic and Republican Party operative, Increase Mather; a composing son, one of many, of an extra-famous composer dad, Johann Christoph Friedrich Bach; existentialist guru and dirty Frenchman, Jean-Paul Sartre --

"I read one of his books, about strangers!"
"That was Albert Camus, sir."
"That's right, Cam-uss. I knew a guy who used to have a Camaro. It was bitchin'. Like Pickles. Don't run me over, babe, heh, heh."

-- and, most important of all, rock god Kip Winger.

What is the Ohio connection of these final four? Whatever you wish it to be, mes amis. That's the magic of the internets! Write whatever you want, and somewhere, someone will believe it to be true!


















Now if you will all kindly excuse me, I have to go and don the purple, grab my sword, and put down some very naughty insurrectionists. Begone, peasants.

The Fuckeye State

Once again, I must apologize for the stupidity that seems, despite our best efforts, to nest within my home state. Oh, how they make me so cross.

Xander: Spike.
Giles: What are you doing here?
Spike: Me? I'm not the one out of place here.
Xander: For your information, smarty, we've got a rogue Slayer on our hands. Real psycho-killer, too.
Spike: Sounds serious.
Giles: It is. What do you know?
Spike: What do you need?
Xander: Her. Dark hair, yea tall. Name of Faith. Criminally insane.
Giles: Have you seen her?
Spike: Is this bird after you?
Xander: In a bad way. Yeah.
Spike: Tell you what I'll do then. Head out, find this girl, tell her exactly where all of you are, and then watch as she kills you.

Can anyone of your damn little Scooby club at least try to remember that I hate you all? Just because I can't do the damage myself doesn't stop me from aiming a loose cannon your way. And here I thought the evening'd be dull.
Xander: Go ahead! You wouldn't even recognize her!
Spike: Dark hair, this tall, name of Faith. Criminally insane. I like this girl already.











Xander: We're dumb.

The report confirms that Freshwater burned crosses onto students’ arms, using an electrostatic device, in December. Freshwater told investigators the marks were Xs, not crosses. But all of the students interviewed in the investigation reported being branded with crosses. The investigation report includes a photo of one student’s arm with a long vertical line and a short horizontal line running through it.

Embarrassing, no? Though some aren't all hot and bothered.

Neither Freshwater nor his attorney, Roger Weaver, could be reached for comment last night. Freshwater’s friend, Dave Daubenmire, defended him.

“With the exception of the cross-burning episode … I believe John Freshwater is teaching the values of the parents in the Mount Vernon school district,’’ he said.

Other than burning a cross into the flesh of small children -- and who hasn't thought about doing that, the little shits -- I'm sure he is a swell guy.

Meet America's newest anti-terrorism unit!

Personally, I think the grotesque combination of Satan's lieutenants and the army of spineless jellyfish currently sliming their collective way through the halls of Congress wasted precious time crafting an un-American bill like this one when such a crack squad at our nation's disposal is blessed with sartorial powers that could goad even the most fervent jihadist into letting his guard down through uncontrollable fits of laughter.

I really have to stop linking the real world with these comical album covers because all I end up doing is creating ulcers and the strong desire to drink heavily both before and after throwing heavy objects against my monitor.

Does anybody remember laughter?

Episode #452*

Some Republican did and/or said something stupid today.
He/she/it is stupid.












More Bush administration crimes came to light.
They suck, and they won't be punished.















It's tough, I know.

But chin up, little buckaroo! One year ago today I started this mediocre blog and here's my gift to you: some putrescent purple prose from my only piece of godawful, overwrought, melodramatic, nightmare-inducing fiction!

Oh.

You wanted wacky album covers instead?















"Patience, grasshopper. Wax on, wax off."
















"Crisp writing does not exist in this excerpt, does it?"
"No, sensei!"
"A well-plotted story does not exist in this excerpt, does it?"
"No, sensei!"
"Good characterization does not exist in this excerpt, does it?"
"No, sensei!"

Given that stuff from that flick is about 180° from the junk below, one would assume I must be drunk for using it. But I'm not, so I don't know what the hell happened to my brain. Do you? I think I'll stick to poetry from now on. I promise. *cue conciliatory music* [what does conciliatory music sound like, an Afterschool Special soundtrack? That reference was lost on all you young types, wasn't it. You millennial wankers get all hot and bothered about Schoolhouse Rock and other assorted cultural artifacts from the 70s like Luke Skywalker hair and your parents were busy getting high behind the grade school gym when that shit was on the tube. Damn whipper snappers.]



