Bush pardons turkey

But the lucky bird didn't breath a sigh of relief until President-Elect Obama assured him he would not have a starring role in the Thanksgiving Day feast. Even bird-brains don't take Bush seriously anymore...

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

[Cross-posted at Rumproast]

I Am Treasury

Obama rolled out his economic team yesterday, and I thought, “Meh.” I don’t have no steenking PhD in economics from an elitist university and was in fact an English major at a state school with a top-tier football team, but I could do better in the “bold ideas” department. Even if I did have to Google “number zeros trillion” to determine the basis of my plan.

According to Bloomberg, the total tab for the government bailout is approaching the neighborhood of $7 trillion, which is a pretty goddamn swank neighborhood if you ask me. The population of the US is right around 300 million. So what if we told Citigroup, AIG, GM, Ford, et al, to fuck off and instead divided that $7 trillion amongst the citizenry? If I’ve got my zeros right, every man, woman and child would receive upwards of $23K.

Just imagine the explosion of capitalistic activity such a windfall would detonate! Yankets by Rumproast Manufacturing would find the, um, seed capital it needs to stoke up manufacturing and hire Billy Mays as pitch man. The PUMAs could finally retire Hillary Clinton’s debt and still have enough left over to purchase 1st class bunkers, canned goods, water purification systems, guns and ammo to ride out the Obama Administration.

Now, we know from lotteries past that a large percentage of our population would not invest so wisely and would squander their haul on Wild Turkey Jello shots, gold-plated RVs and hit men to dispense with their pesky relatives, ending up bankrupt and in jail. But it’s precisely that sort of economic activity that greases the wheels of capitalism.

Does anyone doubt that thousands of mom-and-pop bank and credit card outfits would arise to meet consumer needs once the dead-wood banks and their golden-parachuted executive parasites were allowed to fail? Wouldn’t vehicle manufacturing companies arise in garages nationwide -- like that squabbling father-son operation that was the subject of a reality show -- to take the place of our moribund auto industry? I don’t doubt it for a second.

Screw the “financial infrastructure.” And fuck the “too big to fail” companies that are sucking us dry. With my economic recovery plan, we’d get rid of those blood-suckers once and for all and would likely get better products and services into the bargain. At least until Rumproast, Inc. grew into a multi-national conglomerate whose executive team spent the profits made from shaky leveraged debt swaps on Caligula-themed debauchery . And then we’d start all over again.

[Cross-posted at Rumproast]

Friday doggie bloggie: the Boxer Rebellion

I tell her and tell her and tell her not to dig. But she digs anyway.

Show me that bile again*

Crappy 80s child actor turned crappy Evangeliban grown-up thespian Kirk Cameron discusses wholesome family films and opines about gay marriage on the Bill-O show:



Bill-O gushes about Cameron’s latest mega-hit with the Christianist set, Fireproof, which took in an astonishing 33% of the take garnered by a movie about talking Chihuahuas and 15% of the weekly haul of a cartoon featuring zoo animals on the lam.

But it seems like the whole conversation was really an excuse to roll the clip of that scary homo riot on Fox News yet again. I bet half of Bill-O’s audience is still cowering behind the sofa. Me, I’m impressed with the restraint of the Castro residents. If that group had camped out on my street after helping orchestrating a vote to strip away my civil rights, the cops wouldn’t have escorted them out; they’d have called in cadaver-sniffing dogs to find their remains.

Can any of the moralizing pricks like Cameron (and they are legion) come up with a reason to oppose gay marriage that doesn’t involve pointing to a line in a religious tome? Nope. The “it has always been thus” defense is unalloyed bullshit too, as marriage was originally invented as a mechanism to transfer women and property (redundant, back in the good old days these goons long for) between men.

But now there’s an anti-Prop 8 backlash, which is like the War on Christmas, only with queers instead of atheists! As usual, wingnuts are falling all over each other to assume the Holy Mantle of Persecution, and here we haven’t even had Thanksgiving yet. Rod Dreher, a prominent Christianist bed-wetter, asks the best question of all about the anti-Prop 8 backlash:

How are defenders of traditional marriage supposed to have reasoned discourse with people who insist that there is nothing to talk about except the terms of our surrender?

