*If wingnuts believe a 5-4 Supreme Court ruling is “unanimous”, what do they call the Minnesota Supreme Court’s 5-0 decision awarding Al Franken the state’s other US Senate seat? Using Stuart Taylor’s definition of “unanimous”, the Giants nipped the Cardinals in a 10 to zip nail biter.
*Assuming that Rush Limbaugh’s borrowed description of President Obama as a “post-colonial African Marxist dictator“ is true, does that mean dittoheads think a post-colonial Australian Marxist dictator would be less likely to play the race card?
*If Rep. Michele Bachmann can be taught the complexities of the word ‘census‘, will her eyes finally blink?
*What is the dress code for the upcoming July 4th tea bagging sequel? Can local dullards wear tank tops and flip flops in lieu of sweat stained Founding Father costumes? If I can don my sun dress and gold Cleopatra sandals, I’ll provide patriotic cymbal clangs whenever John Putnam mentions Obama’s mysterious birth certificate or bemoans the darkside of community organizing.
*Because Gov. Mark Sanford refers to Maria Belen Chapur as his “soul mate”, do born-again evangelicals regard Jenny as an unfortunate case of mistaken identity? I have the nagging suspicion that Cameron Diaz is my “soul mate”. Alas, my lack of Promise Keeper credentials denies Ms. Diaz from experiencing the hovel’s Third World enchantment and Juan's languid lovemaking. There may be other contributing factors that keep us apart, but self-evaluation has never been on my ‘to do’ list. However, in the unlikely scenario that we meet, I’m pretty sure that divine providence will prevail…eventually; assuming the ensuing restraining order is time sensitive.
*Why don’t Glenn Beck junkies terrify President Obama with chunks of pulled pork and prove, once and for all, that he’s a Muslim.
*Just because Sarah Palin signed e-mails announcing the birth of her last child “Trig’s creator, Your Heavenly Father”, liberals shouldn’t automatically assume that she’s taken narcissism to Biblical proportions. Hasn’t everyone substituted their given name for The Lord’s when signing Christmas cards? Or sent out thank you cards to friends for remembering your birthday -- even if the birthday/Christmas cards were the agnostic Happy Holidays variety? Although I’m not obsessed with money, I am disappointed if there’s no cash included.
Juan Don
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
I don't know, do I?
*If Mark Sanford is King David and Miss Buenos Ares is Bathsheba, does that mean Lindsey Graham is Mr. Haney?
*Scott Meeker should fess up to a drinking problem instead of pasting in “Uncle Jed” horseshit. What, Rita Crowell on religious retreat?
*It’s never a good idea reprising last week’s crossword puzzle when lighting charcoal is the only other reason to fork over my Charm’s hard earned money for the Sunday paper.
*The combined batting average of the St. Louis Cardinal outfield couldn’t buy a warm beer in Busch Stadium.
*David Gregory is to journalism what I am to home repair.
*The human knee is proof that God is an Ernie Kovaks fan.
*Cats would make better pets if they were like dogs -- as in performing horrific bowel movements on the neighbor‘s lawn.
*Affordable health care would mean doctors might have to buy jumper cables.
*Glenn Beck’s next paperback, “A Fool and their Money…” will be available at all Eagle Lodge libraries.
*I tear up whenever I remember Mitt Romney made over a hundred million dollars.
*Compounding my persistent existential malaise, I asked my Charm to turn up the volume because I couldn’t hear tonight’s episode of “Merlin”.
*A cute convenience store clerk asked if I knew the “old guy” who was losing a struggle with bagged ice. I told her he was a high school classmate. Immediately after this exchange I relaxed my last remaining stomach muscle.
Juan Don
.
*Scott Meeker should fess up to a drinking problem instead of pasting in “Uncle Jed” horseshit. What, Rita Crowell on religious retreat?
*It’s never a good idea reprising last week’s crossword puzzle when lighting charcoal is the only other reason to fork over my Charm’s hard earned money for the Sunday paper.
