Thanks to Chris Christie, little unassuming New Jersey is getting an awful lot of attention lately. Maybe we should have been paying more attention, all along . . .
By now, many folks following New Jersey news have heard about the AshBritt scandal. Hurricane Sandy turned lots of New Jersey into a trash heap. The stuff had to be cleared away before anything else could be done. Gov. Christie deemed it an emergency and hired a Florida company called AshBritt on a pal’s recommendation. The pal was Haley Barbour, former governor of Mississippi, Hurricane Katrina handler and world class mega-lobbyist. I guess there weren’t any trash haulers in the tri-state area . . .
Other haulers underbid AshBritt but never received responses from the state. AshBritt got the contract and then just happened to take out a $50,000 subscription to the Republican Governors’ Association, a major backer of both of Gov. Christie’s campaigns.
The dog above had a good time on Christmas — received lots of treats, renewed many friendships and capitalized on numerous spills. But she found the whole thing somewhat exhausting and is glad it’s over.
[Note to Roasters: By the time this is published many of the links in this post may have 404d. The subject of the post is doing some pretty extensive damage control on his own links so I’ve tried to provide alternatives with clips from original.]
Every once in a while, on a Sunday, I’m moved to check up on what the God-botherers are up to, just for the hell it. It just so happens that this week the hot story along those lines has to do with one Justin Lookadoo (I know?) whose current “ministry” is as a motivational speaker for high-schoolers [and any other age group that can cough up his speaker’s fee].
From what I can tell, the cool thing about being a Christian motivational speaker is that you don’t need any qualifications outside of being a Christian to make a full-time job of it. Lookadoo couldn’t peddle his public speaking skills to bankers, for example, because he doesn’t know squat about high yield funds or T-Bonds.
But no-one has any problem signing him up to entertain 4th period hump-day assemblies because he, like his audience, was a teenager, attended high school and he’s Christian and that’ll do the kids some good, right?
Granted, in public schools, guys like Lookadoo have to “hide their light under a bushel” because . . . separation of church and state. But, Texas, which is different, in many ways, is sort of relaxed about such quibbles.
And, so it is that Justin Lookadoo found himself before an auditorium full of teenagers at a high school in Richardson, TX, this week, just like thousands of other school speaking engagements he’s done over the years.
Except that this one broke bad and went viral. The kids in the audience started critiquing Lookadoo on Twitter and to say that they “pwned” him is something of an understatement.
Here’s what happened when the Arlington, TX Low-T Support Group got wind that the Arlington chapter of Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America [which consists of four gun-grabbing “moms”] were “meeting” at the Blue Mesa Grill in a local shopping center, on Saturday . . .
Characterizing the lunch date as an “Anti-Gun Rally,” the local heroes of Open Carry Texas arrived on the scene “locked and loaded,” determined to turn their devotion to their 2nd Amendment rights into an awe-inspiring flash mob that would teach those subversive Moms a lesson.
So it is that 40 or so bored, mental midgets assembled outside the door of the Blue Mesa Grill to mug for the camera, compare magazine sizes, man-scratch, spit and scare the piss out of weekend shoppers because that’s what degenerate bullies do for entertainment.
Blog needs more dog. Here are a pair of boxers. Their serious expressions have nothing to do with the possibility that the US Congress now has a greater concentration of stupid than at any time since just prior to the Civil War. The thing that makes these zaftig doggies so solemn is CHEESE.
Speaking of stupid, I destroyed yet another broomstick this morning. I didn’t crash into a light pole on the way to the Leaky Cauldron; I was attempting to slay what I thought was a giant flying cockroach that I thought had alighted on the floor, in just about the same spot where the dogs would patiently await cheese in the above photo, which was taken later.
I launched into giant cockroach battle mode, which consists of grabbing a broom and swinging it at a lumbering insect in vicious, high-speed arcs, while screaming DIE! DIE! DIE!, then using the broom to sweep the carcass of the annihilated foe out onto the porch and then off into the yard.
But it turns out the thing I thought was a giant cockroach was just a giant cockroach-shaped piece of mulch that one of the dogs must have carried in on her feet or jowls. And I broke a broom over it. Damn. It’s possible I should update the prescription on my glasses.
