What happens in Vegas, heads overseas on a B-2.
If I may be serious for a moment, what are we doing putzing around with outdated bumblebee weaponry? Didn't any of the engineers at General Atomics see Real Genius while growing up? Plus, for each Al-Qaeda #3 killed, a lifetime supply of Orville Redenbacher.
An entire 6:15 am bus ride downtown and not a single inebriated wanker? At least the parade doesn't run down Euclid so I'll be able to have a quiet lunch in vomit-free sneakers. Fuck drunk cracker mobs.
In other predictable news, Justice Department claims "my penis is bigger than your penis." Texas Representative says "no way." Justice Department says "way." Our reporter could neither confirm nor deny whether either party in fact whipped it out.
Editorial: in their defense, it wasn't yet St. Patrick's Day.
I'm on the other side of the globe from surprised (and it's a bit moist, hey, look, I think that's Australia otherwise how else do you explain the bikini-clad Elle Macpherson hallucination, Coleridge) at this wholly expected development, as you certainly ought to be, just make sure you're donning a fetching dayglo orange life preserver, but please don't permit this
The review of where and how to hold a Sept. 11 trial is not over, so no recommendation is yet before the president and Obama has not made a determination of his own, officials said. The review is not likely to be finished this week.to turn into one more wasted opportunity. Friends! Romans! Assholes! For this is nothing but what we choose make of it -- can't you hear those freedom bells a-ringing? -- the perfect occasion for doing what we Americans do best.
More pampered rock stars whining about something they couldn't possibly ever never in a million years understand, but even though I share Kent Brockman's cogent view of democracy, because I'm such a nice guy, I'm willing to give these yokels the floor.
"I think every musician should be involved," said Rosanne Cash in a telephone interview Wednesday. "It seems so obvious. Music should never be used as torture."Bullshit. Why do you think I toss up Belial's favorite tunes? For childish kicks? Because I enjoy it? I don't hear anyone (besides Übermilf) clamoring for them. Do you?
"The fact that music I helped create was used in crimes against humanity sickens me," Morello said in a statement.I'm with you there, Tom. Hearing Audioslave was a crime against humanity.
"Sound at a certain level creates sensory overload and breaks down subjectivity and can [bring about] a regression to infantile behavior," said Suzanne G. Cusick, a music professor at New York University who has studied, lectured about and written extensively on the use of music as torture in the current wars. "Its effectiveness depends on the constancy of the sound, not the qualities of the music."If it's too loud, you're too old. Now go away. Go go go! Now now now!
"PYLE!"
"Golly, Sgt. Carter, why do you want me to put these in order from most to least surprising?"
"It's a test of your limited mental capacity, Pyle! Now get moving!"
1) United States 2, #1 world ranked Spain 0, their first loss in 35 matches.
"I guess that's what those Spaniards get for taking the land of our sixteenth-century white, Christian ancestors, right Sgt. Carter? Shame, shame, shame."
2) Shaquille O'Neal is traded to the Cavs for a second round pick, spare tank parts and an extra sandwich from the mess hall.
"Tony Danza? Dick Butkus? I'm confused Sgt. Carter!"
3) National Lampoon's Afghan Vacation
"Shazam! I think I finally understand this terrorism thing, Sgt. Carter!"
"Try again, Pyle!"
"Extra credit for Übermilf! Pyle, drop and give me twenty!"
As I usually do Saturday mornings at work before yokeldom starts streaming in with their electro-gadgetry and questions about how to operate a copier -- yes, you push the green button embossed with the word Start -- causing me to go into apoplectic fits, and if I don't already have anything special planned --
"As if anything at this dump could ever be qualified as special."
Well, isn't that special.
-- see, even the holy rollers are on my side -- I scour the intertubes looking for something to post about because what else am I going to do? Try reading and get interrupted every 38 seconds right in the middle of a long paragraph when you know damn well that my bibliographic biorhythm isn't like others because I try to shut off, even more so than normal, the ambient dumbassery of my immediate surroundings (this is the world's loudest library; it's in Guinness, look it up. Anyone have a Guinness?) which only gives the appearance of being rude to the customers and as everyone knows, I live only to serve you, the public thirsting for knowledge, I, your master of ceremonies at the traveling freak show just passing by on your mystical journey towards enlightenment.
