Meet the Harrises. Mark and Irene. Who realized a dream in Tampa this week, brushing elbows with the “movers and shakers” of the GOP. Their bliss was only marred by one unfortunate incident that reminded them of just how depraved this country has become under socialism. We’ll get to that, soon, but first a little background.
Mark Harris is a Republican Committeeman (for now), representing Snyder County, Pennsylvania, a little slice of heaven just to the left of Shamokin (which is still “mighty Right”), in the territory Philadelphians refer to as “Pennsyl-tucky.”
According to their website, Rock Star GOP, (?) “Mark and Irene are both pro‐life, believe marriage is between one man and one woman, are for open records and transparency, believe in very conservative principles and the Republican platform.” And are solidly behind Tom Smith, the wingnut TEA Party candidate running against Sen. Bob Casey.
The Harrises attended this week’s Republican National Convention in Tampa, where Mark was a delegate representing the state’s 10th Congressional District. Like all hip tourists, Mark and Irene posted updates during their trip to keep their 7 readers abreast of developments, which included this on Thursday:
“During our time at Epcot we visited the different countries. It was neat seeing each country and the employees were from that individual country. Then we visited America,” where the Harris blog notes the couple discovered a Hispanic person working.
One would think you would find American employees. We were offended to find a person from Mexico working in America. Mark spoke up and told them he was highly offended after visiting the other countries and seeing employees from that country and then come to America and find a Mexican. He was very civil, but his point was well made.
The day we’ve all been waiting for since the Olympics began is finally here: The Romneys’ famous rumba-horse, Rafalca, is going for the gold! Right now! From what I’ve read, she’s not favored to medal, but I’m sincerely rooting for her.
A surprise Rafalca victory would obviously bolster Romney’s gritty, man-of-the-people image. But beyond that, in a very real sense, Rafalca belongs to all of us.
Her obscenely wealthy part-owners requested a $77K tax break for her care, expecting the rest of us to make up the shortfall in the US Treasury. So she’s America’s Horse! Cheer her on!
Did you watch the Piers Morgan interview with Willard and Ann(toinette) Romney that Anne Laurie linked? OMFG!
Here’s a deal for you, British cousins: We won’t make any trouble when the Little Lord Fauntleromneys* try to return to America if you’ll keep that insufferable prat Morgan within your borders. An example of the hard-hitting journalism:
MORGAN: On the economy, clearly Barack Obama has decided your weakness, your vulnerability, is your record at Bain Capital. And it’s a very divisive issue. And quite a fascinating issue because when I look at some of these attack ads, it’s almost like he’s attacking you for being successful and rich which is not a traditional area of battleground to an American from an American because America was founded on working hard, achievement, success, and making money.
That’s Kristol-level wrongness there, in which falsehoods are nested within falsehoods like a Matryoshka doll. But I thought the most fascinating segment was when Morgan questioned Romney about the upcoming dressage competition. Romney was all, “Rafalca who?”
Look, I’m sure Rafalca is a perfectly lovely animal—one I’d like to have a beer with!—and it’s not her fault that she’s the plaything of useless rich people. The issue is that the Rafalca-owner class has rigged the tax code to such an extent that I can’t write off my child’s braces, whereas Rafalca’s owners can write off more than my entire annual wages for a nonexistent dancing horse “business.” But that’s not enough; they want MORE.
Clueless, entitled prick that he is, Romney dimly perceives that this looks kinda bad, so he’s hoping no one watches the dressage competition and that his wife’s horse fails to medal so the issue will go away. Me, I hope Rafalca takes the gold, and I’ve circled August 2 on my calendar.
*Spelling correction H/T to NotMax. Also too, apparently it was Earl Fauntleroy (rather than Little Lord) who was the entitled douchenozzle—H/T, Aimai.
My backyard chicken project finally paid off: an egg! The hen who laid it, Dorito (pictured below), had not been selected by any of us in the first-layer pool, so through random selection my husband got to eat the first hen fruit, which he reported as delicious!