You’re not, Rod. You’re supposed to keep on plodding toward the tar pits like a good dinosaur. And don’t think the collusion of the Catholic and Mormon churches will save you from eventual submission to The Gay Agenda.

Does anyone else suspect that smarmy prick Mitt Romney was involved in plotting this somehow? Wasn’t he governor of Massachusetts when child-rapist protection chief Cardinal Law was still running the show? I can see them cooking up this scheme to ingratiate the Mormons with the Evangeliban, who were more disposed to regard Mormons as heretics until they became brothers in gay-oppressing.

What better way to worm one’s way into the fundamentalist mainstream than to pick on a common enemy? The Mormon church hierarchy probably thought, hey, if we demonize fags alongside the Dobsons, Paisleys, Warrens, Perkins, etc., pretty soon, we’ll all be counting the comb marks in President Romney’s hair!

Well, I think they lost that war, even as they won the Prop 8 battle. As a great man once said, the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.


*1,000 80s loser points to anyone who caught that reference in the title...

[Cross-posted at Rumproast]

Punk Monday

The making of the world's tallest Mohawk:



[Via CNN]

I'd hate to sit behind that guy at a football game. In other punk news, Johnny Rotten sells butter:



[Via Sadly, No!]

Friday doggie bloggie

Just like in popular culture, the cute young thing gets all the attention, so here's a picture that includes the old boy. I do wish he'd keep the damn lipstick in the canister, though. Especially when the paparazzi is around.

Re-Branding

Consider yourself fortunate if you’ve never experienced the agony of a corporate “re-branding” exercise, which goes something like this: You’re trapped in a dreary conference room with goofballs from the marketing and sales teams along with a sprinkling of executives, whom the marketing and sales people are desperate to impress.

Generally there’s a ridiculously expensive consultant or two leading the exercise, employing a white board or one of those giant Post-It note pads. The participants are encouraged to offer adjectives that describe the company and embody its promise to its customers. If the company is sucking wind (and it usually is if it’s engaged in re-branding), participants are told to offer “aspirational” adjectives.

Once the board or giant Post-It thingie is filled with stupid adjectives that have nothing to do with manufacturing widgets or delivering services, an absurd discussion ensues in which the participants and consultants argue over which half dozen adjectives out of the hundred or so best describe the underlying attributes of the new brand. This is how they arrive at the new brand identity, by sorting out stupid descriptions of it, much as the blind men described the elephant.

These discussions invariably descend into surreal pettiness and bickering, with each party vying to impress the executives with their acumen and creativity while equally determined opponents strive to score points by making the others look like clueless buffoons. The lower the actual stakes, the more vicious the discussions become.

Many Danishes are eaten and much coffee is consumed before the lunch cart rolls in to dispense even more fattening grub, which you’ll eat even though you shouldn’t, if only to relieve the crushing ennui and have an excuse to keep your lips shut.

So what emerges from this roiling pit of vipers? It’s usually a document that is supposed to guide future messaging, the idea being that all ads, promotions and communications should convey the new “brand identity” consistently.

The unfortunate souls charged with crafting these messages usually relegate the expensive new brand guidelines to the round file immediately because, after all, how do you imply “agile” in six words of ad copy about sandwiches selling for $4.99? You fucking can’t, not without coming off as a blithering idiot.

Here’s what happens when someone literally applies the results of a branding exercise to a real ad campaign:



That’s right -- consumers are asked to believe that flying to fucking Korea has something to do with “exquisite” and “pledging” and to pretend that pale turquoise shoes and some chick standing on a rock in lingerie and giant tulle bows relates somehow to an airline. In other words, stupefying nonsense.

So what does this have to do with the price of tea in China? Nothing, of course. But there was much talk during the recent presidential race about how trashed the GOP brand is, and it’s predictably escalating now that the Republicans are casting about for a new identity.

