Friday, December 29, 2006

Howling at the moonbats

I prowl some odd corners of the web. One day while exploring Google's new Groups feature, I went to one place, which linked to another, which linked to another, which linked to another, and, eventually, I wound up here, reading the following with some bemusement:

Deeandre's Guide to Moonbats.

OK the buzzword of this winter season is definitely "Moonbat". I’m not sure who coined it and I don’t really care, but devoted Usenet participants should all be aware of what a moonbat is. You’ve all seen them, dealt with them and have abhorred them but you never knew how to qualify them. Well now you can with this handy dandy: Deeandre's Guide to Moonbats.

**** Origins of the Moonbat ****

If we trace the roots of the moonbat movement back far enough we will inevitably find ourselves in the year 1968. For moonbats 1968 is akin to the birth of Christ. In moonbat time we exist in the CE 38. Woodstock, The Age of Aquarius, cowards dodging the war, drug addiction, STDs and all that other dirty hippy shit all really culminated in 1968. So moonbats are essentially an extension of the original hippies. Of course the whole hippy movement still exists but it never had any sustenance and teeth to it. Sure they grasped at some unifying elements such as New Age mumbo jumbo, Diversity Indoctrination and Ralph Nader but nothing ever stuck. What really unified this loose knit group of weirdoes and discontents was President George Bush Jr. Yes his first election victory over Al Gore was sort of a second coming for these people and it was at this point with the simple admission that "Bush stole the election" that the moonbats were borne. The whole movement and discipleship has since snowballed after "Bush stole the second election and conspired with Halliburton to launch a war for oil."

**** Moonbat's core beliefs ****

All moonbats hate President Bush. It’s mandatory. There’s a little flexibility among other moonbat core beliefs but hating Bush is numero uno. Moonbats are not deep thinkers even though most of them have at least some education from an exclusive liberal arts institution. They tend to resonate with short slogans such as "Bush Lied Kids Died, No War for Oil", or anything with the words Halliburton. As a matter of fact just uttering the word ‘Halliburton’ is sure to send the moonbats into a frenzy. It’s like dumping fresh blood into a swarm of sharks. Moonbats are convinced that the Bush Administration along with Halliburton is somehow responsible for the 9-11 tower attacks. The current war on terror is simply an extension of this conspiracy. To the moonbats all this terrorist stuff is a sham so Bush, Cheney and their rich Republican cronies can reap profits through their "war machine". All moonbats are convinced that the government is listening in on their phone conversations and monitoring their e-mails. It’s an obsession. If you want to scare away a swarm of moonbats simply shout "Patriot Act". This will send them running in terror.

**** The Moonbat Trinity ****

Moonbats are not very religious people but that doesn’t stop them from having a unholy trinity. At the top is the father, Noam Chomsky, Michael Moore represents the son and Ralph Nader represents the holy ghost. When it comes to higher level thinking or authentication of some of their more bizarre conspiracy theories these are the deities that the moonbats look towards.

**** Moonbat Language ****

Moonbat's language is nuanced. They speak English just like we do but common words and expressions that are generally value neutral are laden with value judgments with the moonbat. If you’re aware you’ll know you’re talking to a moonbat within 30 seconds. Let me give you an example. Last summer I was at a wedding and got seated next to some moonbats at the reception. I had my suspicions right off the bat by their looks, more on that later, but the real clincher was the language. I don’t know how he did it but just after introductions this moonbat mentioned Bush, war for oil, corporate greed, the state of the nation and relocating to France all in one sentence. His colors were flying. I made a beeline for the cash bar. To a moonbat word like religious, conservative, Republican, family values, white, work, capitalism, profit, corporate and self restraint are all pejoratives. Listen for the use of these words and notice the negative intonation when Mr. Moonbat says, "Joe Smith works for a corporation and goes to church on Sunday." Make no bones about it Mr. Moonbat hates Joe Smith.