In retrospect, Dorito should have been an obvious pick in the pool as her comb and neck dooly-bobs are more developed than those of her peers. Stupidly, we all went with other indicators, like overall size or fondness for hanging out in the nest boxes.
We know who laid the first egg because we heard squawking, which my daughter went out to investigate. She then saw Dorito exiting the henhouse and found the still-very-warm egg, which she bore triumphantly to the kitchen.
That was midweek. Yesterday was the kiddo’s birthday, and she had requested last week that I take the day off so I could chauffeur and chaperone her and a friend to the Batman movie premiere (matinee, not midnight showing).
Despite receiving the news of the carnage in Colorado shortly after waking up, we decided to go to the Batman premiere anyway. We figured any would-be copycats would have to wait until the local gun shops and militia gear purveyors opened at nine o’clock and that it would take some time – even in Florida – to assemble the requisite high-capacity magazines, select a target, etc., so 11 a.m. moviegoers would be relatively safe.
And we were. The kids enjoyed the movie. My verdict: meh. Anne Hathaway is a good Catwoman, but she was the only bright spot as far as I’m concerned. I think the film was trying to make some half-baked point about the Occupy movement a time or two – a point that Rush Limbaugh could sympathize with if he weren’t focused on ginning up dumb outrage over the use of the name “Bane” for the villain.
Anyway, maybe I’m just shallow, but I enjoyed “The Avengers” a lot more.
Speaking of Kaplan hacks, Kathleen Parker wants you to know that Ann Romney’s dressage horses are actually elaborately upholstered, living physical therapy appliances, rather than impossibly expensive playthings for a useless rich lady. Therefore, if you have a problem with the Romneys’ deducting more than you made last year for expenses associated with their part ownership of a fancy dancing horse, you’re a bad person who probably finds the sight of orphans on crutches and in wheelchairs hilarious.
Why this war on success, you guys? Parker really wants to know:
And why this war on success? People who are struggling through rough economic times didn’t suddenly become stupid, and surely most see through this absurd, sustained attack on the Romneys, whose only apparent sin is having been successful.
Romney’s opponents seem to be aghast that he has made money for investors (aren’t we all investors?) [uh, no, you idiotic, out-of-touch fuck, no…—ed.], though they studiously ignore other greed-less facts: He never took a dime in salary for heading the Olympics in Salt Lake City nor as governor of Massachusetts, to mention a couple.
Jesus god, really? How did the Romneys manage to feed themselves, their livestock and the Mini-Mitts without the Olympics and gubernatorial salaries? Oh right, they were already gazillionaires before Mittens got those gigs, which were essentially rich dude hobby jobs. Parker somehow forgot to mention that Mittens claims he didn’t inherit any money from his father either, which makes him a Self-Made Man. I’m sure the fact that his father was a multimillionaire CEO of General American Motors and governor of Michigan didn’t grease the skids for the Marquis de Mittens a bit.
We’ll soon get to test Parker’s theory about the plebes’ ability to see through “absurd, sustained attacks,” alright. But rather than discerning if the manifestly out-of-touch, fuck-you rich Romneys are indeed manifestly out-of-touch, fuck-you rich people, the plebes will demonstrate whether they’re capable withstanding the tsunami of bullshit Rove & Co. will funnel through their TV screens shortly.
This fall will witness the ultimate test of the American people’s gullibility as we see if unfettered SuperPAC cash can sell Little Lord Fontleromney as a bootstrapped businessman and cast a moderate president who continued the bank bailouts and attempted to reform the private insurance industry as a Kenyan commie. The obscene gobs of cash necessary to fund this test are being raised right now by the Romneys’ fellow out-of-touch, fuck-you rich people.
And more than an election is on the line: The slender moorings that link things we call “words” to their corresponding concepts will be tested as well. I’m not all that optimistic. Rove was able to sell a not-so-bright, daddy-supported ex-cheerleader and serial fuck-up as an unassuming cowpoke, and that was before he had unlimited KochBucks at his disposal.
However, Parker ends her column on a more optimistic note, hoping that if Ann Romney becomes First Lady, she’ll use her influence to prevent retired horses from becoming “circus or zoo meat.” A worthy goal indeed. But by widening the wealth inequality gap even further, Mrs. Romney’s hubby might inadvertently direct that sad protein elsewhere. Romney-Ryan 2012: A Horse in Every Pot!
A very happy Father’s Day to all you dads out there. Anything special on the agenda? My husband (an excellent dad) requested homemade pizza for supper, so homemade pizza it is.
My homemade pizza is locally famous. Here’s why: Before I roll out the dough, I roast a whole head of garlic in the oven (top cut to expose cloves, drizzled with olive oil, wrapped loosely in tinfoil and baked at 350 for an hour). Then, after I roll out the dough, I coat it lightly with olive oil and squish the roasted garlic on it and spread it out. Then I top the pizza and bake as usual. It infuses the entire pie with the sweet, nutty flavor of roasted garlic. Nom-nom-nom!
Other causes for celebration: the Romneys’ fancy dancing horse is going to the Olympics, you guys! But here’s what struck me about the article: The Romneys declared a loss of $77K on their 2010 income tax returns for expenses related to the horse, Rafalca.
WTF? The horse is obviously alive and well. The Romneys don’t even own the horse 100%—ownership is split three ways. So what expenses could they incur as part owners in a year that exceed by far what most American wage earners make in 12 months? Are they allowed to treat this pricey hobby as a business venture? Job creators! Also, Best. Dressage. Ever:
I’ve spent the past week struggling to kick a 20+ year nicotine addiction, which pretty much renders me unfit for anything but sobbing into my hands or rereading familiar books so that it won’t matter that I read the same paragraph three times without comprehending it.
I see intriguing stories that are worthy of comment or outrageous bullshit that cries out for abuse. But I find myself incapable of formulating a response other than “blaarrgh!”
This is SO not fun, except for the bizarre Chantix dreams, one of which involves the chickens pictured above. I dreamed I was riding in the passenger seat of a 1970-something Dodge, and my chickens were driving. Two chickens on the floorboard controlled the gas and brake pedals, and three perched on the wheel steered by shifting their weight to make turns.
In the dream, I was completely unafraid to be the chickens’ passenger (even though they were exceeding the speed limit). I was just impressed that they figured out how to drive. Is that weird, or what?
What’s the most bizarre dream you’ve ever had? (Or talk about whatever…)
Delighting Customers for Christ
Downsizing the Devil with Jesus
Paradigm Shift to Salvation
Getting Granular in Gethsemane
Synergy, Not Sin
I feel certain I’m overlooking low-hanging fruit and that y’all will push the envelope with value-added propositions.
In other news, I’m starting to feel like Tippi Hedren: In addition to dealing with the chickens, now I have a pair of turtle doves to contend with. They took up residence in a hanging basket under the overhang of our tiki bar.
On the left is one of my cute little Australorp chicks at one week old, and on the right is that same chick eight weeks later:
Every morning I ask her the same question: Where are my goddamned eggs?!?
In other news, the Vetting the Bed* process continues apace at Big Dead, where cub reporter Joel B. Pollak reckons President Obama must have entered Columbia as an Affirmative Action student with SAT scores even lower than the famously dumb George W. Bush.
His evidence? A 1981 newspaper article about the average score of the Columbia transfer class:
Breitbart News has learned that the transfer class that entered Columbia College in the fall of 1981 with Obama was one of the worst in recent memory, according to Columbia officials at the time…If Obama’s SAT scores were near the average of the transfer students entering Columbia in the fall of 1981, he would have scored significantly lower than George W. Bush…
Yeah, and if my granny had wheels, she’d be a go-cart. These are painfully stupid people.
In other news, I took my dogs for a walk this morning. Like the good neighbor that I am, I tucked a plastic grocery bag in my pocket so that if one of the dogs took a dump along the way, I could whisk the turds away. Leave only footprints—that’s my motto.