Please feel free to discuss pets, pest control techniques, eyewear, the fact that a gunnysack of meth-snorting ferrets is more intelligent and rational than the neo-confederates in the US Congress or whatever.
The picture above is of Baloo, Leo and ShereKhan, a lion, bear and tiger all living together at the Noah’s Ark Animal Sanctuary in Locust Grove, GA and they are BFFs!! The reason this is a “rescue” ask is that their sanctuary is having to raise money to build a higher fence to conform to new federal regulations and, since they are 501(c)(3), they don’t have bags of money laying around. if they can’t raise the funds the shelter will have to close and the animals dispersed to smaller shelters. So Baloo, Leo and ShereKhan would likely have to be separated which would be devastating for them as they have been together since they were cubs 12 years ago. More about their back story here.
I have done some research on Noah’s Ark and they are a legit organization dedicated to rescuing wild animals who have been mistreated, usually by idjits who think they’d make good pets, and the staff just tries to give them a good place to live out their lives. I know times are tough for all of us but if you can help there’s a donate button here. Thanks!
Liz Cheney, 2012 poster child for Obama Derangement Syndrome, has poked her head up out of Jackson Hole to announce that, while unpacking her carpet bag, she discovered a vocation to represent the good people of her new home, Wyoming, in the US Senate.
It isn’t that La Liz thinks that three-term incumbent Republican senator Mike Enzi has done a particularly “bad” job, per se, it’s just that she knows that, as Liz Cheney, recipient of the Cheney Political Genome, she could do ever so much better in every way. Plus, she’d be able to spend most of her time in her real-life home, Virginia.
Besides, Enzi should understand, she’s not really running against him, at least “in her own private Wyoming,” Cheney is running against Obama - a losing battle if ever there was one but, here’s the proof:
Sad news on several fronts. Balloon Juice proprietor John Cole lost his beloved cat, the fabulous and floofy blog mascot Tunch, yesterday in a particularly awful way. Those who wish to do so can leave a donation to Marion Animal Resource Connection, an animal welfare organization, to honor Tunch.
Cole also got confirmation that long-time Balloon Juice (and Rumproast) commenter General Stuck has died. He was a prolific participant in debate across the blogosphere, and when he went missing, people suspected something was wrong. Well, it was.
Still trying to wrap my head around the Zimmerman trial verdict, even though I figured Zimmerman would skate. So now young black males not only have to tread on eggshells around cops but also around every officious little neighborhood busybody who decides kids don’t look like they “belong.” Fuckity fuck.
Forty years after the National Lampoon was a monthly addiction for snarkologists, Cheech Wizard remains an Amusement Destination for those of us who like our snark mixed with rare plant juices, stage magic and acute testicular swelling.
Even in clunky computer claymation, the Zydeco Hat is the Cultural King of my g-g-generation. DUCK, LIZARD!
I dropped the kiddo off at school this morning, like I do most weekdays when it’s not summer. I was driving away, reeling from the teenage-pheromones contact buzz and listening to NPR’s breathless coverage of the Boston Marathon bombings, and it occurred to me for the millionth time that we—all of us—are generally able to ignore the specter of death due to a lifelong practice of internal terror management, using whatever ways work best for us.
None get out alive, and the unlucky are separated forever from those they love in an instant by extraordinarily violent means. Sometimes it makes screaming headlines; more often it goes unnoticed by all except those directly affected. But the pain and despair are the same.
I saw this crane family in a median strip on the highway, two fuzzy hatchlings and their parents:
Of course, it all looks fuzzy because I suck as a photographer and was using a camera phone while stopped on the highway and watching for oncoming traffic in my rearview mirror. But trust me—the babies are adorable fuzz balls on stalky legs following sleek, elegant, purposeful parents who stand more than three feet tall:
Did seeing this lovely crane family turn my morbid thoughts to life and spring and hope? Well hell no, actually: For one thing, the damn cranes were on the median strip of a highway with a 45 MPH speed limit, so I worried that they’d be flattened by a school bus or dump truck.
But the cranes were focused on the moment, attentive to the task of finding the next juicy bug, with the adults helping the chicks learn to ruin flowerbeds and putting greens while navigating swampy landscapes with all the attendant hazards. Their kind—and ours—will continue about the business of daily life until the earth chokes to death on emissions, is rendered barren by an asteroid or is incinerated by the sun, whichever comes first. There’s some comfort in that, I suppose.
