And the reality is we are all Aaron Worthing (Walker). True to Andrew Breitbart's next to last published words -- "apologize for what?" -- we will not apologize. We will not shut up. And we will not be stopped.
It's probably no secret to my regular readers who also blog, and certain others -- I am Barack Obama's Oil Spill's Blog. I kept it a little quiet for a bit from most of my non-blogging readers, but anyone who knows my regular posting frequency here can obviously tell I've dropped off both in amount and quality. And I certainly haven't been a good blog friend in returning everyone's visits or comments.
I apologize.
I've been really busy keeping my boot on the regime's throat over here. Plus Wild Thing #1 is playing summer baseball and the constant practicing and weekend-long tournaments are kicking all of our asses.
Please don't bail on ADHD. I'm nowhere near through skewering politicians and general overall stupidity at this place, but, obviously, the oil spill issue is an "opportunity in crisis."
I'm a retard. I don't mean that as any slight against anyone born with any disability, intellectual or otherwise. When they coined and defined that word, retard, they had a picture of me to look at, whoever they were.
I decided to take advantage of some down blogging time tonight and pull in some of the files I'd published over at Word Press, not all, just some of the posts that I most wanted to save, with the idea of deleting the Word Press blog. After all, even though I've told the Googlebots they're no longer allowed to play over there, Google will still penalize me for having the first 13 months of this site's life over there as well. (If you're new and confused: I left this little place and went "big-time" at Word Press in November, only to get my site hacked and whacked and hi-jacked, so I moved back over here in February.)
So I pulled over some posts and probably wasn't all that careful with stripping out the formatting from Word Press, meaning I just cut and paste into Blogger ... and low and behold, when the project was done, my Blogger template was whacked. The more I tinkered, the more, well, let's just say there was also a photo of me next to whoever coined and defined the term douchebag.
So here we are with yet another look, and I think, for the most part, I can live with it. Additionally, since sig94 put a post up this a.m. that is now buried, I'm going to give it a little update so it gets pushed back up near the top, under this one.
As always, thanks for your patience ... and thanks for reading.
Hey, folks. I've been noticing that many of you haven't been taking advantage of the JS-KIT commenting widget. It's actually quite easy to use, and if you either sign up for a JS-KIT ECHO account or sign in using one of your other social media accounts, you'll be able to load your avatar AND a link to your site.
Just click on FROM and select the service you want to use, or sign up for an ECHO account.
And don't be afraid that they're tracking your comments. This is the innerwebz, EVERYONE is tracking every word you write.
Just because Ron Russell never knows what to expect when he clicks in here (take a look at the keywords, by the way, Ron), I've got this for you all today:
Some outstanding bloggers spread their excellence across the pond from Britain, and I sneak over for a peak, now and then, just because how they snark is so incredibly different than the way Americans approach the genre. There's a certain cadence to their craft that is mesmerizing, plus they're juvenile as all hell, which appeals to the 18-year-old invincible dumbfuck inside me that wants to spill some occasional invective all over these pages.
They can masterfully tackle subjects that many American bloggers won't even go near, and their ability to curse, particularly when insulting some person or thing, is first rate. For their balls alone, they are definitely worth visiting.
Here are a few you should check out for a dose of powerful snark and some riotous laughter:
Many more are worth your time, so poke around a little bit over there, and you'll be rewarded.
There's another I particularly love, a shared effort by Grumpy Old Twat and All Seeing Eye that is not for the feint of heart, especially if you have an aversion to a certain word that begins with a c, which, over there, doesn't have anything to do with genitalia ... it's more a statement of, well, this discussion (including the comments) is quite interesting (really).
If the word offends, then I humbly ask you not to click the links below. If it doesn't, then I hereby offer you a few of my own contributions (the first two my snark, the rest just nominations) to a delightful blog of extreme put downs:
P.S. Fer fuck's sake. Brew Wales, down in the comments section, is spot on. By the way I'm accounting things in this post, Al Qeada is "English" since they live and operate in the G.B. So to correct myself, The Lone Voice is a WELSH blog, as it is written in Wales by a Welshman who lives and breathes and eats and drinks and says c#$% a lot in Wales, of course. I'm open to more corrections because, by BW's observations, I live in East Mexico, given that illegal Mexicans in Atlanta control the entire drug trade for the whole eastern seaboard of the United States.
