Admit it, you’ve played the fool. Everybody does sometimes, sang Aaron Neville, who also claims not to know much except that he loves Linda Ronstadt, and in a shocking endorsement of ignorance maintains that’s all he needs to know, so either his awareness of his love for Linda Ronstadt crowded everything else out, or he was just guessing that everybody plays the fool sometimes, it wasn’t based on any kind of peer-reviewed research into fool-playing.
Damn it, Neville! You have the voice of an angel but you’ve used it to lure me into a black hole of abject confusion! And I’m not talking about the mole!
Unrequited love, now, that’s the one that gets most of us into trouble. Who among us hasn’t made a spectacle of themselves in pursuit of the unattainable? And rejection, oof, that’s a hard pill to swallow. It’s like getting a form letter back after submitting unsolicited cartoons to The New Yorker, except instead of a line-drawing of humorous goings-on inside a psychiatrist’s office, it’s you as a sexual being they have no use for at this time, though they appreciate your interest.
So again I ask, but rephrasing slightly: What’s the craziest thing love ever made you do? Grade your shame on a scale from playing “In Your Eyes” on a boombox outside your beloved’s window to this insane immolation of dignity.
James Poulos cranked a particularly stinky nugget into Tucker Carlson’s cat box Thursday, a column entitled “What Are Women For?” that was at once so offensive, pretentious, incoherent, clueless and just plain dumb that it attracted hoots of derision from every corner of the internet. Balloon Juice commenter Clark Stooksbury summed it up pithily as follows:
I think that English is his second language, and perhaps Earth is his second planet.
Yup. Stung by the “wave of anger and condemnation” occasioned by his column, Poulos apparently decided to spend Friday afternoon masticating and swallowing an unabridged thesaurus along with a freshman introduction to philosophy textbook and wash it down with a liter of Everclear. The resulting geyser of vomit was pixelated into a dripping rebuttal to his critics that contains half-digested chunks such as this:
It’s not very controversial to point out that sex and gender are foundational to the culture wars. But it is apparently extremely controversial to claim that we can’t make sense of how and why they’re foundational without acknowledging that the root of the battle is over reaching — and enforcing — a consensus about the relationship between what women do and who women are.
The same [Meh, never mind; it doesn’t really matter what is allegedly “the same”—ed.] is true for the meaning of the relationship between women as sovereign individuals and as beings with female bodies.
But its conclusion may contain a kernel of truth that the incredulous and exasperated reader espies with wonder similar to that of a janitor engaged in mopping up a binge drinker’s pool of sick upon finding a single kernel of undigested corn, whole and recognizable, in the barf on the frat lounge floor:
Difference doesn’t presume or ordain inequality. I’m not alone in thinking that women are uniquely able to help humanity avoid becoming enthralled to the more sterile cultural creations of men. But this sort of insight is far more circumspect and modest than the central principles of virtually all social conservatives. If my claim is doomed to be met with an avalanche of contempt, it seems likely that in our lifetimes social conservatism as we know it will be mocked, despised, and shamed right out of existence. You might be deeply uncomfortable with that even if you do hope to see an America without a social conservative movement.
I think he means “Après moi, le déluge” or something. But I’m not sure why I’m supposed to be “deeply uncomfortable” with the extinction of social conservativism that Poulos’ blogular rogering is supposed to portend. Say bye-bye to all-male panels of sanctimonious, god-bothering pricks deciding women’s healthcare issues? Bring it on, I say.
This really might be the dumbest, most ill-conceived and poorly written Daily Caller opinion piece ever, which, lordamercy, is saying something:
Why, to serve as civilizing hose-bags and poop out babies, of course! Well, at the very least, the column puts paid to any notion that the GOP’s “woman problem” will end when dinosaurs like Foster Friess finally lumber into the tar pit.