Here’s Joan Jett, the boss hen (and my pal Ravenclaw the Red, who appears to be popping out of JJ’s breast, “Alien”-style):
JJ is nice to humans, but she’s pretty mean to her fellow fowl. I mentioned her bullying ways once before, and some of you gently admonished me, saying that JJ was being firm, not a bully. Well, maybe. All I know is I’m glad I don’t have a red comb or neck dooley-bobs for her to pull!
Not the dementia-addled former president who deinstitutionalized the mentally ill so they could start new lives under crumbling overpasses and reconstituted Congress as a hub of sociopathy – we know where HE is. I mean Florida Governor Rick Scott’s “rescue dog” / campaign prop, which shared a name with the president who popularized the notion of government-hating government officials in the modern era.
TALLAHASSEE — Shortly after winning the GOP nomination in 2010, Rick Scott announced to the world through Facebook that his family had rescued a Labrador retriever. And, with help from his Facebook friends, Scott gave it a name: Reagan.
Asked last week what had happened to the dog, Scott’s current and former communications directors refused to answer.
After reporters, uh, dogged the Scott administration about the whereabouts of Reagan and got an increasingly bizarre runaround, the paper went directly to the governor:
“He was a rescue dog,’’ Scott said, “and he couldn’t be around anybody that was carrying anything, and so he wouldn’t get better.”
Scott said Reagan never bit anyone but “scared the living daylights’’ out of people at the mansion. He said one kitchen employee threatened to quit and photographer Eric Tournay was frightened when the dog “barked like crazy’’ every time he saw him with a camera.
So the Scotts gave the dog back to his prior owner, Scott said, about a month after the family moved to Tallahassee.
After learning that Times reporters had talked to the governor, a spokeswoman called to say Reagan had been returned about a year ago to All Pets Grooming and Boarding, a business in Naples.
Okay, this sounds fishy. For one thing, is this Naples grooming service actually a dog rescue operation? Doesn’t look like it from the organization’s minimal web presence. Maybe that part is legit.
Still, Scott made enough money bilking Medicare that he was able to purchase the state governorship for $72 million. He couldn’t hire Cesar Millan or Victoria Stilwell to train his dog? Or, failing that, he couldn’t let the dog live with the staff in one of his numerous residences so it wouldn’t scare people in the Governor’s Mansion?
A spokesman for the governor’s wife also declined to respond to questions about Reagan, saying only that they have one dog.
“Her name is Tallee and she is a 7-year-old rescue Lab,’’ said Jackie Schutz, a spokeswoman for Mrs. Scott.
Where Tallee came from and where Reagan went were still unknown.
I’m guessing poor Tallee is another political prop, perhaps on loan from a GOP donor. Obviously, Scott doesn’t know the beast well:
“This dog is the neediest dog. When I worked out this morning, he wants to be right next to you the whole time. If you do a push-up, he wants to be underneath you as you do a push-up. He’s a sweet dog,’’ Scott said.
Um, Tallee is a girl, Governor Scott. At least, that’s what Mrs. Scott’s spokeswoman said. WTF? Seamus wept.
This really happened. One year, right after Christmas, my mom decided to drive herself, my little sister and me up to North Carolina to see snow. As native Floridians, my sister and I had never seen snow before. We complained bitterly about this fact, especially during the holidays when all the TV specials featured snowmen, sleigh rides, etc.
This was a very long time ago, back when people drove ugly green station wagons with fake wood paneling. Anyhoo, we had a little dog—a poodle mix of some sort. He was a kind of goldish color, so we named him Butterscotch. But we all called him Scotch.
We couldn’t take Scotch with us since we were staying with dog-phobic relatives in North Carolina. So my mom asked her younger sister to housesit and watch after Scotch. Auntie agreed to do this for us and promised to take good care of our beloved pet:
Poor Auntie had to spend New Year’s Eve all by herself. However, my mom had generously given Auntie permission to raid the liquor cabinet. She polished off a few cocktails and then rang in the New Year watching Dick Clark on TV as she lounged in our recliner and finished an entire bottle of champagne: