Jonathan Rauch has hit the nail on the head: so-called Tea Bag conservatives have more in common with George Wallace than either Goldwater or Reagan. His piece in The National Journal is well worth reading.
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I’m not sure if KODE’s Justin Lattimer is really a journalist. Ergo fluffing Roy Blunt is business-as-usual. Too bad Carole Parker was busy bothering Branson celebrities. She would have asked Roy whether he prefers ketchup or mustard on his burger. It’s important to know these things. A mustard man, I could never vote for someone who uses ketchup. At least real Globe journalists can provide professional follow-up and pin the lobbyist down on whether or not he’s ever flirted with mayonnaise. Although mustard has Gallic origins, mayonnaise screams post-Vichy French socialism. Of course ketchup is from Latin America and we all know what that means.
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It’s comforting to know that our local newspaper’s editorial writer is broadening his political horizon by watching Sean Hannity. There is nothing like a dose of Sean to keep the natives well-informed. Not every “Great American” has the balls to showcase David Bossie’s public service. I can’t imagine Rachael Maddow giving Bossie free air time to hawk “The Clinton Chronicles 2.0”. But then Maddow is a liberal elitist who thumbs her nose at pikers blaming “dirty fucking hippies” for ruining the Bush Administration’s stellar economic stewardship. Assuming a certain opinion page professional digs “Generation Zero”, he’ll find careful viewing of “Howard the Duck” downright illuminating. Be sure and take notes. A jigger of extraterrestrial foul always gives the average bar stool blow more spangle than banner.
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Sarah Palin didn’t like President Obama telling John McCain to STFU. Calling the president “arrogant” for reminding Maverick that he lost the election is yet another reason why she’s qualified to star as Fox News’ highest paid lap dancer. It was rather uppity of the post-colonial black Marxist to interrupt an ancient, white “Songbird” in mid tweet. After all, McCain did put ‘Country First” when plucking the ambitious beauty pageant flutist from obscurity. Had McCain treated the vice presidency with reckless disregard, Carrie Prejean might be sullying Reagan’s reputation. Choosing Sarah over Carrie is proof that McCain isn’t a mentally unbalanced flake, no matter what Rush Limbaugh thinks.
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Here’s some good news. Rep. Paul Ryan’s plan to restore fiscal accountability means I’ll only be 104 years old when the federal budget is finally balanced. That will give me plenty of time to enjoy my golden years without worrying about the “Death Tax”.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
fishy coos
This morning I linked to Sen. Scott Brown’s Facebook page and read the charming comments posted by his ‘former’ admirers. They are unhappy the late Ted Kennedy’s replacement joined four other Republicans in supporting President Obama’s jobs bill. The comments, ranging from threatening to vicious, show little love for the newly elected Senator’s independent streak. I’m guessing Sen. Brown won’t be invited to watch Glenn Beck work his chalkboard magic anytime soon. But then Glenn barks like a dog. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Every so often I oink at Nancy Grace. Unlike Glenn’s barks, my oinks don’t have a point. And they certainly don’t qualify as clever political satire. Sometimes I just like to make pig noises. Once I get my permanent denture partial in place clucking sounds should dramatically improve, adding depth and dexterity to my barnyard symphony.
Now go read my blog at http://thecowgoesmoo.com/ There I ask interesting questions and provide brilliant budgetary analysis using my pocket calculator and George Will column.
Now go read my blog at http://thecowgoesmoo.com/ There I ask interesting questions and provide brilliant budgetary analysis using my pocket calculator and George Will column.
Monday, February 22, 2010
CPAC Synopsis
It took some effort but I was finally able to un-clutter my secret stash. The secret stash -- small Amyl Nitrate bottles; generous links of “Washburn Woo-Woo!”; canteen of commemorative “Then Came Bronson” muscatel; and a pretty amber pill Beloved ordered me to swallow if I ever grew another mustache -- is for consumption during emergencies, such as grease fires or tackling routine home maintenance chores. Because I’m blessed, there hasn’t been a valid reason to crack open the stash. Divine Providence, disguised as flaming animal fat, scorched the hovel’s kitchen long before the stash was lovingly assembled and a very rare, unnamed neurological disorder makes gripping tools impossible.