*The combined batting average of the St. Louis Cardinal outfield couldn’t buy a warm beer in Busch Stadium.
*David Gregory is to journalism what I am to home repair.
*The human knee is proof that God is an Ernie Kovaks fan.
*Cats would make better pets if they were like dogs -- as in performing horrific bowel movements on the neighbor‘s lawn.
*Affordable health care would mean doctors might have to buy jumper cables.
*Glenn Beck’s next paperback, “A Fool and their Money…” will be available at all Eagle Lodge libraries.
*I tear up whenever I remember Mitt Romney made over a hundred million dollars.
*Compounding my persistent existential malaise, I asked my Charm to turn up the volume because I couldn’t hear tonight’s episode of “Merlin”.
*A cute convenience store clerk asked if I knew the “old guy” who was losing a struggle with bagged ice. I told her he was a high school classmate. Immediately after this exchange I relaxed my last remaining stomach muscle.
Juan Don
.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Long Lost Weekend
Juan’s Charm would greet her wayward gimp’s return with frying pan in hand if he disappeared for days. Of course the Sanford’s may have taken Bay Area marriage vows: Splitting incommunicado into Thomas’s good night is an act of Aquarian trust. Then again, maybe the tired Father’s Day Olive Garden gig was becoming a drag and the governor decided some naked Appalachian Trail was needed to give Little Boone a badly needed breather.
Thanks to Adler‘s limitless verve, there is another theory as to why the foe of Obama dollars has cornered Gawker blogging space: He’s courting Ron Paul fans. Think about it. What says ‘Hey, I’m an unconventional conservative’ better than liberating a South Carolina law enforcement SUV and reprising Dr. Kimball‘s flight sans restrictive jockey shorts. Had former Missouri governor Matt Blunt flirted with bare-butted AWOL scenarios, he might be entertaining presidential ambitions instead of…whatever the hell he’s doing.
My personal opinions about Ron Paul are well known in Joplin’s more affordable bars. No doubt, the naïve liked his opposition to Bushco’s military misadventure and promise of ‘libertarian’ paradise -- always an appealing spiel to impressionable college students and recreationally drugged contrarians. To me Paul is just another Dick Armey without the mean streak. Granted, as your typical beatnik pacifist I must give him an obligatory bongo riff for failing to follow crazed neocons into Baghdad (metaphorically speaking), but the rest of his pitch was too screwball for my batting eye. Besides, his redneck racial views will always stick in my tobacco-flavored craw.
And yet I know several seasoned hipsters who harbor groovy vibes from Paul’s quixotic presidential bid, still enchanted with hints of decriminalized downtime. I’m not sure if wandering about Cormac McCarthy country in birthday suit would add luster to their fading bumper stickers or not. However, right-of-center nudist colonies (especially those in northern Indiana) would jiggle loose flesh for the first tax-cutting, family values candidate who can elicit shrieks from The View’s brain cartel when cranking up ‘wardrobe malfunction’ to Spinal Tap eleven.
Be sure and watch Fox News. I’m confident Governor Sanford will assuage Hannity’s despair with implausible deniability.
Assuming for a moment that the naked hiker story resonates with desperate Republicans, look for Sarah Palin to add wet tee shirt to her mob ensemble.
Juan Don
Thanks to Adler‘s limitless verve, there is another theory as to why the foe of Obama dollars has cornered Gawker blogging space: He’s courting Ron Paul fans. Think about it. What says ‘Hey, I’m an unconventional conservative’ better than liberating a South Carolina law enforcement SUV and reprising Dr. Kimball‘s flight sans restrictive jockey shorts. Had former Missouri governor Matt Blunt flirted with bare-butted AWOL scenarios, he might be entertaining presidential ambitions instead of…whatever the hell he’s doing.
