In an ongoing effort to detox from the crud I wallow in daily [politics,] I offer you a Monday morning rant [and hugs to those of you who have offered me comfort and encouragement ... you know who you are. Thanks, I needed that.]
Today I’m calling Bullshit on the “war of words.” I’m am SOOOOOO fed up with the smoke being blown up our collective bum!
Now we are having a national conversation about the possibility of “defunding the troops” — and you’d think John Murtha had been declared the anti-Christ!
“Withdraw funding” from the troops? Oh my God! That’s like asking McDonalds to cut their minimum-wage staff — who would flip burgers, who would open the huge cans of teeny-tiny onions and crinkle-cut pickles? Good grief, doesn’t the entire economy of a small Southeastern town depend on the manufacture of “secret sauce?”
Defund the troops? That would be like telling 7/11 to stop spending on service contracts — signaling the end of Big Gulps and Slurpies and 800 calorie ice cream sandwiches as machine after machine breaks down! And what would happen to the corn syrup people, filling up every product they can think of with their gooey surplus and turning the nation into a stroke-waiting-to-happen? How would the health professionals survive the sudden lack of business? The cat-scan repair people would go bust!
Defund the troops? Good Lord, that would be messing with the natural order of Capitalism, like telling Macy’s it can’t sell bikini’s in February and long-johns in August, attempting to prod the public into pro-active sales ['cuz you can't get flip-flops in July or mittens in March, kids ... wake up and smell the market manipulation.] That would be like demanding that Christmas decorations not go up before Halloween, or Easter peeps not fill the shelves before Presidents Day.
Defund the troops? Isn’t that the equivalent of all of us NOT rushing out to use our overworked credit card [charging 21% interest] to buy a new computer that can load up Bill Gates new Vista operating system? And that would be the same as putting all those folks in Seattle in jeopardy of not buying their twice-daily dose at Starbucks … meaning some wretched and victimized South American country will have even fewer coffee-bean pickers to under-pay. Now that we’re sucking up all their corn for ethanol and making tortillas too expensive to purchase even WITH their piddly centavos, that would be calamity! Where’s your patriotism, people???
Defund the troops? Make them suffer by losing their cushy job in bloody Faluja and hellish Camp Stryker and blistering sand-pits across the Middle East? Give them fewer opportunities to die a hero? Make them come home and live to do battle with the Veterans Hospitals and mental health facilities? Live to fight the demons Bush has unleashed in their minds and hearts while never … NEVER … attending one of their funerals? What were we THINKING!
Defund the troops? HELL NO! DEFUND THE WHOLE FREEKIN’ WAR! I’m focused on defunding George Bush, on defunding the NeoCons … on withdrawing the power of the purse from any sick, greedy fire ‘n brimstone project they lay their reptilian claws on!
War is a business, especially this war, and I want it scrapped and the complex that supports it reconfigured — what the hell do the troops have to do with this, anyway? They’re the highly-trained point-and-shoot people … middle-man for geo-political pursuit [not that they know it particularly, any more than the teen behind the 7/11 counter knows that her "starter job" may be the only one she'll ever have if we continue to send everything more ambitious overseas.]
I want this government to quit trying to play me like a violin, to stop telling me I don’t “understand” the situation — I demand they quit telling me how to think based on covert and rudimentary psychological profiles. We’ve wasted God/dess Alone Knows how many lives — 26 Americans in Iraq this week, alone — NOT discussing the real issues behind this war, or any real solutions, while people who would not be caught dead eating at McDonalds or pulling into a 7/11 played games with words and side-stepped truth.
BushWarII is going to be a long bleed-out as it grinds to a halt — the people, some 60% of them wanting Congress to dry up the money, need to make their demands clear; the Pubs are still playing the fear card but they’re desperate now, on the ropes. If we hadn’t started the damned Presidential race a year early, there would be less canoodling about de-escalation; political positioning rules the day when courage and vision should be at the forefront.
It bares repeating … over and over and OVER … that the war in Iraq is a civil war — and the arms coming in from Iran are going to the Shiia, our “allies,” the folks whose side we’ve come down on … while the money coming in to the Sunni’s is being supplied by the Saudi’s — THAT is a civil war by definition, period, end of subject. The nations of Islam have already picked their sides.
Pragmatic Hawks like Joe Biden want Iraq to split into three parts, the way it used to be before colonial forces lumped it into one; if left to their own devices, that is probably how they’ll default … but not until there’s a bloodbath that will make us gasp and wince. It’s inevitable — Bush was the Jinn that opened the bottle, and now there’s no stopping the violence. They are pre-Modern societies that do not want us there and who have always settled their scores according to tribal loyalties.
The Pubs are counting on the suggestion of genocide [and the Islamist in the Back Yard theory, ready to pop up like a Stephen King action figure when you take out the trash] impacting the American psyche … and there will surely be guilt and sorrow for how this all turns out; but what American expression of “woe-is-me” has stopped Darfur? Has our guilt and apathy made an impact there? Will we continue to sacrifice our kids in the middle of a sectarian suicide pact because we bear responsibility for uncorking Saddam’s uneasy peace?
And I’m so tired of stoooopid analogies that I could spit … Republicans frame this conversation with the same finesse that Simon Cowell is famous for on American Idol. I began frothing at the mouth about this six years ago … and went ballistic in the middle of the week when NARAL sent me this snip:
On Wednesday, February 14, at a hearing of the Missouri House Special Committee on Family Services, Committee member Rep. Beth Low of Kansas City asked Rep. Davis why she opposed teaching about birth control in public schools since we know it works to prevent teen pregnancies. Rep. Davis replied that we know that some teenage girls may suffer from bulimia, and stated that, following Rep. Low’s logic, we ought to teach them to vomit in order to lose weight.
I shot off a comment:
If I understand your argument correctly, it’s “what they don’t know won’t hurt them.” Well, I live in a county where not only don’t they know much but it hurts them on a regular basis. We continue a loop of superstition and shame when we don’t teach our children how to protect their own bodies, and provide sensibly for their own future.
Clearly, abstinence education does not promote abstinence any more than sex education promotes sex. We play politics with the lives and welfare of our young people!
So today, I write to express my regret that a public servant such as yourself would come down on the side of mandatory ignorance, and wonder what an ill-educated, sadly underfunded and poorly represented Missouri will look like in the future.
OK, I was cranky — I usually try the “spoonful of sugar” technique with these people — but she had it coming. I tried not to use too many big words … I think they get confused easily; and I have no hope of impacting her position, she’s glutted on Kool Aid, she’s hypocrisy-toxic. I find nothing offensive in either irreverent words or healthy sexual expression … but I’m endlessly offended by those who think either is more blasphemous than … say … killing people in the name of God and profit.
Oh, yeah — and while I’m in rant mode, let me address the use of words like “scrotum” [last article.] To eliminate the possibility that I’ll be invited to write legit stuff for John Edwards or any other sponsor that requires political correctness, let me just say that if there’s an 8-year-old out there that does NOT know what a scrotum is, then we’ve failed in our role as parents. Perhaps they wouldn’t recognize the formal word, as presented — maybe they’d understand “nuts” or “nads” or “sack” or “balls” or “huevos” or “cojones” or “family jewels.” Would those words make them giggle? Likely … little girls in bemusement, little boys wickedly. Would it make a Conservative faint and picket? Evidently — what a crock! All of which makes it much easier for me to decide which of them I’d rather have a meaningful conversation with, and who needs the actual education.
This isn’t a post on Iraq — it’s a collection of delicious, amusing reads on the b.s. they feed us, the stuff the Rovian folks still think we’ll swallow whole if they pound it hard enough, in Stalinesque fashion; much of it is well-written satire. Liberals have a way of embracing the absurd, something the Pub’s don’t have latitude for in their internal landscape [even though it describes them.] Liberals can laugh even when we cry, laugh at ourselves first — and that’s a good thing, because Laughter is the Language of the Angels … which is why I’ll engage with a little kid over a pompous, repressed adult every time — they not only have a better sense of humor but a more [divinely] agile mind.
Further — regarding the financial aspect of this Rant — do open the link to We’re Not Buying It recommended by Eileen and MJ; here’s where we can begin to Roll. Years ago, a reader named Carolina [haven't heard from her for a long time -- you still out there, girl?] suggested that this was a tactic that had worked in her country; I told her then we weren’t ready for this kind of boycott yet, but maybe we are now — the power of the purse IS real power, dearhearts; the most collectively potent power we hold.
See if you can jump on this bandwagon … see if you can make this work for you … because without our money and our complicity, this government would grind to a halt — I’d like to see them get that Wake Up call, and begin to take us seriously. If this project captures your imagination, pass it around … liberally [she said, loud and proud ... and pissed!]
Jude
Telnaes ‘toon
I’m A Straight Liberal No More!
After three weeks of brutal counseling, I’m proud to say I am now, at long last, a sad gay Republican. Praise Jesus!
Mark Morford, SF Gate
Friday, February 16, 2007
Forced by a gay sex scandal to resign as president of the National Association of Evangelicals, the Rev. Ted Haggard now feels that after three weeks of intensive counseling, he is “completely heterosexual,” says [the Rev. Tim Ralph], overseer of the megachurch Haggard once led.
~ San Francisco Chronicle, Feb 7, 2007
Dear readers,
As a San Francisco columnist, my struggle has been long and treacherous and fraught with guilt and shame and really, really good music. Many nights, lo these past years, as I wailed out my pain to an unforgiving neoconservative God, the stink of liberalness and Astroglide and womanly scent upon me like the devil’s own Minwax, I truly believed my soul was forever lost in the pits of warm-hearted sex-positive progressive-minded hell.
But now, at long last, just like the good Rev. Ted Haggard, my heart can rejoice, for I am saved. I am ready to return to public life and the arms of our angry, all-American Lord once more. Finally, at long last, I can say it for certain: I am a Republican. And I am miserably gay. Rejoice!
You may ask: What does this mean? You may say: Hey! I’m a good, upstanding American! I want my share of shame and torment and repressed sexuality, too! How can I suffer just like you and Ted? I shall attempt to explain.
You see, for many years, I have battled with the twin demons of my love of women and also that most vile of insidious tormenters, independent thought.
It’s true. I have dared to care about this planet. I truly believed gay and women’s rights were not merely mandatory, but morally obvious, like air and wine and strap-on dildos. I believed in a healthy environment, mystical insight, organic food, Prada boots, divine connection to a wicked delicious ambisexual pantheistic God, good sheets and the idea that Hitachi Magic Wands should be given to every girl — and most boys — on or around their 14th birthday.
Clearly, I have been misled by the devil.
This is my confession, a humble but necessary step in my difficult path toward redemption, a shiny new powder-blue Escalade and a large wad of ExxonMobil stock options. I am ready to forsake my vile ways and embrace the one true BushCo dream, one full of guilt, self-denial, sexual shame, an insanely bloated military budget, Percocet and rampant unchecked alcoholism masquerading as a bitchin’ golf game.
You see, I have been down the Dark Path. I have been known to drink wine with naked women with soft eyes and eager tongues and legs up to here. I have spoken openly, in this very column, about silly hippie notions of energy and spirit and pinching the nipples of the Buddha, all while sipping scotch after a sweaty yoga class in which many glistening, half-naked women had their tailbones raised to the skies in what I now see is an obvious homage to Satan. Or Ron Jeremy. Whichever.
I have consumed enormous quantities of organic food, much of it — I admit this now with equal parts horror and sadness — not at all produced by glorious Nasdaq megacorporations. Coca-Cola has not entered my body in well over a decade. I avoid Wal-Mart like a genital rash. I have not visited a McDonald’s in at least 15 years. Indeed, my shame is great.
What’s more, I have also been known to read. Books. Dense, godless literature offering more than one level of meaning. I have drunk fair-trade coffee. Eaten fresh sushi. Slept naked. Cared about design. Licked tailbones. Ridden in a Prius. I have not enjoyed a blind hatred of Islam, tofu or Hillary Clinton. What is wrong with me?
Ah, but there is much good news. The Rev. Ted Haggard has been “cured” of his meth-lovin’ homosexuality, all from three weeks of intensive therapy by way of a gaggle of ministers who, presumably, beat him with garden hoses and removed a large chunk of his soul with God’s own chainsaw all while tattooing his eyeballs with giant pie charts delineating the plummeting profits of the New Life Church, ordering him to declare his love of the vagina immediately lest each of these ministers lose his ability to make his upcoming Lexus payment. And lo, Ted has done it.
From this buoyant tale I have gained strength, if not a newfound appreciation for the evangelical church’s ability to delude itself so desperately, so brutally it makes God retch into her soy latte.But more than that, Ted’s tale has taught me that it is never too late to change. To return to that bitter and lost place from which you never really came.
Like Ted Haggard, I too have recently undergone three weeks of intensive counseling, mostly involving listening exclusively to Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly and the hate speech of James Dobson, all while watching “Queer Eye” reruns on DVD on an infinite 24/7 loop with my eyelids taped open while popping Xanax, Lipitor and Viagra like M&Ms.
As you can imagine, this has been a very strange and dangerous combination. But between the nervous breakdowns and the violent hallucinations, I have officially renounced my heathen straight liberal ways. What a relief.Why did I do this? Simple: Because, apparently, life is supposed to be about denial. Shame. Mutilating the true meaning of God so you may smack people upside the head with it, ask for money, justify war, scream at nipples. And I want to lead by example. I wish to be a shining beacon of hope and love and repression of the True Self, all wrapped in a giant condom of humiliation and remorse and a strange affinity for small yappy dogs.
My new path will not be easy. Because of the joy of Christian Republicanism, my newfound gayness will not be a personal celebration of love, but rather will be a harsh burden, a sad embarrassment, proof of my wicked soul-eating hypocrisy — you know, just like Mary Cheney. I shall take to secretly wearing golden thong underwear under my nifty Brooks Brothers suits with a subtle saffron handkerchief, and I shall join multiple upscale gyms where I can catch guilty glimpses of shiny male glutes in the shower and swoon.
I shall enjoy plentiful weekend golf with “the boys,” cracking jokes about “ball polishers” and “holes in one,” as I laugh and titter and drink heavily and then, later, cry.
Is this not the American way? Is this not the dream of the Republican soul? With your love and support, I know I can accomplish this. I have come so far already. Praise Jesus, my self-loathing is finally nearly all-consuming. Thank you for your love and your prayers and the complimentary lifetime NRA membership. God bless you all. Except, of course, you pagan pervert hippies. I mean, obviously.