They may not consciously know it, but the Republicans are embroiled in one of those foolish conference room skirmishes -- one side offering adjectives like “fiscally responsible” and “small government promoting” while the other side screeches “anti-fag” and “Jesus loving.” It’ll be interesting to see what sort of document emerges from that shitpile.

[Cross-posted at Rumproast]

The Secret Diary of Michelle Obama

11/11/08: Went to White House with Barack yesterday and met the Bushes for the first time. Had a tour of the WH residence with Laura Bush and discussed the First Lady gig in general terms.

Holy shit, people. This day has been a revelation for me. I’d never met Mrs. Bush before, but I’d often wondered what she was like and how she ended up married to George W. Bush. I mean, she appears to be an intelligent woman -- she’s a librarian and a bookworm, after all.

She seems to have an air of tragic, thwarted humanity about her. How does a seemingly sensitive soul deal with her role in what has been the most disastrous presidency in US history? Well, now I know: She’s drunk! I don’t mean just a little tipsy either -- I mean staggering, slurring, shit-faced drunk…

When we got to the 2nd floor residence, she immediately offered what I thought was a glass of iced tea. It turned out to be almost pure bourbon -- a concoction she calls “Presidential Punch.” She laughed when I choked on the first sip and pressed the recipe into my hand, telling me I’d “need it.”

Mrs. Bush then proceeded to show me hidden liquor cabinets all over the White House. For example, there’s a bust of Thomas Jefferson in one of the hallways. If you press his left eye, the painting on the wall above rotates to reveal a fully stocked bar. Mrs. Bush said, “Honey, you’re never more than 30 steps from a refill.”

As I followed Mrs. Bush from liquor cabinet to liquor cabinet, I tried in vain to change the topic -- to find out about the schools, WH routines, the staff, the food -- anything but the booze! But I might as well have tried to change the course of the Mississippi; Mrs. Bush would not be deterred from her mission to reveal every single hidden booze cabinet in the building, and there are dozens.

But we made small talk along the way. She confided that she’d been pulling for McCain during the race. I said that didn’t surprise me since she was a Republican. She laughed bitterly and told me she hasn’t been a Republican for more than 20 years, ever since her “crazy-ass” in-laws got in the White House. She said she voted for Dukakis, Bill Clinton (twice), Al Gore and then John Kerry. She was emphatic about her votes for Gore and Kerry, telling me her “idiot” husband had no business within 300 miles of the White House.

I asked her why, if she felt that way, she voted for McCain this time. She said it was nothing to do with politics -- she just thought Cindy was better prepared for the First Lady role since she’d long ago developed a “pharmaceutical shell.” I replied that that was one way of looking at it. I didn’t know what else to say.

As Mrs. Bush showed me the several secret liquor cabinets in the presidential living quarters, she confided that all but one were installed by Pat Nixon, the remaining having been ordered by Betty Ford. All the while as she recounted this history, she was trying to shake a Scottish terrier off her ankle. The horny little beast was intent on humping her leg, and she finally dislodged it with a kick that sent one of her designer sling-backs sailing into a flower pot.

The little dog snarled and renewed its amorous assault until finally Mrs. Bush summoned a butler, who came in wearing elbow-length oven mitts and a catcher’s mask to corral the snapping beast. Mrs. Bush retrieved her missing shoe and stood precariously on one leg, holding onto a sofa as she tried to reposition it.

In her condition, she had trouble keeping her balance and nearly fell. I rushed over to steady her, and covered the awkwardness of the moment by asking if the now-removed terrier was the same dog that famously bit the Reuters reporter earlier in the week.

“I don’t know,” she slurred. “Those stupid lil’ fuckers all look the same to me. Some day I’m gonna stomp them into one obedient dog.”

With that, she buckled the shoe in place and took a long pull on her tumbler of Presidential Punch. Hoping to get off the topic of psychotic animals, I asked Mrs. Bush about the children’s living quarters. She said there were no liquor cabinets in there, “as far as I know.”

Mrs. Bush showed me the president’s study, which contained three television sets, hundreds of illustrated hunting and fishing magazines and many jars of pretzels. I asked if there were liquor cabinets there as well.

