Sunday, August 20, 2006

George Allen is a Shithead.


"This fellow here, over here with the yellow shirt, macaca, or whatever his name is. He's with my opponent. He's following us around everywhere. And it's just great . . . Let's give a welcome to macaca, here. Welcome to America and the real world of Virginia."
-- Sen George Allen refering to S.D. Sidarth while campaigning in rural Virginia, Ausgust 2006.

Just what we need another Republican idiot for president! Allen doesn’t even have the smarts to employ standard Republican code words when referring to ethnics instead hurling racist slurs (admittedly one more at home in a Parisian brothel than a Virginia burb) when feeling a bit out of sorts. What's up with that George, you miss the meeting?I suppose we should be thankful for his mother’s partial North African background (though I in no way indict the woman for her son’s boorishness) that he didn’t call Mr. Sidarth a “Sand nigger.”


An apology, which came hours after Allen's campaign manager dismissed the issue with an expletive (and insisted the senator has "nothing to apologize for,") did little to mollify Webb's campaign or Sidarth, who said he suspects Allen singled him out because his was the only nonwhite face among about 100 Republican supporters.

In the fall of 69 Allen's Palos Verdes High football team was scheduled to play the Morningside Monarchs, a predominently black team from down on the flatlands. During the week before the game, a bunch of racist graffiti was spraypainted on the outdoor walls of Palos Verdes High. It looked to be the work of vandals from Morningside. However, the word "Monarchs" was misspelled, and suspicion immediately fell on George Allen. He fessed up and was forced to apologize over the school PA. School officials made sure the incident was not publicized. They didn't want to see Allen's father embarrassed. Allen had done it to stir up racial tension between the schools -no other reason.


Great, racist graffiti, a confederate flag fetish, tastes in interior design that lean towards nooses, and his place of birth is Whittier, California. Sounds like Rove’s dream candidate!

Tuesday, August 15, 2006


Hey all! Sorry I've been absent, summertime and all that....

Anyway we played a fun game over at My Left Wing, thought I'd see if you would like to play.

The rules:

Pick any city (preferably one you know and love), and imagine that it never was there as a city at all, just the woods, riverbank, swampland, beach-and-dunes, or whatever was there before the city was built...except for three places or institutions that are there now. They could be anything: cultural, commercial (yes, bars and restaurants count), educational, professional, or just something personally significant.
You may pick more than one city, but no more than three; if you do, it would be fun if one wasn't in the US, but that's OK too. No, you may not pick the whole city as one of your "places", but a reasonably sized neighborhood or an institution with multiple sites may count as one, as long as there's a theme or discernable character that ties it together. For instance, I'm not sure Harlem should count, but the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with several sites, would. The French Quarter in NOLA, yes; Staten Island, no. You get the idea.
So the Question is:
What city/cities would you choose?What three places/institutions would you keep?Why?


My reply:


I'll Bite...City 1. Barcelona

Keepers:

The Montana Bar with it's cold cervezas and monumental record collection (hey I'll need something to sip!)

At least one block of La Rambla (if I can't have the whole street).

One Building by Gaudi.

City 2 Dubrovnik, in what used to be Yugoslavia :(


Keepers:

The walk atop the wall of the city from which you get such magnificent views.

The nude beach on the island in the bay.


One of the little cafes where they serve iced coffe and you can watch the piegons fly their proscribed circle from the cathederal each hour when the bell sounds... oops that's four....
and to be a homer....


City 3 St. Louis

Keepers

The Gateway Arch

New Busch Stadium

Cunetto House of Pasta - on "the Hill". Best Italian west of NY and south of Chicago..... :)

What do you say?

Monday, August 07, 2006

Soon To Be An Oliver Stone Film



“How did it come to this?” the Pressurebent sthinks as he hangs up the phone.

The late afternoon sun slants through the huge windows behind his desk in the Offal Office; He hears Laura quietly slobbing in the ouster office.

“’Hit’s all Daddy’s fault,” he ruminants “who could life up to that? Big war hero jock pilot; superspook conspirator; throwin’ up on that Jap P.M. I never had a snowball’s chance in Crawford. Hell I didn’t even want all this, Hied have been just as slaphappy to stay a drunk and play with my baseball men, but NOOOO he had to shame me, said I wasn’t upendin’ the family honor and all that happy horseshit. Goddammit all!”


Pissed now The Usurper punches the call button on his phone, “Harriet, git me the Vice Pressurestint on the phone. And I mean now!”


“Do you think that’s wise, Georgie?” Miers simpers “Mr. Chaney is a very sick man.”

