I think it’s a sad day in journamalism when the question of whether President Obama really, really, for really truly and honest-to-gosh “goes skeet-shooting all the time” at Camp David is seriously fact-checked. And yet I think it’s a hilarious day when Breitbart’s very own John Nolte questions why no one is questioning the fact checkers. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, dig? Woodward and Bernstein once brought down a president with Watergate—but today’s lapdog press is blindly accepting photographic evidence debunking Skeetgate that was made in the very same seat of the powerful that brought us such sheer propaganda as….
Today, however, the White House released a photo that purports to show Obama (love that tucked-in shirt) shooting skeet last August. Except… he’s shooting straight ahead, which means that there’s either a barn door somewhere in need of some patching, or Obama is such an awesome skeet shooter, he hits them as they come out of the firing device.
I keed, I keed. There are legitimate reasons that would explain the angle of his gun, but….
(I humbly submit that since there is smoke coming out the barrel, he has already shot and lowered the rifle, probably because it makes sense in the linear stream of things. And I’ve watched many episodes of CSI. CSI: New York and Miami, too!) And of course, the press is only doing it to make the skeet-truthers look stupid! Because…um. Right.
Can anyone remind me again why this is supposed to matter?
Big band colossus Woody Herman didn’t cover hack songwriters or marquee bands. In fact, he preferred to duplicate the songmaking of artists whose fame and talents rivaled his own. That became apparent yet again when Woody dedicated half a vinyl album to a cream-of-the-crop selection of Steely Dan tunes.
Herman’s Dan collection was hard to find (and expensive once you found it) when I acquired mine 15 years ago. I don’t know whether that situation has improved in the intervening years. But just in case the tracks are still fugitive, here’s what Polly and I excavated on YouTube. Enjoy the signature Fagen/Becker medley of American blues styles, with a steaming dollop of woodchoppers’ winds and horns on top!
Wireless carriers are blood-sucking leeches run by amoral pricks whose unfathomable greed and utter disregard for fair dealing would make Bernie Madoff ashamed enough to seek species reassignment surgery. My husband and I recently fell prey to a scam perpetrated by our long-term mobile, landline, TV and Internet provider, Verizon.
We innocently strolled into a local Verizon retail outlet a few months ago to see about upgrading my husband’s old clamshell-style crap-phone so he could stop writing notes on paper, photographing them and sending that in lieu of text messages. A more credulous pair of bumpkins has never been so effectively swindled by such a brazen pack of bald-faced liars.
The fecking feckers sold us a packet of magic beans: a bundle that would supposedly result in a lower overall monthly payment for all services while upgrading hubby’s crap-phone to a smartphone, expanding our channel line-up and improving the quality of our landline service. (That last part smarts especially in retrospect since we had intended to get rid of the landline, which we rarely use.)
But no, the lying Verizon motherfuckers told us: With THESE special beans, the landline is BETTER than free! It exudes a magickal “savings dust” that reduces your overall bill, each and every month! Plus, the new and improved landline service comes with a snazzy new transmitter base with periwinkle-colored ambient lighting and can even serve as a marital aid / can opener / wine decanter!
We idiotically signed on, and when the incomprehensibly Byzantine combined bills began to arrive, we found that—quelle surprise!—the deal was not as advertised! When I called to investigate, I was eventually made to understand that through a combination of “line access” charges, service fees, etc., our bill was going to be around $30 more a month than it had been.
Moreover, I was given to understand that not only had we extended my husband’s phone contract by two years (which we knew), we were now locked into two-year contracts for the landline, TV and Internet service too, all of which had previously been at-will. The bottom line is, if we want to dump Verizon right now, it’ll cost us nearly $800.
I’ve raised holy hell across the Verizon customer service spectrum, calling, chatting, emailing and even snail-mailing the bastards to request that they kindly remove their dicks from our ass. To no avail.
But you know what? I can get through this. I endured the two-term governorship of Jeb Bush and the presidency of George W. Bush, and dog willing, I will outlast the vile governorship of Rick Scott, so I know a little something about waiting out evil fucks. I’ll wait out Verizon too, and once I’m shut of them, I’m hoping to arrange it so that they never see another nickel from the Cracker household. Ever. That’s the only kind thing about time: Eventually, this too shall pass.
My question is, of all the hucksterish-prick wireless carriers out there, which one have y’all found to be the least rapacious? Also too, is there such a thing as satellite TV and Internet service? And lastly, please consider this an open thread / wireless carrier primal scream therapy center.
I don’t know why Adam Ant’s signature video, “Goody Two-Shoes” and the happy-happy stomp dance made me think of Sarah Palin, except to note that nothing else makes think of her at all anymore.
Certainly, there had to be some significance in Adam Ant’s retro-couture Napoleonic settings and costumes, apart from the lightning-fast assumption that Adam was going to usher in the second coming of Paul Revere and the Raiders, featuring Mark Lindsay.
Whether or not Adam was singing about Sarah Palin in 1982, it goes without saying that whatever about her was ever truly unique, one-of-a-kind, name-brand or timeless, has wound up where it was always destined to be—somewhere between Clark Kent’s costume closet and Al Capone’s Vault.
