Northern Trust foresees a new fucking day dawning

Northern Trust Corp. is none too happy with the criticism they've received over last week's fabulous Golfapalooza, where they treated many of their favorite co-conspirators to a luxury weekend, complete with gift bags from Tiffany's and bountiful gorge and guzzle sessions set to the contemporary sounds of Sheryl Crow and Earth, Wind & Fire. "We're going to party on," proclaimed CEO Frederick Waddell, his Lilly Allen t-shirt still stained from the morning's Jagermeister Celebrity Brunch. "We fucking are indeed, now more than ever, onward and upward, fucking forever, hit me Purvis." There will be no slowing down this hard-charging party-machine, which count's 20% of the U.S.'s wealthiest families as their clients, and is "fundamentally fit as a fucking fiddle". Northern Trust has vowed to give the fucking money back to the fucking government before they open their fucking mouths about the fucking bank's fucking Spring Calendar. "George fucking Bush wanted us to take some fucking TARP funds, so we took some fucking TARP funds," explains Waddell. "Simple as that. Wash one hand and spit in the other. He wasn't aware that his fucking Treasury Secretary was trying to fineness us good banks into acting as beards for the fucking loser banks, so that the fucking losers wouldn't fucking collapse when their huge fucking gigantic amounts of hush money payoffs came to light. Bite me, George Bush, you're not invited to our next fucking party, which, by the way, will be the best fucking party that you will miss in your miserable fucking life." "We're paying your fucking money back, scumbag, uh... well, the new president is undoubtedly also a fucking scumbag, so, we're paying your fucking money back, new scumbag, fucking 5% interest too, so eat me, eat me raw, and Barney Frank, fuck you, you're a dead man." As soon as the TARP money is paid back, Waddell hopes to not announce the location and lineup for Northern Trust's next soiree, because "it's none of your fucking business".

Procol Harum - 'Grand Fucking Hotel'

a song for CPAC

They've already gone through quite a few leaders of the 'new conservative uprising' at CPAC - nice guy Mike Huckabee, John 'The Walrus' Bolton, Michael Steele (who be the man), and Job the Plumber on Thursday; John 'Weepy' Boehner, Stephen 'the good one' Baldwin, Mitt!, Mitch McConnell, and Newt 'Big Brain' Gingrich on Friday.

With Sarah Palin missing in action, Bobby Jindal (future of the GOP for about five seconds) adrift in the high waters, and William Shatner out with a previous engagement, there is a real need to finish up with a bang, and by god, it's gonna happen with today's big stars - Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh!

Truth be told, those are really big stars in this particularly sad and dark universe, and I'm sure there will be a number amongst the attendees who will endlessly retell details of this exciting day for decades to come, much like an older generation rambles on about their happy day at Altamont. All that is missing is that one perfect song with which to anchor these golden memories, and so I offer up Mr. Iggy Pop's anthem to conservatism as a heartfelt bipartisan gift.

My colleague Blue Gal says that she finds it hard to attack an enemy in retreat, to which I reply only this: Girl, you just haven't seen enough monster movies. The creature always rises again the moment you feel safe, and there is always a sequel.

Let's get this party started!

Alright! Here's Mitch McConnell, Mr. Good Time Charlie, talking at CPACASTC (Conservative Political Action Committee And Star Trek Convention) about why it's so much more popular than DPACASTC.

"What this proves, of course, is that conservatives are more fun and interesting than liberals. I mean, let’s be honest: who wants to hang out with guys like Paul Krugman and Robert Reich when you can be with Rush!"

[...and speaking of Rush!, peeking through the keyhole, Urantian Sojourn records the night terrors (or are they?) of The Bloated One. If you haven't seen it yet, be sure to watch the hilarious video of Rush defending Bobby Jindal. It made me think of the infamous video where The Bloated One mocked Michael J Fox, with TBO's frenetic, spasmodic movements - maybe he empathized more than we realized... Warning: Not Safe For Home.]

No fish today

How mean are these times? Pretty damn mean, as is becoming increasingly clear. So damn mean that the American Museum of Fly Fishing (AMFF) can't even invite the former Vice President of the United States to a fundraising dinner without leftist tree-hugging fly fishers from around the country creating a massive ruckus over the very idea of his attendance. This is an indignity of the highest order. But it's true. Not even the AMFF can provide a safe have from the liberal onslaught that is afoot; this once noble institution which openly displays the fishing paraphernalia from the manly side of great fishing politicians such as Herbert Hoover, Franklin Roosevelt, Calvin Coolidge, George Bush the Elder, and yes, even Jimmy Carter. Mere weeks ago the museum denied political standards, claiming "The Museum's commitment to the total history of fly fishing is inclusive." Ha. And now, days later, it as though the lure had never been set and the line had never been cast. Dick Cheney has been cut loose, with the date now cloudy for the Fly Fishing Dinner. It didn't take long before the radical drive-by fly fishing media elite began to poison the waters, with scurrilous publications of dubious background such as the menacingly named Trout Underground, leading the charge to spoil the Veep's big day. In an open letter to AAFF director Cathi Comar, Trout Underground unleashes this bile: "Ms. Comar, know that in your pursuit of dollars and nudge-nudge, wink-wink “look who I’m standing next to” name-brand speakers, you’ve pissed off pretty much anyone who spent the last eight years fighting to reverse Cheney’s frequent assaults on our fish, wild places and water quality here in the West." Pissed off? I'll tell you who's pissed of - ordinary Americans like me who understand that there is a clear difference between wanting to destroy the environment and standing in the middle of a river in the cold mountain air trying to catch a motherfucking fish with a fly. Trying to destroy the environment is a hell of a lot more fun. If the AAFF's snub had been due to Cheney's preference to fishing with dynamite, the situation might be understandable. But no, Cheney did stand in the mighty river baiting his hook with the miniscule flies, and he did pull forth many fish, many of which were reputedly this long. We can only pray that the American Museum of Dynamite Fishing does not succumb to the same sort of left-wing pressure which has now left their fly fishing brethren on the barnacle- ridden rowboat of irrelevance.

Kid Creole welcomes Cheney to the downscale class.