“I don’t care if he’s got the ribspreader up his ass, Harriet, just git him on the goddamned phone!”

Dubyah hangs up and waits for the connection to be made.

“Wonder what they’ll do with all my pressurebential memorobiliates and all... my collection of “Archie” comic books? My Howdy Doody Sippy Cup? My Desert Cammo G.I. Joads? Toss ‘em all in that river yonder, I suppose. Don’t recon they’ll let a felonizer build a Pressurebential Library.”

“Too bad, Laura’ll need a job.”

“What the Hell,” he sthinks “won’t matter much now” as he reaches for the bottle of Jack in the lower file drawer.


“ Might as well get pie-eyed…..”

The phone rings.

“Dick, that you?” he drawdles picking up.

“Well it ain’t Saddam Hussein, you goddamned idiot.” Chaney rasps.

“Why so ornery, Dick? Yore morphine drip on the fritz?”

“Go Fuck yourself.” Chaney chortles.

“You already made a job of that, asshole."

I just got off the horn with Senator Mac Cain, he said the Federal Marshals will be here in an hour to haul my ass to jail.”

“Ain’t the first time, G.” Chaney seems to be relishing the development.

“Go fuck yourself, Lon, but save some fer Lynne!” W laughs.

“Shit, that pony ain’t pranced in 10 years, dumbass”

“Tell me about it.”

Anyhow that asswipe Cain said he could get me a cush lock-up In South Carolina if I come along quietly. Jerk’ll never forgit South Carolina.”

“They’re talking jail?” Chaney muttered in disbelief.


‘Yeah... shit that’s right - you’ve been in and out of a coma!” W chugs some Jack.

“Just after that David Gregory went nuts and beat Rummy near to death with his microphone, the Senate cut a deal with the World Court in the Haggis…. er ….whatever and said they’d perp walk me outta the Whitehouse and give me a coupla years if them Belgianians would just lay off.”
“What about the Joint Chiefs?” Chaney asks.


“Them losers ain’t gonna be no help, Dick, they tole me they’d rather patrol Fallujah naked with as cap pistol than go agin Mac Cain.”

“Wimps” Chaney grunts.


“And the Secret Service ain’t gonna do nothing either unless there’s gunplay.” W grumbles.

“Well, there’s that Colt in my Desk, W, go down with your boots on!”

“I’ll ponder on that, Dick. How’s the transplant comin’?

“Good news, they found a donor.”

“But you got that rare type, C-note negative , how’d they find one so fast?”

Halliburton came up with it; some 15 year old kid caught one in the back of his head in Baghdad. Same type!”

“That was lucky.”


“Not really, we’ve had our eye on him for some time.” Chaney coughs.

“Well I hope you come out the other end Dick, with Rummy laid up and Rove run off with Gannon, I’m runnin’ short of friends.”

“Watch yer backside, George.”


“Go fuck yourself, Dick.”

As he hangs up, W pours a third shot of Jack. “I’m getting a little buzz on” he sthinks and looks at his watch, “Johnny Lawdog will be here soon.”

He punches the call button on his phone.

“Harriet, call Condi and tell her to git her skinny ass up here.

Hanging up he walks once more around the Offal Office. At a side table he lovingly strokes a studded dog collar given him by Tony Blair. The Jack working on his pint sized brain, he wells up as he reads the inscription “Yours, B(itch)."


Turning to his desk he picks up a glass bauble the Christian Coalition had sent, shaking it he watches with childlike wonder the thousands of “Snowflake Babies" flurrying about a vignette of his Crawford Ranch. Laying it down he moves on to his most prized procession - a paperweight fashioned from the shrapnel of a Daisycutter that had been dropped a multi family dwelling in Qana. A gift from the Israeli Defense Minister.

Reeling from the liquor and what passes for emotion he nearly swoons when he hears the knock on his door.

Walking in, Condi sympathizes “It’s a dark day, Mr. Pressurespent.”
“Sure is” W sobs.“Condi, do you believe in God?”

“You know I do, Mr. pressuredent, it was on the application.”

“Prey with me Condi,” W's drinking from the bottle “Prey with me now.”

He falls on his knees.

“Like that you mean, on our knees?” Rice is incredulous.

“Yes, Prey with me!” W gropes at her knees.

“I couldn’t possibly, Mr. Pressurebent, this is a $1500 Armani pantsuit!. Rice backs away.

W crumbles to the floor in a fetal psition, cradling the bourbon.

“Fuck me, President Pelosi! Mommy will be so pissed. Sheeeet! W mumbles as he passes out.