Fear is the mindkiller

Oh, shit. Now that the unwashed masses have sort of gurgled their possible displeasure with the bailout bill, enough Congressfuckers voted against the thing to send it down in flames, crashing on the White House lawn.













"Heh, heh, look Unka Dick, fire, fire!"

I fear that if the Murkan people enjoy this feeling, what will become of our precious military/industrial/entertainment complex?











Oh, shit. Now that the White Sux have knocked off the woefully underachieving Tigers, they might make the playoffs after this evening's game against the Twins, thereby making certain people extra happy. Add in the fact that the boss is already happy, and I fear a World Series starring both squads, and that's way too much happy for me to take.













Oh, shit. My state is even dumber than I had previously thought. Yes, even I, disciple of lefty slackerdom, received one of those wingnut propaganda DVDs in the mail. It was fun to hammer it into tiny little pieces.


















Cool crack effects, no? Take that, photoshoppers!

What isn't fun is the fear that even more Ohioans will be voting for McFossil than I had previously assumed.

Of course, my biggest fear is that I won't have enough booze on hand the morning of November 5 to dull my pain upon coming to grips with the fact that the world must suffer another four years of taxcut-and-spend, free market socialist interventionists.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly IV

"'bout time the rest of you clowns decided to be Manly Men of Manliness."

The Good: I'm still not 100% sure, but I believe I witnessed an actual commitment to the run, forty whole carries worth. Yes, I'm most assuredly a pass-sets-up-the-run guy -- don't listen to anything Merril Hoge ever says -- but if your passing game is in disarray, as ours still is -- though DA looked a little less shaky in the fourth quarter -- you've got to legitimately pound the proverbial rock down the metaphorical throat. And for the third straight game, the defense turned in a solid performance. Yeah, yeah, Carson Palmer didn't play; precisely why you should win. Allowing barely 200 yards of offense, less than 4.0 yards/play and forcing five turnovers? Not too shabby.

The Bad: the passing game remains as creaky and out-of-whack as McFossil and what's with all the offsides calls? The line of scrimmage doesn't move in and out of our space-time continuum. Sheesh.

The Ugly: it was quite unattractive that we were down 6-3 at the half to a Ryan Fitzpatrick-led team, and we only managed 261 yards of total offense, but hey, it's a fucking win. I'll take whatever I can get. Braylon Edwards, for not dropping a touchdown pass, you get a cookie.

Up next: thankfully, a week off, especially with the defending champs here on the 13th; a whole bushel of improvements would probably be a good thing. Try and incorporate some more plays for Jerome Harrison, for starters. And, oh, maybe fix the fucking passing game.

Banned in the USA

Hard to believe that it was only one month ago when the superheated air was saturated with moisture and the sun beat the senses down with the inexorable drone of a political speech. Walking to work now? There's a bittersweet crispness in the air, an earthy scent of melancholy borne upon memories that float amidst the cycle of life and death; the leaves have begun to change, some subtly, their margins tinged with yellow and the faintest brush of orange peeking out when struck by a stray ray of light breaking through the slate grey of increasingly overcast skies. Honestly, what could be better than autumn?

Huh? Sorry, I was trying to think of things that don't automatically induce the shivers followed up by a round of vomiting.

"Blah diddy blah." "Googly moogly."
"Diddly doodlely." "Yabba dabba doo."

Didn't watch it. Everyone says McCain was a condescending jerk. Gee, didn't see that coming. Everyone says Obama was too nice. Wow. I'm so shocked.

I did something far more important with my time. I read.

I'm sure if Mr. Campbell was here with us, he would say "get your read on, motherfuckers!" or something equally inspirational. In any case, today begins Banned Books Week, a time of celebrating the joys of reading while giving the middle finger to assholes who would dare dictate which pages you can and cannot lay your eyes upon, which words you can and cannot see.

So putting aside bullshit jingoism wrapped in American flags, cluster bombs, campaign sloganeering, lists of promises that everyone refuses to recognize won't be kept and bailouts of fuckers who can afford it (thanks once again Congress for the reaming of our collective ass, I hate you all so much), I would like, through some truly American ideals -- legitimate, tangible freedom and sticking it to The Man -- suggest some reading materials for some of our most esteemed countryfuckers.

For you, Chimpy McStagger,

"Randal, heh, heh, I can't read Communist. Where's ma expert on all those Unions of Soviet Russians? Oh, if only I had looked deeper into Pooty-Poot's soul. Condi, put those shoes down and gimme some help."