Coleman concedes

It's been a long and tough battle for former Senator Norm Coleman in his righteous fight against sinister left-wing comedian Al Franken over the vacant Senate seat that is so rightfully his own. At times even God seems to have deserted him, the Almighty reportedly going long hours in between responses to Coleman's frequent Twittering. "That's not really true," God maintains. "In actuality I have a great fondness for Norm Coleman and was kind of pulling for him to win in Minnesota. Not that I was willing to intervene. But really, in a race between Jews, it's pretty much of a win-win from my perspective. Except, of course, in the current scenario where nobody has won, which leaves me frustrated and wrathful. Honestly, I'm right on the verge of smiting someone, and just between you and me, it's going to be Norm Coleman if he doesn't give that abominable Blackberry a rest." "I know that closure is not on the immediate horizon," Coleman said in a surprise statement to the press yesterday. "I am ready to make a concession... I concede the fact that there really isn't going to be a satisfactory outcome to this matter. Not satisfactory to me, at any rate. And while I can hold my breath for a long time, I concede that I cannot hold it forever." Puzzled reporters did not have to wait long to find out what the hell Coleman was talking about. Appearing on the wildly popular Andrew Wilkow show (on the Sirius 'Talk Right' channel!), Coleman conceded that he would be willing to have the election all over again. "The St Paul Pioneer Press is one of the second largest papers in the state," Coleman began, citing one of many second largest papers in Minnesota, "last week said we're never going to figure this out, just run it again." Coleman went on to explain that the facts that he was ahead on election night but not ahead now is prima facie evidence that the results simply can't be figured out. And then there's the fact, as Wilkow points out, that the will of the people just isn't the same as it was one hundred and thirteen days ago. "You think if the election were held today, right now," he asks, "given what people now know about democrat dominance in the house and in the senate what Obama has been doing as of today, that if the election were recast today you'd wipe Al Franken off the map?" I will leave it up to you to figure out Coleman's response. "I've got to admit that I'm proud of the boy," said God, obviously in an upbeat mood. "He's got a lot of chutzpah, which was my special gift to the Chosen People. Still, like I said before, this is between two Jews and I'm not getting involved."

Everybody loves Piyush

It only took a few moments, but Bobby Jindal has arrived big time! Today the eloquent Mr J single-handedly created a spontaneous blogswarm. Urantian Sojourn was in the neighborhood. Driftglass was there, and he brought Peewee. Alternate Brain and Ornery Bastard showed up. Wonkette, of course, and Crooks and Liars. Belacqua Jones wished him well, as did Mock Paper Scissors. I make no promises also too, and Bildungblog with Jar Jar Binks. And there's always Sandy Underpants. The Brain Police spun the hits, alicublog shows up, with Dr Zaius and WTF Is It Now? Piyush even brought Jon Swift back from vacation. And don't forget about ME!

Would that be chocolate volcano cake?

When they arrived in Baton Rouge, my mother was already 4-½-months pregnant. I was what folks in the insurance industry now call a "pre-existing condition." To find work, my dad picked up the yellow pages and started calling local businesses. Even after landing a job, he could still not afford to pay for my delivery, so he worked out an installment plan with the doctor... Bobby Jindal, 2/25/09

Raj was the daughter of a bank manager. She first came to America on a scholarship to study for her doctorate in nuclear physics at Louisiana State University. She brought along her husband... the only one of the nine children in his family to attend school past fifth grade. At the time the couple immigrated, Raj was three months pregnant with their first son, Piyush. Though the university health plan denied coverage for the birth (it was ruled a "preexisting condition"), the one-month paid maternity leave was awarded as promised — that was the perk that had tipped the scales for Amar, who'd been hesitant to leave home, having worked his way up through the ranks to the respected position of assistant professor of engineering at Punjab University in Chandigarh... Esquire, July '08

It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor. It's a neighborly day in this Beauty Wood. It's a beautiful day to be neighborly. I have always wanted to have a neighbor, just like you. I always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you, and I do, so lets make the most of this beautiful day. Since we're together, we might as well say... Hi, neighbor. I'm Bobby Jindal, governor of Louisiana. I was thinking about something. Tonight, we witnessed a great moment in the history of our republic. We really did. In the very chamber where Congress once voted to abolish slavery. Do you know what slavery is? It's when somebody makes you work really really hard, and you have to do it, because he's the neighborhood bully. And today our very first African American president stepped forward to address the state of our union. My goodness. I think that's really something. You know, regardless of party, all Americans are moved by the president's personal story, but my story is every bit as good. Do you know what the word bullshit means? No? Good? Just like the president's father, my parents were poor immigrants who came to this country from a far away land. When they arrived in Baton Rouge, I was already in my mama's belly. I was what folks in the tax business now call a preexisting deduction. True story - to find work, my dad picked up the Yellow Pages and looked for the graduate school . Because education is important for those who can afford it. But six weeks later, after he graduated and found a job, he could still not afford for me to be born, and so he worked out an installment plan with the doctor. Do you know what an installment plan is? It's where you pay the man for a long long time, although not too very long since my father was already pulling down a good salary. Fortunately for me, he never missed a payment, or they might have taken me back. Ha, ha. As a child, I remember going to the grocery store with my dad. It was called the Piggly Wiggly. That's a funny name, isn't it? That's what I love about the South. Growing up in India, my father had seen extreme poverty on the family TV. When you looked at the shelves for soap, there would only be one type - 'Grit Soap'. But as we walked through the aisles of the Piggly Wiggly, looking at the endless variety of soap on the shelves, he would tell me: "Piyush, in Americans you can be zestfully clean." And I am. Are you? I hope so. As the president made clear this evening, we are now in a time much like my daddy used to know all too well - a time when many in the downscale class, as Mister Underpants would say - have woe aplenty. Let's talk about you, okay? Many of you have lost your jobs, and that's really very sad for you. Others have seen your college and retirement savings dwindle, or are worried about losing your healthcare and your homes. Wave goodbye! Should I care just because you're my neighbor? You see, I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you, but now I'm having second thoughts. What's your opinion, King Friday? Uh huh... Uh huh... I see... What kind of cake? I think you speak wisely, good King Friday, and I agree that if these people would just apply themselves...