My personal opinions about Ron Paul are well known in Joplin’s more affordable bars. No doubt, the naïve liked his opposition to Bushco’s military misadventure and promise of ‘libertarian’ paradise -- always an appealing spiel to impressionable college students and recreationally drugged contrarians. To me Paul is just another Dick Armey without the mean streak. Granted, as your typical beatnik pacifist I must give him an obligatory bongo riff for failing to follow crazed neocons into Baghdad (metaphorically speaking), but the rest of his pitch was too screwball for my batting eye. Besides, his redneck racial views will always stick in my tobacco-flavored craw.
And yet I know several seasoned hipsters who harbor groovy vibes from Paul’s quixotic presidential bid, still enchanted with hints of decriminalized downtime. I’m not sure if wandering about Cormac McCarthy country in birthday suit would add luster to their fading bumper stickers or not. However, right-of-center nudist colonies (especially those in northern Indiana) would jiggle loose flesh for the first tax-cutting, family values candidate who can elicit shrieks from The View’s brain cartel when cranking up ‘wardrobe malfunction’ to Spinal Tap eleven.
Be sure and watch Fox News. I’m confident Governor Sanford will assuage Hannity’s despair with implausible deniability.
Assuming for a moment that the naked hiker story resonates with desperate Republicans, look for Sarah Palin to add wet tee shirt to her mob ensemble.
Juan Don
Thursday, June 18, 2009
bad wheel
I blew my knee out…again…so movement about the hovel (dicey under optimal conditions) has been painful and problematic. The Zaap putter comes in handy as an impromptu cane. Had my injury occurred pursing manly endeavors the pain would still be intense, but bearable. Unfortunately the worthless knee decided to explode while searching for an electric scrubbing brush. To add insult to injury, the electric scrubbing brush was within easy reach had not dunes of clutter concealed the damn thing. My Charm, always gracious, is tending to my needs with Nurse Ratched efficiency. Tomorrow Chief Bromden and I are breaking out -- if we can open the intransigent patio “sliding” glass door. Weighing 1,377 kilos, the expensive monstrosity is a bane upon aging elbows and temperament. My Charm rarely swears, as she was reared by the Sisters of Incalculable Censurability. However, frequent fights with the “sliding” glass door taxes her straight-laced deportment, unleashing a torrent of naval slang when delivering daddy his over-the-counter grog. It goes without saying that fending off swarms of biting gnats does little to soothe her enduring menopausal angst.
Should a comrade read this, please bring the usual supplies with all possible speed. Accessing the mini bar is impossible. The galley is in disarray. Even now the damned electric scrubbing brush’s indomitable buzz is tormenting my ravaged patella; dark rum, please. And a decent merlot or four.
_________________
Sarah Palin, mob America’s sweet tart, continues to gain gravitas. Mercilessly lampooned by snide elites as nothing but a frivolous cumquat, the unlikely governor has landed on her corked sandals after an embarrassing flail at higher office. Putting her shapely shoulder to Alaska’s oily wheel and concentrating on state business, she is steering clear from tawdry comedy and Matt Lauer. In fact, Adler and I are so impressed with the new, serious ’Cuda that we’re thinking of approaching her about hosting our unsold teevee reality show. Undeniably better looking than Phyllis Schlafly, she has the perfect panache for “Get It Off Of Me!”…assuming herpetophobia isn’t an issue.
__________________
President Obama isn’t scoring any points with neocons. Not terribly fond of diplomacy, Krauthammer is pissy because the new owner of General Motors hasn’t bombed Iran into thermonuclear glass. There is no better way to bless Beck’s tortured take on Tom Paine than slaughtering innocent civilians for freedom. Iran’s homegrown revolt against repressive theocracy cannot succeed without Operation Iraqi Freedom homers playing deskbound commandos. Henry Kissinger, who has mildly praised Obama’s cautious approach, will soon get the hairy eyeball from Rush Limbaugh and Fox News’ bevy of blond princess warriors.
Juan Don
Should a comrade read this, please bring the usual supplies with all possible speed. Accessing the mini bar is impossible. The galley is in disarray. Even now the damned electric scrubbing brush’s indomitable buzz is tormenting my ravaged patella; dark rum, please. And a decent merlot or four.