New Rule
Bill Maher, HuffPo
02.16.2007
New Rule: There’s more to being smart than just not misspeaking. The world is a complicated place. Sometimes it all feels like a runaway train of violence, resentment and insecurity - sort of like a family reunion at Ryan O’Neil’s place. Which is why for this next election, we need to pick the smartest candidate, not the dullest one who simply never had a verbal gaffe and said a wrong word or phrase.
We’re a superpower, not a drinking game. It has to be about leadership, not just hitting your buzzer first and remembering to phrase your answer in the form of a question.
A couple of weeks ago, Senator Joe Biden hit the ground flopping when he described Barack Obama as articulate and clean. But if you think he’s a racist, then you’re not really thinking, you’re just playing Gotcha. Yes, the remark was cringe-worthy - it always is when someone old and out of touch says something creepy - even a Chinaman knows that.
However, when it comes to the most important ISSUE of the day, last year, Joe Biden was out ahead on calling for an Iraq broken into three countries - and that is what’s going to happen, no matter how much surging George Bush does. And I say fine, so what if Iraq gets broken up, it’s a made up country anyway, there’s only been an Iraq since 1932 - it’s 7 years younger than Paul Newman. And the people in it hate each other so much, and are now in such a, shall we say “intense” phase of the revenge cycle, that they’re only going to be able to start breathing again if they live in different countries - which they’re already moving to, on their own.
So, the guy who got this right, he can’t run, because we’re a very sensitive people, and he said a black man was clean, and we care more about a one second verbal brain-fart than we do about who has the right answers. The guy who had the right answer on terrorism in 2004 was John Kerry - he said fighting terrorism was primarily an intelligence and law enforcement operation, which doesn’t sound macho in elections, but is true, he can’t be in the debate either, because he’s a crappy comedian. He screwed up a joke - about our troops! Hit the road jack.
Howard Dean has been a virtual Nostradamus on predicting what would happen in Iraq from the beginning. But he screamed once. He said “yee-ha” - publicly! He screamed louder than a crowd of people screaming at him, and the media acted like Grandpa just yelled out the “N” word at a ball game.
And before the war began, it was Al Gore who got it right, who spoke unequivocally about not making this bad choice, a choice that 77 Senators voted for. But during the debates of 2000, Al Gore… sighed! We can’t have a sigh-er for president! That’s why I think every candidate has to come out NOW, and say or do the stupidest thing they possibly can, and get it out of the way.
Chris Dodd must tell the religious right to take their abstinence programs and go back to Hymentown.
John Edwards must be caught hiring an illegal alien to wash his hair.
Sam Brownback must be caught having sex with his wife that is not for procreational purposes.
Hillary Clinton must mispronounce South Carolina “Mouth Vagina.”
Barack Obama must tell people he’s, quote, “bigger than Jesus.”
Rudy Giuliani has to declare at a press conference that he’s cheating on his wife, but it’s ok because he’s undergoing cancer treatment and he can’t get an erection anyway. He did?
John McCain must be caught with a Filipino bar girl with an Adam’s apple.
The sad thing is, all of those could really work. Does John Kerry really think the troops are stupid? No, Karl Rove things you’re stupid. And if a botched joke or a sigh or a brain-fart is enough to derail you from a wise choice, he’s kinda right. Does this mean that Joe Biden or Howard Dean should automatically be president - of course not. But the next time something really bad happens, remember it might have something to do with our election process having turned into an episode of Survivor - not even Survivor, Showtime at the Apollo - one note that’s a little off key, and the Sandman comes out with the hook.
So disqualify the smartest leaders because they may have caused you a socially awkward moment, but next time another painful disaster is visited upon us, perhaps because we weren’t being led by the best and the brightest, you’ll know why: because the black guy on Grey’s Anatomy said “Fag!” And by the way, if we’re going to choose our presidents by which one never misspeaks, how did we end up with the Chimp we have now?
Bill Maher is the host of HBO’s “Real Time with Bill Maher” which airs every Friday at 11PM.
ASK W! George’s Conservative Advice for More Compassionate Living
Nick Paccione
Feb 6 2007
Dear W,
My next door neighbor (I’ll call him “Barry”) might be a gun owner. I know he subscribes to “Guns and Ammo” because our ethnic-looking mailman accidentally delivered “Barry’s” mail to my house. It concerns me that someone in my neighborhood might have a dangerous firearm in his house. What should I do?
Concerned in Lakewood
Dear Concerned,
Most advisors would tell you to check with your neighborhood association or with law enforcement regarding your legal options regarding “Barry” but this is too complex an issue. First, I want to let you know that I am a firm supporter of the NRA and they of me. Guns are good. But that’s not the issue here. The issue seems to be more about your discomfort with a neighbor who may or may not possess a gun or two. You really have no choice. You must buy a gun and break in to Barry’s home and find out if he is indeed a gun owner. If you must shoot Barry or members of his family so be it. Your peace of mind is at stake. If it turns out that Barry doesn’t own a gun or ammo, just tell the arresting officer that you actually broke in because Barry was mistreating his family and you felt it was your duty to protect them. Stay the course. Good luck to you.