[Anyway, for those that don't want to dirty their beautiful minds with the following crap, here's the short version: guy walks past a fancy library, sees a bunch of leaves caught in the wind, then runs to work. Yawn.]

I passed the entrance at no. 58 of the magnificent Imperiale Bibliothèque Nationale, its grand, black iron gates, lifted from some long-lost English gothic novel, allowing me passage those first two Saturdays in Paris to whittle away at my petrifying ennui in the brand new, frightfully welcoming beauty of the Salle de Travail – the theatre of centuries contained in her cast-iron supports, wrought-iron arches, glass roofs and tiled walls, and in her pages housed in that holy place, exquisitely lined upon shelves lorded over by grand scenes of natural joy, Beethoven’s sixth dramatically brought to life each moment in those rich murals of verdant green. I passed uncounted streets, the rues Rameau, Saint-Augustin, Saint-Marc and, rarest of all, some of the very few unmapped alleys that managed to avoid, through some ancient magic, the brutal hand of Haussmann, some clean, some filthy, all paved canals, blurred portals that led to the maze of buildings between myself and my destination, a vertical hex inscribed in stone, in the barrels of active chimneys, in the salt of the earth that laid its lugubrious curse upon every man, woman and child that dared defy the gods to live, work, play, struggle and die here. Even the ones whose flesh never starved, the aimless bodies that I passed on that treeless avenue, they suffered from malnourished spirits nonetheless. Those of us rare souls who had the prescience to recognize this condition could do nothing to save ourselves. Escape from this eternal spell was impossible.

Turning the corner sharply, I shunned going directly left onto the Boulevard Haussmann and paused, my gaze turning right, down the Boulevard Poissonnière and then above. Unfurled from the canopy of clouds, gentle streamers of light fluttered beneath, occasionally broken by the swirling breeze that made the tinted leaves dance to a Spanish guitar melody, unheard save by the dreamers. As I looked up that long street, as I caught the reflection of a man in a window staring back at me, I saw none but the crestfallen. Avoiding him as best I could, I watched those autumnal ornaments, when the air stopped to breathe, have a rest against the limestone, brick and glass, the first daubs of color on an unadorned fresco. After a moment, the air rose again, my sickness temporarily lifted, and the dance began anew; reds, their pulsing veins flush with delight, jumping far and wide; yellows, aglow like a field of daffodils in the sun, pirouetting around statuesque trees and through oranges, their spicy, perfumed steps rhythmically leaping to and fro, barely avoiding joining hands with stately browns that moved not to this tune, but to its own, a lilting waltz, their anxious hearts hiding underneath this poem to imaginary romance. This bewitching joie de vivre abruptly vanished when the whites came, the discarded papers of a wastrel, the garbage of this city, sallow below its artificial beauty. I looked upon the great hall my soul had just traversed, had just felt, the leaves lying as motionless as wallflowers, mastered by the memory of a someone lost long ago.

Leaving the busy intersection, I headed southwest on the Boulevard des Italiens, where, my wondrous reverie apparently over, vengeful discomfort reanimated itself. The shapeless faces of the crowd began to take form; an impression, an emotion, most of indifference; some of those I disliked; some who offended me with their blind allegiance to progress at the expense of truly living; others, those that I loved, those that had disappeared – all by my hand. I ran, miraculously managing to not collide with anyone or anything. I ran when I saw their faces now so clear, their open mouths straining to speak. I ran until I reached no. 15, inhaling with the seeming intent of forcing my lungs to burst out of my chest. Slowly regaining some degree of equilibrium, I calmly exhaled and unlocked the front door, going in to begin another day drowning within an ocean of words.


*oops, almost forgot the accompanying YouTube.

Party time! Excellent!

I said everybody sing. This means you, jailbird. Put down your chicken.
And your two kinds of fruit.

Where didja hide the nukes?

Don't make us hide you.

You're terminated.

A legendary figure in special effects. He'll be missed. And unlike a certain other famous person recently six feet under, he did not help enable a cabal of bloodthirsty neocon warmongers. Although Mr. Winston did direct Pumpkinhead. Oooh, spooky.

Star Trek: The Old Generation

This post will self-publish in 10 seconds.

Oops, wrong TV show.










"Number one, warp factor nine. Engage."

"I'm not Riker."

Still on vacation, chicks and dudes and I'm afraid that if I stop to peruse your wonder-working, reminiscent-of-fable blogs, my lounging about the house important work will never get finished. But isn't that why The Flying Spaghetti Monster created employment?

