Charlie Pierce has a great piece up detailing the efforts of the right to use the opening of the George W. Bush Presidential Library as an occasion to give Dubya a mulligan on 9/11 by repeating the mantra that “he kept us safe” afterwards.
Thus do we confront what we can call The Great Mulligan, which is granted by the dimmer lights in the chandelier to the president and to the national security team — Hi, Condi! — who presided over the most massive intelligence failure in American history, and over the greatest loss of life to an enemy attack on American soil since everybody hugged it out at Appomattox. This has popped up from time to time in the years since it became obvious what a complete and utter failure the Bush presidency really was. Sorry we lied you into a war, but we kept you safe. Sorry we demolished American values, and just about every shred of American moral credibility in the world, but we kept you safe. Sorry we let New Orleans drown, but we kept you safe. Sorry we allowed the national economy to blow up, but we kept you safe. In fact, if you sent C-Plus Augustus into his own museum, and had him take that interactive quiz, and provided he didn’t break a thumb trying to get a Diet Coke out of the exhibit, his answer to everything would be I kept you safe.
Hate-spewing Coelecanth and Anders Behring Breivik muse, Pamela “Aynist” Geller, is simply beside herself since WordPress shut down the vile anti-Muslim hate site Bare Naked Islam. Pam is ready to sue for the freedom of BNI commenters to urge , as quoted by CAIR via TPM, ““What’s all this pussy-footing??? Throw 10 Molotov cocktails into these mosques and burn them down even with a**-lifters in them, especially with a**-lifters in them.”
By curious happenstance, 2012 began with a series of four terrorist firebombings in Queens last night. Molotov cocktails, at least three of which utilized Starbucks frappucino bottles, were thrown at mostly Muslim targets: a bodega, a prominant mosque and Islamic Center, a private home, and a house which was known to host Hindu services, which of course we all know are just Islam in paisley camo.
Would I dare to suggest that last night’s anti-Muslim terrorist firebombings were in any way connected with Pam Geller’s incessant anti-Muslim agitation? Oh heavens, no! Any more than she would suggest that Anders Breivik’s victims were too brown to be considered real Norwe——oh, oops! Inapt simile. Any more than Free Republic would assume that Los Angeles Firebomber Samuel Arrington was Mus——
——Well, Hell’s Bells. Only 363 or so days until New Year’s! New beginnings, and all that. I can hardly wait.
Some anti-seagoing mammalist has stickered most of lower Manhattan with these. Just one of the many things you didn’t think you had to worry about, but if you like paddling about with large gray rubbery bottlenosed mammals, don’t say you weren’t warned!
Either that or it’s just another NYC company trying to sell you T-shirts suitable for that upcoming Thrash concert. They may be unwittingly doing dolphins a favor, even while slandering them: wild dolphins are beginning to turn tail and flee after the umpteen bazillionth encounter with starry-eyed Flipper fanatics.
In any case, I ain’t swimmin’ with ‘em again. Not after that time in ‘96. But I can’t say any more; I accepted a lot of herring to keep my mouth shut.
Can’t say the Rev. doesn’t still have It. The NYPD decides that midnight is an excellent time to take down the Occupy Wall Street medical tent, protesters link arms around it, an unpleasant tenseness envelops all concerned, and PRESTO, there’s Jesse Jackson, right there, linking arms like the old pro he is. All livestreamed, of course. And, God bless’em, up on YouTube, instantly. Cops confer, disperse. Elated bwa-ha-has and empowered discovery by young lady: we can do stuff!
Imagine the despair of the lieutenant or inspector who thought, “we told those @#^&!s no structures, and THAT’S A STRUCTURE!” only to find himself face to face with the very Reverend Mr. Big Stuff, fresh from the unveiling of the statue of HIS FRIEND Martin Luther King, on the Mall in DC, yesterday. And he pops up here. At midnight. Instantly.
Now the loo, or D.I., whoever is stuffing that white shirt, as the kids call him, is looking like a dick.* A failed dick. But the Rev. Jackson, with whom we’ve had our problems from time to time, is definitely smelling like a rose.
Maybe they should try to get him into one of those matador costumes.
*Moving in on the medical tent? At midnight? Any argument that it wasn’t a dick move will be met with vociferous disagreement and last night’s gnocchi, which were a little heavy but make pretty good missiles. Hey, I didn’t take a vow of non-violence.
It was looking like it might turn ugly down at Zucotti/Liberty Park . Last night, Mayor Bloomberg and colorful tough-guy mayoral hopeful Commissioner Kelly had seemingly acceded to Brookfield Properties’ silkily disingenuous plea to be allowed to power-wash the park and save these DHFs from possible electrocution by the underground lighting system:
Yes, a great upheaval has been upheaving right practically on the Polly metaphorical doorstep~a huge improvement from what happened on my actual doorstep every Saturday night when I lived in the Village~but any old hoo, here are pictures of it! I’ll be posting them in dribs and drabs as I recover from the clouds of earnestness that roll over Zucotti Park every time I go. All the manifold possibility in the air, the bright eyes of the idealistic youths~they so sap a snarky person’s energies.