Now then...grab your boys and cough. I need to see if this place herniated during my absence.
Really, though, this blog might actually be bloody better off if I just stay away. It's a sad state of affairs when the guests are cooler and get more comments than the host's stale retreads (though I knew all along they would and thusly invited the fellows to hang about for a bit because of their talents).
Alas, however, contrary to the popular refrain from Cheech and Chong, Dave is indeed here, man.
It was a perilous journey up into the Great Lame North, but I made relatively easy work of things. The poor blue states never knew what hit them. And before anyone realized I'd been around, they were all staring at the 1-20-2013 sticker on the back of the family Caravan, wondering what fortune teller had just sped south past their creepy little yellow smart cars at 80 mph (their top speed of 6 mph making all 112 1/2 barely breathing horses under the family Caravan's hood look like they powered the friggin' space shuttle).
And I didn't even get any dirty looks...which should tell you how fickle indeed the poor starving and over-taxed blue staters really are, deep down inside, once ACORN's left town and the locals have had a chance to peek at the sun for the three months it's around, contrary to the warnings of the impotent anthropomorphic global warming freaks walking about, trying to thumb a ride to the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, only to find out they need a friggin' paying ticket, and the cops will stomp their ass if they try to force their way in free all legacy horror-show like.
Someday I'll have to tell you the story of how I could have been the first baby to dance to Jimi Hendrix's version of The Star Spangled Banner, live, if it weren't for my savvy father.
Anyway, I'd like to say my mission succeeded in the smoting down of the evil Ed Rendell and the odious Arlen Sphincter and the cretinous John Murtha. I'd like to say that on my way past the Beltway I slipped on the ole Ninja getup and sneaked into D.C. and tossed a bucket of water on the Wicked Witch of Congress and watched her shriek "My Botox! My Botox! My Botox!" as she melted into a pool of toxic waste. I'd like to say I ran that nasty old Obugger back down into that fissure from hell he crawled out of, shoving Rahmbo and his Dr. Mengele wanna be brother down after him. I'd like to say that during our return through West Virginia my trusty shotgun shredded every "Robert Byrd Highway to Nowhere" system sign we passed. Hell, I'd like to say that I single handedly rolled back 66 years of ruinous liberal assaults on the Constitution and restored the grace of the Republic for years to come.
A fine dream indeed, but lies they'd be if I boasted such triumphs were true. (One of these days I'll have to vacation in Grand-dad and Granny land when the bastards we elect are in town, so I can stop by on the way up or down and wreak utter havoc.)
I did, however, tell one brash Noo Yawka liquor store vendor to "fuck off. You can get your business from someone more deserving of your abuse, like a union Democrat thug," after he wouldn't let me look at a little bottle of Wudka that would have been perfect for a few martinis on a hot summer's day on mom's back porch.
So I went cow tipping instead.
And for all the fine cows that ended up lying sideways (btw..."cow tipping" is a friggin' myth...it doesn't work, but if you try it on a bull, he might just tip you, head over friggin' heels), I'd like to say each one reminded me of Mike, Matt, and Innominatus for holding down the fort with grace and style and humor and dignity, even if it put them on Obugger's new report-thy-neighbor list.
Here's a repost of something I wrote a while back when Chip Harrison’s car got pulled over for displaying a sign that said: “Abort Obama Not the Unborn.”
Given that the president has people telling on their neighbors over at his "flag" email address (hey, pres, FLAG YOU!), I thought it might be fun to revisit what might happen if my neighbors have been telling on me.
I’m pretty sure how it will go….
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Two men in black stand rigidly at the door. One reaches out like a dumb friggin’ robot to push the doorbell.