Sure enough, Daisy Mayhem took a gigantic dump on someone’s lawn, which I scooped into the bag and tied off, and we went on our merry way. It’s trash day, which means there are bins along the edges of the lawns. One was open, so I tossed the turd-bag into it.
My husband thinks this is really rude, but I don’t see the problem. I wouldn’t throw un-bagged dog turds into someone’s trash can, but bagged turds—what’s the issue? I don’t get it.
Anyhoo, away we went, but then Daisy Mayhem decided to take ANOTHER ginormous dump—right on someone’s goddamned driveway! This never happens, so I had not prepared for the eventuality of needing TWO bags. (The other dog, Patsy, never shits outside our yard.)
It was very early, just past dawn. No one else was around. I could have easily just kept going and left that pile of turds right where they were. But I wasn’t raised that way, so I was desperately trying to come up with a solution. Should I just take the dogs home and come back in my car to clean up the mess? Root through some stranger’s trash can to find a receptacle for the shit?
There was a bagged newspaper in the driveway. It wasn’t the paid subscription paper but one of those freebies. I skinned the bag off it and used it to pick up the turds, tied off the bag and deposited the bag and the paper in a nearby bin, hoping the homeowners weren’t peering through a window or on their way outside to confront me.
Did I do the right thing? I don’t know. I hope I don’t encounter any more serious and troubling moral quandaries this weekend.
Nope, I’m not dead. But I have been dealing with some old-ladyish health problems, even though I’m not really old. (And some churlish individuals might dispute my claim to being lady-like.)
Anyhoo, chicken update: I moved the critters to the coop. My kid had the genius idea of activating the record feature on her iPhone and propping it against the side of the coop to capture the half-grown chicks in action at their eye level:
They’re all pretty tame, and one flies up and sits on my arm like a parrot. What are you up to this weekend?
We have lots of frogs down here in Florida. I like frogs very much and enjoy encountering them on my own terms, i.e., outside, where they belong, and from a cozy distance.
See, we’ve had boundary issues, frogs and me. It’s been suggested in some quarters that perhaps I take these unexpected frog assaults a little too personally and have become a bit paranoid about their propensity for popping up to surprise me in unlikely places.
I’d like to see how these critics would react to this kind of scenario on their turf. What’s pictured below is the console of a sadly neglected exercise bike that lives on my back porch:
And yes, that’s a goddamned frog coming out of a hole in the exercise bike console:
Are there critters in your neck of the woods who pop out to surprise you? Discuss! Or talk about whatever.
Poor Mrs. Mitt. After 40+ years of back-breaking momming, the woman has earned the right to kick back and take it easy. And she could, too, if it weren’t for her husband’s compulsive need to cross “Be President!” off his bucket list.
So Mrs. Mitt is forced to endure serial humiliations, one of the worst of which must surely be the obligation to interact socially with a vulgar, embarrassing blowhard like Donald Trump. Last night, Mrs. Mitt was obligated to paste on a smile and ride the elevator to the 66th floor of Trump Tower to join Trump, his wife Melanoma and 400 other crass rich people (the only kind willing to share airspace with Trump) to raise $600,000 for the Mitt campaign at a “birthday party” for Mrs. Mitt. (66th floor + $600,000 - $599,994 = 666!)
And, because even though Trump was born rich, he somehow managed to avoid acquiring the good taste and manners that often make our plutocrats seem less overtly monstrous than they actually are, he exposed poor Mrs. Mitt to maximum tackiness, including a sugary image of herself astride a sugary Austrian Warmblood dancing horse, thus inviting unflattering comparisons between Mrs. Mitt and Marie Antoinette.
The Cake Boss dude, who constructed the monstrosity, chose to surround the horse and rider with stumps. Why? A subtle protest of Trump’s desire to clear-cut ancient Scottish trees to build vulgar golf resorts? It’s a mystery. And an open thread.