You don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do? Nothing to see here. Move along.
Two things that never appeared previously in the Superman Comics Universe:
• Fashionably color-dampened Superman without his bulging red underpants.
• Stylishly-bearded Cluck Bent answers Bruce Campbell’s immortal book title, If Chins Could Kill.
Sad to say, that’s all I know about The Man Of Steel franchise that debuts its first $1.95 burger platter later this year. For all intents and purposes, it looks like The Man Of Steel will more nearly resemble That Guy From Last Night or audition-losing talent who weren’t selected for the Brawny paper towel wrapper. If Jor-El sucks as badly in this film as he did during ten years of hyperventilating fatherhood in the TV series Smallville, the next Superman film will be the last one ever…starring Michael Richards.
I’m in charge of holiday planning, prep and execution at my house. Not because of patriarchal oppression but just because that’s how we choose to break it down (picking up dog turds in the yard, for example, is thankfully outside my bailiwick).
Well, Saturday morning, I woke up feeling nauseated and achy in every bone. My head was pounding, my nose was stuffy, and I had a hacking cough. I tried to eat something and ended up tossing my waffle. So even though I had a million things to do to get ready for Christmas, I made a nest of quilts on the sofa and stayed there all day and all night.
The dogs were happy to keep me company, what with a little cold snap we had (it’s in the high 60s / low 70s, which causes my wimpy boxers to channel their inner Malamutes). I laid around alternately snoozing, watching TV and staring at the Christmas tree lights in a Nyquil-induced daze. I drank herb tea and munched a few soup crackers from time to time, which is about all I can keep down.
I didn’t feel much better yesterday, and I still feel lousy now. I’ve been dragging myself from room to room, dusting furniture, sweeping, cleaning out the fridge, etc. I’ve pressed my kid into service more than I normally would to complete errands and assist with housework.
Mr. C always handles Christmas Eve dinner, so I’m off the hook for that, but I’ve got a slew of people coming by at various times today and tomorrow. I’ve got all the holiday meal stuff, but I have no idea where I’m going to find the energy to put the Christmas Day feast together and deal with a houseful of guests. My husband and kid are more than willing to help, but they’ll just fuck up whatever I assign to them. I know that sounds terrible, but it’s true.
There’s no point at all to this post; I just felt like whining. Open thread!
Poll, if I may interrupt for a second, I am really irritated at the way they allow Newt Gingrich to continue living on.
—my mother, at noon, and not a drop taken (so far).
Mama-San arrived yesterday, with her traditional complement of leftovers in baggies, family-size bottles of vino in case Chez Polly does not provide, and the non-crushable Shirt Which Must Be Carried Separately, which must not be housed in any kind of luggage, but travel with its own hanger, not to be confused with any other hanger which could not possibly be as good. I had been introducing her to Charles Pierce with this piece, which is how we got to Newt, though with Mama-San, we could just as easily have gotten from there to her hatred of English toast racks or “EC cetera.”
My nonagenarian mother will be here taking care of me while I do a four-day internship taking care of youngsters in their eighties, starting Christmas Eve. So if I don’t get another chance to say it, Roasters, how rare and wonderful it is to spend another year with you! And Merry Whatever You Wish.
Roseate psychopath Ann Barnhardt and her powerful pink popgun formerly known as the AR-15 may be figments from our collective past should draconian gun laws and psychotropic drugs become the norm in 2013
No, it’s actually just a stinger scene from Trey Stone and Matt Parker’s X-rated comedy classic Orgazmo. In it, Parker’s character Elder Young is mistaken by porn film producer Maxxx Orbison for that famous hunka-hunka burning love memorialized by Elvis Presley (or was that William F. Burroughs?). In the same dangerous moment of misinterpretation Young’s junior missionary partner Ben Chepleski (Dian Bachar) is errantly ascribed the cheerful disposition and dual-purpose plumbing gear you’d expect from a fishnet-stockinged Robin.
Enjoy! If you get time and the opportunity, please treat yourself to three other South Park movies—Cannibal, The Musical; Team America: World Police; and South Park—Bigger, Longer, And Uncut.
Not every ill child can hope for charity intervention or a telegram from the Make-a-Wish foundation, but cancer victim Connor Michalek is proving that a child’s enthusiasm for a better, more significant life may be all it takes to make a difference.
Connor is a Pittsburgh resident with brain and spinal cancer, and a fatal, imminent prognosis. However, while Connor’s life is likely to be all too short, it may have at least one Capra-esque moment if he can meet his All-Star wrestling hero, Daniel Bryan.
This video went viral today, as more and more Americans meditated on the courage of children, and the wonderfulness of their dreams. Bryan is famous for screaming “NO, NO, NO” at athletic events. Let’s hope that this time a happy, glowing “YES” will escape his lips.