What appear to be explosions erupt inside the house. A vicious dog barks 40 times a second. A chorus of high-pitched screeching approaches the door amid the warnings of the attack dog. The cacophony is so loud one agent puts a hand over his ear. The silhouette of a man becomes clear through the door’s tempered glass. He appears to be bobbing and weaving, as if he were a boxer. He seems to trip… over two smaller silhouettes, and a white amorphous mass, the front of which seems to bounce off the floor like a jackhammer. Up and down. BARK BARK BARK! Up and down. BARK BARK BARK! Up and down.
Secret Service Man #1 reaches his right hand beneath his jacket and flips the catch on his shoulder holster, then returns the hand to his side.
BAM! The man inside slams into the door: Shit!
He fumbles for the locks, frees them, and shouts: Hold on…wait…Dog (real name withheld to protect the guilty)…DAMMIT! DOG!...Lucy? LUCY!? (real name again withheld to protect the guilty) CAN YOU GET THIS FRIGGIN’ BEAST OUT OF HERE?
Two smaller silhouettes, apparently young children, seem to be hopping up and down, as if on a trampoline.
The silhouette of (apparently) “Lucy” pulls the amorphous white mass that is “Dog” back into the recesses of the house, the sound of a million paw nails scratching the floor loud, then diminishing, then gone.
[Narrator interruption: I shit you not. This happens any time anyone rings the door bell. Neighbor kid. Pizza man. Church lady. Secret Service.]
The door opens. Just a little. A bespectacled man with wild curly hair pokes his head through the crack.
SS#1: Sir. Are you Dr. Dave ADHD?
Man: Umm…yes. Can I help you?
Secret Service Man #2: We’re with the Secret Service, Mr. ADHD.
Both men extract wallets and flip them open so quickly to reveal identification, the man in the door blinks a few times.
Man: Is that something you learn as freshmen in Secret Service School?
SS#1: Frowns. Sir. We’re here on official government business.
Man: Smiles, like a jackass. Umm…yeah…I got that when you said the words “Secret Service.”
SS#2: Sir. We understand you write a seditious blog. We’re concerned you’re with a hate group. We’d like to come in and look around.
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
SS#1: Sir. Can we have a look around…inside?
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
SS#1: MR. ADHD!
Man: Collects himself. Sure. Why the hell not? Welcome to my nightmare!
Man opens the door. Two children swoop past him. From somewhere inside the house, a million paw nails scratch the floor, the sound drawing closer and closer.
“Lucy”: Dog. Dog! Get BACK here!
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
SS#1 and SS#2 cross the threshold into the house. The two children block their path. The white amorphous “Dog” jumps between the two children, tail wagging, knocking both of them to the floor.
“Dog” jumps up and plants its paws on SS#1’s chest…and licks SS#2’s trigger hand.
Boy and Girl recover, pull themselves off the floor, and, hopping up and down, again block the path of SS#1 and SS#2.
Boy: Why are you wearing black? Hop. Hop. Hop.
Girl: Yeah. Why? Hop. Hop. Hop.
Boy: Can we have those sunglasses? Hop. Hop. Hop.
Girl: Yeah. Can we? Hop. Hop. Hop.
“Dog” jumps down from SS#1 and jumps on SS#2’s chest…and licks SS#1’s trigger hand.
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
SS#1: MR. ADHD. If you could, PLEASE!
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
Boy: Did you come to see Daddy’s guns?
Girl: Yeah. Did you?
Boy: My daddy was in the Army!
Girl: Yeah. The Army!
Boy: He hates Obama!
Girl: Yeah. Rock Obama![Narrator translation: This one thinks “Obama has rocks in his head” sounds better her way.]
SS#1 smiles. So…Mr. ADHD. You’re flying your flag outside upside down. You have a seditious blog. You own guns. You “hate” the president. You want to tell us about your hate?
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs. I’m just a blogger, man. I’m just having fun.
Boy: Want to play football?
Girl: No. Play babies!
SS#2: Sir. Can you do something about these children?
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs. I’ve been trying. For 7 years. That’s why I blog. So I can take my frustration out on dumb people. Your boss just happens to be the dumbest one around. Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
Girl: Rock Obama!
Boy: I lost my tooth. Grins widely. See?
Girl: Daddy makes fires in the fireplace so I can warm belly? Pulls up her shirt. See?