**** Non-Employment ****

Moonbats don’t work unless it’s absolutely necessary and even then it’s barely considered legitimate employment. It’s true that many moonbats are trustfunders but not of the Paris Hilton variety. Paris has money that we couldn’t even comprehend. Moonbats are what I call mini trustfunders. This means that they had a grandfather or father who was a successful business man or professional and he invested this money wisely for the use of his progeny. Were talking a half million here, a quarter of a million there. To guys like me that’s a lot of money but it’s not enough to live the jet set lifestyle of a Paris Hilton but it does go far enough for one guy to avoid working for most if not all of his adult life. It’s really rather pathetic because this money was usually hard earned and meant to be used for something greater not squandered by some grown man with a beard who wiles his days away in coffee houses, yoga classes and forming and reforming bands. We’ve all met guys like this.

**** Barely employment ****

Occasionally the moonbat will either have to work or will choose to work out of embarrassment. Moonbats with mini trust funds are extremely self conscious about their unearned wealth. They get tired of inquires about what they do for a living especially when they hit their mid thirties and have no compelling reason to get up before noon. They will never go as far as to get a legitimate job citing ethical reasons when in reality we all know it’s out of fear of work. These moonbats tend to gravitate toward the "non-traditional professions". These are your community activists, freelance writers, freelance photographers and "healing arts" types. In other words they don’t really have jobs but the titles sound pretty cool. For example I met moonbat couple this past Saturday. She was a "naturopathic physician" and he was an "environmentalist" who does some "freelance writing". Oh boy.

**** The Look ****

Honestly I can always tell a moonbat by the look. It’s dead give away and it helps me to avoid thousands of unwanted conversations. A simple rule of thumb to follow is that if hair, clothing and general deportment is adult and professional looking than it can’t be a moonbat. For a moonbat male beards are practically a prerequisite. I mean who wears a beard anymore? Hairy legs are the female counterpart. We can thank the goddess that we never have to see them. The hair will generally be longish on men and either extremely long or unflatteringly short on the moonbat women. The footwear is invariably some sort of sandal worn with purple socks during the winter months. Clogs are also a bit hit. Suits for either men or women are non-existent. Natural fibers and what can only be described as indigenous fashion abound. Women never wear makeup. Deodorant is optional at best. Female moonbats can best be described as dour and sullen looking. Male moonbats look emasculated but carry an almost constant self righteous smirk on their faces as if they are in on some secret to life that only they are privy to.

**** Where to find moonbats ****

Moonbats can be found wherever there are universities and colleges, in extremely gentrified urban areas and on the fringes of extreme wealth. Despite their rhetoric about diversity there will be a virtual absence of any minorities unless they are working food service jobs. They live in exclusive communities but they prefer to call them ‘progressive’. You’ll know you’re in one by the plethora of vintage clothing stores, music stores, healing arts scams, coffee shops and eateries that serve things like coos-coos and humus. Also look out for the ubiquitous zone signage. You know the type. This is a smoke free zone, nuclear free zone, hate free zone, etc, etc. Of course the dead give a away will be the streets teaming with adults, dressed like they are in junior high, riding alternative forms of transportation, all during adult working hours. You’re now in prime moonbat habitat, everyone “doing their own thing” unless of course that thing involves work.

A typical day in the life of a moonbat:

Wake up without an alarm around noonish. Turn on NPR’s "All Things Considered". Pour yourself a bowl of organic Kashi and soymilk but when no one’s looking you pull put your stash of Coco Puffs and have a heaping bowl.

Go to the bathroom and make sure your hair looks even messier than it did when you rolled out of bed. Slip on your uniform of jeans, clogs and some ironic T-shirt. Jump on your fixie, skateboard or scooter and make your way down to the local non-corporate coffee house. Find a used copy of the New York Times, Mother Jones or the Utne Reader. You don’t have to actually read it. Just holding it will be enough to let everyone know that you’re well informed.

After killing 30 minutes to 3 hours in the coffee house make your way over to the corner store for some American Spirit cigarettes. Peruse each and every porno mag until the Korean proprietor throws you out.

Whoa! It’s almost 4:00 pm. Time for "work" at the Yoga College of Namaste. As an assistant yoga teacher you get free yoga classes and all the organic carrot juice you can drink not to mention all the hands on work with the female students. OK it’s 5:30 pm and works finally over. She if that hottie wants to go to the Red Radish to discuss pranayama or how Bush lied. She doesn’t. Must be a dyke.