The Man Who Would be King. Plus Bobby Jindal

For Santlelli - solace for the lily-livered

The Kinks - Acute Schizophrenia Paranoia Blues

Justifiable Paranoia

CNBC on-air editor Rick Santelli's worst fears came true today when he was abruptly snatched from the driveway of his Bethesda home by four non-descript men in black. Santelli was attempting to retrieve the Wall Street Journal from a large Juniper bush in his front yard when the incident occurred. Santelli's wife, known only as Mrs. Rick Santelli, became concerned after she noticed that her husband's pancakes had become cold and nasty. "At first I didn't think anything about it, because the newspaper seems to end up in that Juniper bush at least twice a week. I mean, it really is a large Juniper bush and Rick can have a dickens of a time getting the paper out of there." "The paperboy throws it there on purpose. I know that for a fact. They all hate him at the Wall Street Journal. They do, they hate him because he's not afraid to speak truth to power. And his voice drives the market. Just ask him... Oh, that's right, you can't ask him because he's been kidnapped. And it's all due to that fateful incident..." The incident of which Mrs. Rick Santelli speaks occurred mere days ago when her husband spoke truth to power on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, convincing a group of bored traders to agree with him that the Obama administration had no freakin' business making them "pay for your neighbor’s mortgage that has an extra bathroom and can’t pay their bills." "Oh, I was proud of him that morning, as proud as I've ever been," says Mrs. Rick Santelli, her face a stirring blend of pride and fear. "We always pay our mortgage, not like our left wing neighbors with their fancy extra bathroom." She shakes her head with undisguised disgust, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It's bad enough having to fish the Journal out of the Juniper bush, but... We get the Washington Post as well, and half the time those nogoodniks next door steal it right off our driveway. I know that for a fact. I got up early one morning and almost caught them in the act. You could see them from the kitchen window, and they were looking right at our house. I know they hate us because we're not willing to pay their mortgage. Well, I guess it doesn't matter now. Rick is gone, so I'll probably end up canceling the paper." Much as Santelli's brief foray into fame has been cancelled. He had a premonition of the ramifications of his bold action, and did his best to tell the world, appearing yesterday on the G Gordon Liddy show to speak of the cloudy figures which were swiftly closing in on him. On Friday, Santelli had caught the attention of Robert Gibbs, the new White House Press Secretary, who had mentioned him by name. By name, and in a disparaging manner. Like Icarus, Santelli had flown too close to the Sun. Santelli: He started that press conference saying, “I don’t know where he lives, I don’t know where his house is.” This is the Press Secretary of the White House. Is that the kind of thing we want? Is that — Liddy: It’s a veiled threat. Santelli: It really is. I don’t really want to be a spokesman, but I really am very proud of a) the response I’m getting, which is overwhelmingly positive, and b) discourse, that is debate. That if the pressure and the heat I’m taking from the White House - the fact my kids are nervous to go to school - I can take that, okay. "I pray to God that he really can take it," says Mrs. Rick Santelli, lighting a Virginia Slim off the still smoldering butt of her previous one. "Obama's henchmen are probably torturing him right now. That is, if he's still alive. Robert Gibbs hates us, you could hear the contempt in his voice at that despicable press briefing. 'I don't know where his house is', my ass. I got on the computer as soon as Rick disappeared, and it's there, you can find our address on Google, it's there as clear as day... I've sent the kids away, somewhere they'll never be found. Someday, perhaps they'll understand why I did what I had to do... I don't know..." "Rick had a dream," murmurs the visibly distressed Mrs. Rick Santelli. "He was on the verge of achieving it... He wanted to be bigger than Jim Cramer. Oh, he used to tell me how Cramer would strut around CNBC spouting his predictions, all pompous and holier than thou... Jim Cramer hated us. I suppose he knew that he wouldn't be on top much longer, but... There he is, still on top. I've never heard his name bandied about like so much stew meat inside of Obama's gulag... I suppose he made his deal with the devil, but that's something Rick would never do."

Abu Ayyub al-Masri for Al-Jazeera International

from the archives, 2006

Hello, infidel. Allow me to introduce myself. I realize that most Westerners have trouble remembering more than two or three Arabic sounding names at any given time. Here is a secret for you to take with you to your grave. We can't remember the accursed names either. That is why we all use Abu for a first name. Now when I appear, at the time you least suspect it, wishing nothing more than to remove your head from your shoulders, at least you can address me properly. 'Please, Abu, show an infidel a little mercy'. And then I will say 'Abu, what'? While I extricate your liver I will laugh in the most lurid and depraved manner possible, hissing 'Abu Ayyub al-Masri' in breath scented by garlic and cloves. If you wish to know, it is pronounced Abe, much like your revered 'Honest Abe'. In truth, he was not. Now you will regret the time you wasted watching 'So You Think You Can Dance' instead of lobbying your foolish Western cable companies into carrying Al-Jazeera International on their broadcasting menu. Two hundred channels and nothing to which I can relate to. I say unto you, this is ludicrous. Three food channels and no room for Al-Jazeera International? My brother Abu, who sleeps in a cell in Seattle, has told me that he once attempted to flip through all of the channels on his DirecTV, but lost control of his flipping finger before even reaching HBO 2. It is good that I come to disembowel you at a time and place of my own choosing. I know that if the piteous giant that is your foul government were to have Al-Jazeera International, you would surely know the name of Abu Ayyub al-Masri as well as you know the name of your mother the whore. As it is, my sister Abu (who lives undetected in a Saudi enclave outside of the greater Detroit metropolitan area), tells me that the decadent Western spell checker of her word processing program flags Ayyub al-Masri as an error, although it does at least recognize Abu, praise Allah. I know with certainty that it is your foolish lack of Al-Jazeera International which accounts for your lack of fear of the mighty Abu Ayyub al-Masri, Slayer of Infidels, and for your shortsighted government's placement of a paltry five million dollar bounty on my noble head. What, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi is supposed to be five times more valuable than me? I assure you, I am easily twice as fearsome as Zarqawi was, but you would never know that by watching the sort of crap that is spewed daily from American television. Bah. I shall spare your life because your existence is totally without meaning to me. That, and the fact that I do not have sufficient carfare to depart from the scene of your demise. Damn your infidel cable companies.

On Wall Street

Former Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan scared the holy bejesus out of the markets today by raising the specter of an irregularity in the highly obscure Libor/Ois barometer, creating a wave of selling off of pretty much anything that might have a whiff of either Libor or Ois to it. After declaring that the unknown but critical ratio will remain higher for the rest of the year, traders disappeared from the floor, Googling furiously in an attempt to figure out what the hell the old man was talking about. "I tried my hardest to make some sense of it all," said Hichaou Hajhamou, a treasury trader at BLP Panibas. "It's not like I couldn't find anything about Libor/Ois, it's that I couldn't make any sense out of it. No damn sense at all..." Responding to the panic while denying that he had any part in creating it, Greenspan made an impromptu appearance on the FOX Business Network, where he attempted to explain it "in a manner so simple that a viewer of the FOX Business Network can understand it". He did not succeed. "Look," Greenspan explained impatiently, "in the first place you've got to understand the basics. Libor is simply the rate that banks would lend to each other if they were lending to each other, which of course they're not doing right now, so you might very well think that it's a moot point. But it's not, because the banks are required to report some interest rate to the Libor Committee. That's just the way it is. So what they report is an imaginary number, representing imaginary liquidity, which at this point is all you need to know about Libor. Okay?" "Now when we talk about the Libor/Ois spread, we're talking about the difference between what these same banks would have to pay to borrow those imaginary funds from other non-lending banks, measured against what the market believes they would have to pay for this non-existent liquidity. It's a case of hopes battling dreams, if I may be poetic for a moment, because you have to factor in the overnight index swap rates, and given that their is no basis for this computation outside of actual transactions... Well, you get the picture." Later in the day, Hichaou Hajhamou was found dead behind his desk at BLP, one amongst a rash of traders to recently succumb to self-inflicted gunshots. He left behind a note saying only 'My life is a lie. I don't even know what the Libor Committee is'. More turmoil is expected again tomorrow on Wall Street, as Greenspan appears on CNBC to explain the influence of the Radon–Nikodym theorem on the continued decline of the derivatives market.

10cc attempt to comfort despondent former members of
the Alan Greenspan fan club.

