Stung by the backlash against the GOP’s bizarre and sustained attack on women—what Republicans call “the dance of seduction”—the Breitbart minions left behind to carry on their leader’s legacy found themselves rudderless and adrift. Well, maybe not rudderless, but with such teensy little rudders they’re barely even visible, so expect a great deal of overcompensation.
Much as Tom Friedman gleans man-on-the-street wisdom from the cabbies who ferry him to and fro, I sallied forth from the Cracker Cloister yesterday to mingle with the common folk, securing priceless insights that I will share directly. Unlike Friedman, I didn’t board a G6 and fly to Aspen to pick up a $75,000 speaking fee.
Rather, I played hooky along with my teenage daughter to visit a couple of theme parks, including a park that has a section devoted to a fictional young sorcerer. The fiction-based city to which we traveled for this purpose should be renamed “Or-LINE-do” since visitors spend the majority of their day languishing in queues. There were lines to access the $15 parking lot. Lines to pay an outrageous sum to visit the parks. Lines to have our bags searched. Lines to hear a sales pitch before paying $29.95 for a plastic replica of a wizard’s wand.
There were even lines for lunch seating at The Three Broomsticks tavern and the privilege of paying $40.00 for a bagged salad that reeked of chlorine, a dollop of runny mac ‘n cheese accompanied by a sad cluster of grapes and souvenir tankards of “Butterbeer” (which turns out to be cream soda topped with an oilier incarnation of Cool Whip). Anyhoo, it was at The Three Broomsticks that I obtained “cabbie wisdom” by briefly eavesdropping on the conversation of a pair of 20-something women at the adjacent table.
As they consumed THEIR $20 bagged salads, the young women’s discussion turned to the upcoming Republican debate. They admitted to one another that they hardly pay attention to politics at all and hadn’t watched the previous debates, but both expressed interest in seeing that evening’s tussle. Why? Because they were alarmed about what they’d heard regarding the Republicans’ wholesale assault on women’s rights and birth control.
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.
You can always count on My First Newspaper for a good human-interest story, and by “human” I mean you can learn a lot about what makes people tick by viewing them through the prism of animal companionship, and by “interest” I mean like in a Chinese curse.
So now there’s going to be a TV series about pet taxidermy, because of course there is, and I’ll tell ya, I’m not all that comfortable with a reality show exploiting a teenager who thinks she’s a better singer than she actually is, much less someone like this:
Brittany had been with Kaufman, 64, when she lost her son, Billy Giger, who died in 1998 and her husband, Howard Sims, in 2004. Letting go when the dog’s time came was going to be hard.
Sounds like her current state of mind’s a few RDAs short of healthy, right? But hey, on the other hand, furniture won’t scratch the furniture, and a stool won’t… okay, I can’t even joke about this.
His basic price is $725 for any pet up to 10 pounds plus $49 for every pound over that.
Imagine how many living animals you could care for with that kind of money! That’s… uh… well, all that’d buy you is a couple cat spays and some flea preventative. Never mind, that’s not the salient point anyway; these people are obviously sick—not sick sick, but clearly grief-stricken to an extent that’s landed them squarely in mental-illnessville. They need help, not a quadrupedal doorstop. Imagine how much therapy you could buy with that kind of… a psychiatrist visit costs what?!
Hmm. Hold on one sec while I do a quick back-of-the-envelope calculation here… (jot jot jot) carry the one… divided by pain... well I’ll be damned, looks like it is I who’s been barking up the wrong tree here.
Parker! C’mere buddy, we gotta talk about how I’m going to cope with your inevitable passing. I’ve been reading about this freeze-drying process, and I think it might be just the answer to…
Hey, you’re not Parker, you’re an iguana or something. How’d you get in here, little lizard dude?
Lemme just get my shoes on and I’ll set you free outside. Then I can get back to discussing end-of-life issues with my d… WAIT A MINUTE.
Watch the whole spectacle streaming here. The little lumpy avaricious “historian” against the hiccuping Animatronic, dogwhistles at fifteen paces, plus extra-Birther-friendly Ricky Santorum and the little doctor as Inspector Javert.
Whoa Nellie! Droopy-eyed bit player and former savior of the GOP Fred Thompson is ready to lay his leathern hand in benediction on one of the survivors of tonight’s steel-cage, charnel-house four-way grudge match (which will of course be live-blogged, either under a spandy-new image, or here, if Mrs. Polly doesn’t get back from her errands in time to put up a new one and no one else is arsed, as they say, to bother). Who will get the Thompson nod, not to be confused with Thompson on the nod? Oh breathless me!
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.
(opening credits: a static photo of Chuck Todd’s head atop a tiny cartoon body skydives into the studio, landing just out of frame—when he stands up it’s the real Chuck Todd)
Hey DC dudes and beltway babes, welcome to Chuck’d! I’m your host Chuck Todd, faithful lackey of the ruling class TO THE XTREME. On today’s show I take on Stephen Colbert and give that little rabblerouser the what for! (pantomimes guitar solo) He says he’s a satirist, but I’d say he’s more like Jonathan Not So Swift, am I right? (high fives man in front row) Or maybe Won’t Rogers, BAM. (high-fives woman is aisle seat) All I know is, (applies hand sanitizer) never the Twain shall meet! Okay, folks, got a great show today, my band is in the house—give it up for LIXPITL. (makes devil horns)
After these messages from our sponsors for goods and services that I am ALL ABOUT, DAWG, (dollar-sign wipe to reaction shot of mascot Bobo the Cocktail Wienerdog) we’ll be right back with more Chuck’d! We’ve taken the truth… and Chuck’d it!
(band launches into Iron Maiden’s “Powerslave,” cut to commercial)
h/t Michael Bérubé, maybe? Had to search high and low for an embeddable clip and when I finally found one, there he was, right on the channel page there. So Professor, if you had anything to do with me being able to get my hands on this, have a hat tip! Just the tip, though.
Yes, fellow sufferers, another one. But oooh, though the ingredients are unappetizing, it’s going to be so juicy! Will the newly deCornthroned and sinking Mittens soil his French cuffs directly and rub our protesting psyches in Newt Gingrich’s open marriage, or leave it to the Help as usual? What whipping personality will feel the Speaker’s lash, and how much will those charmers in the audience eat it up this time?
Starting at 8, carried on CNN, streaming, CNN willing and the intertube don’t break, here. Pass the Pepto, it’s going to be a lumpy night.
Heh. I can’t really see any of the other presidents in my life time pulling something like that off, and not only because no other president was badgered for his birth certificate by a pack of lame-brained, racist twits. Clinton could be pretty droll, but still. I give Obama the edge.
Yes, what better capper to this year’s Martin Luther King commemorations than for a liveshow of all that endears the GOP to civil rights activists everywhere—Martin Luther King was Ron Paul’s hero! Except for that Civil Rights Act Birthday Holiday thing—in the state that gave us Fort Sumter?
Must admit, I wasn’t a huge Howler reader back in the day—was he ever really America’s Most Incisive Media Critic, or was he always a bit of a crank who benefited from liberals’ tendency to venerate whoever’s telling them what they want to hear at that exact moment? (see also: Jon Tester, 3 out of 4 Daily Show remotes, or that time Sam Seder had Jack Cafferty on AAR and gave his entire listenership Chronic Cringe Syndrome)
Because if you read closely, he’s not unpacking anything here, he’s just Monday morning executive producing.
We think Maddow showed very weird judgment presenting this topic last night.
Well, yes, you would, because like all weird people, you think it’s everything else that’s weird. I have more than a little sympathy for this POV, BTW, but still, it’s incumbent upon us to marshal evidence for our outside-the-mainstream hypotheses—Maddow’s disastrous cheapening of the progressive brand in your case, anything involving cell phones in mine.
Gaze on corporate liberal greatness. Is there real hope for the world?
I love how the couch potato equivalents of WTO rock-throwers can’t see the difference between what Maddow does and what, say, George Stephanopoulos does. I bet she could anchor The White Power Adventure Hour and win plaudits from people like Somerby as long as it was on ProPublica.
But man, even I feel bad seeing that he’s been downgraded to a Blogspot account. Say what you will about the Incomparable Archives, at least the page design didn’t announce “ramblings of an increasingly addled mind ahead.” The dude’s two cats and a self-published paranormal romance away from being the nadir of the medium he helped pioneer.