Drive-by posting

One of the stupid fucking fire alarms is going off at work (hey, you try finding a replacement for a Saturday), and no one can figure out how to turn the fucker off. Where's a scientician (or some earplugs) when you need one?

BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPINEEDAGUN
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPMAKEITSTOP
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPSTOPITFUCKER
BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP

On a lighter note (hey, ain't my team, we know we suck -- although we did manage to tie top-ranked Argentina; and you doubted the efficacy of black magic!) Les Bleus, reaching the point of desperation, have dug deep into their bag o' tricks in order to jump start their offense, as stagnant and tepid as Old Europe itself:












"You will score more goals...you will score more goals..."

Barack Obama, proud member of the American Hypnotical Association
since 2005.

Au revoir, suckers!

Curse you, la fin de l'exercice budgétaire®, I was hoping to save these vacation days for my soon-to-be legendary hangover after watching the guilty verdict of Chimpy and his criminal cohorts at The Hague.

Sorry, it's the heat. Anyway, here's the agenda:














And if that fails miserably, there's always Plan B.

"B?"

"Yes. *dramatic pause* B."














Try not to kill anyone while I'm away
'cause I'd also like to have a say.
I'll be back sometime soon
with yet another brilliant post YouTube.
In the meantime, do what's right --
blogs found down to your right.

See how I rhymed right with right?
Betcha didn't see that coming.

If politics was a person, I'd like to set it on fire while laughing uncontrollably at the screams

I've said it before and I'll say it again: this is what happens when you sit down to watch the talking hairpieces.

But Randal, you say, that's a mighty good rant.

Indeed it is, but our esteemed ranter has likely cut 72.6 years off of her life by watching such overheated tripe. And if there's one thing you don't want to overheat, it's tripe. Really loses its flavor and then you're stuck compensating with too much Mrs. Dash.

Being one who is naturally cynical, I haven't come remotely close to embracing the inspirational, feel-good-campaignism of the Senator from Illinois. Just ain't my gig. Of course, being one who is naturally not inclined to overtly militaristic imperialism, the jackass from Arizona garners support in the negative. By default, I trust the average politician about as far as I can throw them, and I haven't been all that strong since I got off the flaxseed oil. Even pressing triangle, circle or square has become somewhat of a chore. The verbal smackdown by Barack Hussein X of Holy Joe, a truly contemptible and vile excuse of a homo sapien, was, however, quite enjoyable -- keep it up, young man, and you may yet win me over to indifference. Even more enjoyable was my (and other's) representative's on-the-floor crusade/jihad for impeachment that I know will end up going nowhere.

Yes, Lack O' Votes Brigade and the We Hate The Perfect Coalition, I understand your viewpoints, and even sympathize on rare occasions when I'm drunk or voting or voting while drunk. What I don't get are the 40-50% of Americans -- a greater amount than the crazy few still counting themselves as followers of Satan's puppet -- who don't support impeachment at all -- are you fucking blind, been living in a cave on Mars for eight years or merely passed out because of painful gastrointestinal problems caused by salmonella-infested tomatoes? Only $5/gallon gas truly boils your blood, the reasons for the price increase be damned? -- nor the cowardly and/or evil fucks of both parties that waste time in Congress investigating my fellow juicers or documentary filmmakers. (I dare not bother with the well-coiffed assholes at all; they're as helpful to the discourse as bovine spongiform encephalopathy is to good health) No, wait, I do understand them, as do you. All too well. But please, do not waste precious time defending either of these groups.


They don't deserve it, but we certainly deserve the government we have. A shame we cannot excise the 25 percenters from polite society like we aren't doing with the creators of this planned clusterfuck. I know that doesn't sound uniquely American. Big deal. I had no control over where I was born. If I had popped out in Gaza, I'd probably be a suicide bomber. If I had crawled into existence in France, I'd likely be topped by a beret (socialist, not raspberry) while writing bad existential poetry along the Seine.

Our outdated, two-party system doesn't work. Another uniquely unAmerican statement. I'd love to consistently vote third party, but unless you have a foolproof plan for a grand cultural shift, good fucking luck with those guys in any kind of national election. Folks like George Wallace, Ross Perot and Ralph Nader were the anomalies that proved the rule, and none of them had a legitimate shot at sitting in the Oval Office. Ever.

Oh, Randal, stop helping to prop up a broken system.