Mars Polka

Chairman of the bored

Bush, alone in his home office, pretends to veto the Stimulus Bill Entering his second month as ex-president, George W Bush is reportedly having a hard time adjusting to life outside of the spotlight, telling a part-time community reporter for the Dallas Penny Saver that he is 'bored as the livin' daylights'. At this point in his retirement, he has yet to receive a respectable offer for his memoirs, an appointment to a Presidential Blue Ribbon Panel, or even as much as a subpoena to appear before an International War Crimes Tribunal. Laura is supposedly ensconced in her Dallas office writing her eagerly awaited memoir, and Barney, once Bush's constant companion, has made several friends in his new neighborhood, and seemingly prefers to spend his non-sleeping hours with them. In an attempt to alleviate the tedium, Bush took a trip this morning to Elliott's Hardware in Dallas, where he inquired about a job as a part-time greeter that had been offered to him by the store back on February 5th, via a letter in the Dallas Morning News. Told that the offer had in actuality been a 'good natured welcome to Dallas', Bush said that he accepted it as such, and asked when he could start. ""We are thrilled Mr. Bush was able to stop and get a few items for his new home," said Elliott's spokeswoman Andrea Bond, noting that the former president had appeared crestfallen by the news, but had gamely hung around the store for over an hour, eventually purchasing a flashlight, batteries, and some WD-40. "But give me a break. Business is tough enough as it is. We certainly don't need to be driving customers away." Bond went on to say that "if the president wants to come in here and hang out with the other old-timers, there's not a lot we can do about it unless he starts pestering our salespeople."

Iggy, he's kinda bored too

The man with the baboon brain

Not to give it another moment under the sun, but I've got to return one more time to the NY Post cartoon lampooning the assassination of Barack Obama for the crime of writing a piece of legislation that conservatives can't abide. And it's all because the unbrilliant James Tarnto (of the Wall Street Journal, owned by Murdoch's News Corp, which also owns the NY Post) sets up a scenario so unflinchingly reeking with the unblemished purity of the conservative spirit that I owe you the opportunity to mock it on your own.

Okay, ready? Taranto addresses the racial issue, since the assassination aspect is fair game, and concedes that there are those who see Obama as a man of the negroid persuasion, and might feel that his depiction as a monkey was offensive in a way that similar portrayals of GWB were not. Okay, you go Jimmy.

"But what if someone is unaware of this? Suppose that a columnist or cartoonist is so innocent of racial prejudice that he has never even thought to make a connection between black people and lower primates? Such a person would be a racial kerfuffle waiting to happen. The moment he inadvertently employed an idea or image that carried offensive connotations, he would be pilloried as 'insensitive'."

Next up on Taranto: 'What if Superman and Jesus staged a fight to the death in a world where Kryptonite did not exist?'

Jai Ho

"...and we're back, with 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire', and our current contestant Bobby Jindal, who has successfully made it through the first seven rounds of questioning. Bobby, before we get to the next round, let's learn a little more about you. We've already discovered that you are a governor in the United States of America. That sounds like a fascinating job. Tell me, Bobby, what is the most interesting thing that you've ever done in your work as a United States Governor?" "Well, Prem, that's an easy one, because it happened just this past week. You see, the American president decided to bankrupt our children and grandchildren for generations to come... "Your grandcestors." "That's right... by heedlessly spending money that we don't even have on a massive load of pork that won't do anything at all to create jobs,or opportunities. It's all a giveaway to special interests." "You know, Bobby, if you answer eight more questions correctly, you too will have an opportunity to heedlessly be spending money like there's no tomorrow. But continue your story. What did you do when confronted with this affront?" "It was quite a dilemma, Prem, because a lot of that money would be coming to my state, millions and millions of dollars, and I know there are a lot of people that think we would be better off if I just swallowed my pride and took it. But I just couldn't betray my principles, so I told the president to take that money and shove it." "Indeed? Bravo! Audience cheer! But in truth, millions and millions is even more than you can win here on 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire', so I am curious to why you are even subjecting yourself to my questions." "There is something you must understand, Prem. In America, I would not be able to keep the money that the president wishes to squander. That made my decision considerably easier. And truth be told, I did not reject all of the funds. Only the money that would have gone to extend the lending of alms to the beggars, the ones that in India you call Dalits or 'untouchables', and that we in America call the gainfully unemployed." "Mmmm... I must tell you, Bobby Jindal, that India has abolished the caste system and officially uses these derogatory terms no longer. And I think it's rather heartless of you..." "Listen, Prem, the fact is that their unemployment benefits would run out sooner or later, so let's just accept reality here and not try to turn this whole thing into a class war. Okay? 'The poor ye shall have with ye always', that's a quote from Jesus fucking Christ. So lets put an end to this interview, and just give me the next goddamn question." "All right, then. I shall try to make it a particularly tough one... Damn! This appears to be in your field of expertise, Jindal. The category is 'Secular American Politics'. Are you ready?" "Yeah, yeah, fire away." "Okay. For $32,000 dollars, what does it take to be the GOP frontrunner? To clarify, the GOP frontrunner is the conservative or 'Republican' candidate with the best..." "I know what it means, Prem, and it's going to be Bobby Jindal the frontrunner as soon as the weekend news lull is over. Give me the options." "Here you are, asshole. 'A-money', 'B-luck', 'C-brainpower', and 'D-destiny'. Take your time." "Okay. I can eliminate 'B-luck' immediately. We all make our own luck... Money... Destiny... hmm. Am I destined to be president? Brainpower... It's... it's pretty smart what I'm angling for, I know... I'm speaking to the conservative leadership on Monday, and stiffing funds for Louisiana's unemployed is a brilliant move... I... I... I'm torn... I'm going to have to use a lifeline, Prem." "You have two lifelines left, '50-50', and 'phone a friend'. Which shall it be?" "Give me 50-50." "As you wish. The remaining answers are 'A-money', and 'D-destiny'. Choose your response carefully." "Oooh... Think... In 2000, George Bush won on destiny... and, but... In 2008, Romney had money... Giuliani had money... McCain had no money, and he was the candidate, it was his destiny. D-destiny, that's my final answer." "Are you sure? You can take this check for $16,000 dollars and simply walk away..." "$16,000 won't even cover my airfare to fly over here and do your moronic TV show. 'D-destiny'. That's my final answer." "'D-destiny'. Will Bobby Jindal move on to round eight, where the question is worth $64,000 dollars, or will he fly back home penniless? Ah, suspense... This could be an opportunity to..." "Just give me the goddamn answer, you moron." "As you wish. The answer is A-money. Now who is the moron? The answer is always money on 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire', dummy." "The answer is not money! Don't you..." "Next contestant. Now, please welcome Ramalinga Raju, an outsourcer from Satyam Computer Services to 'Who Wants To Be A Millionaire'!

from Slumdog, 'Paper Planes' by MIA

The passion of Rosie

Rosie O'Donnell, wrapping production on a TV movie set in the Motor City, tells the Detroit Free Press about being in town during the election of Barack Obama.