_________________
Sarah Palin, mob America’s sweet tart, continues to gain gravitas. Mercilessly lampooned by snide elites as nothing but a frivolous cumquat, the unlikely governor has landed on her corked sandals after an embarrassing flail at higher office. Putting her shapely shoulder to Alaska’s oily wheel and concentrating on state business, she is steering clear from tawdry comedy and Matt Lauer. In fact, Adler and I are so impressed with the new, serious ’Cuda that we’re thinking of approaching her about hosting our unsold teevee reality show. Undeniably better looking than Phyllis Schlafly, she has the perfect panache for “Get It Off Of Me!”…assuming herpetophobia isn’t an issue.
__________________
President Obama isn’t scoring any points with neocons. Not terribly fond of diplomacy, Krauthammer is pissy because the new owner of General Motors hasn’t bombed Iran into thermonuclear glass. There is no better way to bless Beck’s tortured take on Tom Paine than slaughtering innocent civilians for freedom. Iran’s homegrown revolt against repressive theocracy cannot succeed without Operation Iraqi Freedom homers playing deskbound commandos. Henry Kissinger, who has mildly praised Obama’s cautious approach, will soon get the hairy eyeball from Rush Limbaugh and Fox News’ bevy of blond princess warriors.
Juan Don
Friday, June 12, 2009
Blast from Winter Past (or old file housekeeping)
Jane,
Damn it was pleasing to watch you verge through the frozen pasture in pink chiffon. Seeing you sleeveless, hopping over ice clumps in open-toed pumps, is the closest thing to hope this hovel has experienced since Adler biked over his famous Sudanese brownies: I ate them like an ex-con at an all-you-can-eat sorority buffet. I don’t know how you stay so young, so fresh and vibrant in our republic’s darkest hour. You ARE the light in Debbie Boone’s life. Don’t let Deb’s occasional pregnancy fool you into believing she shares space in her father’s Blue Suede universe. My best snitches are from the LA area. They’ll confirm that she slow dances barefoot inside M. Etheridge’s flannel walled Villa Del Poon. There, I’ve used ‘you’ six times in one paragraph; it’s time for a smoke.
I thank Ras Tafari that our Boy Rush never ceases to amuse. Flinging empty pill bottles at apostates who voice public blasphemy against Gawd’s favorite sex tourist has obvious pull with dim white men: Woe to the serious conservative who challenges the movement’s most grumous pant load. On his B game when besieged by belligerent info-babes and sobriety’s harsh glare, it will take more than one dart (or tart) to bring him down. As long as the Cheech to Buckley’s Chong still has a stash, pies will be thrown. Mr. Yellowman, always the voice of reason, has postulated the theory that Boy Rush is just another gay man trapped within the movement’s drab homage to Spencer Tracy. El Rushbo did seem excited at the prospect of bending over and taking Obama’s socialist spear. But would he take it like a real man or a Hollywood liberal?
No one can accuse your old flame of cavorting with show people. Dick LaNear is a rock, literally. Back again to pin poor cash flow on Bill Clinton’s tender chest, I can understand why the affair ended badly. You deserve better. If not occasionally conjoined in wedded bliss, I’d be all over you like a cheap suit.
“I realize that I now will be called a racist”, scribbles the bathetic dittohead. Alas, Dick’s desperate stabs are not racist. There are other, more “salient“, words to describe his crackpot economic fables: Moronic, imbecilic, knavish and dumb come to mind. It’s a shame that he wasted his shady charm blowing smoke up young butts. Open collared and sock-less, smelling of Clubman and crisp sawbucks, I can see how he oozed his way into your hebetic heart. All of us have, at one time or another, been seduced by sweet talk. Every time I peer out cold porous glass I’m reminded of the night a slick Lothario plucked all the feathers off my innocent little chicken.
I’ve temporarily put aside childish things. President Obama’s inaugural address made an impression; all work has stopped on revitalizing the fake poop industry. Yesterday was spent wondering where Jessica Simpson gained her additional seven pounds. Uncharacteristically optimistic, I divided the seven pounds by two and awarded each breast an equal amount.