I will, when one of the major parties stops nominating candidates who count bombing, unfettered money worship and invasion of privacy instead of feathers, body oils and champagne three-ways as fetishes.

Look, we're a winner-take-all nation. Despite the lip service played to the underdog, America loves a champ; it's forced into our collective social DNA from birth. Don't believe me? How much Yankees and Red Sox paraphernalia do you see compared to the Brewers? Did you already forget the choking jingoism after 9/11? Shining city on a hill, hear us march on down to stomp you out of existence so we can steal your take our resources 'cause we're the greatest thing since the invention of the sandwich, motherfuckers.

I am legion, for we are many.

Everyone not the boss is quickly forgotten (unless you're the Buffalo Bills) because we're all trying to be the boss. There is a deeply ingrained expectation, and acceptance, of a bipolar world.

"My, what simplicity you have!"

"All the better to eat you with my dear!"

Yes/no, either/or, up/down, left/right, man/woman, red/blue, ketchup/mustard, good/bad, us/them. Nothing changes overnight save which B-movie you're watching on cable while sprawled out on the living room couch, bloated from too many bags of Funyuns.

Of course, this would all be solved if we had a parliamentary machine with a distinctly European flavor instead. Tell me you aren't salivating at the mere thought of bitching about an entirely different set of problems!



















Those marching suckers were pissed off over, not an obvious transformation into a full-fledged rogue nation, but beef. Beef. Too bad this would never happen here. Protest and survive? Bah.

In a few decades, humanity is going to look back and wonder what the fuck we were thinking by not kicking these lunatics out of office. Oaths just aren't what they used to be.

I wonder how psycho the next one will be.

And remember, if paranoia about losing the election had/has/will have you against it, fret not, mes amis. We can still lose, trials and DOC inmate numbers or not. Place faith in the American voter and affiliated electoral contraptions at your own peril. I will not be joining you. Unless you're buying. I warn you though, the green fairy is expensive.

"Fool me once, shame on you. You fool me, can't get fooled again."

Oh, but we can.

Crime does indeed pay, you and your predecessors proved that.

You didn't think I put that up there for shits and giggles, did you?

Speaking of crime -- boy, am I the Master of the Segue -- a comment by Divajood in the Miami Vice post from this past weekend got me thinking. Most album covers that should -- if there were any justice in the world, and we know there isn't -- be illegal are usually associated with equally repulsive music, regardless of genre. But, within your personal collection, are there any putrescent sleeves stealthily hiding exquisite music?

I'm not talking ones that call forth neither good nor bad feelings, ones that fail to conjure venomous hatred and loathing, but ones that are, frankly, embarrassing. Until you spin the disc. See, even the greats fuck up.

My choice: one of my all-time favorite albums, a completely underrated classic within the primordial metallic soup that was the 1970s that one wouldn't know merely by looking at the disco inferno duds worn by Messrs. Butler, Iommi, Osbourne and Ward. I blame the drugs.

















Top that.

Kicked in the Teeth*

"C'est ridicule ! Les Bleus onlee von a tie vith zee Romanians! I vill get to zee bottom of zis! Je ne souhaite pas embrasser ma soeur ! Mais, au moins nous ne sommes pas AC/DC !"


















"How do you thinka we feel? We losto to the Dutcho! Ruberemo il loro cioccolato! Almeno non siamo AC/DC!"



















"High voltage rock and roll selling out!"

*What, you expected something thought-provoking? Like I was going to watch talking hairpieces or turn the computer on over the weekend. Silly humans.

"Make Me Vomit"

Not pictured: Crockett and Tubbs.

The Adventures of Barack Hussein X

"Remember what I did to that punk ass, Lieberman?"

"My friends, I have to go to the bathroom."

Housewifehusband log: Stardate XXX*

If the XXX doesn't grab your attention, I don't know what will.

Free gas for a year!

Eat some beans. As you will see, there's a distinct lack of erotica. Sorry.

Closet prude!

No, that's where I keep my stash of porn. I am indeed truly sorry.
Here you go:


















Oh, Alessandra. Sigh.

Je m'excuse, Flying Nunly, you'll find no beefcake here.



















"My friends, don't I count?"

Of course not. Anyway, you have zero time for striking a pose; isn't there an election to steal? Since we're on the subject of kleptomania, the reason for thieving, for the second time in a week, a post title from the inscrutable and groovetastic Freida Bee is three-fold:

1. I'm off today, and when I'm off, I'm even lazier than normal; thus, not using whatever small reservoir of energy I still possess to think of a clever title on my own. To my credit, eventually waking the slumbering powers of my brain, I did manage to change it from wife to husband because, though I do sometimes cry during certain movies and crying is about the most womanly thing there is, I piss standing up.