Impure and hardened individual that I am, I’ve tried to compensate for my aversion to chanting “hey hey ho ho” by taking the kids clean socks and spare umbrellas. I don’t know if I’m warming Libertarian toes or sheltering Anarchists, but how else can one little Obot co-opt this burgeoning movement?
His powers of New York crowd-worming were unequaled, and I almost lost him at the October 5 rally. Pausing only to high-five small ecstatic children, he nearly ditched me, but thanks to the NYPD and their crowd-control driftnets, I finally drew even with him.
“Oh, Captain America, I’m so honored to meet you!” I trilled.
He turned. “I’m the King of America,” he informed me. “Oh, pardon me!” I said. “Would you mind describing your monarchy?”
“I’d love to stay and chat, but unfortunately, I’m on a mission right now,” he said apologetically. And with that, and before I could get a picture of him from the front, he melted into the masses, but I just knew I’d see him again. And sure enough, here he is on YouTube, along with his pal, WhateverMan.
Oh there is more to tell, Roasters, so much more. And I’ve oodles of photos to post, which I will, I promise, as soon as I recuperate from the ennervating effects of all that earnestness. And having a food cart roll over my foot. No damage, but a nice Viet Nam vet who was sitting on the sidelines with his 9/11 pamphlets and all told me I was likely to get gangrene, so until tomorrow I’ll be icing my toes. I have to speak to the King of America about this!
Great video on the Occupy Wall Street movement from DC Douglas:
Contrast this with Koch-funded Tea Party movement, which features angry old farts deploying lawn chairs in the town square to listen to a bunch of corporate crooks in Colonial dress railing against historically low tax rates. And yet if you rely on the media for information, the Tea Party is the grassiest-rooted, most important, significant political development in the history of the planet, and the Occupy Wall Street movement is just a bunch of smelly, unemployed hippies.
Is the media FAIL due to laziness? Fear of being labeled a (heaven forbid!) “liberal”? Marching orders from the giant media conglomerates that own the system? I’m not sure.
It’s been mighty exciting these past two weeks here at the Polly digs in lower Manhattan, but being able to witness the expression of free speech being quashed from our very own balcony is the sort of fantasy a girl can hardly believe could ever be fulfilled, and yet it happened!
I live a few blocks from Ground Zero, or as I’d like to think it will be known someday, One World Plaza. Last year, seeing the twin blue beacons, those elegant, quiet expressions of loss amd remembrance, I decided to follow them to their source.
While we’re waiting under the Heat Dome for international markets to tank, at last some news to gladden the heart—at least for those of us romantic multi-culti moonbats rooting for the destruction of society’s sacred institutions. Finally, same-sex couples are allowed to marry in New York.
At a minute past midnight, weddings took place all across the state, including the wedding of activists Kitty Lambert and Cheryle Rudd in front of a rainbow-washed Niagra Falls. Just a few minutes ago, the New York City Marriage Bureau performed its first same-sex marriage for Phyllis and Connie, who are 75 and 85, and were radiant in blue.
At 150% humidity, it’s amazing how much joy the air was able to hold.
Some days the noise and the bullshit and the cowards who dwell in the WWW make me curse AlGore.
But then some genius lobs a little brilliance into the place and I hasten down to the temple of ClintonGoreSoros and set fire to another virgin.
Who is Objectivist Morrissey?
While steamingly out of my mind, I decided to write 24 posts in 24 hours at my regular blog. One of the posts involved some goofy speculation about a Bizarro-world Morrissey who is a devotee of Objectivism. I found the concept too amusing to give up, and the idea of a parallel universe in which The Smiths were forging Rearden Metal wouldn’t go away easily.
Moocher, moocher I was only joking when I said,
I didn’t want you well and truly dead.
Moocher, moocher I was only joking when I said,
Your body shouldn’t be filled up with hot lead.
And now I know how Howard Roark felt,
Now I know how Howard Roark felt
As the flames rose, past his upturned nose
As he razed where the moochers now dwelt.
Oh noes, looks like this one’s coming down with a case of the crochet too!
These bits of incendiary yarnwork were quietly parked in the Financial District, where I discovered them last week, during such thoroughly moist weather that they seemed as much fungal growth as art piece.
Bernard-Henri Lévy starts off well enough in defense of his pal, IMF Director Dominique Strauss-Kahn, who is accused of sexually assaulting a worker at the Hotel Sofitel in New York:
I do not know what actually happened Saturday, the day before yesterday, in the room of the now famous Hotel Sofitel in New York.
Lévy should have stopped there. But he went on:
I do not know—but, on the other hand, it would be nice to know, and without delay—how a chambermaid could have walked in alone, contrary to the habitual practice of most of New York’s grand hotels of sending a “cleaning brigade” of two people, into the room of one of the most closely watched figures on the planet.
Oh, so now the “chambermaid” is under suspicion for going about her duties without an escort? Lévy again:
This morning, I hold it against the American judge who, by delivering him to the crowd of photo hounds, pretended to take him for a subject of justice like any other.
Well, he is “a subject of justice like any other.” At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.