“No,” she replied contemptuously. “George can’t hold his liquor. If that oaf drinks so much as a can of O’Doul’s, next thing you know, he’ll strip off all his clothes and pound his chest while screaming at the portrait of his father. It’s embarrassing. But I make sure he never runs out of pretzels,” she said slyly.

With that, our tour was ended, and a servant appeared to show me to the Portico. I thanked Mrs. Bush for the tour as she refilled her glass and took a greedy sip.

“Good luck to you, honey,” she laughed, waving as the door shut.

I climbed into the limo, and Barack sat beside me. He looked kind of stunned. I’m sure I did too. We sat for a moment in silence, and then, simultaneously, we turned to each other and said, “Honey, you’ll never believe…”

[Cross-posted at Rumproast]

Got dogs?

How can the GOP counter Obama's appeal to a country weary of war, economic crisis, incompetence and mindless ideological attacks? Here's Bill Kristol's brilliant solution:

And it wouldn’t hurt for Governors Sarah Palin, Mitch Daniels, Bobby Jindal and the other possible 2012 G.O.P. nominees to begin bringing some puppies home for their kids.

No, really. I've heard rumblings about Kristol's NYT contract not being renewed at the end of this year. This is the man who brought us Palin. He is indispensable to our cause. Perhaps a letter writing campaign to retain him is in order.

[Cross-posted at Rumproast]

Reason #1 why dogs are better pets than cats

I must take issue with fellow Roastafarian Kevin K and assert that dogs are by far the superior pet to cats. I mean come on! Look at that face! As further evidence, I submit this internal dialogue that was widely circulated on the internets awhile back that so aptly captures the difference between the creatures' thought processes:

EXCERPTS FROM THE DOG'S DIARY:

8:00 am - Oh Boy! Dog food! My favorite!

9:30 am - Oh Boy! A car ride! My favorite!

9:40 am - Oh Boy! A walk! My favorite!

10:30 am - Oh Boy! A car ride! My favorite!

11:30 am - Oh Boy! Dog food! My favorite!

Noon - Oh Boy! The kids! My favorite!

1:00 pm - Oh Boy! The yard! My favorite!

4:00 pm - Oh Boy! The kids! My favorite!

5:00 pm - Oh Boy! Dog food! My favorite!

5:30 pm - Oh Boy! Mom! My favorite!

6:00 pm - Oh Boy! Playing ball! My favorite!

6:30 pm - Oh Boy! Sleeping in master’s bed! My favorite!

EXCERPTS FROM A CAT'S DIARY:

Day 283 Of My Captivity.

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another house plant.

Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking -- almost succeeded; must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favorite chair; must try this on their bed.

Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was. Hmmm, not working according to plan.

There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the food. More importantly I overheard that my confinement was due to MY power of “allergies.” Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird on the other hand has got to be an informant, and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room, his safety is assured. But I can wait, it is only a matter of time. . . .

Senator Eeyore tries to save his plum appointments

Fuck you, Joe.

Here's a site where you can sign a petition asking the Senate Democratic Steering and Outreach Committee to kick Lieberman to the curb. No one deserves it more.

Ode to Joy

My voting story

[Lifted wholesale from my comment at Rumproast]

I usually vote on election day because something about the communal civic exercise appeals to me. But all the stories about ridiculous wait times in Florida and the expected election day onslaught scared me into voting Saturday instead.

I voted at my nearest early voting polling place, a library out in the middle of nowhere that is surrounded by cow pastures and orange groves as far as the eye can see. I had to wait for a little over an hour. There were more African Americans waiting to vote than I would have thought existed within 20 miles of the place in this part of the sticks. There were also old people. Lots and lots of old people.

Unfortunately for me, the man immediately in front of me in line was a smelly, loud-mouthed, 50-something faux biker who dispensed highly original nuggets of wisdom like this throughout the wait: “God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.” (In reference to the ballot amendment to outlaw gay marriage, which is ALREADY FUCKING ILLEGAL IN FLORIDA!)