Pedal over to the local college hang out and have a few cold ones. Maybe some 18 year old co-ed will want to stroke your beard or talk about Halliburton. Great, it’s Reggae Night with 10% of all the proceeds going to the Impeach Bush Campaign. Hmm, where are all the chicks? It’s just a few dozen dudes with beards. It’s kind of like looking in a mirror.

Go home but not before stopping by Burger King. Make sure no one’s looking and grab a Whopper or two to go. Get home and wolf down the Whopper. Take a long look in the mirror. Maybe if you grew your beard longer it would hide that double chin. Have these jeans shrunk? Start getting depressed. Call up your 75-year-old mother and threaten suicide if she doesn’t send you ten grand. After she agrees hang up and contemplate suicide anyway. Make sure your roommates are all asleep and order a block of Spice flicks. Rub one or two out and pass out. Repeat the whole process the next day.

There you have it people. All you ever didn't want to know about Moonbats and their lifestyle. Now that you know how to spot one go out and punch one in the face and shout "Halliburton".

Kickin' it wit' my ho,
-- Deeandre' Babydaddy

It's like self serve satire. It practically parodies itself.

I had considered the possibility that this was, in fact, intended as some kind of subtle joke. But then I pulled up the actual Google profile page for this author. And... well... if it's a parody, it's something he's certainly invested some time and effort in supporting.

Anyway. Next time someone punches you in the face while screaming "Halliburton!", check the booking slip after you press charges. Maybe it's Deeandre' Babydaddy himself, taking some time off from kickin' it wit' his ho in order to put a beat down on a moonbat.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

It's a Damned Sad Life

Go here, and read all the comments, if you want to experience the saddest, most miserably pathetic and pitiful bunch of creepy no-life haters in existence.

Straight up. Those guys up there are actually worse than these guys. I mean, the latter are merely mocking me in an utterly infantile and emotionally retarded way, and god knows that's understandable. But the former bunch are mocking the finest movie ever made, for no apparent reason except, y'know, they are so brain damaged that they actually think it's cool to do it.

They remind me of those emo kids on South Park.


Monday, December 11, 2006


We OPEN with a long shot across the unpeopled waste of the desert erg. It is night, and a high gibbous moon haunts the lifeless, ever shifting dunes like the impossibly forlorn dream that is freedom in this Jehovah-forsaken part of the globe. On the distant horizon, we see a feebly flickering light.

We TRACK IN, slowly, our camera lingering on each lifeless stone, on every desolate stick, on each individual sun bleached bone, as it travels slowly over the desolate wasteland. Finally, we draw in close to the tiny patch of bravely wavering light, like a tattered remnant of a once proud banner still clinging to an ancient flagpole. We see it is a lantern, its failing rays shining dimly through a poorly glazed window in the side of a sand brick hovel. This miserable speck of shelter against the raging elements is both pitiful and noble; valiant and wretched, for while it shows the eternal defiance of man’s upraised fist against all the wrack and hindrance merciless Nature can bring to bear, it also bespeaks the horrible benighted ignorance of some woebegone and savage camel jockey, laboring crudely with sticks and mud in a mire of primitive… primitivism… or something, anyway, whoever lives here obviously cries out in desperation for some advanced culture to save them from their own poverty and the eternally recurring cycle of tribal hatred and xenophobia and intolerance that holds them fast in an unending dark age of… unAmericanism. Yes.

As we have tracked slowly in across this horribly alien landscape where no sane person would ever dwell or marry or raise children or even linger long enough to eat a corn dog unless they were somehow trapped or sent here to serve their country in its glorious mission of selflessly spreading democracy across the planet, which is totally different and cool, we hear the endless desolate moaning of the eerie desert wind. It is punctuated, then entirely replaced by the sharp, brutal sounds of hard wood impacting against flesh. Then we hear a series of savage, bestial grunts of sadistic satisfaction, in time with each new impact, and then, finally, the moans of pain and pleas for mercy of some pathetic, helpless, hapless victim become audible to us as well as we draw closer and closer.