Give Vinnie a squeeze,
Juan Don
Damn it was pleasing to watch you verge through the frozen pasture in pink chiffon. Seeing you sleeveless, hopping over ice clumps in open-toed pumps, is the closest thing to hope this hovel has experienced since Adler biked over his famous Sudanese brownies: I ate them like an ex-con at an all-you-can-eat sorority buffet. I don’t know how you stay so young, so fresh and vibrant in our republic’s darkest hour. You ARE the light in Debbie Boone’s life. Don’t let Deb’s occasional pregnancy fool you into believing she shares space in her father’s Blue Suede universe. My best snitches are from the LA area. They’ll confirm that she slow dances barefoot inside M. Etheridge’s flannel walled Villa Del Poon. There, I’ve used ‘you’ six times in one paragraph; it’s time for a smoke.
I thank Ras Tafari that our Boy Rush never ceases to amuse. Flinging empty pill bottles at apostates who voice public blasphemy against Gawd’s favorite sex tourist has obvious pull with dim white men: Woe to the serious conservative who challenges the movement’s most grumous pant load. On his B game when besieged by belligerent info-babes and sobriety’s harsh glare, it will take more than one dart (or tart) to bring him down. As long as the Cheech to Buckley’s Chong still has a stash, pies will be thrown. Mr. Yellowman, always the voice of reason, has postulated the theory that Boy Rush is just another gay man trapped within the movement’s drab homage to Spencer Tracy. El Rushbo did seem excited at the prospect of bending over and taking Obama’s socialist spear. But would he take it like a real man or a Hollywood liberal?
No one can accuse your old flame of cavorting with show people. Dick LaNear is a rock, literally. Back again to pin poor cash flow on Bill Clinton’s tender chest, I can understand why the affair ended badly. You deserve better. If not occasionally conjoined in wedded bliss, I’d be all over you like a cheap suit.
“I realize that I now will be called a racist”, scribbles the bathetic dittohead. Alas, Dick’s desperate stabs are not racist. There are other, more “salient“, words to describe his crackpot economic fables: Moronic, imbecilic, knavish and dumb come to mind. It’s a shame that he wasted his shady charm blowing smoke up young butts. Open collared and sock-less, smelling of Clubman and crisp sawbucks, I can see how he oozed his way into your hebetic heart. All of us have, at one time or another, been seduced by sweet talk. Every time I peer out cold porous glass I’m reminded of the night a slick Lothario plucked all the feathers off my innocent little chicken.
I’ve temporarily put aside childish things. President Obama’s inaugural address made an impression; all work has stopped on revitalizing the fake poop industry. Yesterday was spent wondering where Jessica Simpson gained her additional seven pounds. Uncharacteristically optimistic, I divided the seven pounds by two and awarded each breast an equal amount.
Give Vinnie a squeeze,
Juan Don
An Old Sarah Palin Post
Since Sarah Palin is back in the news, here’s a little Sarah ‘Cuda musing from last fall.
____________
The Palin media distraction shows no signs of abating. From what I gather her studies in Vice President 101 are going well. According to Rick Davis she asks few questions and has a crack memory -- as in she can repeat back what she’s been told? I keep having this vision of her chats with Charlie Gibson that will never make the airwaves.
Gibson: Governor, briefly explain the difference between Sunni and Shiite?
Palin: Choice of footwear? Ah, Sunni women can’t shave between their eyebrows? Hmm, it’s probably something about religion, isn’t it? Gosh, they’re all so kooky over there! Shiites eat figs on Friday? Oh come on, you were supposed to ask me about war with Russia! I know that one! Let’s start over again. You say, ‘Governor, recent tensions between America and Russia over their unprovoked invasion of Osaycan useeitia’…
Gibson: What did you say?
Palin: When?
Gibson: Just now, did you say Osaycanyouseeitia?
Palin: Maybe?