And I certainly can't forget about your replacement!

"For five and a half years I couldn't read books! Fuck you!"










What about the loser on November 4, Barack Hussein X?

"Watch me pull a Care Bear Market out of this hat. That is to say, the bailout is necessary if we are to audaciously change the economy with a hopeful belief in liquidity. I agree with Senator McCain..."








Oh, sorry, I fell asleep, dreaming of a Democrat hungry for blood.

I've also got something for your running mate, Hair Plugs For Men.

"Exactly, fix that market, dammit. How else will MBNA continue to fleece the American consumer?"










Don't worry, Mooselini, I could never forget about you.

"Who needs experience when I've got this book! Thanks, Randal!"








What can I say, I've gotten so used to such a vile bastard running the show and, well *sniff* I'm gonna miss the little nipper. You've already got the natural talent to continue his important work. Good luck with your autocratic theocracy! And if you find any witches, please, feel free to send them my way. I'll make sure they get their just desserts.



















"No thanks, we prefer a real man."

Yikes! As brutal as Cheney.













"At least they tell the truth."

Thank you, dearest, for your ever-loving words. Speaking of the Dark Lord himself, I had found a book I thought he'd enjoy, but in the process of giving it to him, he growled and roared, doing his best Cerberus impression before biting my hand off. Luckily, my sometimes-better-half is taking dictation and typing this up for me. And, strangely, laughing.

What the hell is so goddamn comical about this unfortunate turn of events?













"You're going to have to learn to use your left."

Ouch.

There's no need to fear, McFossil is here!

"My friends, my silence yesterday spoke louder than words. Which is why, by not showing up at the debate tonight, I'll emerge victorious."

Midday update!

McFossil, after single-handedly saving America from greedy Wall Street fatcats, will take that old standby, the populist railway, to Oxford, Mississippi where he will walk, as fast as his POW-ed legs will allow him, to the University of Mississippi in order to lay out his vast foreign policy expertise of blowing things up. Godspeed, Senator!

















"Don't make me look like a trollop, you cunt."

Gangsta's Paradise

"MC Star Search will fuck your shit up."

You simply assumed that you were going to get a post about this, didn't you. Don't be stupid. Everyone not living under a rock, stuck inhaling the fumes in a chemical factory for eight hours a day or dropping acid knew this was coming. Sheesh.

An important announcement

"I can't wait until my pretzeldency wears suspenders and I can retirement to Southern America."

Given the dire straits this blog is currently in, I've decided to suspend my important work of bringing smiles to the American taxpayer until we can craft bipartisan legislation to jumpstart this internets engine of happy fun joy and stop the prevailing winds of suck from blowing any longer.














"My friends, I'm in suspended animation, too."

After quietly sending out feelers to my constituents, I have received many thoughtful and heartfelt solutions to this grim news. My good friend State Representative John LaBruzzo of Metairie, Louisiana has, for example, suggested a program of forced sterilization, thereby suspending the further waste of taxpayer dollars better used by, oh, I don't know, the Pentagon.

Believe me, I would love to comply John, but you're a bit too late. If only you had brought this up three or so decades ago. I don't think you can put me back in.












"Hey, I'm simply continuing the fine tradition begun by effective legislators such as David Duke. What's the problem?"


















"So, Carlos, wanna quit?"
"Might as well. I've got a lot of yardwork to do before winter."

This concerted drive for putting the needs of the many above the needs of the few is spreading nationwide, and nothing could make me happier, funner and joyfuller. Just to mention one of the many thousands of points of light, there is a fine squadron of sporting men braving the unfriendly climate of the effete lie-brul Northeast, the Nymets, who have collectively decided to suspend their push for the playoffs. It's beautiful to behold.















"Fuck yoos, it's as bootiful as your mutha!"

That was uncalled for. We're on the same team, dammit. Well, I'm off. I've got a long day ahead trying to find some specific examples of John McCain pushing for more regulation.


















"If you find some, pleeeeeez let me know!"

Yeah, I'll give you a call sometime.

Catharsis

Mike, I feel the same way.

Before I begin, I'd like to point out the obvious and make mention that no, neither my wife nor myself were shot last evening. Unfortunately, neither was anyone connected with the Bush White House. Oh, lighten up trolls, if I had any. I'm evidently joking. Manifestly.