Now we track through the mud hovel’s crappy little window and see the interior of this so-called ‘building’. Inside it, a person in some kind of stupid looking Arab-tent/robe thingamajiggie is being slammed against the wall repeatedly by a burly, mustachioed guy in a foreign military uniform. The brawny guy is wearing a red beret and his chest is covered with the kind of cheaply impressive pot metal medals and garish, poorly manufactured ribbons that a child might buy at K-Mart to facilitate a military Halloween costume. As this slobbering goon hammers a nightstick again and again and AGAIN into the head, limbs, torso and groin of his sobbing victim, though, we can see from the demented gleam in his eye that he truly, pitifully takes pride in the faux splendor of his self awarded decorations.

We FOCUS on the victim’s face, over the assailant’s heaving shoulders. The individual features are an ever shifting mosaic, representing every victim of Middle Eastern tyranny since the dawn of time, or at least, since the last war in Iraq, anyway; constantly sliding and shimmering like a mirage of cool, sweet water in the burning desert. First we see an elderly Arab woman being horribly beaten by this wretched worthless thug of a man, then a small child, then a beautiful young woman, then a be-bearded tribal elder, then a middle aged man – the features shift each time another vicious blow is rained down upon the victim’s body. This is not simply one victim, but all victims; it is Every Victim – helpless, pitiful, needy, crying out for American interventionalism.

ARAB VICTIM: Aiiiiieeeee! Please, can no stalwart democratic hero save me from this oppression! Where is my John Wayne? Where is my prairie son?

SADDAM: You fool! I am your Glorious Leader and I will despoil you as I will! I will ignore your inalienable rights as they are merely myths of the decadent West! No one shall save you! Soon I will have you and all your children constructing nuclear weapons for me in my mobile labs and then I will ruuuuuuuule the world!

SUDDENLY the crude door to the shabby hovel is thrown open, and a long shadow falls across SADDAM and his VICTIM: A voice – a deep, manly, voice, with just a hint of a Texas drawl -- booms out:

VOICE: I b’lieve the l’il lady asked you to take yore hands off her, pardner.

SADDAM whirls, his eyes going wide with shock and… is it fear? Yes, I think it is.

SADDAM: ::gasping:: No! It CAN’T be –

ANNOUNCER: But it is, Butcher of Baghdad, it IS! Your reign of tyranny is at long last over, as finally you will answer for your crimes to humanity’s greatest hero -- ::trumpets blare:: DOC AMERICA!!!!!

A brief flashback sequence ensues, showing George America, Jr., as a young boy, doing the mental and physical exercises devised by his genius father, George America, Sr., which are designed to maximize his athletic and intellectual potential and turn him into a true superman! As George Jr. matures, honors and awards accrue to him like sticky popsicle sticks stuck to the side of a shaggy dog. Athletic trophies, advanced degrees, scholarly awards, military medals – we see a montage of George Jr. receiving all these honors, and then, of course, him leading his awesome team of brilliant adventurers into action across the world, fighting tyranny at every turn.

Now, back in the present, the evil SADDAM draws an American made Colt .45 automatic from his belt holster and points it at DOC AMERICA.

SADDAM: Swine! I broke your father, just as I will break you!

DOC AMERICA: Yew shouldn’t’ve mentioned my daddy, yew polecat.

DOC moves forward, effortlessly dodging SADDAM’s bullets, then grabbing SADDAM’s wrist above his gun hand and punching SADDAM hard in the face.

SADDAM: Ungh! ::sprawls to ground::

DOC AMERICA: BAM! That was f’r my dad, yew dirty nogood terr’st, you! And this… this is f’r America!

DOC pulls out an M-16 and empties several thirty round clips into SADDAM’s jerking , quivering body as SADDAM screams and spasms and blood geysers everywhere. Ricochets from the bullets whine around the room, destroying the chipped plates and dirty clay glasses belonging to the ARAB VICTIM. A few stray rounds even punch through the extremities of the ARAB VICTIM herself, but, hey, you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, and when the omelette is freedom, well, that’s a pretty big omelette, buddy.