Gibson: You’re supposed to say Ossitia. O-S-S-I-T-I-A. Remember? And then you mention a conversation with Saakashvili…how the Senator and you are committed to protecting the territorial integrity of Georgia against Putin‘s aggression…
Palin: Oh yeah! Putin! I can finally say that word without giggling. Who in their right mind names a kid Putin? And people think Track is weird. What his last name… Head! Hey Putin Head, I’m gonna’ kick your butt!
Gibson: (Turns to Rick Davis). I thought you said she was ready.
Davis: She did okay yesterday. I think she’s just nervous. Sarah. Sarah! Over here! Are you a little rattled, honey? This is taped so relax and take your time.
Gibson: Have Joe stand behind me with cue cards.
Davis: Good idea. Sarah. Sarah! Over here! Uncle Joe is going to hold cue cards behind Charlie. You just read the words like you did in St. Paul.
Liebermann: Oh come on! I’m not going to hold up cue cards. Get a teleprompter.
Gibson: Okay. Focus people. We can do this. No cue cards. No teleprompter. I’ll make the questions as vague as I can. She has heard of the Bush Doctrine?
Davis: I think so. Sarah. Sarah! Over here! Remember the Bush Doctrine?
Palin: Oh sure!
Davis: Great. Remember to look determined when you give your answer.
Palin: Like this?
Davis: You’re not passing a bowling ball. Pretend a librarian refuses to ban “Treasure Island” because you think Long John Silver is a porno star, not a fictional pirate. Take it down a notch. There! Perfect.
Juan Don: Or not.
____________
The Palin media distraction shows no signs of abating. From what I gather her studies in Vice President 101 are going well. According to Rick Davis she asks few questions and has a crack memory -- as in she can repeat back what she’s been told? I keep having this vision of her chats with Charlie Gibson that will never make the airwaves.
Gibson: Governor, briefly explain the difference between Sunni and Shiite?
Palin: Choice of footwear? Ah, Sunni women can’t shave between their eyebrows? Hmm, it’s probably something about religion, isn’t it? Gosh, they’re all so kooky over there! Shiites eat figs on Friday? Oh come on, you were supposed to ask me about war with Russia! I know that one! Let’s start over again. You say, ‘Governor, recent tensions between America and Russia over their unprovoked invasion of Osaycan useeitia’…
Gibson: What did you say?
Palin: When?
Gibson: Just now, did you say Osaycanyouseeitia?
Palin: Maybe?
Gibson: You’re supposed to say Ossitia. O-S-S-I-T-I-A. Remember? And then you mention a conversation with Saakashvili…how the Senator and you are committed to protecting the territorial integrity of Georgia against Putin‘s aggression…
Palin: Oh yeah! Putin! I can finally say that word without giggling. Who in their right mind names a kid Putin? And people think Track is weird. What his last name… Head! Hey Putin Head, I’m gonna’ kick your butt!
Gibson: (Turns to Rick Davis). I thought you said she was ready.
Davis: She did okay yesterday. I think she’s just nervous. Sarah. Sarah! Over here! Are you a little rattled, honey? This is taped so relax and take your time.
Gibson: Have Joe stand behind me with cue cards.
Davis: Good idea. Sarah. Sarah! Over here! Uncle Joe is going to hold cue cards behind Charlie. You just read the words like you did in St. Paul.
Liebermann: Oh come on! I’m not going to hold up cue cards. Get a teleprompter.
Gibson: Okay. Focus people. We can do this. No cue cards. No teleprompter. I’ll make the questions as vague as I can. She has heard of the Bush Doctrine?
Davis: I think so. Sarah. Sarah! Over here! Remember the Bush Doctrine?
Palin: Oh sure!
Davis: Great. Remember to look determined when you give your answer.
Palin: Like this?
Davis: You’re not passing a bowling ball. Pretend a librarian refuses to ban “Treasure Island” because you think Long John Silver is a porno star, not a fictional pirate. Take it down a notch. There! Perfect.
Juan Don: Or not.