"Let's keep an eye on that Randal Graves fellow."

I will, however, publicly admit my support for the guillotine.

Now, on to the concert review.

Thanks to various policy problems both foreign, domestic and internally -- wait, that's three; damn Murkan edumacation with your fancy mathery -- I've recently been feeling angry and stabby and so this three hour power chord ceremony came at just the right time. See, you Catholics aren't the only ones with long religious rituals. Psychedelic Illinois black metallers Nachtmystium dropped off the bill for 'reasons out of their control' or some other crap -- gents, that's not very metal -- so the show commenced with the Motörhead-meets-Slayer-meets-Satan stylings of riff gods High on Fire.

Standing upon a thoroughly crushing bottom end -- if drummer Des Kensel isn't the most underrated dude around, then all the other underrated dudes must be Einsteinian in their percussive genius -- vocalist/guitarist Matt Pike directed the band through such hell-stirring hymns as Waste of Tiamat, the grinding Turk, a face-shredding Eyes and Teeth, the reverberating, eight-minute thunderstorm of Death Is This Communion and sinister set closer Devilution. But the absolute highlight was the fearsome march of Face of Oblivion, which always gets bonus points for mentioning 'Arkham.' If Yog-Sothoth had a band, this is what they'd sound like. Though, not having opposable thumbs, I'm not sure how he'd play his instrument. If there's one group that encapsulates what metal is in all its loud, destructive, oppressive, hummable riff-centric glory, it's these lunatics.

After being thoroughly pummeled for a gloriously evil hour, those wistful death metal troubadours from Sweden, Opeth, came out to the lyrical and doomy strains of Heir Apparent, followed up by a punishing Ghost of Perdition The Grand Conjuration (apparently, I can't read my own handwriting) and an old Still Life nugget, Serenity Painted Death, each multi-part masterpiece of light and dark in full bloom, sentez-vous les fleurs du mal. An even greater curveball came off of 2003's slab of mellow melancholy, Damnation, the tragically beautiful Hope Leaves. Hard to believe that the same pipes that produce such an unholy wailing can turn out such bittersweet tones.

Returning to the heavy -- in between ham-fisted and comic banter completely at odds with the images portrayed in the band's music; see, told you fuckers us metalheads are a happy lot -- with the spiraling journey of The Lotus Eater, the band further upped the despondent ante with the epic shadings of Bleak. Speaking of things bleak, songs, houses, the economy, I was anything but when they pulled out of mothballs an absolute gem of a track off Morningrise, their second album. The sullen, meandering dynamics of The Night and the Silent Water positively dripped with the sadness inherent within the memories we hold of those who have left us. Stockholm's finest closed out on a venomous note with the jagged, hammering Deliverance and a thoroughly toxic version of Demon of the Fall, both tracks steeped in violence and hatred. Of course, like every band since the dawn of time, there was an encore, a stirring, emotional The Drapery Falls. Over two hours of such brilliance is about five hours too short.

You can keep your hippity-hopping, bippity-bopping, don't-know-what-the-jazz-is-all-about, power-popping, shock-jocking, eminently boring outfits. I've got Opeth, which means I've got the best band on the planet. Oh, go on and disagree with your old pal Randal. That's fine. I must warn you though, I'm still in a bad mood, so don't be surprised if I go all Cheney and shoot you in the face for daring to have an opinion of your own.

My already shitty hearing has been made worse but, as is always the case, it was completely worth it. The angry and stabby sentiment, as indicated, remains, but now I'll be stabbing while mischievously grinning, dancing in your pooling blood. Oh don't worry, the detergent I use will get those stains out.

Firestarter

Ever since I read the book so many years ago, I've always wondered what it would be like to have the ability to set things ablaze through nothing more complex than mere thought. You can keep your stinkin' fancy ass flamethrowing technology, U.S. Army. Now, I haven't been injected with the results of some clandestine government experiment -- that I know of -- but let's give it the ole' college try:










"Charlie don't play controversies!"

Browns coach Romeo Crennel made it clear Monday that he's considering benching Derek Anderson and starting Brady Quinn Sunday in Cincinnati.

"I think we'll definitely try to get the other guy [Quinn] ready to go and we'll see how it progresses from there," Crennel said Monday in his breakdown of Sunday's 28-10 loss to the Ravens that dropped the Browns to 0-3. "We'll probably give him a few more reps in practice right now."