Take a gander (har) at this all-male line-up of jollies assembled by Darrell Issa for his hearing on contraceptive coverage, which, Republicans are ludicrously insisting, has nothing to do with women per se, so why should any women testify? No, it’s all about religious freedom, which would seem to apply only to male church leaders and not their employees, male or female.
Meanwhile, watch Andrea Mitchell nearly swallow her tongue as Rick Santorum’s Mr. Moneybags, Foster Friess, slut-shames the majority of women in the nation who have made the choice to limit the size of their families: in his day, girls just put an aspirin between their knees!
Swell advice, Foster. In tribute, I’ve applied a little of your sauce to the ganders above, and see how well it’s working. You might want to consider holding an aspirin yourself~~between your lips.
It’s time for us to take an active role in the GOP nomination process. That’s right, it’s time for those of us who live in open primary and caucus states—Michigan, North Dakota, Vermont and Tennessee in the next three weeks—to head out and cast a vote for Rick Santorum.
If you live in one of those states, pledge to participate in Operation Hilarity by voting or caucusing for Rick Santorum. Click here for Michigan, here for North Dakota, here for Tennessee and here for Vermont.
If you live anywhere else, please contribute $5 to our Facebook ad effort to turn Democrats out in those elections. You can see a sample ad at the top right of this post.
Hilarity wasn’t much in evidence in the swift backlash from many Kosites who thought this was a really dumb and quite possibly counterproductive idea, which prompted Chris Bowers to try to re-sell the joke a couple of hours later:
Yes, I do have a complete set of Lord of the Rings Pez dispensers. Make of that what you will.
Is it sneezy where you live? Down here in my part of Florida, the oak pollen is sky high, and there’s been a run on Claritin at the local pharmacy.
Also, I think this guy [WARNING: YouTube link to wildly viral vid of dad who shot his daughter’s laptop because she slagged him on Facebook] is a dick. I have a pain-in-the-arse teen myself, so I get the frustration. But I can’t stand a petulant, macho-shithead gun-fondler, and that’s how this dude comes across. Donate the goddamn laptop to the local homeless shelter next time, asshole!
I’m doing you a favor as I’m giving my endorsement
Kids who grew up on my music looking for three other horsemen
Your polls are creeping up and you feel a sudden surge No, I am not Satan’s servant, that’s the guys in Demiurge
You’re thinking of… guys in Demiurge
Backin’ Rick Santorum, I’ll be ticking off my fans
He’s the perfect frothy mixture of morals and tax plans
My drinking’s in the past now so my head’s clear as a bell
Two thousand twelve election, go Rick go, give ‘em hell
Never was a fan of Mitt, his money gives me pause
Newt’s unpleasant persona is a hindrance to the cause
Paul seems okay at first glance but he comes from outer space
So I spun around three times and threw a dart that hit your face
I threw a dart… and it hit your face
Backin’ Rick Santorum, I’ll be ticking off my fans
He’s the perfect frothy mixture of Taliban and Stan
I’ll be the baddest motherfucking Lincoln Bedroom guest
Two thousand twelve election, I’m with the sweater-vest
Backin’ Rick Santorum, I’ll be ticking off my fans
He’s the perfect frothy mixture of Wallace and hu-man
Rick sells and I am buying, Santorumentum is a go
For the twenty twelve election ‘cause Jesus tells me so
Scott is feeling a bit fluish. UPDATE: He will rouse himself has roused himself from his sickbed long enough to greet the President on the tarmac, though, in typically gracious Republican fashion~~with a gift of goodwill.
Q: What’s a little Love God who forgets his arrows?
A: A Stupid Cupid.
That was the card my Grandpa made for me when I was six. But what about a little Love God who emptied his quiver early and doesn’t have so much as a cotton vest to keep him warm in the frozen heartland? Well, at least he’ll have this pink flannel tower of support that ladeez of the NYU College Republicans formed at their Newt 2012 Slumber Party (identities disguised in a vain attempt to preserve a portion of these young enthusiasts’ dignity, which pretty much goes to hell when you follow the link. Nevertheless, the sacred Rumproast Code of Minimal Decency decreed that I at least try.)