“Dog” still licks SS#1’s trigger hand.
Boy: Want to see my room?
Girl: No. Mine!
Boy: I like pizza! Do you?
Girl: Yeah. Pizza!
Boy growls. [Narrator: This is an involuntary reflex, we think. Or maybe he really is a monster.]
THUD! Everyone turns around to see Man lying on the floor.
“Lucy”: Hun? Hun, are you okay?
Man was laughing so hard he could no longer stand up. “Dog” hovers over him and starts licking his face.
SS#2 turns to SS#1: Umm…I don’t think this man belongs to any hate group. But he sure isn’t right in the head.
SS#1 turns to “Lucy”: Ma’am. Can we call someone for your husband?
Man stops laughing: Yes. Please! Take me away! I’ll even go to the gulag. Just…get…me…out of here!
Last week, I wrote about Al Franken's elevation to the U.S. Senate, so he could finally get a chance to play with all of his clown friends.
Naturally, Dr. Dave being Dr. Dave, I played off the title of his asinine book, "Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot," and appropriately titled my piece: Al Franken Is a Big Fat Dickhead Senator.
My use of "dickhead" apparently has endeared me to Google's SEO algorithm because, while checking my sitemeter today, I noticed a hit from the following search term:
It's not every day you're ranked just below an (attributed, no less) article about male enhancement techniques, and the person doing the search takes time away from his...um...quest to pay your blog a visit.
Captain Thurston, who may be more of a nutjob than I am, has invited me to contribute to his lovely tabloidesque blog, THE BIG FEED. Stop over and say hello, and please make him part of your regular stops.
BTW...fellow bloggers, the good Cpt. is looking for a few good men and women to board his ship, so if you're looking for another vessel for your Conservative eccentricisms, drop him a comment on any post over there.
Also, there's a new blog, Spank the 8, devoted to beating the shit out of the ACES 8 Republicans (in the 2010 elections, Mr. DOJ troll) who helped cap and slave make it through the House. Stop by there, too...or else I'll sick Vinny the Ice Pick on you.
Whoever came up with this 24 hour crap for the length of a day is a friggin' idiot because, unfortunately, my blogging will be sporadic this week.
It's not that my well of material is empty, although my wife will tell you my brain certainly is. There's plenty more idiocy to come from this here nutjob.
However...it's little league baseball championship week, and my boy's Red Sox (yeah, I know, I'm a Yankees fan, but this spring I'm switching sides...though I will be holding a burning ceremony for my coach's uniform when the week is through) team is one game from the championship.
The presses or XML or data feed from my inner idiot is caged a bit. I'll be sure to put some nonsense up at least every other day, or more if my employer is looking the other way. If I've learned anything from b. Hussein it's that one must take advantage of opportunity in crisis...oh...and cast nasty little spells on 62 million Zombies.
So, I gotta go...they need me to coach first base, so I can get kids out at second.
Plus, the lawn's about two feet high now. I think there's a family of copperheads moving in. And Hobbits. So I gotta get that done before Mrs. ADHD sends me back to the league of eligible fat and graying and barely sane bachelors.
Next time the sign in Chip Harrison’s car might say something like: “I’m sorry, Mr. Policeman, Mr. Messiah, and Mr. Secret Service Guy. I love babies more than I do the president. I want them to stay and him to go away -- when his term is over…let me make that clear…WHEN HIS TERM IS OVER…OR HE’S IMPEACHED.”
If the sign fits in the window.
Or maybe it will say something more direct, but legal, such as: “Go Frig Yourself, Mr. President.”
But what it WON’T say is: “Abort Obama Not the Unborn.” Why be clever when it gets you associated with “hate groups?”
If you’ve spent any time around this nutty place, you probably have a clear understanding that I’m not exactly in love with b. Hussein. Hmm…does that make me part of a “hate group?” Should I be expecting a visit from the Secret Service, too?
There’s still time to find out…and I’m pretty sure how it will go….
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Two men in black stand rigidly at the door. One reaches out like a dumb friggin’ robot to push the doorbell.