Love Ya, W
Dear W,
I am a supervisor at a small grocery store. One of my best checkers, “Mia,” recently quit and I need to fill her position. I want to give the job to a hardworking box boy named Larry but my boss wants me to hire his sexy, flirtatious sister who has no experience in the grocery business. What should I do?
Frantic In Aisle Five
Dear Frantic,
You don’t say if your boss gets the final decision or not. If you are the decider, you should hire the one that will be most loyal to you. I think it might to be hard to find a “hard-working box boy named Larry.” Besides the name “Larry” makes me think he’s probably American. You can do a lot toward helping your store’s bottom line if you hire a Mexican for the job. You can underpay him and deny him benefits. If he complains you can have him deported. The fact that your boss’s sister is sexy and flirtatious should play no part in your decision. But you mention that she has no experience. Now that’s a good reason to hire her.
Love Ya, W
Dear W,
My husband and I have been married for ten years and we have three children. His parents visit us every Sunday between noon and three. The children are attached to them but I have one nagging complaint. Every time they visit they pull into our driveway and destroy the begonias that I am continuously replanting along the driveway’s edge. How can I tactfully tell them that there is plenty of room in the driveway and they need not trample my flowers every week?
Begonia Lover in San Antonio
Dear Begonia Lover,
What’s there to love about Begonias? To each his own I guess. Though I don’t agree with you about the value of your flowers, it’s clear that your in-laws should be killed. If I was still your Governor, I could have found a way to neatly execute them for you. In your case it might be best to poison them. Anti-freeze in cold lemonade is very tidy and should bring about the desired result. You can simply tell the kids that grandma and grandpa died of natural causes. When Laura tries to kill me she just hands me a bag of extra-thick pretzels. I know I’m in trouble when that happens. I’m glad to hear that you have given birth to three children. If it were up to those godless liberals, those precious babies would have been aborted. Praise the Lord. Abortion is wrong!
Love Ya, W
Dear Readers:
I’m not going to lie to you. Things are not going that good (sic) for me. I have consistently gotten (sic) the lowest approval ratings since Richard Nixon right before he resigned in disgrace. Historians, although a liberal lot, are already sayin’ that I’m the worst president in U.S. history. Who knew that I’d surpass my father, Herbert Hoover, Warren G. Harding and Bob Dole in this disturbin’ category? Lately, I’ve had the feelin’ that Laura and the twins are embarrassed to be seen with me. My mother, a status-hungry crank, has admitted as much.
The Democrat (sic) party and those godless liberals aren’t readin’ this so I feel like gettin’ comfortable and confessin’ a few things to you all. I thank you for your loyalty but let’s face it, every move I have made as President has been a disaster except my wise decision to mire our country in war in Iraq. Before that, I ran for congriss (sic) and lost. I bought an oil company, but couldn’t find no (sic) oil in Texas and the company went bankrupt right after I sold all my stock. As owner of the Texas Rangers baseball team, I am best remembered as the guy who traded Sammy Sosa to the Chicago White Sox.
I was elected Governor of Texas. No really, I actually got the most votes. Of course Daddy helped a lot and Karl smeared everyone that threatened to get in my way. But I really got the most votes in two elections. I worked very hard as Governor and changed pollution laws to favor power and oil companies. You know, by the time I left office to be your President, Texas was the most polluted state in the Union. I cut taxes and bankrupted the Texas government to the tune of billions in borrowed money.
I’m gonna come clean here. It’s healin’; it’s a way to heal. I have had a few convictions for drunk drivin’ but just one in Maine. Thank God that Daddy had my Texas driving record expunjed (sic). And yes of course it’s true that I went AWOL from the National Guard and deserted the military durin’ a time of war.
But that’s all in my past. This column is my chance to embark on a new adventure. I’ve always been a big fan of “Deer (sic) Abby.” I think it’s my callin’ to give advice to my fans. I mean if a deer can do it so can I. People always talk about negative stuff but did you know that a full 29% of the U.S. population adore me and think I’m doing one heckuva job? That’s a heckuva lotta people. I’m doing this for them. So come on you guys. Write to me. Ask W. I’ve got advice for every member of the family, for the lovelorn, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the homeless and the tempest-tost. I’ll solve every problem with genuine conservative compassion.
Love Ya, W (sick)
Have a problem that seems impossible to solve? Ask W. Write to “Dear W” at “askw.on.the.internets.com.”
The Story of the Three Little Wolves
Mark W. Bradley
Feb 10 2007
(Chapter One - “A New Dope”)
Once upon a time in the Kantseatha Forest, there lived three hungry little wolves who set out to seek their fortunes. Their names were Dickie, Rover and Scooter.
Upon departing their respective dens of origin, the first challenge facing each of these ambitious little wolves was, of course, the task of building for himself a sunlight-proof shelter, each according to his eccentric appetite and innate ability to hide his true nature and underlying motives, even from himself.
Scooter Wolf, for instance, arranged for his house to be fabricated out of toxic mold-infested straw (although he seems not to have been entirely aware of this fact until it was revealed to him months later by his sometimes friend, Little Russ the Raccoon).