"I remember I couldn't stop hugging random black people at the airport."

She also relates that she was so moved by the economic plight of Detroit that she bought a Buick Enclave.

from the archives

Good scam while it lasted, Susan. Oh boy, you won yourself a Mayberry, oops, I mean a Newberry, as in the John Newbery Medal for outstanding contribution to children's literature, which means not good enough for a grown-up, which might as well mean a Mayberry. Oh, look at fancy little Miss Susan Patron, all dressed up in her fancy society clothes with her fancy Newberry Medal, oh yes, I wrote 'The Power of Lucky' all by myself - it's for ten year olds. Well, you make me ill Miss Fancy Pants, with all your oh-so-impressive Newberry money and your pretty new blue car. I hear you live in San Fernando. That's really not that much of a drive for me, particularly on the days when I don't work which are more frequent than I would prefer but I'm sure you wouldn't know anything about that, would you Ms. Prissy Pants, you and all of your Newberry fortune and the blood of ten year old lambs dripping all over your comfy bedroom carpet. I can just imagine that you never thought that a real adult would ever actually read your vile and stupid book, did you Ms. Suzy Slut? But I did, I read and I took notes, but only one page worth of notes because by the time I was finished with that page I was already prepped to heave and besides it was happy hour. But it wasn't a very happy hour that I spent thinking of you and all the filth you spewed. And that was only on the first page, as I previously noted. If you have the stomach for it, examine with me what happens on the very first page of this child-targeted blue book. A little ten year old orphan - ironically named 'Lucky' - is listening through a hole in her wall when she hears some pervert say that a rattlesnake bit his little dog Roy on the scrotum. Merciful heavens! For those of you not versed in obscene language, I must reluctantly tell you that 'scrotum' is the street term for balls. Pardon me, but if you strive to be a good parent like I do, it's important that you know exactly the type of pornography our children are being assaulted with day after day. Where to begin? Little girls do not know about balls, nor do they have any reason to know about balls, but presented in this sort of come hither manner it is a certainty that their curiosity will lead them to find out about these fuzzy pink sin orbs one way or another, possibly by examining the very same sort of animal that the 'author' has mentioned, a little dog named Roy. I found myself pondering whether this Roy was an oh-so-clever allusion to the Roy of Sigfried and Roy fame, as this would add yet another layer of depravity to an already sordid tale, and since I am able to imagine this, it must be so. If there is anything that little girls hate and fear, it is rattlesnakes with their phallic shape and love of biting and spitting, indeed, their love of all things oral. And if there is anything little girls love it is cute little puppy dogs, although in this case the animal has obviously not been fixed since the author takes great delight in relating how it was bitten on the balls, balls which no ten year old girl should ever have to read or think about. And what about that hole in the wall? I have a sinking sordid suspicion that this may have been a 'glory hole'. It would just seem logical since this is an orphan, after all, and she must provide for herself in some depraved manner or another. Thank god that I did not venture on to page two. I shall never know for sure, because in a fit of righteous indignation I ripped 'The Higher Power of Lucky' asunder, and shredded it into a million pieces which I soaked in bleach before mixing into a blend of fertilizer and plastic explosive, which I used to blow up the busted Frigidaire in front of the Colson's old farmhouse, the same refrigerator inside of which I used to play hide and seek in lo those many years ago, but those innocent days are gone to me now. - Feb, 2007

This cartoon

Today's Page Six cartoon - caricaturing the fantasized shooting of Attorney General Eric Holder - will probably generate considerable controversy. It shows two New York Post editors standing over Holder's body: "I don't guess he'll call us cowards again," one editor says. It is meant to mock an insulting statement from the Attorney General in which he called the American people a 'nation of cowards'. Period. But it will be taken as something else by some - as a thinly veiled expression of racism, equating Holder to a crazy black monkey. This most certainly is not its intent; to those who are offended by the image, we say don't hold your breath waiting for us to apologize. The dead Attorney General is explicitly labeled as 'not monkey' to avoid any confusion on the part of the reader. We do wonder about the fact that there have been no protests or objections to the fact that the 'not monkey' in our previous cartoon had just been assassinated and was lying in a pool of blood. We initially pondered this as a potential problem. However, as there appears to be no concern over our depiction of the murder of politicians we disagree with, we feel at liberty to continue with the metaphor. Holder made us realize one undeniable fact: We were cowards to apologize for our previous cartoon, rather than using it as a gateway to open up a dialogue on race. For that, an apology is due. Sometimes a cartoon is just a cartoon - even as the soon to be deceased opportunists seek to make it something else.

Hannity's Twilight Zone Mega Mix

video via News Hounds

Obama's America just like North Korea; Tony Danza smarter than someone

GOP ain't nuthing ta fuck wit

I'm going to "surprise everyone," new Republican National Committee chairman Michael Steele told the Washington Times today, his tone not cocky but confident as he described his plan to roll out a GOP strategy that will be "off the hook". Although he did not say 'off the motherfucking hook', it was clearly implied by the fire in his eyes. “We need messengers to really capture that region - young, Hispanic, black, a cross section ... We want to convey that the modern-day GOP looks like the conservative party that stands on principles. But we want to apply them to urban-surburban hip-hop settings. We need to uptick our image with everyone, including one-armed midgets.” Although he did not use the words "motherfucking one-armed midgets", there is little doubt that they would indeed be welcome in the big tent urban-suburban hip-hop settings that Mr Steele proposes. 'Big tent' is old school, the type of phrase that might be used by an elderly Republican such as John McCain, who wouldn't know a urban-suburban hip-hop setting if it bit him on the ass. Words mean something, after all, and Michael Steele is a man who wants to bust out some new words to yo mama. “Where we have fallen down in delivering a message is in having something to say, particularly to young people and moms of all shapes - soccer moms, hockey moms.” 'It's all about the bitches', Steele didn't say, but his strategy is clearly mom-centric, perhaps taking heed of the old adage that if you bring in the hos, the pimps will take care of themselves. Steele is a man who admits to coveting moms of all shapes, particularly, one imagines, those with big butts. It will be a frightening new world for the GOP's old warriors, but Steele pledges to drag them along kicking and screaming, as long as they focus their kicking and screaming at the true remnants of the past, the liberal left. “It will be avant garde, technically. It will come to table with things that will surprise everyone - off the hook.” Avant-garde, the pushing of the cultural boundaries away from the tired status quo and into a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. Just don't call it cutting edge. “I don't do cutting-edge," Steele says, his voice carrying an implied curse. He finishes off another Olde English 40, lights a Philly Blunt, and holds his first hit of the morning much longer than any mere Democrat could ever hope to. When he speaks again it is with the finality of a bus plunge. "That's what 'Democrats' are doing. We're going beyond cutting-edge.”

