What happens when you put a bunch of unemployed conspiracy theorists, low-info vigilantes and well-armed paranoiacs out in the desert sun to dry-roast for a couple of weeks?
SHIT! happens! that’s what.
The Fantasy Justice League members that have #occupiedcowtown this month to protect Cliven Bundy’s inalienable right to suck the government teat dry, are starting to show obvious signs of PTSD following the anticlimactic Battle of Bundy Ranch.
The Battle itself took place a few weeks ago, without a shot being fired, but militia-types from all over these great United States were having so much fun on maneuvers, using soldier lingo and walkie-talkies, that they decided to hang out with the Bundy family indefinitely, to make sure that Bunkerville, NV is rendered safe for democracy.
Every now and again, it’s fun to watch somebody over at Rupert N’ Roger’s Wacked Manufactory bumping up against an uncomfortably solid reality that doesn’t melt away under the soothing fog of Reagan worship and a fat paycheck,,,particularly when it’s Megyn Kelly realizing that she’s surrounded by a couple of real Family Units, especially the living Toby Jug on the right, whose pinkly smug visage visibly irks her into melvining him with Science:
**UPDATE: Below the fold, now with even more Woolly Mammoths!
Eat our tusks, Russians.~~we’re trying to figure out how to UNclone ‘em.
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.
Our hens raided the container garden during their free-range jaunt yesterday:
I never participate in the garden threads because my husband does every bit of the gardening around here. I couldn’t even grow a Chia pet or keep an air fern alive.
Anne Laurie’s early morning open thread featured the image of commenter Hitchhiker’s lovely cat in front of a Christmas tree. But instead of going, “Awwwww,” I went, “Sweet mother of fuck! It’s almost Christmas, and I haven’t done a damn thing!”
My fake tree and all the decorations are still in the shed. I haven’t ordered the Christmas dinner prime rib yet. We haven’t even quite wrapped up our kitchen renovations (although it’s mostly done – we lack cabinet toe-kicks and the backsplash only at this point), and our dining room still sports a bare concrete slab as we haven’t gotten around to laying the tile. Oh, and I haven’t bought the first present yet.
Why? Well, the home renovations have become a convenient excuse for being slobs. Why bother dusting or sweeping when there’s 70s-era glue on the walls where we ripped out the old laminate backsplash and bare concrete underfoot? We’ve actually enjoyed the respite.
As for the lack of Christmas spirit, it just doesn’t seem Christmas-y yet, partly because it’s been so warm. I’m a native Floridian, so warm Decembers aren’t a foreign or unwelcome concept to me. But it does seem unusual to get this far towards the solstice without once having to put on a pair of socks or rifle the closet for a jacket. There have been a few flannel-shirt-over-the-tee-shirt days, but I haven’t had to bust out the woolies. Nonetheless, there is work to be done.
Romneys Spread Loser Stink
Speaking of indolent people, Mitt and Ann Romney are continuing their loser tour. Noted fans of “sport,” the Romneys took in the Pacquiao-Marquez boxing match last night:
I don’t follow boxing, but I think Pacquiao was favored to beat Marquez. That was before Romney visited Pacquiao in his dressing room, exuding a giant cloud of loser dust:
“Hello Manny. I ran for president. I lost,” Romney told the fighter, according to Pacquiao publicist Fred Sternburg.
Then this happened:
“LAS VEGAS — Manny Pacquiao never saw it coming. He never saw the punch that snapped his head back Saturday and dropped him to the canvas and left him sprawled there momentarily, face down, while his wife sobbed uncontrollably and the packed crowd at MGM’s Grand Garden Arena rose to its feet in shock.
With that, a rivalry known for its lack of a definitive triumph suddenly had the most definitive ending of them all.”
I really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really hope Mitt and Ann Romney decide to pay the Notre Dame locker room a visit prior to the BCS title game.
Speaking of Losers
Remember the group One Million 51,700 [homophobic] Moms (OMM)? No? Me neither, but this spring, they failed spectacularly in a bid to get Ellen Degeneres fired as JC Penney spokesperson. After that effort flopped, OMM director Monica Cole announced that the breeder klatch was “moving on.”