Truth be told, Scooter could not exactly recall when (or even if) he’d been formally notified that his house was being built out of bales of moldy straw. On the contrary, he was pretty sure he’d been given categorical assurances by his friend, developer Dickie Wolf, that Dickie’s construction company, Hellaporkin, was using a “state of the art” building material described as “steel-reinforced modules of highly compacted cellulose fiber aggregate”, which, according to the color brochure, boasted an insulation factor in excess of R-19, and was guaranteed to be every bit as safe as an electric diaper.
Unbeknownst to Scooter Wolf, his friend Rover had also recruited Dickie Wolf and Hellaporkin to build his dream house. For this project, Dickie the Developer recruited a lodge of unlicensed, non-union beavers to built Rover a house made entirely out of twigs, or as they were described in the promotional video, “a rare and exotic collection of all-natural, chemical-free, rustic lumber stock, harvested under rigid guidelines consistent with the principles of environmental sustainability.”
Surprisingly, when at last it came time for Dickie Wolf to construct a domestic dwelling of his own, he opted not to use the Hellaporkin Construction Company. Instead, he made an offer on an already existing, virtually impregnable 9,000 square-foot brick fortress originally constructed by a porcine acquaintance of Dickie’s he’d met in an earlier fairy tale. Unfortunately, while the transaction was pending in escrow, this very same fortress sustained extensive water damage in the catastrophic failure of an upstream beaver dam built years before by (guess who) Hellaporkin. The odd thing about the collapse was that the dam had just gotten a “thumbs up” from Dickie’s good friends at the Aardvark Corps of Engineers.
An even odder thing was that although the deceased owner - referred to in newspaper accounts simply as “Mr. L. Pigg III” - was presumed to have drowned in his living room during the ensuing flood, the complete lack of water in Mr. Pigg’s lungs initially cast some doubt on this section of the coroner’s report. This apparent discrepancy was later resolved, however, as the revised coroner’s report determined that the water that had originally saturated Mr. Pigg’s respiratory system had most likely drained out of his lungs through the hundred or so birdshot-sized holes in his back.
In due course, the badly damaged brick building was condemned, and declared forfeit under an arcane provision of the Law of Eminent Domain. Fortunately, Dickie Wolf was able to acquire the property for the affordable price of $1, as he turned out to be the sole bidder at a hastily arranged government auction conducted at an undisclosed location. Miraculously, this undisclosed location happened to be the very same undisclosed location where Dickie was holed-up at the time.
Dickie Wolf loved his new home. Built entirely out of high-density fire-proof bricks and reinforced with an estimated 32 miles of steel rebar, it contained an underground bunker roomy enough to accommodate up to fourteen guests/detainees. More importantly, the entire structure was sheathed in a 2″ thick lining of sheet lead, a precaution against radiation leaks eminating from the plutonium-powered dual-purpose air pump and water purifier.
Settling in comfortably, it wasn’t long before Dickie Wolf had stocked the place with items from his lupine survival kit: 150 packages of “flamin’ hot” pork rinds, twelve cases of “Grey Goose” Vodka, two durable sets of industrial-strength defibrillator paddles, a salt lick, four tanks of Nitrous Oxide, and a 100% virgin wool sheep costume (XXL).
One day, Dickie Wolf and his friend Scooter were playing Dickie’s favorite game, Extreme Risk, which involved a game board of the world, 2 trillion dollars in monopoly money, and a plastic box full of tokens, some of which showed a picture of a smiling wolf - dressed in bonnet and bifocals borrowed from someone’s kindly grandmother - above the words Protectorate of Dickie Wolf. The rest of the tokens showed the words Property of Everybody Else under pictures of variously decorated baskets of goodies.
Dickie had no sooner arranged the game pieces on the board and filled his pockets with as much monopoly money as they would hold, than he began to feel despondent.
“What’s wrong?” asked Scooter.
“It’s not fair,” grumbled Dickie. “This game reminds me that there are still a lot of animals in the forest who don’t have the good sense to let me handle their affairs. It’s almost as if they don’t trust me…”
He seemed genuinely hurt by this realization.
“Cheer up,” said Scooter, unintentionally drooling wolf-slobber all over the game board. “There’s nothing wrong with your furry face that a little prosthetic dentistry couldn’t fix. In the mean time, what you need is a fig leaf.”
“What’s that?” asked Dickie, his wolf ears perking up.
“You know, a cover,” replied Scooter. “Someone amiable and non-threatening to act as a front for your enterprise.”
“Maybe you’re right,” uttered Dickie Wolf. “In fact, I’m going to find one right now…”
Dickie hadn’t traveled very far when he came across a fig tree growing in a swamp off to the right of the path. Actually, it was more of a stunted bush. The fruit on the bush looked scrumptious, so Dickie picked one and eagerly plopped it into his richly salivating mouth. It tasted like dog shit. Dickie began to barf all over himself.