2. Despite my penchant for slackitude, there is plenty o' laundry to wash and fold, so I will be, in a certain sense, playing house. And once we've shuffled the kids off to school, my sometimes-better-half and I can play doctor in the near 90° heat.

Gee, this post is even sexier than I had envisioned.

3. I couldn't think of a third thing, so read my NBA Finals preview.

Hey, where are you going?

Ungrateful bastards.

















Woo. How exciting. Celtics and Lakers. Golly, I hope we see Michael Jordan at courtside! That would make the experience super duper special! Anyone have a bucket or an industrial-size paper bag?


















"Lakers...Celtics...oh, yeah."

Dammit Stern, not again. Would someone get him a towel?

Here's what we know: the Celtics can win on the road, which in these playoffs, came as a surprise. The Hawks beat them three times, for Satan's sake. The Pistons can lose at home, which is their recent modus operandi. My bad for giving them the benefit of the doubt. Flip, you're flopped. The Lakers can win if they're playing a predominantly older team. The new-and-not-improved Big Three aren't young pups. The Spurs can lose if Manu Ginobili suddenly misplaces a leg. And what was with giving up not one, but two 17+ point leads? Assholes.

Ray Allen finally showed signs of life as the series rolled on, Paul Pierce played magnificently on the road in a game that would clinch a Finals berth and Kevin Garnett was workmanlike. The problem? Since acquiring Pau Gasol, the Lakers, including the postseason, are 40-12. Kobe has indeed been spectacular, but Los Angeles doesn't make the ultimate round without that outright theft of an all-star calibre player for a never-was, a couple of never-will-bes, a corpse and some draft picks. Fuck you, Memphis.

In the regular season, Boston won by an average scoring margin of 10.3 points/game, the highest such mark in the NBA since the 1996-97 Chicago Bulls. In other words, they were really good. The Lakers weren't slouches themselves, winning by 7.3 points/game, third in the league. In the postseason, however, the Lakers have maintained such excellence, winning by 6.4 points/game, not too shabby at all considering the much better opposition. Yes, that leads all playoff squads. The Celtics have fallen back to 4.3 points/game, and were even outscored in one series -- by the Cavs. Grumble.



I'm with you, Herm, but the best indicator of future success is the points/runs/goals you score and allow, not your W-L record. And that, unfortunately, is what I have to make my prediction on, not the fact that Boston won 66 games beating up on scrubs like Miami, Charlotte and the rest of the Atlantic division. The Celtics certainly don't look like that steamroller anymore, do they?

Rooting for the city of Boston to win another title is akin to rooting for a Republican in anything, but I'd much rather see Kevin Garnett, for example, hold the Larry O'Brien trophy above his head than a guy named after a fucking steak. At power forward, Top Sirloin Rosenberg! Morons. Like this guy: McHale the GM was quite the opposite of McHale the player, and that, not The Logo, is who Garnett had to work under for so many years. And I didn't see a Hall-of-Fame calibre center thundering across the Land of a Thousand Lakes either.

One more, not often voiced, reason to root for the Celtics is the way they arrived at this juncture. How many times have we seen a team trade away serviceable, if not outright quality, veterans for so much young, untapped talent, draft picks, cap space, you name it? And how many times has that blown up in that team's face? Boston said, fuck no, good people of Massachusetts, let's get some old dudes and make a run. Sure, we'll be capped out and we'll lose some young players in the process, but these guys already know how to play. If the Celtics win the title, then more teams will likely follow The Dogma of Herm. For us basketball junkies, that means no more Jonathan Benders, Stromile Swifts and Kwame Browns controlling your fortunes! More blockbuster trades! Not for the future, but now! Crazy hedonism! Live for the moment! Pass that stash! Run around the house naked! If you're not trying to win a championship, you're in the wrong business! I'm looking at you, Donald Sterling!

So, drunken leprechauns dancing in the streets? Sad to say for those of us with a soul that hasn't been charred to a fine crispy texture because we're not cursed to find habitation in the sweltering concrete and plastic heap that is the City of Angels, that won't happen. Lakers in six. Fuck it. KG, Defensive Player of the Year, baby!








"Celtics in seven!"


*sorry, FB, today it's DefCon 1.