But a JC Penney commercial featuring Ellen and several Christmas elves attracted their ire again last week.
It wasn’t that Ellen groped a female elf in the ad or anything. It’s just that everyone knows she’s a lesbian, and think of the chiiiiildren!
Because the commercial that occasioned the protest was so innocuous, onlookers found the OMM action confusing. (Pro tip: When you have to explain why you’re taking umbrage, you’re not successfully inciting it.) So OMM declared that the group is “moving on.” Again. Maybe someday they actually will.
She’s a winner: Michelle Obama raises her arms in delight as David Beckham applauds during a football game with children as part of the Let’s Move-London event at Winfield House Picture: JEWEL SAMAD/AFP/GettyImages
Mitt secures his place in history by being namechecked by London Mayor Boris Johnson as he prompts a “Yes we can!” call and response from a vast and wildly enthusiastic crowd as the Olympic torch arrives in Hyde Park:
People are coming from around the world and they’re seeing us, and they’re seeing the greatest city on Earth, aren’t they? Now, there are some people who are coming from around the world who don’t yet know about all the preparations we’ve done to get London ready in the last seven years. I hear there’s a guy, there’s a guy called Mitt Romney, who wants to know whether we’re ready … he wants to know whether we’re ready.
My daughter has played little league softball for years, and somehow, I’ve avoided volunteering for anything all this time. I’ve never been a “team mom.” I’ve never raked an infield or created chalk lines. I’ve paid teenagers a pittance to take on my concession stand duties. I’ve bought the whole damn box of fundraising candy bars and distributed them free to beggars. (Well, the ones I didn’t personally eat. The candy bars, not the beggars. And where “beggars” are defined as trick-or-treaters or anyone else I can pawn the damned things off on.)
In an inexplicable and unprecedented paroxysm of guilt and stupidity during the most recent call for volunteers, I raised my hand when no one else volunteered to fill the position of team scorekeeper. “How hard can it be?” I thought. I can count the damned kids when they cross the plate. I should have realized by the surprised reaction of several people—including the team manager and my daughter—that this was a huge mistake while there was still time to back out.
My MLB-loving, baseball stat-encyclopedia husband wasn’t there to stop me, but when I told him I was going to be the scorekeeper, this is what he said: “Hahahahahahaha!” As it turns out, there’s a lot more to it than counting runs and calculating simple sums. For example, the image below is not the Mars Rover schematics I first took it for but rather the scorekeeper’s sheet:
Fuck! Also, you have to know what things like “Fielder’s Choice” and “Pass Ball” are. And when things are “errors” and “assists” and the code to record who did what. And you have to keep track of rosters and substitutions for both teams. And you have to politely repel angry grandmas who insist you’re fucking up the error assignment, even though it’s only a goddamn scrimmage game, so she should shut the fuck up or volunteer to do it herself. And you can’t enjoy watching your own kid play because every second you have to track every fucking activity occurring on the field, with no breaks to pee or get a drink, which you’ll dearly wish was vodka instead of tepid water.
Man, this sucks! I found a tablet app for scorekeeping, but the league officials shot that idea down because they want their precious stats in their precious spiral notebooks. I have to keep score this afternoon for reals this time. Please keep me in your thoughts.
A Buckinghamshire town is due to hold what is thought to be the world’s oldest pancake race later.
The race in Olney dates back to 1445 and is believed to have begun with a towns woman arriving late for the Shriving service at the parish church.
The 24 female competitors will run the race wearing aprons and headscarves and carrying a frying pan with a pancake.
The winner, on crossing the line, is greeted by the verger with the traditional kiss of peace.
“Ladies from the town race from the Market Square to the church in memory of a town cook,” race organiser Ian Ford said.
“The story goes that on hearing the shriving bell, calling everyone to the church service, she ran out of the house clutching her frying pan and still wearing her apron.”
Pancakes. Domestic drudgery. Prescriptive gender roles. Cosiplay. Sexual subjugation by religious authority figures. Shriving. All human life is here. You thought Monty Python’s Flying Circus was a comedy show? It was a documentary.