Juan is not burdened with the onus of constructive versatility.
I thought about adding an amendment to include surprise visits from traveling in-laws but feared serious domestic reprisal should popper react poorly with “Woo-Woo!” It goes without saying that channeling Richard Widmark’s breakout performance in “Kiss of Death” does not lead to pleasant family dining. Usually floating on an emotionally even keel, Beloved would become livid if I shoved her wheel chair-bound mother down the basement stairs. And who could blame her? Anyone foolish enough to cross her hormonally-charged Margino Line knows Beloved’s happy-go-lucky smile can quickly morph into tight-lipped violence. No longer owning cow-like reflexes, my abdominal spread is an easy target for stoned-honed butter knife. But what extended exposure to holy matrimony doesn’t have its little twists and turns?
Ozzie Nelson could have been another Cassavetes had he replaced cardigan with black turtleneck. Caving under corporate pressure, he shelved his dream of mining the dysfunctional family zinc buried inside post-World War II mass consumerism. In later years the toothy B team bandleader lamented his lost opportunity. Three months before succumbing to smog-related emphysema, Ozzie was interviewed by Fly Fish America’s Richard Handler. Handler, best known for introducing soft-core pornography into staid sporting magazine fare, 'single-handedly' transferred Fly Fish America from coffee table top to toilet tank lid. Although long out of print, tracking down “The Other Pole: How Richard Handler Yanked Angling Away from the Finaldi Brothers” is worth the effort.
Here’s my favorite exchange between Nelson and Handler:
Handler: Oz, it is true that you wanted Harriet to be the Joan Vollmer to your William Burroughs?
Ozzie: Yeah. I wrote a script where Harriet, high on Benzedrine, is raking imaginary lizards off an orange tree. David and Ricky are crying, freaking out, running around the backyard trying to make her stop. I crash through the glass patio door with my .45, emptying the clip into the pool, yelling at Harriet to get her ass back inside before neighbors called the cops. The squares at ABC didn’t dig the symbolism. The scene was completely rewritten. As I recall, Harriet accidentally runs over Don Defore’s favorite birdbath and hilarity ensues when I try to replace it before he returns home from whatever the fuck he did for a living. I shot that episode drunk, so the birdbath could’ve been a lawn jockey for all I know.
Juan is not burdened with the onus of constructive versatility.
I thought about adding an amendment to include surprise visits from traveling in-laws but feared serious domestic reprisal should popper react poorly with “Woo-Woo!” It goes without saying that channeling Richard Widmark’s breakout performance in “Kiss of Death” does not lead to pleasant family dining. Usually floating on an emotionally even keel, Beloved would become livid if I shoved her wheel chair-bound mother down the basement stairs. And who could blame her? Anyone foolish enough to cross her hormonally-charged Margino Line knows Beloved’s happy-go-lucky smile can quickly morph into tight-lipped violence. No longer owning cow-like reflexes, my abdominal spread is an easy target for stoned-honed butter knife. But what extended exposure to holy matrimony doesn’t have its little twists and turns?
Ozzie Nelson could have been another Cassavetes had he replaced cardigan with black turtleneck. Caving under corporate pressure, he shelved his dream of mining the dysfunctional family zinc buried inside post-World War II mass consumerism. In later years the toothy B team bandleader lamented his lost opportunity. Three months before succumbing to smog-related emphysema, Ozzie was interviewed by Fly Fish America’s Richard Handler. Handler, best known for introducing soft-core pornography into staid sporting magazine fare, 'single-handedly' transferred Fly Fish America from coffee table top to toilet tank lid. Although long out of print, tracking down “The Other Pole: How Richard Handler Yanked Angling Away from the Finaldi Brothers” is worth the effort.
Here’s my favorite exchange between Nelson and Handler:
Handler: Oz, it is true that you wanted Harriet to be the Joan Vollmer to your William Burroughs?