He had convulsed himself well into the dry heaves when suddenly he heard a tiny little inarticulate voice that seemed to rise up from the ground. Dickie looked all around, but all he could see was an insignificant little fig leaf lying at the base of the bush.
“Howdy,” squeaked the leaf, “my name is Potus. Potus the Fig Leaf. What’s yours?”
“They call me Dickie Wolf,” sneered Dickie. “Say, how did you manage to get detached from that revolting fig tree, anyway?”
“The other leaves voted me off,” said Potus, sadly. “Said I was a drain on the root system. Wait a minute, did you just say your name was Wolf? I have a new friend with the same last name! Rover Wolf, he calls himself. He’s promised to make me a very powerful leaf and get me the respect I so richly deserve. Maybe you know him…”
Just then, Rover himself emerged from behind the obnoxious fig tree.
“Hello, Dickie. Long time, no see,” chuckled Rover with a drooling drawl.
“Hello, you mangy pile of overstuffed dog flesh,” said Dickie, good naturedly. “Your friend Potus here was just telling me how you’re going to make him a star. Perhaps you’d care to elaborate…”
“My pleasure, Mutton-Breath,” sneered Rover. “Actually, I’m the one who gave him the name Potus. His family always referred to him as Mr. Chlorophyll-deficient. Frankly, as far as fig leaves go, he has the mental capacity of, well, a fig leaf.”
“Makes sense,” offered Dickie, thoughtfully. “Thing is, I happen to be in the market for a fig leaf, and the less inquisitive it is, the better. Any chance we could collaborate on this kid’s political career?”
“Anything’s possible, for the right price,” hinted Rover Wolf.
“Is this enough?” asked Dickie, as he reached into one of his pockets and dumped a crumpled wad of monopoly money on the ground.
“Looks like we got ourselves a deal,” said Rover, with a toothy smile.
“Hurray,” shouted the fig leaf. “Does this mean I’m finally gonna get to be the King of the Forest?”
“That’s what it means, kid,” chortled Dickie, as he chewed lustily on a gnarly strip of squirrel jerky. “We’re gonna make you the biggest friggin’ fig leaf of all.”
And so, with the help of Scooter, Rover and Dickie - the Three Little Wolves - Potus, the Nearly Inanimate Object, became the undisputed king of all he surveyed…
(Say, kids, don’t forget to watch for Chapter Two - “The Three Little Wolves meet Wolf Blitzer”!)
Why Are Internet Hoaxes Always Right-Wing?
And Why Do People You Thought Were Bright Forward Them?
Steve Young
Feb 6 2007
Why Does Andy Rooney hate blacks?
Why did Hillary refuse to meet with Gold Star mothers?
How could Al Gore not know who Osama bin Laden was when Oliver North mentioned him during the Iran-Contra hearings?
The answers to all the questions are simple. Because the statements aren’t true. But truth isn’t important when you’re trying to feed your team’s jones for partisan propaganda..
We get them in the mail almost every day, many times sent to us by people who we once thought had some semblance of common sense.
But even more, why are most everyone of these e-mails right wing knocks against the left. And when I say “Left,” I don’t mean THEE Left, but anything left of far-right.
The answer is found in its similarity to talk radio. It’s about spreading lies to get people to hate people and programs the host hate. And just like talk radio, its audience wants to believe whatever they say to be true. So much so that the ability to reason is lost in the anger that the lies and rumors evoke.
I’m not saying that all those on the right lack smarts, but the part of their brain that detects the crap from the distinct smell of the bull alone, suffers near-fatal dysfunction when that crap supporting their side is squeezed out.
It’s why when we write back to our misinformed, forwarding friends, providing proof of the lie, they don’t care whether it’s true or not. They believe in the message and probably that the target of the e-mail would do worse if given the chance.
But why don’t we get many of these e-mail hoaxes lambasting the right? Simple. Why send around false accusations that won’t pass the smell test, when there is so much actual inanity coming out of this White House.
It’s also why we don’t hear much good satire from the right. Making fun of a President and an administration that has provided satirists with a flood of actions that would make for some splendid material, gets a pass from the right. Why? Because the right finds it extremely difficult to make fun of the powerful if it’s their powerful. They only want to hear what makes their side come out ahead, even if we’re only talking satire. It’s why Dennis Miller announced the he would give President Bush a pass because he liked him. He might as well have turned in his satirist’s credentials that day.
On the other hand, even though we’re pretty sure Jon Stewart himself leans left, he won’t miss a shot at the left given a great satirical opportunity.
That’s why I think it’s time to start spreading e-mails to our Republican friends saying Democrats want to change the November 5, 2008 voting date to November 4. With a little luck, they’ll refuse to vote until November 5.
The Demopathic Party
Hal Brown, Capital Hill Blue
Sunday, February 18th, 2007
After listening to them attack the anti-surge resolution, I’ve concluded that the Republicans think the Democrats are psychopaths.
After all, they are such sore losers they want to send Americans who are part of the surge to fight and die in Iraq in their skivvies.