Dammit! No smoke rising in the direction of stadium; nothing in fact but clear skies. Well, as clear as a major metropolitan area in the United States can be in 2008. Let's give it another shot.























"Charlie enjoys the taste of feet!"

When interviewed by CBS anchor Katie Couric yesterday, Biden condemned a recent Obama ad that poked fun at John McCain's "inability" to use a computer.

"I thought that was terrible by the way," he said. "If I'd have had anything to do with it, we never would have done it.

Stupid, metatarsal-munching Democrats! C'mon hairplugs, burn! Concentrate! Ow, my head! This is for my meltdown on Saturday, isn't it. Well played, brain.

"I'm not saying a word."

Third time's the charm!



















"Charlie don't misunderestimate!"

Earlier Monday, President Bush warned Democrats not to load down the proposed rescue plan for the U.S. financial system with extra provisions, but Democratic leaders are insisting on some aid for homeowners and curbs on executive pay.

"There will be differences over some details, and we will have to work through them," Bush said as congressional staff and administration officials restarted meetings on the bill. "That is an understandable part of the policy-making process.

"But it would not be understandable if members of Congress sought to use this emergency legislation to pass unrelated provisions, or to insist on provisions that would undermine the effectiveness of the plan."

Nothing but another fucking migraine! Curse you Stephen King and your false advertising! I want my pyrokinesis! Now!


















Oh no, the nefarious proprietors of unchecked consumerism have won! I've been infected with instant gratificationitis!

"Muahahahahaha!"

Shut up, brain, or I'll start killing you with beer.

"You don't even like beer."

I know.

"I'll be good."

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly III

"You fuckers are as effective as Democratic messaging!"

The Good: the excellent call for the screen which resulted in our only touchdown. See what happens when you fucking wait until after the two-minute warning? And again, surprisingly, the defense. Seven of the Ravens' points came on an interception return and they started a couple of other drives extra deep in our zone. We gave up less than 300 yards for the second straight week and only 4.3 yards/play.

The Bad: everything else, especially the offensive line. Yeah, DA made a few boneheaded throws in the second half, but that's after getting knocked on his ass about a hundred times and it was all-or-nothing time. Seriously, what the fuck happened to you guys? You guys have fucking sucked this season, including you, Joe Thomas, Mr. Super Rookie Stud Man. Fuck you. Guard Eric Steinbach misses the game and you assholes go from bad to putrescent? At least you fucks aren't Wall Street execs or you'd be in line for a fucking pay raise instead of the cut you deserve.

The Ugly: the mental lapses in every fucking phase. I stopped counting when it hit triple digits. At least we have LeBron for a couple of more seasons before Cleveland sports really goes in the shitter. The worst part is that the AFC is there for the taking. Buffalo, Denver, Tennessee and Baltimore lead their respective divisions. Yeah, those are the fucking four best teams in the conference. One barely beats Oakland, one has no defense, one can't pass and the other has no quarterback.

Fucking hell.

Up next: at the Bungles who might be even worse than us. A frightening thought, but not as frightening as staring down an 0-4 start. The 1992 Chargers we ain't.

And for all those tingly with excitement that the Dems are going "oh, now please Mr. Paulson, sir, can we kind of maybe talk about this $700 billion dollar bailout," don't be fucking stupid. Once the chorus of partisan accusations and doom-and-gloom scenarios hits the refrain, they'll cave like the Browns' offensive line.

Fuck you, capitalist sluts.
Fuck you, cowardly Dems.
Fuck you, Republican deregulation whores.
Fuck you, Americans who keep on voting for these fucks.

If you all spontaneously combusted right now, the world would instantly be better.

"I won't bet against the American people ... We will work through this," Paulson said on NBC.

I wouldn't bet against them getting reamed again, either.

Fuck you.

Any ole' excuse'll do

How 'bout some liveblogging!

"But Randal, nothing is going on. It's Saturday morning."

8h27 am: fuck you, brain. I'm at work and bored out of my gourd. But now that the gourd is empty, I can put it out on the patio, let it dry in the sun for a few hours, toss some of these concrete chips inside -- hmm, that column doesn't look right. Oh well, I'm sure it won't collapse -- seal it back up, and join Tito Puente's band.










"They robbed the school earth of Tito!"