Wu Tang Clan

¿Me hablas a mi? (Burris launches listening tour)

...and so this is what I would say this to you, ma'am. It is a very nice hat. It really is, and I would be willing to bet that when Mrs. Kradovich made that remark in church on Sunday about it looking like something a Turkish whore would wear to the funeral of her dead pimp, I'm thinking that those words were probably spoken out of jealousy. People can sometimes be very cruel when they're covetous of what others have, it doesn't matter whether it's a seat in the senate or a lovely red hat like the one you're wearing today, ma'am. Okay, I'm still listening. Who's next? Okay... Let me turn that around. What is your opinion on best actor? uh huh, I'm listening... uh huh... Richard Jenkins? I'm afraid that I don't know who that is... The Visitor? I'm so sorry, I've never even heard of that movie... Uh huh... Well, Frank Lagella, the thing is, he didn't really look like Richard Nixon, so I had a hard time believing him. Of course I had a hard time believing Richard Nixon, too, because I have a certain facility for judgment, which is why I believe that the good people of Illinois voted for me as Illinois State Comptroller not just once but three times. But I guess what I'd say is that the intelligentsia, the people who control the media, they have decided in their infinite wisdom that this will be a two man race between Brad Pitt and Mickey Rourke, so I guess the opinions of the good people of Illinois aren't supposed to matter. Okay. You, sir... Go ahead, I'm listening... Whoa! ...uh, huh... Absolutely... I agree with you 100%, the new Pizza Hut 'Natural' tastes like, I don't want to use the word that you just did, so I'll say that it taste like cardboard... uh huh, I hear you, but the United States Senate is unlikely to take any action, although I'll be more than happy to pass your thoughts along... So... If I could, I'd like to get back to the earlier question about the best actor award. I would just like to say that I personally am rooting for Mickey Rourke, because I heard that he just lost his beloved dog Loki to the ravages of age. And I used to have a dog, a very good and loyal dog, even though I no longer remember his name... You forget certain things when you grow older, sometimes very important things, and I'll just bet that Mickey Rourke did not get mad at Loki if he forgot a trivial detail here or there... Next? Yes, ma'am. Uh huh... I suppose that it's fair in the sense that they have the power to do with me whatever they want... Uh huh, I'm listening... You think I'm getting railroaded? Well, you can't get railroaded if you don't have a train, and there's no cash in my caboose... Uh huh... uh huh, that's very astute, and I think you put it perfectly. Of course I wouldn't have a caboose if I don't have a train. If I might make a little joke, I'd say that these so-called investigators are on the wrong track... You liked that one? Thank you so much. Next? Uh huh... I'm listening... Nadya Suleman? ...oh, Octomom, yes sir... uh huh...

from the archives

because Rosie and Boy, they never get old

Run Boy Run Knock knock knock. Rattle, key, open. "Oh Boyyyy... Boy, are you okay?... Boy, come out here right this minute!... Where are you, Boy?" "Rosie? Is that you? I'm down here in the Boom Boom Room." "Well, hold on George, I'm coming after you!" Clump, clump, clump, clump, clump, clump. "Oh my God, Boy, you look delirious... Here, why don't you settle back and let Rosie take care of you.. Mmwahh." "Careful with my make-up." "Don't worry about it - your make-up is a mess. What happened to you, Boy? Why did the coppers take you in?" "Twenty hours, Rosie. Twenty hours with those brutes. Oh man, talk about your bad trips. Literally... I hate New York." "I hate it too, Boy. I sure do hate it too. But what on earth happened to you?" "You won't believe it, Rosie. It's... I was upstairs, you know, up in the tangerine loft with a friend, just watching TV..." "You weren't with that Bunny Harrison, were you?" "I haven't seen Bunny in weeks." "Range Dalton, that's it isn't it? You were with Range Dalton." "I was not! Now do you want to hear my story or not?" "Yep. Yep yep yep. Got your message, loud and clear. Quiet. I'm getting very, very quiet. Private O'Donnell zipping it over here for General George. Turning off mouth motor. Starting to..." "Rosie!" "Sorry. Mmmm mmmm." "That's better. Okay, so we're watching the telly and I begin hearing these strange noises in the kitchen..." "What kind of noises, Boy?" "Sort of like a trombone, you know, 'Blat, Wahhaahhwaaahh'. Very eerie. Someone's broken into me flat, I think, better call the coppers on the phone. So I wait, and I wait, and I wait, and finally there's two of New York's so-called finest at the door, and they ask me 'Where's this intruder that you called about?' and I say 'Well of course there's no intruder now, you taking so long to get here and what not', and they say 'Are you trying to get smart with us Boy George? Yes, we know your name. We knew who you were the moment we saw your distinctive make-up, and you look stoned out of your gourd', and I say 'No I am not. I'm just having a couple of beers with my mate Range', and I..." "Range Dalton. Rosie called it. Nailed it on the head. I knew it was Range Dalton when..." "Oh, quiet you. And then one of the coppers says 'My, my, Boy George, it sure looks like snow today... Mind explaining what these fourteen little plastic bags are doing on your dinette table?', and I say 'See, that's proof that somebody broke into me flat. There should be sixteen bags', and then I say 'Oops...'" "Oopsie doopsie." "Things went downhill from there. I said 'I meant, someone could've broken in and left this cocaine on my table', and they said 'Broke in and left that cocaine on your table, did they Boy George? Not bloody likely', and then they slapped the handcuffs on me and took me down and booked me. Can you believe no one even asked me for an autograph, Rosie? And I just got out a short hop ago and I called you. Want some blow?" "Too early for me, Boy, but thank you all the same. What's going to happen next?" "It's the hanging judge for me, Rosie. They could give me up to fifteen years." "Oh no!" "Oh yes." "Oh no..." "Uh huh." "Oh Boy." "What do we do, Rosie?" "You're going to escape, Georgie, that's what. Rosie is going to get you onto a jet and fly you back to Merry Old England before those coppers ever get their dirty New York hands on you again." "But won't they recognize us?" "It's a chance we'll have to take, Boy. It's a river we'll have to cross, a sea we'll have to swim. It's a horse we have to ride, Boy, a burger we have to eat. It's a mountain..." "Rosie!" "Oops, sorry. Zipping it, boss. Calling up the tongue patrol. Clamping down the jaws over here. Giving traction to..." - 2005

Blog Against Theocracy

This banner is free to use for any participants. Details forthcoming.

transmission

There was a major news story yesterday, barely appearing on the radar in U.S. markets in spite of it's impact. You might want to learn up on it since it happens to coincide with the U.S. troop buildup in Afghanistan. The Pakistani government has agreed to a truce with the Taliban, effectively giving them control of the Swat Valley, a hugely strategic portion of Pakistan which is within close proximity to the countries three most important cities (Peshawar, Rawalpindi, and Islamabad). Here is the sound of a government in defeat: "Pakistani government officials insisted the truce with the Taliban and the switch to the Shariah, the Islamic legal code, were consistent with the Constitution and presented no threat to the integrity of the nation." The Eastern world, being geographically closer, looks at the situation with considerably less detachment. IBN India lends a little perspective: "By agreeing to a ceasefire with the Taliban group TNSM run by Sufi Mohammed, now controlled by his son-in-law "Radio Mullah"- the government is cutting a deal with groups that have killed thousands of Pakistani soldiers, blown up more than 200 girls schools forcing some 80,000 of them to stay home. They have beheaded hundreds of people, many of them women accused of 'adultery', convicted by their ad-hoc Shari'a courts in public executions and clamped a reign of fear across the area. To agree to their terms is to reward their cruel lawlessness by making them the law." You may have noticed the reference to 'Radio Mullah'. That would be an allusion to Maulana Shah Dauran, host of the Swat Valley 'must listen radio' show 'Voice of Sharee`ah' (aka 'Maulana Fazullah'), the program where you can tune in and find out whether your number is about to come up and your head is about to come off. I summarized this operation a few weeks ago, and if you missed it, you might find it worthwhile to read it now. Radio can be a powerful weapon, and Maulana Shah Dauran has used is successfully. He can act unencumbered in a portion of Pakistan that is now truly his own turf. Of course the broadcasts will continue, and until/unless stopped, their influence will increase. ____________________________________________ I needed a hard break there before veering off into the comparatively trivial topic of Mullah Rush and his brethren. There are fascinating parallels to be found between 'Voice of Sharee`ah' and the 'Voice of Dittoheads'. To begin with, both sources despise the systems that they are imbedded in, pray for their failure, and dedicate their considerable influence into hastening their fall. It was kind of instructive, was it not, that National Republican Congressional Committee chairman Pete Sessions recently bragged about how his party was adapting the tactics of the Taliban. Metaphorically speaking of course. Many of the remaining Republican members of congress are dedicated followers of the Limbaugh doctrine, but all of them have a deathly fear of the retribution that will befall them should they dare offend the great man. Just think about that. It's hard to mentally process, but it's true - people in leadership rolls who cower in fear at the sound of a pompous loudmouth who used to force his maid to score him OxyContin and Xanax. Howling with indignation at losing what is rightfully theirs, Rush and his minions long not just for victory and the vindication it brings, but much like the Taliban, they seek vengeance, a proper reckoning for those who dared challenge them. Hit it, boy. "The left, the Democrat Party, will not control the government forever... they're going to lose down the road. They will not control government forever, and when our turn comes, we are going to turn the power of government against the left. We are going to investigate them. We are going to hold public hearings. We are going to humiliate them. We're going to nationalize their unions... We are gonna turn the power of government against the left, and against Democrats in ways they cannot imagine. They will not know what hit them. They are using the law. They are using government to advance a cause that is un-American. We are going to use the power that the left is centralizing in the federal government to punish them, to break 'em up, and to make them pay for this... We are taking names. We are taking names now. We are monitoring who on the left is going to deserve payback, and it's going to be hell." - Rush, 2/11/09.

Joy Division 'Transmission'

rattled them quickly. death on a stick.

Critics totally enthralled

Critical praise rarely translates into Box-office Boffo, but this weekend's surprise smash 'Friday the 13th' proved to be the exception to that rule, pulling in an estimated 42 million over the three day period. "Totally surprising", "totally groundbreaking", and "totally original" were just three variations of the word 'totally' used by the nation's premier film critics in describing this totally brilliant story about a troubled young man with a penchant for hacking wayward teenagers into beefsteak tartar. "I was totally unprepared for the intellectual depth and moral clarity that young director Marcus Nispel brought into the creation of this cinematic masterpiece," raved New York Time's critic A.O. Scott. "The man is totally underrated, although I strongly suspect that will change quickly with the release of this signature film. "Perfection is the name of Nispel's game here. To start with, there's the title, 'Friday the 13th'. What on earth could it signify? I thought it might be a Tyler Perry movie, but you could be talking romantic comedy, action-adventure, pretty much anything with a name like that." "But then, when the wonderfully-etched protagonist appears from nowhere and hacks up an arrogant young bong-smoking punk at, of all places, a deserted summer camp, I knew something special was afoot. A shock like that right at the beginning of the film, who would have expected it? I was totally surprised, and then I was totally surprised again another dozen times. Thirteen surprises in one film, that's a rather amazing accomplishment." "Intrigued is the word I would have to use," said Chicago Sun-Times critic Roger Ebert. "Totally intrigued. Of course I've only had time to watch the film three times thus far, so I'm sure that there is a lot more subtext I'll pick up on as time goes by." "The use of the color red in the cinematography is visually striking, but it seemed to be metaphorical as well, as if to say 'death is all around us'. I wanted to know just who this Jason Voorhees was, what motivated him, and why does he have such a predilection for carving utensils? I wanted to see beneath the mask, to see the human spirit underneath, although I fully realized that the director wanted to leave some questions unanswered. All I can say is that I pray someday there will be a sequel to this fine movie, because if there is, I'm totally there."

and to think, Cantor coulda picked this...

Obama regime has NEVs!

Disclaimer: Video not up to Blue Gal standards

And now we present another mystery pretty much solved, which is what we do for a living here at Fried Green al-Qaedas. If you're like me (and I'm assuming that you are), you probably couldn't wait to visit House Minority Whip Eric Cantor's web site to check out his new "fun, short" victory video. While it doesn't measure up to my admittedly high standard of "fun", it does quite successfully meet the international standard for "short". I'm guessing that we can thank the lavish expense of licensing an Aerosmith song for that blessing. ('Back in the Saddle', doncha know, cause that's the image the GOP is going to run with, and if you don't believe it, they'll tell you again.) Stimulus bill, let's see... Unprecedented wasteful spending, check... Written in secret, check... GOP fought for you, check... Millions for golf carts, check? Okay, that last one left me a little confused. Thankfully, for every head-scratching Republican factoid, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation at Townhall.com, which took a real close look at page 96 of the stimulus bill. For capital expenditures and necessary expenses of acquiring motor vehicles with higher fuel economy, including: hybrid vehicles; neighborhood electric vehicles; electric vehicles; and commercially-available, plug-in hybrid vehicles, $300,000,000. "The Democrats thought they could fool you," Town Hall explains, by using the innocuous term 'neighborhood electrical vehicles', refusing to even use the industry standard acronym NEVs. And much as Soylent Green is people, NEVs is golf carts! There you go. Glad to clear that up for you. A lot of golf in the Dems' future. Things really are worse than you ever could have imagined, but at least you have the GOP back in the saddle, fighting for you.

cold

Hey, Maldonado, wait a minute...