"You could do some work."
In this top hat and tails?
"You could study for your Monday midterm."
Pourquoi ? Je suis le maître du Français, idiot. So after scrubbing for a bit with some Spic N Span (do they still make that?) I ran across this shot from this story --
-- and contemplated making a not-even-remotely comical Where Are They Now about how one day you're playing sold-out arena shows laying down a ponderously dull bottom end for Ratt, and the next you're providing material support to Al-Qaeda, having been driven there via the rib cook off circuit, apparently one harsh mistress.
"...."
Yeah, I know. Anyway, there was also this picture:
-- and I suppose I could have gone for a Joaquin Phoenix angle, but that's dead and I don't care because I honestly couldn't tell you what he's done outside of Gladiator and I would have to draw sunglasses using Paint and that would take a far steadier hand than I possess, but then I thought, hey, Rasputin, everyone loves the Mad Monk! but then I couldn't think of even a bad joke so I decided to say hell with it and here you go, today's post, but then.
Wait, what's this? Why, it's the legend himself! Rasputin! We're all so glad you could find time out of your busy schedule to visit us!
Мое удовольствие. Я никогда нет к блогу.
And might I add, that's a wonderfully full and manly beard, much more impressive than the pubescent stubble of those ineffectual mullahs.
Вы делаете потеху меня?
Making fun? Perish the thought, I have nothing but the utmost respect for someone able to help bring down the entrenched power structure that does nothing but enrich their coffers upon the broken backs of the people.
Вы оскорбляли неправильное монах, ленивую сволочь.
Lazy? Bum? That hurts, Grigori.
Spend all your time alternating between watching the good local sports team get infected with the stupid virus of the bad local sports team, reading and domestic bliss --
"My friends, I know all about 'domestic bliss.'"
--and you miss the vital news of the day:
"Al-Qaeda tasty! Grrr!"
"It's not like crimes were committed, heh heh."
And most importantly, this:
I've got nothing to add to this historical piece of comedy, so I'll just echo what Frederick said. In the midst of sharpening the angry a bit further, I realized it's the birthday of The Man --
--and then I felt a little bit better because I finally had something worthwhile to post about.
"I told you."
NaBloPoMoMrRoboto was a miserable failure thanks to a gruesome combination of home internets break it down hammer time! and the one thing I rate exceptionally at on a worldly scale, laziness, so instead of trying to come up with snark masquerading as insightful commentary on this --
Through seven years of war an exclusive club has quietly flourished at the intersection of network news and wartime commerce. Its members, mostly retired generals, have had a foot in both camps as influential network military analysts and defense industry rainmakers. It is a deeply opaque world, a place of privileged access to senior government officials, where war commentary can fit hand in glove with undisclosed commercial interests and network executives are sometimes oblivious to possible conflicts of interest.-- I'll just remove the tinfoil and say 'duh.'
The worst part about having wingnuts populate the family isn't having to listen to their ill-informed bloviating that numbs the senses with an endless cavalcade of hollow thuds thereby making an already interminably long holiday a Sisyphean punishment, nor how if I was to come up with a drunken caricature of an animated version of a stop-motion Republican sketch comedy program, it wouldn't do satire justice because the aforementioned yokels and their national compatriots brutally slaughtered satire so many years ago, but the existence of those wishy-washy types who, desperate for a faux civility because the world is just too bloody uncomfortable, give equal weight to everyone's so-called opinion, regardless of who carries facts in their sacks and who carries dog shit.
I'm so tempted to stay home for Saturnalia. I'd experience a more adult conversation talking to the dustpan.
So, taking a break from research mode, let's see what's going on in the world, though I'm sure you all have touched on this stuff at least 79 million times in the last couple of days. I may be out of the loop, but perhaps I'll say something interesting.
"....."
Ahem. Hey, how about all that craziness in India?
One former intelligence service member told Al Jazeera on condition of anonymity, that the collapse of human intelligence networks in favour of and total reliance on technological intelligence-gathering contributed to the failure.Someone didn't read their PDB, though it is Al-Jazeera, so take everything they say with a stack of Korans and the severed heads of Christian missionaries. But what about this:
The only silver lining is that there have been no blatant calls for Pakistani blood.Pussies.