ARAB VICTIM: Oh, Doc America, however can I thank y… AUGH! OW! YARGH!!!

Suddenly, Doc’s two constant companions hurtle into the hovel behind him. One of them, Brigadier General Colin Blodgett Powfair, otherwise known as PUNK, is a light skinned black man of muscular build in an American Army uniform. The other, Captain Donald Marley Rumsfield, otherwise known as RUMMY, is a dapper, dashing fellow immaculately dressed in a thousand dollar suit. Each has an Israeli machine pistol in one hand, while carried beneath their off arm, each has an unlikely pet. PUNK is carrying a long eared miniature donkey he refers to, hilariously, as ‘Hillary’, while RUMMY is carrying a similarly miniaturized dromedary he has named, hysterically, ‘Dune Coon’.

PUNK: Sir yes sir! The mobile weapons labs are all undetectable, sir! We’ll need cooperative assets on the ground to fully locate the WMDs, sir!

RUMMY: Twit! You couldn’t find half a buttock if you had overlong apelike arms to search for it with! Not that I’m saying you do! No racism here, isn’t that right, Dune Coon? Sir Yes Sir, let me interrogate the indigenous asset, sir! My zero point focus new military will strike with laser like precision once target coordinates are fully gridded, sir!

PUNK: Jimmy crack corn and I’ll crack your spine, you bastard! No former flyboy faggot is going to tell me how to deploy my heroic infantry forces!

PUNK and RUMMY lunge towards each other, faces transfigured in the furious glares of men about to haul out trout-scalers and go dowsing within each other’s torsos for sweetbreads. It should be noted that beneath their façade of congenial hatred for one another, each man vitriolically loathes the other, and were it not for the gentle but firm discipline administered by DOC AMERICA, whom each of them of course worship abjectly, in a totally manly way, of course, they would long ago have killed each other in an orgiastic frenzy of mutually directed abhorrance that has nothing to do whatsoever with rechanneling any kind of homosexual longings each might feel for the other. NOTHING WHATSOEVER. So don’t even think about that.

Abruptly, the dirt floor of the mud hovel between the two manly men erupts as DOC AMERICA puts a burst from his M-16 into it.

DOC: Back off, my lovable lackeys! AS YOU WERE! You’re gonna scare this pore dumbass A-rab here. Now, ma’am, I see you need medical attention. I’ll have my trusted lieutenants here escort you to where we’ve established a humanityarianesque refuge place.

PUNK: Doc, you mean…?

RUMMY: Of course he means, dimwit. Although he, and we, will deny any knowledge later. Come with us, ma’am, we’ll escort you to the field hospital at Abu’Ghraib.

ARAB VICTIM: ::whining:: Abu’Ghraib? I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about this…

PUNK: Who are you, Kirk’s Probably Gay Son? C’mon, you.

RUMMY: It’s all right, ma’am. You see, you have a disease… the disease of Islamofascism! And at the field hospital, we can use the latest techniques to cure that condition, with surgical precision!

RUMMY and PUNK escort the still feebly protesting ARAB VICTIM out. Meanwhile, DOC AMERICA turns to face the camera. At first, his shoulders are stooped, as if beneath the crushing burden of leadership in such a sad, immoral, liberty-denied world.

DOC AMERICA: And so it goes. One forthright victory for democracy – but evil still lurks everywhere, in the darkness just beyond the light, waiting only for its next, best chance to strike. Sometimes… sometimes I feel so tired.

DOC looks up, into the camera. His shoulders square as he fixes the viewer with a gaze of steely resolve.

DOC AMERICA: But I… we… can’t give up. We can’t give up on these poor, oppressed, freedom loving peoples, who’ve never had any freedom and who love it all the more dearly because of that. We have to stay the course. And when the course grows rocky and rutted and overgrown with poison ivy and those nasty little vines that always seem to trip you right at ankle level, well, we have to find a new way forward. And that’s why I’m speaking to you today.