What appear to be explosions erupt inside the house. A vicious dog barks 40 times a second. A chorus of high-pitched screeching approaches the door amid the warnings of the attack dog. The cacophony is so loud one agent puts a hand over his ear. The silhouette of a man becomes clear through the door’s tempered glass. He appears to be bobbing and weaving, as if he were a boxer. He seems to trip… over two smaller silhouettes, and a white amorphous mass, the front of which seems to bounce off the floor like a jackhammer. Up and down. BARK BARK BARK! Up and down. BARK BARK BARK! Up and down.
Secret Service Man #1 reaches his right hand beneath his jacket and flips the catch on his shoulder holster, then returns the hand to his side.
BAM! The man inside slams into the door: Shit!
He fumbles for the locks, frees them, and shouts: Hold on…wait…Dog (real name withheld to protect the guilty)…DAMMIT! DOG!...Lucy? LUCY!? (real name again withheld to protect the guilty) CAN YOU GET THIS FRIGGIN’ BEAST OUT OF HERE?
Two smaller silhouettes, apparently young children, seem to be hopping up and down, as if on a trampoline.
The silhouette of (apparently) “Lucy” pulls the amorphous white mass that is “Dog” back into the recesses of the house, the sound of a million paw nails scratching the floor loud, then diminishing, then gone.
[Narrator interruption: I shit you not. This happens any time anyone rings the door bell. Neighbor kid. Pizza man. Church lady. Secret Service.]
The door opens. Just a little. A bespectacled man with wild curly hair pokes his head through the crack.
SS#1: Sir. Are you Dr. Dave ADHD?
Man: Umm…yes. Can I help you?
Secret Service Man #2: We’re with the Secret Service, Mr. ADHD.
Both men extract wallets and flip them open so quickly to reveal identification, the man in the door blinks a few times.
Man: Is that something you learn as freshmen in Secret Service School?
SS#1: Frowns. Sir. We’re here on official government business.
Man: Smiles, like a jackass. Umm…yeah…I got that when you said the words “Secret Service.”
SS#2: Sir. We understand you write a seditious blog. We’re concerned you’re with a hate group. We’d like to come in and look around.
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
SS#1: Sir. Can we have a look around…inside?
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
SS#1: MR. ADHD!
Man: Collects himself. Sure. Why the hell not? Welcome to my nightmare!
Man opens the door. Two children swoop past him. From somewhere inside the house, a million paw nails scratch the floor, the sound drawing closer and closer.
“Lucy”: Dog. Dog! Get BACK here!
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
SS#1 and SS#2 cross the threshold into the house. The two children block their path. The white amorphous “Dog” jumps between the two children, tail wagging, knocking both of them to the floor.
“Dog” jumps up and plants its paws on SS#1’s chest…and licks SS#2’s trigger hand.
Boy and Girl recover, pull themselves off the floor, and, hopping up and down, again block the path of SS#1 and SS#2.
Boy: Why are you wearing black? Hop. Hop. Hop.
Girl: Yeah. Why? Hop. Hop. Hop.
Boy: Can we have those sunglasses? Hop. Hop. Hop.
Girl: Yeah. Can we? Hop. Hop. Hop.
“Dog” jumps down from SS#1 and jumps on SS#2’s chest…and licks SS#1’s trigger hand.
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
SS#1: MR. ADHD. If you could, PLEASE!
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
Boy: Did you come to see Daddy’s guns?
Girl: Yeah. Did you?
Boy: My daddy was in the Army!
Girl: Yeah. The Army!
Boy: He hates Obama!
Girl: Yeah. Rock Obama![Narrator translation: This one thinks “Obama has rocks in his head” sounds better her way.]
SS#1 smiles. So…Mr. ADHD. You’re flying your flag outside upside down. You have a seditious blog. You own guns. You “hate” the president. You want to tell us about your hate?
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs. I’m just a blogger, man. I’m just having fun.
Boy: Want to play football?
Girl: No. Play babies!
SS#2: Sir. Can you do something about these children?
Man: Laughs. And laughs. And laughs. I’ve been trying. For 7 years. That’s why I blog. So I can take my frustration out on dumb people. Your boss just happens to be the dumbest one around. Laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
Girl: Rock Obama!