"My friends, of course just one more war."
You've all seen it floating in front of your eyeballs, tubular electroparticles transformed into the Latin alphabet in the ancient form of a meme. I've been tagged by this treasure, this welcome break from politicaliscious blogification not once, but twice.
Praise be unto thee, lovely ladies of the internets.
But also a curse upon thy souls! for verily have I submitted such chicanery, with slightly different verses, long, long ago, and now I must concoct yet one more delectable cauldron of lies.
Trust me, if I didn't make shit up, you'd all be snoozing by now.
Yeah, that's real funny, man. Um, hey.
1. Where was I ten years ago?
Same job (sort of), same wife, same kids (though we had just bought one from the store, an impulse buy, like our first), same tunes. Well okay, we lived at a different address.
Same town.
Yeah, same town.
And you were less of a curmudgeonly ass.
Go fuck yourself.
2. What was on my ToDo list today?
This post. Signs point to yes.
Pretending to earn my paycheck. Most likely.
Writing more of my stupid book. Ask again later.
Trading scowls with the wife. Without a doubt.
Wow, this Magic Eight Ball is like Nostradamus in a, well, ball!
I wonder if it comes in an aerosol.
Anytime you want to start making shit up is fine by me.
3. What would I do if I were a billionaire?
I already used my 'billion items at the dollar store' line, so I'd probably give a nice hunk to organizations like the ASPCA because I'm a big fucking sap. I'm sure I'd do some investing -- in Euros -- so I can have even more to give away, but man, I want to travel, then when I'm exhausted from seeing the world, crash at my swanky Parisian pad. Plus I'd be able to pay for college for my wallet-sucking offspring. Stop growing! Stop eating!
4. Five places I've lived:
Five more places than John McCain did for five years, I can tell you that.
Bloody hell!
In the poll, 52 percent said they thought the U.S. was adequately prepared, compared to 39 percent who said the U.S. was not prepared. This is the first time since March 2003 - right after the U.S. invasion of Iraq - that a majority held that opinion. As recently as last September, after the revelations of a failed terrorist plot in London that summer, 56 percent said the U.S. was not adequately prepared.Still trust the American voter?
Comrades!
Given that tomorrow is the anniversary of the birth of the Great Patriotic War, I thought to myself on the bus ride to work this morning, "Randal, you handsome devil, as usual, you have no post at the ready -- you sure do live on the edge, you rebel, you -- so how about penning a well-informed and witty essay glorifying this Holy Day of Obligation Prime Example of Blowback Thunderbirds Are Go to Blow Up Brown People?"
No need to point out that the above is about Bush the Smarter. Same family, same rot. I just wanted something extra riffy 'cause I'm in a bad mood.
Gentlemen, start your pimping!
"On Thursday, we will put aside politics and come together to renew that unity, to honor the memory of each and every American who died, and to grieve with the families and friends who lost loved ones while meekly reestablishing our patriotic street cred so that Beltway jokers won't pen snide copy about Democrats because that's mean and they don't do mean which is why they continually refuse to point out the permanent and crass exploitation of this event by Republicans at every opport --Sorry, I must've fallen asleep while penning this well-informed and witty essay.
The humidity inside our suburban home, if not exactly stifling in a 'what the fuck are we still doing here in August' kind of way -- because we don't have enough loot to fly to Europe for vacation, that's why -- was all the convincing I needed to get me to leave a few minutes early for the bus. Thus, the CD I had chosen, if I could accurately remember its duration, would likely finish before I arrived, smiling like the Joker, and feeling just as loopy, at work. Lo and behold at E. 6th, Carolina Drama fades out -- dude, milkman, so what happened and why didn't I ever review this one? -- and I push play to restart the sucker. BEEP!
LOW BATT written in that futuriffic LCD lettering. Dammit.