DOC’s voice rises, becoming an irresistible siren call to all true believers everywhere, fueled by a charisma more rightly belonging to a god. Yes, that’s right, I said it – a GOD! His voice seems to be everywhere, not just in our ears but in our hearts and our minds and our very souls, and his brilliant golden eyes, flecked with strange, swirling, almost hypnotic motes of red, white, and blue, transfix the audience as a cobra transfixes a mongoose. No, wait, that sounds kinda creepy. As a snake charmer transfixes a… no, that’s no good, either. Well, he transfixes all of you, mesmerizing all of you with the sheer raw force of his indomitable will, but you like it and want more. You know you do. Don’t deny it.

DOC: Now, some people… I won’t call them traitors, but, you know, that’s what they are… are talkin’ about changin’ direction. Cuttin’ and runnin’. Before we’re finished, before we’ve accomplished our mission, to bring democracy to these poor cute li’l raghead people who ain’t never had none. So I’m askin’ all you true Americans out there, or, at least, 20,000 to 60,000 of yuh, to show y’r support for the greatest nation in the history of the world and come on down and sign up for Doc America’s Freedom Rangers. It ain’t the military, no sir, although it’s like the military, what with all the honor and the patriotism and the glory, and, y’know, the marchin’ in straight lines and what not, but it ain’t the military, no sir, it’s not. It’s just a chance for all a you decent Christian God fearin’ real Americans to show your stuff an’ help fight the terr’sts overseas so we ain’t gotta fight ‘em at home, yessir!

DOC pauses, and smiles, and leans forward conspiratorially.

DOC: Now, just ‘tween you ‘n’ me, pard, this is a secret organization. You go down to the military recruiters at yore local mall and you tell ‘em you wanna sign up for th’Army or th’ Marines –

PUNK: (from outside window) Not that faggot Navy!

RUMMY: {from outside window) I’ll KILL you -- !!!

DOC: -- that’s right, th’ Army or th’ Marines, an’ be sure to use the special code phrase ‘I want front line duty!’ Yore recruiter will know what that means, and yew’ll get special treatment, and get signed up for a totally voluntary stint that yew can quit anytime yew want, in Doc America’s Freedom Rangers! Where you’ll, y’know, travel around America stayin’ in first class hotels, typin’ on expensive laptop computers, speakin’ to young college students an’ such and doin’ y’r patriotic duty and never goin’ anywhere near Iraq ‘r any other hot zone, nossir! Just like me, Doc America!

Female voice: (from outside window) I don’t get it. How stupid does he think these people –

Male voice: (from outside window) Shhhhh, we’re live!

DOC: R’member – you ain’t really goin’ in the military. An’ you can quit any time you want! But it’s a secret group, so you gotta go to a’ Army or Marine recruiter an’ use the special code phrase “I want front line duty!” An’ they’ll get you squared away! They’ll teach you the special secret handshake and give you the secret decoder ring and issue you your secret wallet I.D. and you’ll be part of a secret legion of loyal Americans fighting the terr’rists all unbeknownst to the world you are sworn to protect!

DOC walks out of the hovel, casually tossing a live grenade over his shoulder back into the hut. He grabs hold of a dangling rope ladder and is lifted up into the sky, just like when Scooter Lindsie and his dad rescued Buckaroo Banzai from the Red Lectroids. JUST like that.

DOC: See ya next time I give out th’ Medals o’ Freedom, pardner! Yippee!

Behind and below DOC, we see the hovel explode gloriously. As DOC is lifted higher and higher into the night time sky, a line of American Pave Hawks can be seen, each dropping huge payloads of heavy explosives on the site of the former hut. As the explosions rip out through the night sky and the fiery rose of freedom blooms in the desert below, we can hear DOC whistling “I’m A Yankee Doodle Dandy” over the thunder of the helicopter rotors carrying him away.

Friday, December 08, 2006

Gutless, gutless, gutless

Over here, some Democrat hack/policy wonk named Chris Bowers compiles a list of all the reasons why Democrats should not and will not try to impeach that idiot some of you have been erroneously referring to as 'President' for the last six years.

It's an impressive list, one that reeks of reasonableness, of 'reality', of compromise, of political expedience, of being cautious and preserving political capital and thinking long term and carefully mapping out the '08 campaign season and all that other colonic end product the Dems sob like pussies over whenever they somehow stumble, spasm, and/or drunkenly flail their way into a position to actually do anything that might make a significant difference as to how our country is governed.