Boy: I lost my tooth. Grins widely. See?
Girl: Daddy makes fires in the fireplace so I can warm belly? Pulls up her shirt. See?
“Dog” still licks SS#1’s trigger hand.
Boy: Want to see my room?
Girl: No. Mine!
Boy: I like pizza! Do you?
Girl: Yeah. Pizza!
Boy growls. [Narrator: This is an involuntary reflex, we think. Or maybe he really is a monster.]
THUD! Everyone turns around to see Man lying on the floor.
“Lucy”: Hun? Hun, are you okay?
Man was laughing so hard he could no longer stand up. “Dog” hovers over him and starts licking his face.
SS#2 turns to SS#1: Umm…I don’t think this man belongs to any hate group. But he sure isn’t right in the head.
SS#1 turns to “Lucy”: Ma’am. Can we call someone for your husband?
Man stops laughing: Yes. Please! Take me away! I’ll even go to the gulag. Just…get…me…out of here!
Man then laughs. And laughs. And laughs.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
If you made it all the way through my crap, you deserve a reward:
Like. Hi! I’m all excited today! I just started this blog! At 71! Which is so funny, since I'm such a luddite (wow! I didn't even know I knew such big words)...I'm a big fat technophobe. Like. I didn't even start shaving my armpits until my friend showed me how to do that last summer.
Like. I also didn’t even google anything until my friend taught me how this past summer…because…well…I'm dumber than Nancy Pelosi!
The FIRST thing I googled was my name! I found some awesome pictures.
These bring back great memories (for me):
They're from my August 22, 1972, broadcast from the Hotel Especen, in Hanoi, Vietnam.
I have such fond memories of that time (even more fond than snookering Ted into marrying me for 10 years and then taking him for $40 million...and then losing most of it by investing in Enron).
The next thing I googled was my actual speech. I remember every word like it was yesterday (you can forget that apology I made in 1988…it was as about as sincere as my love for Ted).
This is Jane Fonda. During my two-week visit in the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, I've had the opportunity to visit a great many places and speak to a large number of people from all walks of life-workers, peasants, students, artists and dancers, historians, journalists, film actresses, soldiers, militia girls, members of the women's union, writers.
I visited the (Dam Xuac) agricultural coop, where the silk worms are also raised and thread is made. I visited a textile factory, a kindergarten in Hanoi. The beautiful Temple of Literature was where I saw traditional dances and heard songs of resistance. I also saw unforgettable ballet about the guerrillas training bees in the south to attack enemy soldiers. The bees were danced by women, and they did their job well.
In the shadow of the Temple of Literature I saw Vietnamese actors and actresses perform the second act of Arthur Miller's play All My Sons, and this was very moving to me-the fact that artists here are translating and performing American plays while US imperialists are bombing their country.
I cherish the memory of the blushing militia girls on the roof of their factory, encouraging one of their sisters as she sang a song praising the blue sky of Vietnam-these women, who are so gentle and poetic, whose voices are so beautiful, but who, when American planes are bombing their city, become such good fighters. I cherish the way a farmer evacuated from Hanoi, without hesitation, offered me, an American, their best individual bomb shelter while US bombs fell near by. The daughter and I, in fact, shared the shelter wrapped in each others arms, cheek against cheek. It was on the road back from Nam Dinh, where I had witnessed the systematic destruction of civilian targets-schools, hospitals, pagodas, the factories, houses, and the dike system.
As I left the United States two weeks ago, Nixon was again telling the American people that he was winding down the war, but in the rubble-strewn streets of Nam Dinh, his words echoed with sinister (words indistinct) of a true killer. And like the young Vietnamese woman I held in my arms clinging to me tightly-and I pressed my cheek against hers-I thought, this is a war against Vietnam perhaps, but the tragedy is America's.
One thing that I have learned beyond a shadow of a doubt since I've been in this country is that Nixon will never be able to break the spirit of these people; he'll never be able to turn Vietnam, north and south, into a neo-colony of the United States by bombing, by invading, by attacking in any way. One has only to go into the countryside and listen to the peasants describe the lives they led before the revolution to understand why every bomb that is dropped only strengthens their determination to resist.