Ozzie: Yeah. I wrote a script where Harriet, high on Benzedrine, is raking imaginary lizards off an orange tree. David and Ricky are crying, freaking out, running around the backyard trying to make her stop. I crash through the glass patio door with my .45, emptying the clip into the pool, yelling at Harriet to get her ass back inside before neighbors called the cops. The squares at ABC didn’t dig the symbolism. The scene was completely rewritten. As I recall, Harriet accidentally runs over Don Defore’s favorite birdbath and hilarity ensues when I try to replace it before he returns home from whatever the fuck he did for a living. I shot that episode drunk, so the birdbath could’ve been a lawn jockey for all I know.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
critiquing (sic) just isn't for breakfast anymore
I’m pleased to see Jim Stone has joined the paper’s community blogging corps. Jim’s addition offsets the sadness of losing Ms. Fuller. It appears her busy social life left little time to blog about her busy social life. I’ll always picture Miss C tripping the light fantastic with stubbly soap star or neck kissing 54th Street Romeos while an antique disco ball’s rotating tin bathes Conga Bob’s Bungalow in Baroque bling. Her adventurous appetite for urban sparkle reminded me of my brief fling with big city hustle.
Alas, NYC ate my liver and left me with barely enough coin to cage a slow Greyhound ride home. On the upside, I was the only Carterville poet sporting pointy black boots and skinny yellow tie when unceremoniously de-bussed near the coffin factory. Had not my rival returned from Rangoon in flashy opium den finery, I might have become The Stagger Inn’s in-house Dylan Thomas: denied immortalizing early morning stabs at bad sex in slippery villanelles remains this fading Uranthian's eighth greatest regret.
Once the gals took one look at Jock Lovelace’s embroidered silk dragon jacket, I was toast. Defeated, I limped across Chat Mountain and licked my bloody muse inside a jumpy stripper’s single-wide. To make a long story short, Karla quickly tired of my temperamental languor. Although our parting wasn’t sweet sorrow, it did attract the attention of local law enforcement.
Anson will have to step up his game now that Jim has “joined the fray.” The unlikely editorial writer’s meat cleaver is no match for his scalpel; retreating to the fetid swamp of false equivalence when caught speaking-from-ass ensures a short-lived career. Kicking hippies sticking flowers into gun barrels is like forty years ago, man. The late, great Porter Wittich laid some advice on me that I took to heart.
“Write about stuff you know,” he said. “Or at least have some vague approximation.”
And for the next twenty years I wrote about poverty.
Anson would be better served limiting his public verse to underwater oddities and/or the feminine mystique.
Well, I must feed my “old man pooch.” Damn it, sometimes Johnny Kaje’s barbs sting. I guess I’ll go back to showering in the dark.
Alas, NYC ate my liver and left me with barely enough coin to cage a slow Greyhound ride home. On the upside, I was the only Carterville poet sporting pointy black boots and skinny yellow tie when unceremoniously de-bussed near the coffin factory. Had not my rival returned from Rangoon in flashy opium den finery, I might have become The Stagger Inn’s in-house Dylan Thomas: denied immortalizing early morning stabs at bad sex in slippery villanelles remains this fading Uranthian's eighth greatest regret.
Once the gals took one look at Jock Lovelace’s embroidered silk dragon jacket, I was toast. Defeated, I limped across Chat Mountain and licked my bloody muse inside a jumpy stripper’s single-wide. To make a long story short, Karla quickly tired of my temperamental languor. Although our parting wasn’t sweet sorrow, it did attract the attention of local law enforcement.
Anson will have to step up his game now that Jim has “joined the fray.” The unlikely editorial writer’s meat cleaver is no match for his scalpel; retreating to the fetid swamp of false equivalence when caught speaking-from-ass ensures a short-lived career. Kicking hippies sticking flowers into gun barrels is like forty years ago, man. The late, great Porter Wittich laid some advice on me that I took to heart.
“Write about stuff you know,” he said. “Or at least have some vague approximation.”
And for the next twenty years I wrote about poverty.
Anson would be better served limiting his public verse to underwater oddities and/or the feminine mystique.
Well, I must feed my “old man pooch.” Damn it, sometimes Johnny Kaje’s barbs sting. I guess I’ll go back to showering in the dark.
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