They should eschew using the lame appellation “Democrat Party”. We all got it a long time ago. The Demcrats can’t be allowed to “own” the word democratic.
I have a better name for them to use for their opposition, one that shows how they really feel.
They should call them the Demopathic Party.
Republicans are dissembling when they call colleagues in name only “friends” when they clearly think they are psychopathic traitors.
Tell us what you really feel, Republicans!
Considering that you think Democrats want to send troops into a deadly crossfire in nothing but their Calvin Kleins, as Patriotic Republicans you ought to dispense with the faux civility and let us know how you really feel about these unpatriotic and callous members Congress.
Forget the tenuous historic connections you tried to draw between Iraq and D Day or the Alamo.
In the next debate, be honest.
Think of the comparisons you can make between Democrats and Benedict Arnold, Aaron Burr, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, Aldrich Ames, and Jane Fonda.
“This ain’t reality TV.”
Watching how the Democrats were characterized by the Republicans brought to mind The Departed and its fictional Boston mob boss, Frank Costello, no doubt a Boston Democrat.
As bullets ripped through bodies on his orders, Jack Nicholson, playing the charming psychopathic Irish mob boss, gleefully chewed the scenery into shreds.
Frank Costello: “The COPS… are saying he’s a cop… so I won’t look for the cop. Are you soft, Fitz? When I tell you… to dump a body in the marsh, you dump him IN the marsh. Not where some guy from John Hancock goes every Thursday, TO GET A FUCKING BLOWJOB! [Fitzy laughs, Frank hits him] Don’t laugh! This ain’t Reality TV!”
I tred to visualize Barney “Buzz Saw” Frank and Ted “Shamrock” Kennedy sitting in a Southie bar as Massachusetts bosses, and ordering Marty “Machine Gun” Meehan and Johnny “Junior” Kerry to hijack trucks with supplies for brave Americans just because they were pissed off that they were part of Bush’s surge.
Although members on both sides often overdid the drama for effect, the tragedy I saw unfold on CSPAN was reality rather than reality TV. But images of psychopathic Democrats as mob bosses with no conscience doesn’t work.
They spoke the truth with compassion.
I don’t quesition the compassion of Republicans, but it got all mixed up with Bush loyalty and contortion of reality twisted to fit a predetermined conclusion.
Hal Brown is a clinical social worker and former mental health center director who is mostly retired from his private psychotherapy practice. He writes on the psychopathology of public figures and other topics that pique his interest.
Single Word Causes Uproar in Children’s Book
Mike McQuillian, Associated Content
February 17, 2007
It’s rare to hear the word “scrotum,” in polite conversation. Seeing it on the first page of a children’s book has some parents and teachers up in arms.
On the first page of The Higher Power of Lucky by Susan Patron, this year’s recipient of the Newbery Medal, Lucky Trimble, a scrappy ten-year-old orphan, hears the word through a hole in the wall. This happens when another character s explaining that a rattlesnake bit his dog on the scrotum.
Some school librarians, after hearing about the word being in The Higher Power of Lucky,” have vowed to ban the book from their libraries. This has reopened the debate over what is acceptable for children to read.
Many teachers and school librarians have used the internet to weigh in on this issue. It has been a hot topic on dozens of literary blogs and social networking sites. Authors, teachers and school librarians have been forced to take sides in this battle over a book for children. All over the country librarians are debating their role when selecting (or censoring, as some say) literature for children.
Dana Nilsson, a teacher and librarian in Durango Colorado, had this to say about The Higher Power of Lucky: “This book included what I call a Howard Stern-type shock treatment just to see how far they could push the envelope, but they didn’t have the children in mind.”
A handful of school libraries in the South, West, and Northeast have already taken the book off of their shelves. Many more have indicated that they may do the same.
This topic has dominated conversation among librarians for the past ten days, ever since The Higher Power of Lucky was shipped to schools from the publisher.
Pat Scales, who at one time chaired the Newbery Award committee would be blatant censorship. When asked about the controversy she said “The people who are reacting to that word are not reading the book as a whole. That’s what censors do - they pick out words and don’t look at the total merit of the book.”
Something like this would go unnoticed in most novels, but winning the Newbery Medal brings a huge amount of attention to a children’s book. Libraries and bookstores order more of these books than most novels, and they are read out loud to children in schools.
The debate over The Higher Power of Lucky will likely go on for quite some time. The line between protecting our children and censorship has long been an issue, and probably will be for years to come.
More:
Children’s Book Stirs Battle With Single Word
New York Times
“So keep fightin’ for freedom and justice, beloveds, but don’t you forget to have fun doin’ it. Lord, let your laughter ring forth. Be outrageous, ridicule the fraidy-cats, rejoice in all the oddities that freedom can produce. And when you get through kickin’ ass and celebratin’ the sheer joy of a good fight, be sure to tell those who come after how much fun it was.”
~ Molly Ivins, 1944 - 2007
(In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. Section 107, this material is distributed without profit to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving the included information for research and educational purposes.)
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February 19th, 2007