Well, brain, someone's band. Hey, let's start a swingin' internets ensemble! Close your eyes, yes, that's right, close them good, empty your mind of all negative thought, screen after screen of corrupt politicians spewing forth their filthy lies and imagine instead the smooth, sultry polyrhythms wafting from a thousand keystrokes in unison, seducing your body bathed in silvery moonlight to move and groove in a way your mama would disapprove so go on and remove --














8h35 am: hey, um, look, it's other people. I really should be daydreaming more working on my paper, but since I busted vast amounts of ass the size of Spain -- hey, Johnny -- naw, too easy -- on it last weekend, I'm going to reward myself with a treat: surfing the tubes for pornographic materials!

"What a surprise."

Hey, it's for research purposes.

And for the record, no, I cannot tango.

"Or ballroom or waltz or minuet or electric slide --"

I can mosh.

8h45 am: fuck man, all the good stuff costs money. If only I could incorporate myself, hedge some funds, bottom out and get bailed by you chumps.


















"Remember, Fred, the CEO's penthouse. Stat!"

8h53 am: from the Blind Squirrel Department: yeah, the lyrics sucked, and the band sucked and all their other songs sucked, but the main riff to Quiet Riot's Metal Health is fucking good, I don't care what anyone says.

Go on and laugh, like everything you dig is Jaded Rock Critic approved.

You don't even own any Bach, loser.


















"Schlagen Sie Ihren Kopf!"

9h07 am: yabba dabba doo, yabba dabba doo. Not strictly Fred and Wilma but the skit from In Living Color that ripped on that FSM-awful Crystal Waters song. Every now and then it makes an appearance inside my skull. It's out of my control, really.

That and The Simpsons back-to-back. Memories.

"At least that one's real."

Go to hell.

9h12: DID SOMEONE SAY HELL?

Satan may take Hossa's place on Pens' top line.















NOW THAT'S A HEADLINE!


















NOW THAT'S A HEADLINE!
















NOW THAT'S A HEADLINE!
















NOW THAT'S A HEADLINE!

Is there an echo in here? Sheesh, we get it, you are legion for you are a whole bunch of fuckers, one aspect of which apparently plays in the NHL. What the hell --

DID SOMEONE SAY HELL?

-- fucking one trick pony. What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be plotting the next world crisis with your favorite lackey at The Undisclosed Location?

9h19 am: speaking of the world, want to know when an international student has truly arrived? When, in frustration, he or she swears in English. It's a beautiful thing to see. God Bless America. Sniff.

"Son of bitch! Shit!"

Man, I can't wait to swear in über-crappy French in some dinky store in some dinky town in the middle of Toulouse before the owner tosses me out onto the street.

"Cinq Euros ? Merde ! Vous enculez-vous !"












9h28 am: No more anger, for I have entered into a state of deep contemplation, of transcendent sentiment worthy of being carried on the cosmic winds from star to star, galaxy to galaxy, dimension to dimension, exploring the furthest reaches of consciousness whose dreamy arms drift above each and every plane of existence as they compose a mellifluous measure of truth, the sweetest harmony of the soul, the denouement of every question, the holy grail of the seeker, the answer.

Yes, this is the worst blog post ever.

"I concur, you navel-gazing bastard. You are in serious need of help."

It's not my fault it's slow today.

"Why don't you croon an old standard, flash those pearly posting skills?"












"Now that's the Randal we all know and loathe!"
Am I your monkey? Should I parler en français ?
"No, no, you're a facade that we need to clothe --"
In sartorial livery? That's stupid to say, go away.
"Don't be such a child. If one is devoid of wit --"
And you're gonna fucking give it to me?
"Who else can dredge you up from this pit?"
A wasteland created through your fuckery --
"Explain yourself, good sir, I'm merely trying --"
My fucking patience --
"Now you are lying --"
Hey, I see the imbalance.
"And we feel the burn blasting off the page."
That's not burn, mon esprit, but burnout.
"Neither scrying nor mountain climb to a sage --"
Can fix it, so if you don't mind, permit me to shout.
"Taking a sabbatical? A mental constitutional?"
Nothing of the sort, just venting some spleen.
"Chuck you aren't and Paris this ain't."
Low words and a failure to rhyme? Everything I've seen!
"Your wretched hell is the source of that complaint."
Yet our song remains broken.
"Of what import is such contrary ontogeny?"
'Tis but a useless token?
"Oui. Up for some poetic larceny?"
Rather just do nothin'.