::DEEP breath::

Not to mention, that could possibly impact whether or not various American and non-American human beings continue to live through the next twelve months, and what kind of conditions they'll be living in and under if they get that lucky.

I cannot tell you how sick I am of this crybaby crap. "Oh, now that we're in a position where we can actually do something, we can't, we mustn't, we shan't REALLY do anything, because then, you know, we might not get re-elected and we'd have to find real jobs."

Why is it that the only politicians in America who have the balls to get into office and actively and effectively pursue an agenda are, you know, evil?

I know, I know. The Democratic majority is razor thin, and the Republicans can and will be obstructive, and any kind of forward motion on a Democratic/liberal/progressive agenda will take very careful management, and Jesus Christ I am tired of hearing this teenie-weenie L'il Rascals otay 'panky bullshit. The Republicans had a razor thin majority for ten years, and they have very nearly destroyed the entire planet, and gotten rich while doing it. Why can't the Democrats be similarly aggressive about their own agenda?

Honestly, someone explain it to me. I really don't understand it.

Here's my list of just some of the reasons why those evil bastards Bush and Cheney SHOULD both be impeached --

* They aren't really President and Vice President of the United States of America. They were never actually elected; they committed the most brazen election fraud ever seen on a national scale in our country's history, they have no right to those titles or those offices.

* There are 600,000 dead people in Iraq right now who would be alive if Bush and Cheney hadn't decided to go break their country.

* They're spying on American citizens in explicit defiance of the law. They don't even deny it.

* They are holding American citizens for years without trial or even indictment, on no authority other than Presidential whim.

* They are torturing prisoners of war. They think it's fun.

* They have committed nearly innumerable counts of systematic fraud to enrich their corporate sponsors in shameful ways, mostly off mountains of bodies, of those both dead and living on in utter misery, here in America (see: New Orleans and Hurricane Katrina) and abroad (see, again, Iraq).

That last point could be broken down into literally hundreds of sub-points; I just don't want to go out and actually compile a list of all the ways the Bush Administration has illegally funneled billions if not trillions of tax dollars into the private pockets of its corporate favorites over the last six years.

For that matter, the second point could be broken down into 600,000 plus bullet points, if I just knew the names of every single person who has died unnecessarily due to our illegal and immoral invasion and continuing occupation of Iraq. And the third and fourth points could have a great many victims' names attached to them, too, if we had the power to compile that kind of comprehensive list.

Against all of this, the learned Mr. Bowers weighs things like "the national image of the two parties", "keep(ing) our caucus close to united", and the fact that he is "not in the mood to blow all of our political capital" on, you know, something as trivial as actually doing the right thing.

Unprofessional though it may well be, the only word that springs to my mind when I read this kind of goddam gutless sobbing and cringing and hand wringing on the part of someone whose party just won a huge national election they were overwhelmingly predicted to lose is, well, "asshole".

If Democrats are going to act like craven pissy assed losers even when they finally manage to win, what's the point in electing them in the first place? I mean, I know why they're in it... the job pays pretty well and you don't have to work very much or very hard. But if this is how they're going to act after we vote them in, why do we even bother?

Do I have any positive, realistic, politically expedient advice to offer to these quivering masses of spineless humanoid gelatin? Yeah. Bush's popularity is in the low thirties. The Republican Party in general is foundering under a dinosaur killing meteor strike of multiple financial, ethical, moral, and sexual scandals. That shit didn't just spring into existence to get the Dems into office, and it hasn't gone away.

Go after Bush. Nobody likes him anyway, it's the right thing to do, and guess what? A majority of the American people are desperately hoping to see their elected officials actually do what's right for once, instead of what's merely expedient.

Will the Republicans unite to defend Bush from impeachment? Maybe, but they're horribly vulnerable right now. There's a mountain of shit to sling; the minute any of them open their mouths, start slinging it. No matter what they say, here's what the Dems say back: Mark Foley. Katrina. Tom DeLay. Jack Abrahamoff. Would you like a page boy with that, Congressman? No? A gay hooker? Some meth? How about a nice fat campaign contribution from an Indian tribe trying to build a casino? How's your stock market portfolio, Senator Frist?