The Fusion of Pitch and Fork
I listened to some Glenn Beck this morning. Minutes into his screed about how progressive Nazi/Islamo-fascist pro-choice socialists are determined to take Lady Liberty from behind, I gave my freshly de-haired ears a needed breather. Maybe owning an official Glenn Beck decoder ring enables nitwits to unravel his sophomoric Matrix fantasies. I doubt it. But wearing an official Glenn Beck tinfoil hat would elicit rebel yells from the rusted van… down by the river.
The very real possibility exists that Beck‘s deck is lacking an entire suit. I knew a manic-depressive in gradual school and…well; let’s just say that if David wasn’t taking his lithium Happy Hour became an edgy affair. And it’s not like crackpots (genuine or faux) can’t garner lucrative rightwing talk show gigs. The format favors egos with cognitive-dissonance issues; serious childhood developmental defects coupled with delusions-of-grandeur soliloquies are common traits among movement carnival barkers. It takes an existential leap to believe that Beck segued from aping Howard Stern’s butt bongo shtick into America’s on-air Diogenes after embracing sobriety. Going on the wagon is always a good idea if you’re fending off invisible snakes. However, replacing Crown with coffee rarely facilitates the sudden growth of gray matter. Put another way, Churchill wasn’t baiting bears in Leeds before Adolph Hitler came to power.
Crazy or no, Beck’s career reinvention has to be taken seriously. Stroking the dark underbelly of fringe politics with half baked, apocalyptic horse shit can push mentally unbalanced paranoids over the chalk line. So-called pro-life advocates have yet to pull Randall Terry’s plug -- even after he insinuated the President’s pro-choice position was “instigating” latter day John Browns to free the enslaved fetus with extreme prejudice. I don’t suppose Bill O’Reilly referring to the late Dr. Tiller as “Dr. Killer” -- O’Reilly castigated the physician for providing legal medical care no less than 26 times -- might have caught the homicidal fancy of one particular psychopath. If the morally repugnant Terry wants to point fingers, let’s get busy.
What’s truly disgusting is how quickly the horde of professional hate mongers back away when their “talk” turns into violent action. At least Terry doesn’t deny Operation Rescue’s inflammatory rhetoric encourages murderous attacks on law abiding citizens. Perhaps one of Joplin’s local Taliban can explain the difference between Terry and a Muslim killing for Allah; I sure as hell can’t thread that theological needle.
Neither can Beck -- drunk or dry.
Juan Don
The very real possibility exists that Beck‘s deck is lacking an entire suit. I knew a manic-depressive in gradual school and…well; let’s just say that if David wasn’t taking his lithium Happy Hour became an edgy affair. And it’s not like crackpots (genuine or faux) can’t garner lucrative rightwing talk show gigs. The format favors egos with cognitive-dissonance issues; serious childhood developmental defects coupled with delusions-of-grandeur soliloquies are common traits among movement carnival barkers. It takes an existential leap to believe that Beck segued from aping Howard Stern’s butt bongo shtick into America’s on-air Diogenes after embracing sobriety. Going on the wagon is always a good idea if you’re fending off invisible snakes. However, replacing Crown with coffee rarely facilitates the sudden growth of gray matter. Put another way, Churchill wasn’t baiting bears in Leeds before Adolph Hitler came to power.
Crazy or no, Beck’s career reinvention has to be taken seriously. Stroking the dark underbelly of fringe politics with half baked, apocalyptic horse shit can push mentally unbalanced paranoids over the chalk line. So-called pro-life advocates have yet to pull Randall Terry’s plug -- even after he insinuated the President’s pro-choice position was “instigating” latter day John Browns to free the enslaved fetus with extreme prejudice. I don’t suppose Bill O’Reilly referring to the late Dr. Tiller as “Dr. Killer” -- O’Reilly castigated the physician for providing legal medical care no less than 26 times -- might have caught the homicidal fancy of one particular psychopath. If the morally repugnant Terry wants to point fingers, let’s get busy.