The ubiquitous battery. An afterthought? Not anymore, not after I had to walk at least five blocks without tunes. Not a big deal, you say? You've got some nerve. Not starting so many sentences with 'not' might not be such a bad idea, no? No. You see Not having music to listen to when I'm not directly engaged in conversation with someone or something -- you've all talked to inanimate objects before, filthy liars -- is hellish, akin to a mashup of passers-by, rockers, pimps and businessmen rolling past in their swanky new wheels and all the ambient sounds of the city -- okay, Cleveland is pretty dead at 7 am on a Saturday -- being transformed into an endless loop of George Bush press conferences. When he's drunk. But I repeat myself.
And writing without music? Might as well ask me to clean up aisle six in Cheney's Good Time House of Torment where they give me a mop, a bucket filled with tepid water, maybe some of that gritty prison soap and about five minutes before they release another morsel for him to swallow whole, and if there's a second -- you know, moi -- then he likes to play with that one the way a starving sabre-toothed cat might have wanted to bat around cornered primitive man with his foot-long, flesh-rending claws.
I had no post ready today --
"Gee, it's not at all obvious."
-- are you really one to be questioning someone's mental faculties? I think I hear a mirror calling your name. Pendant que je pensais à la suggestion de La Belette Rouge, faire un post en français, j'ai reconnu que cette idée était l'idée d'une femme folle. Pourquoi ? Au début, je n'écris pas le français bien. Ensuite, si je veux écrire mes pensées complexes -- cessez de rire ! -- cela me prendrait beaucoup de jours.
Guess how many grammatical errors are above and win a case of Turtle Wax nothing. Hey, if I knew, I wouldn't need to practice. Sorry, mon amie.
Okay, let's check the news wires.
clickety-clickety-clickety-clack
Given my natural cynicism and utter lack of faith in the American voter -- I still think McCain is going to be the one eyeing the red phone in January -- I'm not at all surprised that Obama picked an old white dude. But at least it's Biden so there's always a chance that he'll say 'bullshit' with a microphone around and if politics is anything, it's entertainment.
Apparently someone blew a bunch of folks up in Afghanistan. I had thought we fixed everything over there; you know, eradicated all the poppy fields -- WAR ON DRUGS! GRRR! CRUSH! KILL! DESTROY! FLEX! hey, Cindy called, she ran out of her supply already -- had the Taliban and their wonderfully full and manly beards on the run, killed The Greatest Threat Since Ahmadinejad's Persian Empire was single-handedly defeated by Victor Davis Hanson's kung-fu grip.
"Barack should have picked my full and manly beard. Sniff."
Oh, relax, Bill. You've got all those UFOs to deal with. Speaking of Unidentified Flying Os, are the Olympics still on? Just go away you bloated, corporate hulk so we can start talking about streamlined, populist American football. I wonder if Brett Favre is coming back to play this season. How about another will he/won't he story, Nashville Predator winger -- don't know if he's right or left, or if he's even eligible to vote -- Alexander Radulov who, while still under contract to his NHL team, signed a second with a squad in the new Russian league.
Maybe we should take on Pooty-Poot. First that whole Cold War gig, then the illegal and immoral invasion of one of our staunchest allies, Iraq Georgia, and now they're stealing our hockey players! Our hockey players!
"I must break you."
Aw, fuck it. Another war sounds like effort. Plus Vlad looks pissed off. And we don't have any money left. Pass me that bottle. I know I'm at work. Where do you think I need it the most? Oh, you honestly thought I'd say there? Are you fucking nuts? I'd lose mine!
On a day -- okay, evening -- okay, morning -- that should have been saved exclusively for the Beer, Brats and Boobs celebration of AMERICAN over those effeminate Nationals from Old Europe --
"I think they're also American baseball play --"
Shut up you fucking communist. It's AMERICAN. Anyway, before I was rudely interrupted -- you guys know what to do, wink wink, nudge nudge -- in lamenting the utter lack of serious coverage this monumental event so richly deserves, a moment in time sure to become a touchstone in the annals --
"Hey stretch, he said annals. That's the butt, heh, heh."
"Yes, sir."
-- of world history, I discovered this bonechilling development:Iran's national basketball team has been invited by the NBA to train in Utah and play against NBA and NBA Development League teams in preparation for the Beijing Olympics.