I don’t anymore, and this sort of ignorance is exactly why:
What the hell is “taxpayer-funded abortion pills”? Taxpayer dollars don’t fund any kind of abortions under the Hyde Amendment. Now, because he is ignorant, he might have the singularly stupid idea not unpopular with fundies that birth control pills are abortifacients—they are not. They are contraceptives in the sense that they prevent conception, which in turn means they actually prevent abortions. And yes, those are provided by government dollars under Title X and without co-pay as a part of insurance plans under the ACA. But even somewhat anti-science, also strong social conservative LA Gov. Bobby Jindal just recently published an op-ed endorsing over-the-counter birth control. Now, of course Jindal’s op-ed is for the purpose of divorcing the birth control issue from government altogether so tax dollars are not even second or third hand involved—but at least he isn’t calling them “abortion pills”.
But listen again, and this is a very short clip, but packed dense with Kulturkampf dummkopf-ery, he is talking about things we “used to call disorders”, that we “now call normal”—whatever could that be? I am pretty well-persuaded by my general knowledge about Huckabee’s bullshit that he’s talking about LGBT* people. It’s sinful that gay and trans folk are treated as regular human beings, he’s saying. That’s what I think he was getting at.
I know I’ve said this before, but really, ginormously hump a bunch of Mike Huckabee. But this time, I think I mean, there ain’t no poll numbers in 2016 gonna support no kind of Mike Huckabee. He is reinforcing his FOX Mushroom Farm cred, but really at the expense of anything in the way of political viability. And if that is the way he feels, well—
Good. Happy death of political career to you. “Godspeed” you to irrelevance. Happy trails. And don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split ya, because that is probably some kind of sodomy, and stuff. And I care about Huckabee just enough to want to preserve his ass from understanding just how sinful he really is as a gluttonous grasping hypocrite so he’ll continue providing me with glurgy blogfodder. Forever and ever. Amen.
Truly, YouTube is a pharaoh’s treasure horde of groundbreaking cultural Ur-media. Here is my ancient friend Ron Hankison, known in those days by his recording talent moniker “Ronnie Wasp.” The cut is from his ‘80s album Nolo Contendere, a disk on which only lunatic survivalists like this outer space ant-farmer would dare make wretched jokes about human/ant fornication (or is that formication?).
All in all, an epic song by a prodigious creative mind.
In a tradition that started at Rumproast several years ago, I like to wind up the year in blogging by saying a hearty “fuck off!” to five people / trends / things that really need to go away in the coming New Year and invite readers to add their own picks and thoughts.
The competition is fierce every year, but I’m not sure I’ve ever contemplated such a worthy roster of candidates as confronts us here in late 2012. But here goes:
1. Everyone named “Bush.” No Jeb! No George P. Bush. No one else with the last name “Bush” should be discussed in connection with an elected office in the US, ever again. This includes people named Bush who are not actually related to George W. Bush. That’s not fair, but tough shit. No more Bushes. The band “Bush” can stay, though.
2. The expression “baby bump.” I don’t know who started this, but I suspect it was someone like the insufferable Tina Brown. Well, enough, goddamn it. It’s bad enough to discuss royal uteri and celebrity fecundity as if it were even remotely important to anyone but the principals involved without resorting to infantile verbiage.
3. Donald Trump. Has any single earthling who was not a genuine murderous despot ever cried out for an extinction-level asteroid strike as self-importantly, relentlessly and absurdly as Trump? Whether he’s trying to bully Scotsmen or injecting himself into US politics or pimping blatantly racist birther conspiracy theories, Trump is an embarrassment to the human race, and his mug should disappear from my teevee. Forever.
4. The Tea Party. It was never anything more than a Koch-funded rebranding campaign to mitigate the damage to the GOP’s image wrought by walking disaster George W. Bush. But pundits and political operators who should know better still persist in treating it as a genuine grassroots movement. Well, enough of that bullshit. Let’s see no more Gadsden flags, faux Colonial breeches and tricorn hats in 2013.
5. Camille Paglia. This “crassly egocentric, raving twit” should have had the good grace to slink off into oblivion forever when the late, great Molly Ivins laid the definitive smack-down [PDF link] on her more than 20 years ago. And yet she persists. Fuck off, already.
Who / what else should kindly fuck the fuck off in 2013?
Especially when he and his band, Wall of Voodoo, have been retro-cranked through a wall of synthesizers to perfectly mimic the Spaghetti Western sound of gritty rockabilly tunes. (As Mrs. Polly notes, “It’s like Johnny Cash and Harry Dean Stanton had an illegitimate son and named him Stan.”)
Roughly ten years or so (I think) before Queen debuted their first album, audiophiles like my brother were immersed in the complex harmony of a band called Tranquility. Tranquility possessed no super-powered front man like Freddie Mercury and lacked the signature guitar work that etched Queen tunes onto the human subconscious… but wowsers, they could sing like the Devil and weave an instrumental tapestry on which the vocals shined like brushed silver. Or, as this song implies, more silver than brown, anyway.
This is a powerful song with which to face the impending end of the Mayan Cosmos, and one that asks a question that is always pertinent whether the world is ending or not: “Who do I turn to now?”