What’s truly disgusting is how quickly the horde of professional hate mongers back away when their “talk” turns into violent action. At least Terry doesn’t deny Operation Rescue’s inflammatory rhetoric encourages murderous attacks on law abiding citizens. Perhaps one of Joplin’s local Taliban can explain the difference between Terry and a Muslim killing for Allah; I sure as hell can’t thread that theological needle.
Neither can Beck -- drunk or dry.
Juan Don
Monday, June 8, 2009
June Cleavered
I’ve been away from the computer for awhile. Combine hedge trimming miscue that transformed an extension cord into sparkly horror with spastic rottweiler trying to eat the electricity spewing extension cord and you have moi fleeing to the creek. Not that I was completely out of touch. Luckily, the hovel is within staggering distance from Chicken Poop Creek so every day at eight I make sure that my Charm’s work clothes are washed and tumbled in an inexcusably half-assed manner. Of course ‘eight’ can mean AM or PM; and because of rum it usually does. Attempting to serve my Light breakfast in bed would only aggravate our union’s spotted liver.
It’s hard for me to deal with political mendacity during the summer. I am a sun bunny. Basking in the glow of my god’s UV radiance, I melt away winter blues with Sol’s star power. Newt may think my religion pagan but Newt can kiss a particularly pale body part pining for segregation and Judge Bork. In case “Uncle Jed” is reading this, I am referring to my butt. Although I often fantasize that I am of French-Italian descent, my hillbilly genes will not permit nude sunbathing -- or paying that little extra for dental implants. It goes without saying that should someone bold enough to paddle through Chicken Poop Creek’s fecal current without obligatory surgical mask espy me insensate-upon-inner tube, please do not attempt CPR. We Solist’s communicate with our deity through Jamaican lager. It’s best to keep trucking and ignore the fact that my swim trunks are tight-fitting jockey shorts. (Those of us bred near Carterville’s spiky strip pits call them cotton Speedos).
Who knows when I’ll wear shoes again or sully my chi with Ed Whelan’s noxious online chatter?
Perhaps if I steer clear from talk radio for several months I’ll lose prurient interest in Mark Levine’s psycho-tropical drug regime. There must be other, more constructive, things to mull over.
I did hear that the pro-life Christian who murdered Dr. George Tiller isn’t happy with his jail accommodations. Maybe he can trade places with one of the terrorists imprisoned in Guantanamo. To hear Limbaugh tell it, “Club Gitmo” is quite nice -- kind of like a Sandals Resort without all the torture.
Juan Don
It’s hard for me to deal with political mendacity during the summer. I am a sun bunny. Basking in the glow of my god’s UV radiance, I melt away winter blues with Sol’s star power. Newt may think my religion pagan but Newt can kiss a particularly pale body part pining for segregation and Judge Bork. In case “Uncle Jed” is reading this, I am referring to my butt. Although I often fantasize that I am of French-Italian descent, my hillbilly genes will not permit nude sunbathing -- or paying that little extra for dental implants. It goes without saying that should someone bold enough to paddle through Chicken Poop Creek’s fecal current without obligatory surgical mask espy me insensate-upon-inner tube, please do not attempt CPR. We Solist’s communicate with our deity through Jamaican lager. It’s best to keep trucking and ignore the fact that my swim trunks are tight-fitting jockey shorts. (Those of us bred near Carterville’s spiky strip pits call them cotton Speedos).
Who knows when I’ll wear shoes again or sully my chi with Ed Whelan’s noxious online chatter?
Perhaps if I steer clear from talk radio for several months I’ll lose prurient interest in Mark Levine’s psycho-tropical drug regime. There must be other, more constructive, things to mull over.
I did hear that the pro-life Christian who murdered Dr. George Tiller isn’t happy with his jail accommodations. Maybe he can trade places with one of the terrorists imprisoned in Guantanamo. To hear Limbaugh tell it, “Club Gitmo” is quite nice -- kind of like a Sandals Resort without all the torture.
Juan Don
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