When Rush Limbaugh comes after you, go on his show. Take his calls. Whatever he says, whatever he asks you, you say "Percoset. Viagra. How was the Dominican Republic, Rush? Say, how's Mrs. Limbaugh? Which one? I'm not sure, how many have there been? Lately, I mean." When O'Relly comes after you, bring up loofahs, and ask if he's still sexually harassing his married associate producers. Play hardball. I mean, Jesus Christ, they do. Hammer them and hammer them and hammer them until they're as scared to open their mouths and take any kind of real position at all as...

...well, as all you goddam Democrats are, actually.

Honest to God. You want to see every registered black voter in America for the next two generations vote Democrat? Stand up on live TV and impeach Bush using the words "depraved indifference to human life" while showing video of him playing his guitar at the exact same moment as people were drowning in New Orleans. That will do it. It's easy.

Seriously, why is this stuff hard? Why do Democrats continually let Bush and the Republicans walk away from things like the debacle in Iraq, the catastrophic cluster fuck that was Katrina, and, while we're at it, the goddam 9/11 attacks? Why does it take a gay page boy scandal to put the opposition party back in power, when the people who have been in power for years previous have monumentally fucked up every single thing they have managed to get their hands in, and gotten rich off doing it, and everybody knows it, too?

We have just handed you people the keys to the country. Stop fucking sniveling and do the right thing. And the absolute top priority on that list is, get that murderous bastard the fuck out of the Oval Office.

And then, second, get our troops the hell out of Iraq. Well, not second, both are equally important. There are a few hundred of you in Congress; you can manage to do two things at once, right?

These things are the right things to do. They also happen to be things that the American people who elected you want you to do. It's a win-win.

Not that any of you are smart enough to actually see that.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Marriage -- it's hard work... or something

From Josh Marshall, I get referred over to this:

A plan to make Congress go back to working five days a week instead of the two that have become traditional during years of Republican dominance is causing a lot of whining.

"Keeping us up here eats away at families," said Rep. Jack Kingston (R-Ga.), who typically flies home on Thursdays and returns to Washington on Tuesdays. "Marriages suffer. The Democrats could care less about families -- that's what this says."


The new schedule poses a headache for Rep. Debbie Wasserman Schultz (D-Fla.), who runs her 7-year-old daughter's Brownie troop meetings on Monday afternoons in Weston, Fla. "I'll have to talk to the other mothers and see if we can move it to the weekend," she said.

Gee, sucks to be a Congressman, right? I mean, our military personnel are deployed overseas for years at a time, but, hey, that's okay.

Still, it ain't all that bad:

Next year, members of the House will be expected in the Capitol for votes each week by 6:30 p.m. Monday and will finish their business about 2 p.m. Friday, Hoyer said.

Skipping out of work at 2 in the afternoon every Friday? Sweet! And, of course

Hoyer said members can bid farewell to extended holidays, the kind that awarded them six weekdays to relax around Memorial Day, when most Americans get a single day off. He didn't mention the month-long August recess, the two-week April recess or the weeks off in February, March and July.

Two weeks in April, a week in February, March, and July, and the whole month of August off... all for $165,200 a year!

I'm telling you, we need a way to fire these guys, and no, I don't mean 'elections'. We use elections to hire them. I want some kind of national referendum mechanism put into place whereby if a majority of American voters is dissatisfied with the way any Federal elected official is doing his job, we can vote him or her out of office at any time. That will keep the fuckers on their toes if anything will... and I think it's about the only thing that would.

Barring that, I would very much like to see Congressional salaries have to be approved by national referendum. And I wouldn't mind if a majority could vote to give them roll backs, either.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Required reading

All the cool kids got here first, but, nonetheless, if you haven't seen it yet, go read this.

We really need a mechanism put in place for firing elected representatives that don't do their job properly. Some kind of national referendum. You may not agree with me at the moment, but I suspect you'll swing further towards my position after you hit that link and read the article on the other side.