I've spoken to many peasants who talked about the days when their parents had to sell themselves to landlords as virtually slaves, when there were very few schools and much illiteracy, inadequate medical care, when they were not masters of their own lives.
But now, despite the bombs, despite the crimes being created-being committed against them by Richard Nixon, these people own their own land, build their own schools-the children learning, literacy- illiteracy is being wiped out, there is no more prostitution as there was during the time when this was a French colony. In other words, the people have taken power into their own hands, and they are controlling their own lives.
And after 4,000 years of struggling against nature and foreign invaders-and the last 25 years, prior to the revolution, of struggling against French colonialism-I don't think that the people of Vietnam are about to compromise in any way, shape or form about the freedom and independence of their country, and I think Richard Nixon would do well to read Vietnamese history, particularly their poetry, and particularly the poetry written by Ho Chi Minh.
Then…I was so giddy with finding all of my old “lapses of judgement,” I decided to find one of my more recent ones…you know…when I said “cunt” on the Today Show!
That’s one of my favorites! It changed my life. It really did!
Ooh! This blogging stuff is really cool.
I can’t wait to make my next post and tell you about flying to New York with my dog Tulea and having her shit on my lap when a goose went through one of the plane engines and we dropped 10,000 feet. I was so pissed, I marched right up to the cabin and banged on that steel door until the head flight attendant tased my ass and I got hauled away to jail…again…when we landed.
I’m pretty friggin’ whacked so there aren’t many I’d bow down to and anoint as more nutty than I am…well…I did write that hero worship about Iowahawk a while back. But I’m also American, so that leaves me at a disadvantage, having been born with a stick up my arse, as they like to say across the pond.
That’s why I go over there now and then and visit a few anti-government types who REALLY know a lot about lunacy. It keeps my power dry…I can only read so much blathering idiocy here about the Messiah, and write the words “the Messiah,” so many times without wanting to ram a rusty pitch fork up my nose to get it all over with fast. (I’ve worked it out in the garage…there’d be a little pain, but trading 5 to 10 seconds of self-inflicted excrutiation in lieu of the next 4 to 8 years of Solyent Green is utterly friggin’ tempting…Ssh! Don’t tell Mrs. ADHD!)
But THIS f%$ker (sorry if you’re squeamish, but you’ll understand in just a second) is the nut of the nuts, the top clown. I can’t go a day without visiting, if for nothing more than just to spit a mouthful of Fuller’s all over my LCD screen (I’ve rigged up a set of wipers…no lie). If you don’t like trashy mouths…just click back now. If you DO…man…turn up the volume (in your head, you twat).
Why are kids afraid of him? They need to be, that’s friggin’ why. And I’m absolutely flipping I found him.
Honoring my intent, I’m open to discussing all things stupid.
So I’m going to get away from prattling on about King Showbama and (to a lesser extent) his evil counterpart, the eunuch, McLame, at least for the next 5 minutes.
I’m told by a fellow blogger (a PAID blogger, I will admit) that my posts are far too long for this medium. My “wit” (I thought it was bile!) is buried in my bullshit. My use of repetition, hyperbole, and overly dramatic writing (techniques that date back to the earliest form of story…um…The Bible) are too-old school for this new, frantic medium.
My use of naming conventions (loud, overblown, capitalization of common words such as, oh, I don’t know, King ShowBAMA!) is…distracting. (My, how I’m going to enjoy gushing forth that name for the next 4 years.)
My windiness overwhelms you.
You, the reader, don’t have enough patience to wait for the point. You’re distracted. You have ADHD. You’re dumb. Or so this line of thinking follows to its logical conclusion.
This whole short and sweet rule prevailing despite the relative breeziness of some popular blogs (maybe they’ve earned the right to blather on and on?):
But, you know, I’m too long. (And I thought the point of a blog was having something to say…even if you have too MUCH to say!)
So, I would like to announce to my followers (all three of you…it says so right there in the right-nav beside us) that I will from this day forth write only one-word posts.
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