Thanks to alert Balloon Juice commenter WereBear, I learned that Rush Limbaugh was possibly caught on film picking his snoot in Patriot owner Robert Kraft’s booth during last night’s Super Bowl. There is much speculation about it on the Google: Did he or didn’t he shove his finger knuckle-deep into his nostril in full view of all the swells in the skybox, including Steven Tyler?
Deadspin has a pretty definitive photo here. However, some wingnut site called the “Daily Rushbo” gives the clip the Zapruder treatment and concludes that no nose-picking occurred. Not content to rely on the analysis of someone daft enough to run a Limbaugh fan site, I used advanced digital still analysis techniques and found that the truth is far worse than the original rumor.
First, here’s the Deadspin still:
And here’s a detailed view of Limbaugh in mid-pick—the enhanced image clearly shows a viscous, green glob of mucus dangling from his index finger:
And a couple of frames later, the horrible truth is revealed: Not only did Limbaugh extract a slimy, revolting booger from his snout, he disposed of it by wiping it on the back of his host, Mr. Kraft.
Jesus, that’s disgusting. But it kind of puts the NFL ownership’s rejection of Limbaugh’s bid to join their little club in a new light, doesn’t it? It’s not that the owners were put off by Limbaugh’s constant race-baiting and misogyny; it’s just that he’s one crass motherfucker.
If you’re anything like me, you’re a big sissy whose lack of interest in sports has led to enormous gaps in your cultural literacy, so hopefully you’re nothing like me, but if you’re exactly like me, you made the 5th-grade class bully cry. What happened was, he got stuck with you on his touch-football team in gym class, and apparently you were “off sides,” and he got very upset about this. To this day you don’t know what “off sides” means, but you did make a bully cry, so maybe you’re not that big a sissy after all.
Anyway, here’s a real giant. Not so much the other thing!
So, it’s Super Bowl Sunday. What are y’all cooking for the occasion, if anything? Does anyone have a good recipe for onion dip that does not include Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix? I intend to try this Alton Brown recipe unless someone has a better suggestion.
Also, Giants or Patriots? I’m not particularly fond of either team (my team is the sucky Bucs), but I’m leaning toward the Giants for no particular reason.
Here is that open football thread we have been clamoring for! The Pollys are ensconced before their 19” Panasonic, enthralled before yet another angelic-wife-drowned-by-husband story on “Dateline,” as Mr. Polly informs me that the Giants are losing, and a proper fan never watches his team lose. (Mr. P is a Yankee fan, so his behavior may be recognizeable.)
I tried to learn to enjoy football once, by reading “Football For Dummies,” and after ten pages of picayune rules about measurements, I realized I hated football more than when I started, but I can appreciate a good catch replayed in slo-mo. Meanwhile, Stone Phillip’s jaw is jutting so far forward it just may break the screen.
So are any great plays being made or anything? It’s not like I’m going to know.
I haven’t followed college football as closely this year as I have in the past. Not just because my team (the not-so-mighty Gators) sucked this year either.
My loss of interest may be because the long-time revulsion I’ve felt at how the NCAA exploits athletes and the ways schools exalt their football programs to the detriment of academics was amplified a hundred million times by the horrifying activities that were allegedly covered up at Penn State. Yeah, it wasn’t MY team, but those who think the mindset that compelled outwardly normal, decent people to turn a blind eye to a serial child predator is confined to Happy Valley are kidding themselves. It’s enough to put a fan off her Jello shots.
But I’m still going to watch the BCS Championship game tonight, and furthermore, I’m going to make a prediction: LSU will beat Alabama. Again. Geaux Tigers!
we don’t need to hold on for another hero ‘til the end of the night
I’m often asked “gil, why do you read the Daily Caller if you don’t agree with its editorial stance, gain insight from its reporting, or find its human-interest stories compelling?” To which I can only respond “You’re not really here! You’re something my subconscious whipped up in response to the battery of booze and pills I’ve ingested, then sent forth to taunt me! GO ‘WAY!” Then I whip a bottle at them and they evaporate. But they raise an interesting question!
An interesting question I’m not going to answer, because this isn’t about me, it’s about me getting my jollies setting you, the readers, against each other in a horrifying bout of bloodsport. That’s right, it’s time for…
THAT THING I SAID IN THE TITLE ALREADY.(trumpet fanfare)