Evildoers who take pride in blowing up our women, children and frozen embryos are sending some of their tallest suicide bombers here? Just think of what carnage they can wreak from so high in the atmosphere as they bounce round balls on AMERICAN soil, a verdant, Christian soil that some would say is our Holy of Holies, Utah! (Hey, Willard loves the Lord as much as you or I do. He simply wears haute couture underpants.)
What kind of precedent does this set, allowing these bloodthirsty anarchists from a barbarian land who indeed thirst, anarchically, for the blood of said women, children and frozen embryos to travel through The Shining City on a Hill without fear of arrest, of being thrown in a dark, dank stench of a dungeon where toilets are filled with the urine-soaked pages of the Koran, the tainted innards of the non-believer and the last, uneaten bite of two kinds of fruit, deservedly without hope of ever seeing again the saving light of Republican Jesus?
Are we really going to let the Axis of Evil win the day?
"We've got the biggest balls of them all!"
And who is behind this diabolical plot? "In an increasingly turbulent world, it is rewarding to bring people together to celebrate teamwork, discipline and respectful competition on the court," NBA Commissioner David Stern said in a statement. "The NBA embraces the opportunity to welcome the Basketball Federation of Iran and the Iranian Olympic team in a demonstration of how something as simple as a game of basketball can promote understanding."
Stern!
Traitorous bastard!
Heathen criminal!
Didn't you get the memo? Iran is only permitted to survive for two reasons, and two reasons alone:
1. buying our crappy stuff
2. maintaining their status as a Cartoon Supervillain.
"Kneel before Zod! I mean, me!"
Speaking of Cartoon Supervillains, who the fuck are the twenty-eight percenters in this poll? Is there some new strain of Extra-Groovy Technicolor LSD sweeping the nation? I didn't think disaffected suburbanites would get bored this soon with blowing themselves up in their basement meth labs.
And these are people who admit to approving Der Leader. You and I both know there are more who are simply ashamed to reveal such things in any forum, even an anonymous telephone conversation. So, best case scenario, the Wingnut Machine only needs twenty-two percent plus one to keep the White House. Well, seventeen, perhaps. One assumes at least five percent will consist of Diebold thievery.
And I haven't even mentioned the inevitable Really Bad Thing® that'll miraculously occur between now and November 4 to help bolster McCain's one strength among the unwashed masses. Sure, the economy is jury-rigged with spit and chewing gum and you have no health care, but look! Iran-funded Al-Qaeda underneath your bed!
Still think Obama is a lock?
Underestimate the stupidity and paranoia of this nation at your own peril.
Since we're on the subject of stupid and paranoid nations, yes, that Border Patrol SUV is still parked out front of that Embassy Suites hotel. Methinks something big is afoot. For example, a not-all-that-discreet tryst. And no, this isn't the actual machine, which is much nicer and not as filthy. I guess we don't get a lot of illegal aliens and shipments of hockey sticks, SCTV tapes and weed crossing the invisible AMERICAN-Canadian border floating on Lake Erie.
It's Proust's birthday. 'nuff said.
Now, that wasn't very Proustian, was it? No, the sentence length, not the Metallica, though that isn't either. On the other hand, Miss Faithfull probably has a few novelfuls of interesting memories tucked away in that English noggin. Anyway, here are a couple of songs that are Proustian, L'heure exquise and Tyndaris, sung by Ninon Vallin and played by the composer himself, Reynaldo Hahn, a close pal of Marcel. Don't tell The Maverick®, but I think -- shhhh! -- they were real close.
If you're one of those weirdos who isn't merely fascinated by memory the way some are fascinated by dinosaurs so they watch stuff on the National Geographic channel, but are obsessed by the idea of it, the inherent power and control it can have over our lives, whether voluntarily submitting to its will or simply being subject, by definition, to its whims that lead us to other, heretofore hidden paths lined by long-limbed boughs of remembrance shadowing our every step, whatever our state of mind at the time, a state that might shift us off those roads and onto yet more occulted ones that seemingly spring fully formed out of the ether, realms concealed from conscious view, then there simply isn't anything better than À la recherche du temps perdu and if you haven't read it yet, what the bloody hell are you waiting for?