Woody Allen would have understood. Happiest V-day, Roasters! You are ALL my valentines.
ANNOUNCER: Up first in our amateur competition, he was born and raised in Chocolate City, used to be a member of the press but now he’s here to press your funny bone! Harlem, put your hands together for Freddie High-Hat!
(tentative applause abruptly cut short by the appearance of a middle-aged white man dressed like Flava Flav circa 1990)
Whassup y’all, how’s everybody doin’ tonight?
Check it, before I got into comedy, I had a lot of crazy jobs, like this one time I was editorial page editor for the Washington Post, right? And I learned a lot there, like the difference between nostalgia liberals… and accountability liberals. (knowing grin) They’re a lot alike, but it’s the little differences, like how they prioritize.
See, nostalgia liberals got priorities like community, social cohesion, and preservation of New Deal and Great Society programs, but accountability liberals be puttin’ stock in market forces and individual empowerment, know what I’m sayin’?
Nostalgia liberals be all, we gotta save Social Security! Accountability liberals is like, naw, we gotta means-test that shit. Otherwise Gramma gon’ be all (pantomimes eating out of a can) mmm, that’s some good Friskies!
(audience grows restless)
An accountability liberal will see your school and say damn, that school’s buggin’. (feigning surprise) Wha- what’s this in my pocket? Looks like… yo, I got mad vouchers! (pantomimes “making it rain”) A nostalgia liberal though, he be like, you just gon’ have to use the atlas from like the eighties, lil’ homey. Heh, shorty’s lookin’ at a map of the Soviet Union like, what’s “Usser?” I ain’t never heard a no “Usser!” Sorry, kid, maybe if we could get some merit pay up in here, but nostalgia liberals be trippin’.
Hold up, hold up. Y’ever see a nostalgia liberal drive? Doo dee doo, hi Mr. Lexus, (waves) no no, you go ahead Mr. Camry, dum dee dum. Then a accountability liberal flies by, (makes “zoom” sound/hand gesture) HOT lane, beyotch!
(booing reaches crescendo, Freddie is “swept” off stage by a hobo clown who winks at the camera, gives a thumbs-up, and reveals himself to be Dan Froomkin)
ANNOUNCER: Freddie High-Hat, ladies and gentlemen, used to get scoops, now he’s Scoop Jackson. Alright, up next, these fine sisters have been singing together since…
I maintain that he looks like Michael Scott (with a little Ryan thrown in) but honestly, I can’t tell those people apart
The GOP power acquisition and propaganda machine is a fearsome opponent. It owns a worldwide media empire. It has enjoyed remarkable electoral success by pumping out race-baiting bilge and generating pseudo-science and artfully worded lies to convince low-info voters to vote against their own interests and preserve and expand already lavish advantages for plutocrats.
It’s underwritten by fat cats who are capable of pooping out billion-dollar bales of cash to support the cause without experiencing the tiniest impact on their unimaginably privileged, Sun King-like lifestyles. So it’s tempting to view that operation as infallible and to imagine that its strategy is crafted by evil geniuses against whom it may be impossible to prevail. And then you see something like this:
Hahaha! The Koch brothers flew the blogger formerly known as “Hindrocket” in to their confab to provide intellectual fodder! The blogger perhaps most famous for his tremulous reverence for the unappreciated genius of George W. Bush!
It must be very strange to be President Bush. A man of extraordinary vision and brilliance approaching to genius, he can’t get anyone to notice. He is like a great painter or musician who is ahead of his time, and who unveils one masterpiece after another to a reception that, when not bored, is hostile.
It’s like riding out onto the plain of Minas Tirith to face the Nazgûl and confronting a cranky, mange-ridden ferret instead. They got nothing. Well, they got the aforementioned bales of cash and global media empire. But aside from that, they got nothing.