I pretended to read a newspaper so he would continue to direct his comments to the unfortunate pair of women in front of him and not try to engage me. In fact, I considered replying in sign language if he did speak to me since I didn’t think I could manage a civil conversation.

A woman in line behind me deliberately made eye contact and rolled her eyes during one of his oafish outbursts. We smiled at each other, relieved to find we weren’t the only ones annoyed by his brainless comments.

Mr. Cracker shuttled the offspring to school this morning and passed 2 polling places in our very small town. He reported lines out the door at both of them. I’ve never seen that happen here.

Prediction

Obama wins tomorrow with 313 electoral votes to McCain's 225 and wins the popular vote with 51%.

Answers to stupid questions

From the National Review Online's Corner Blog:

We're One Day Away from Changing America [Kathryn Jean Lopez]

Obama said that a few ago in Florida. Am I the only one who doesn't want to change America in any fundamental way? Does that make me crazy? And alone?

Answers: no, yes, and, regrettably, no. There are plenty of jingoistic, portly wingnut welfare cases who don't want to change a thing -- K-Lo's own Corner colleague Jonah Goldberg is but one example. So, while crazy, she's not alone.

These people are untroubled by economic policies that generated a Gilded Age-style distribution of wealth in this country. They don't give a shit about the more than 40 million uninsured. They don't care that the US engaged in torture, created gulags and squandered the international moral authority it took generations to acquire. They certainly don't give a crap about the tens of thousands of Iraqis killed for no good reason. They give a crap about the 4,000 Americans killed in Iraq only insofar as they can co-opt the war dead to further their political ends.

Nope, sadly, K-Lo is not alone. But it looks as though she and her ilk are in the minority by a narrow margin. And for that, the rest of us can be thankful. Speaking of Goldberg, he offers this nugget about undecided voters:

Glory Be to the Brave Undecideds [Jonah Goldberg]

Wow:

Sheen, of Lincoln, Nebraska, says his vote is coming down to one issue: abortion. Sheen says he's "definitely pro-life" and he's trying to decide whether Democrat Barack Obama or Republican John McCain is more in line with his views.

I've long suspected undecided voters were drooling idiots who shouldn't be allowed anywhere near a voting booth. Especially in this election. Now Jonah offers evidence, and it's heartening that Goldberg and crew are hanging their hopes on this slim, moronic reed.

They should all die in fires...

Goddamnit. Some days, I want to seek species reassignment services so I can finally wash my hands of the human race:



This woman, Shirley Nagel of Grosse Pointe Farms, Michigan, should be dragged through a dumpster filled with broken bottles, dipped into a vat of boiling sulfuric acid, rolled in a ginormous bed of fire ants and shot from a cannon into a toxic waste dump.

If she were my neighbor, I would construct a Poop Trebuchet and bombard her property with dog shit on a daily basis. What an unbelievably petty, mean, shrivel-souled bag of hate masquerading as a human being.

[Story and vid via Rumproast and If I Ran the Zoo]

But as horrible a person as Shirley Nagel undoubtedly is, she is a veritable sunbeam compared to these evil fucks:

An Islamist rebel administration in Somalia had a 13-year-old girl stoned to death for adultery after the child's father reported that three men had raped her.

Amnesty International said the al-Shabab militia, which controls the southern port city of Kismayo, arranged for a group of 50 men to stone Aisha Ibrahim Duhulow in front of a crowd of about 1,000 spectators. A lorryload of stones was brought to the stadium for the killing.

Amnesty said that Duhulow struggled with her captors and had to be forcibly carried into the stadium.

"At one point during the stoning, Amnesty International has been told by numerous eyewitnesses that nurses were instructed to check whether Aisha Ibrahim Duhulow was still alive when buried in the ground. They removed her from the ground, declared that she was, and she was replaced in the hole where she had been buried for the stoning to continue," the human rights group said.

"Inside the stadium, militia members opened fire when some of the witnesses to the killing attempted to save her life, and shot dead a boy who was a bystander."

Motherfuckers. One drawback to being a godless heathen is knowing there is no hell these monsters can rot in.