I love a run-on sentence, but now I'm tired. Here, look at some purty pictures whipped up by another famous dude who shares the same birthday, Camille Pissarro. Don't tell The Maverick®, but I think -- shhhh! -- he was a commie pinko.
Edge of the Woods or Undergrowth in Summer, 1879.
Le Boulevard Montmartre, effet de nuit, 1897.
To close out on a completely unrelated subject, my hometown, save for lazy and supposedly car-less New Orleans, has lost the most folks of any big city this decade (ignore the optimistic crap at the end, it only ruins the theme of this paragraph). Even when we suck we're still not number one. Well played, looters, well played.
On the credit side of the column, as I strolled, smiling as I always do each morning in anticipation of helping my fellow patriots, past an Embassy Suites hotel in beautiful, alluring, yet not overtly swanky in a cheesy Old European way downtown Cleveland (okay, City Hall, where's my fucking check?) I noticed, parked in the loading/unloading zone, a brand spanking new white SUV of US Customs and Border Protection, a subsidiary of the Department of Homeland Security, headed by a man whose gut we all know and love like a brother, Michael Chertoff. This sleek, clean-burning machine of sturdy American craftsmanship even had one of those fancy logos that Barack Hussein X stole for his own nefarious Muslim use. No, wait, that was the Presidential seal. Even more heinous!
My point is thus: we obviously have Al-Qaeda #3 cornered, so it's safe to leave your homes and stimulate the economy. Surely you haven't forgotten that 'the priority mission of the Border Patrol is preventing terrorists and terrorists' weapons, including weapons of mass destruction, from entering the United States.'
Citizen vigilance (one of our strengths here in Northeast Ohio -- ahem, Mr. Mayor) along with the muscle of DHS, has once again thwarted a plot to blow up something red, white and blue. You're welcome.
Postscript: editorialist, you aren't helping with our image:
No matter what this or any other law says, Congress has few practical means to force an end to hostilities. Its most obvious lever -- withholding the money -- is distasteful and could endanger U.S. troops.Got that kids? Withholding money from bloodthirsty warmongers ranks quite high on the Distaste-O-Meter along with cannibalism and voting Republican. En plus, all those soldiers will chance getting killed as they scramble to find their own way home, constructing rafts out of smouldering wreckage and tightly packed sand that may or may not float on the unpredictable currents of the Gulf of Hormel, the Indian and the Atlantic.
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?
How's this for nothing, suckers?
That sign is a bit misleading. If you're in, say, Idaho, the ones and zeros are traveling a bit more than twenty-two miles.
This is also a bit misleading. It's only about half past nine a.m., therefore quite possible that I end up actually earning a piece of my paycheck today. But I'll try not to, believe me.
Speaking of misleading, we own, pnwn, leet, whatever the fuck you techno-computer dudes and chicks type. I don't play MMORPGs, so I don't know the lingo. Old school console, baby! Sorry, what do we own?
Al-Qaeda!
Al Qaeda is essentially defeated in Iraq and Saudi Arabia and on the defensive throughout much of the world, CIA Director Michael Hayden said in a Washington Post interview published on Friday.I'm not a big fan of Scotty's tell-all -- too little, too late, and all that -- so I'm not sure how much of an impact it'll have on the campaigning throughout the course of the summer and fall given 1)most understand that rats always abandon a sinking ship, andThe upbeat assessment came less than a year after the CIA warned of new threats from a resurgent al Qaeda, the Post said.
Must we let them fool us? no no no!
Have we got our freedom? no no no!
Is it getting better? no no no!
Do we love each other? no no no!
Must we wait forever no no no just until the Great Porn Dragon comes!
Don't worry, I'm not going to sing. Do you enjoy the harmonious cacophony of fingernails cascading down a chalkboard? An event quite reminiscent of me being tuneful, as tuneful as the screams the world currently finds itself going deaf from.
I'm sure once we get our house in order, we'll be able to afford that hearing aid we so desperately need. I need a drink to celebrate this upbeatness. Anyone have some ice?
And you doubted my fabulous mood. Bloody wankers.
There once was a man who liked heads ‘a shiny,
who wanted his way in ways most whiney.
While smirking up his mugs,
he conspired with thugs --
too bad none’ll ever have a roomie named Tiny.