It is not only the national GOP leadership that has been feeling alone and alienated as of late. The urge to strike out and say 'I am somebody' has afflicted Republicans in the state congresses just as deeply; perhaps even more so, to be perfectly honest, because all of the cameras that arrive to film their pain bear the insignia of local affiliates. Their cries are rarely heard beyond the state boundaries, and to be brutally honest about it, they are rarely heard even there unless it's a real slow news day. One can almost feel the pain of California's Abel Maldonado, seen as the single GOP vote which could make Governor Schwarzenegger package of tax hikes and spending cuts a reality, pulling the state back from the edge of the financial disaster that lurks ever nearer. "You can almost feel it, huh," mutters the embittered legislator. "Just like the Chargers almost made it to the Super Bowl, huh. Well, they're asking for almost $15 billion in tax increases, it just goes against what I believe in my heart and my values. And my deeply held need to seek vengeance." Maldonado hocks a loogie of bitterness onto the sidewalk of despair. Soon, there will be no one left to clean it up. He raises his voice in a feeble attempt at bravado. "There's nothing they can give me that would make me vote for this budget." It is odd, considering the GOPs zombie-like unity of recent days, to see this Republican senator abandoning the nation's second best known GOP governor - a man he mockingly calls Ah-null - but there is no love lost between these two Golden State titans. There was a long ago time, back in 2006, when Maldonado ran for state comptroller, and yet, inexplicably, Schwarzenegger did not campaign for him, causing Abel to spiral into defeat. His final words would seem to say it all. "Where was he when I needed him?" It was an easy question, one that we would have been only too happy to have answered for him, but his footsteps could already be heard echoing down the street, as he took a hard left on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams, and stepped aboard the soon to be unfunded trolley of relevance.

from the archives

The Quivering Corpse of Rudy McDowell

First off, a fucking corpse ain’t supposed to quiver. Second differentiation I need to mention, this is my first Friday night off in seven weeks, and I get to spend it with a girl who’s got a problem. A quivering problem. So is the motherfucker dead or not? None of my business, if I can help it. I get enough of this type business at work. In my off hours… ah, fuck it, who am I kidding? There are no off hours. I rummage through the filing cabinet of my brain – that room is always hopping, no matter how many lights are shut down in the other lobes. Loretta? Lucy? Not Lucinda, not with the file on her. I’d seen plenty of the stills. Not Lucinda, just plain Linda. Linda with the sparkling eyes and pert little nose. Shit, Michael Jackson had a bigger schnoz than Linda. “So Linda, you know this stiff?” Actually, he wasn’t all that stiff. Those legs were dancing around enough to drive you crazy. Not to exaggerate, because this tale don’t need it. Those legs weren’t dancing, exactly. They were just quivering in a most disconcerting way, a way that brought back a memory of my former partner Harry that I felt like a hard-knuckled punch in the gut by the nefarious Father Time. Harry – that name used to break me up because for him it was so apt, sonofabitch looked like a fucking ape – and I thought about his unfortunate demise at the hands of Doctor Remulak, and I was saddened, and then the corpse began to do the boogaloo. Not to exaggerate, because this tale don’t need it. That corpse wasn’t exactly doing the boogaloo, but it did release a gaseous emission of a noxious nature. Now I’ve been around the block, I know that dead bodies fart, it’s one of the many disgusting details about death. You don’t need to tell me a thing. “…not polite to fart in front of a lady.” It was Nickie! What was he doing here? “The name’s not Linda, it’s Lagrenia.” Natasha! “And the deceased underfoot goes by the moniker of Rudy McDowell. Runs an import/export biz for fish. The mounted type. Swordfish, sharks, what ever you wanna put on the wall.” Yeah, I’d hear of the gent. “Hey, did that thing just move?” Who suggested the cloak room, anyway? This place was getting more crowded than a Mickey D's with free French fries. I didn’t even know this broad, but she was right. The body had suddenly begun to breakdance. Not to exaggerate, because this tale don’t need it. The body wasn’t breakdancing, exactly, but rigor mortis was causing the arms to curl up a tad. Funny, in the dim light, the former Mister McDowell brought back memories, memories that I thought I had buried, much as this stiff should be buried, memories of a girl named Louise… “I’m not just a memory,” Louise said, right before the worm-bait began to turn cartwheels.

mmm, pie.

'Make Yourself a Happiness Pie' - GH Elliott

Coleman campaign finds life after death

Hey kids, build your own tombstone! Undeterred by Al Franken's refusal to 'just take a hike', Energizer candidate Norm Coleman sees the campaign to overturn his disputed loss in the 2008 senate election taking an unexpected turn for the better. "Like I said the other day on the Mike Gallagher Show, God wants me to serve," explained Coleman. "I was serious as a heart attack, an affliction which, by the way, has fatally stricken an estimated four hundred Minnesotans since election day. My goodness, election day... that was a long time ago, wasn't it? If I was a citizen of this great state, I would... oops, strike that, I am a citizen of this great state. But anyway, what I was going to say is that once it gets a little warmer outside, all Minnesotans should take to the streets in protest of the nefarious tomfoolery that has prevented me from returning to my rightful senate seat in the great state of Washington D.C." "Governor Pawlenty, a dishwater Republican if I ever saw one, has been more than a little remiss in not appointing me to serve out the remaining five years and nine months of the term, at least until the lackadaisical state courts are finally able to resolve this matter in my favor. And do you know who else at least appears to have been a little remiss? That would be God. Uh huh. This race shouldn't have even been close. The only sense I can make of it is that God might have been confused, what with two Jews running for the same senate seat. So, I decided to give Him the benefit of the doubt, a decision which I believe reflects well on me." "Yesterday, I was taking a stroll through Lakewood Cemetery up in Minneapolis... You know, I like to go up there sometimes when I ponder the ultimate fate of Al Franken. And while I was there, God, the guy I mentioned earlier, struck me with an epiphany. I saw the grave of a man named Benjamin Dover who had died just a few short weeks earlier, and a light bulb went on over my head. This was a dead voter! And he was not alone! I mean that not in the sense that he did not have sole possession of the graveyard, but in the sense that I realized there were other dead voters as well." "I raced back home and proceeded to delve into the law books, and get this. In Minnesota, the dead are not allowed to vote! And quite obviously, the vote is not over!" "The implications were staggering! I checked the demographic statistics for Minnesota and found that an average 36,000 people die here every year - 3000 a month times the 3.29 months since the election, multiplied by the percent of the voters in the state and you've got a potential of thousands of votes for Al Franken cast by the dead!" "Everything is invalidated. This is proof beyond a reasonable doubt that, even though there may be no easy way to prove it, I may in fact be the victor of this contest." "I want my seat now, Tim Pawlenty! Take out that big Governor pen of yours and make it so, or I'll keep Minnesota tied up in the courthouse until hell freezes over! This is outrageous and completely invalidates any misguided belief that the senate election in this state was in any way either fair or representative of the will of the living! My god, if this isn't the most cynically manipulative assault on our democratic system that I've ever seen, I'll eat my hat! Strike that, I don't wear a hat."