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DREGUBLOG CATEGORY ARCHIVE: Poli-Psycho

Thursday, September 18, 2008

CULTURAL WARFARE: IT'S THE FREEDOM, STUPID


(NOTE: This is the same article that is currently appearing on Huffington Post)

Through the choice of his pro-life running-mate, Sarah Palin, John McCain and the GOP have made one point perfectly clear:

This is a single-issue election, and the issue is abortion.

The entire future of America -- our precarious economy, our critical foreign policy -- everything about this election that requires a sensible, grown-up argument with wonky, unemotional, boring facts behind it -- is being thrown under the bus.

The Republicans, in the face of Obama's ascendancy and the indefensibility of their policy decisions in the last eight years, have just pulled a desperation maneuver and hijacked what is perhaps the most important presidential elections in America's history by demoting it to an emotional cat-fight between pro-choice and pro-life women, over the one issue where neither side can be reasonable.

The rest of this election, no matter what is discussed, is essentially brain-dead.

McCain, with one stroke, has tipped all the wavering, undeclared Christians into his own till. This is brilliant political strategy, until you consider the fact that it is horrifically short-sighted. Many taxpayers who aren't conservative Christian Republicans will lose faith in this country, and abandon any hope that the nation will pull out of its current downward spiral. Many will abandon America completely rather than subject themselves and their children to the disastrous aftermath of yet another hair-raisingly corrupt and incompetent Republican administration and its policies. I believe the choice of Sarah Palin is a tacit declaration of war, by the GOP, on secular government, and a declaration of its intentions to let the highest office in the United States serve as a handmaiden to the ambitions of the Christian right.

Sarah Palin represents the ambition of evangelical Christianity to forcefully dominate, and pervert into its own ideological image and likeness, the legislature of a country that was founded on a principal of religious freedom.

John McCain has effectively declared a holy war on Americans whose religions are less dogmatic than that of evangelical Christians. The GOP seeks to put women back in chastity belts: Sarah Palin is their fit-model.

Freedom, like it or not, is synonymous with moral relativism. The whole point of American freedom is that someone else's extreme religion is disallowed from imposing its morality on personal decisions concerning our lifestyles, our sexuality, or our bodies.

We didn't pick this fight: John McCain did; abortion may be the fight, but it isn't the point. The issue at stake is our personal, civil liberties and individual rights -- particularly those of pro-choice women -- which are being directly threatened by the GOP's grasping, rapacious desire to impose a new theocratic authoritarianism on our society.

Christian evangelicals have forced America's sexual IQ to plummet even lower than the value of the American dollar. Do we really want an America where teenage girls are going to die from abortions that, once illegal, will only become an unsafe, underground economy like illegal drugs?
Do we really want our daughters to be forced to flee to liberal, civilized places like Mexico City (where abortions incidentally, are free) to terminate their unwanted pregnancies?


Freedom and hope are the greatest selling-points of America. If America sells out its freedom to Christian religious extremists, the brains of this country will go elsewhere, because freedom will go elsewhere. America will be as hopeless as a fat, poor, pregnant teen -- and just as smart a conversationalist.

Now that America is so deeply in debt, we don't get to make the rules anymore. Our future as a country now relies very uncomfortably on the perception the rest of the world has as to whether or not America will be able to bounce back after an utterly calamitous eight years of faith-based, conservative Republican administration with absolutely no sense of responsible stewardship.

With Barak Obama, there is some actual hope for America -- at least in terms of the perception of America beyond our borders -- to begin a slow, painful recovery. If John McCain and Sarah Palin win, they will accomplish more than the Taliban and al-Qaeda combined in terms of destroying the image of the United States as a free country, and a democracy that protects the civil liberties of individuals.

We cannot afford another administration with religious delusions of moral certainty in the White House. The sorry fact is that John McCain has brought this grudge match into the election booth: the future of America now hangs on the issue of choice. If abortion is made illegal, Liberty, ironically, will die.


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Tuesday, September 9, 2008

The Dark Knight: It Hurts So Bad

DK1[1].png

Hoping for a diversion from existential angst, a friend and I went to see The Dark Knight. What ensued was not a diversion from the angst, but a pummeling further into its depths.
The following commentary is in no way to be construed as currently topical, The Dark Knight having been out for a couple of months. It's just taken me this long to disentangle myself from the malevolence portrayed therein.

Becoming inured to insupportable violence has become de rigueur for film viewing audiences. The Dark Knight encapsulates this trend in filmmaking that I've been hoping would evolve into something else, a film whose primary objective is to beat the audience into submission through a combination of graphic superviolence, fast cutting, a deafening soundtrack, and a disregard for human suffering. This has gone beyond a niche to permeate nearly every film released, The Dark Knight being the present apotheosis of this style.

I mainly enjoyed the first half of The Dark Knight. The shot compositions and camera work showed the talent and skill of the director, Christopher Nolan. The script, by Christopher Nolan and Jonathan Nolan, was tight and adept. The performance by Heath Ledger was virtuosic in its business of psychopathology, a killer clown run rampant. Christian Bale, an actor I do not always favor due to his often smug and self-conscious portrayals, was subdued and almost touching in the role of a rasping, morally conflicted Batman. Batman has always been an interesting superhero because of his self-enforced duty to fight crime, and the moral conflicts that arise through this imprimatur. But there's the rub: who wants a superhero so morally conflicted that people die and institutions burn because of his mistakes? As the second half of the film sunk into utter darkness without a tad of redemption, I wondered why this is the modus operandi of every superhero now? We have Hancock, why must Batman to be like this too?

The reason seems apparent: that many people feel that we are living in a time in which we can depend on nothing, and the fabric of our governments, economies, and social structures are rending beneath us. The Dark Knight does not just suggest this state of being, but revels in it. Like many great films that concretize the reality in which they exist, it proves that this view is no longer an abstraction. No caped crusader is going to fly in and save us. The wealth, power, and scientific innovation in Batman's capable hands can do little against moral corruption and unmitigated violence. He tries again and again to successfully aid the cynical police department and the vulnerable citizenry, as do his allies on the ground, ably played by Aaron Eckhart, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and Gary Oldman. Neither they nor Batman can do anything against the terror and violence wrought by the bloodthirsty Joker.

Didn't the Joker used to be that, a kind of funny, wacky, if dangerous criminal? The Joker in The Dark Knight embodies the kind of violence only seen in the worst possible human situations, like war or prison; or in the insidious everyday desperation of the wicked patriarch who has absolute control of his family through pathological violence and manipulation, like that guy in Austria who kept his family locked away in the basement. This is some evil-ass stuff. This Joker is not motivated by money, like most villains. When he has a huge pile of it, he burns it. He is only interested in the power of unimpeded destruction and control. That it is brought about by a juggernaut of self-loathing seems to be the only conceivable explanation of this extraordinary flaw. That life seemed to imitate art in the death of Heath Ledger upon completion of The Dark Knight makes the bleakness of the film more chilling.

The Great Depression of the 1930s saw a surge in divertingly sugary tales and splashy musicals in the cinema. Will this be how cinema evolves going forward? Or as more people feel alienated from the promise of social humanity, will the filmmaking trend of irredeemable darkness and violence displayed in The Dark Knight continue unabated? Whatever you do, don't go to see The Dark Knight if you're looking for light, comic book diversion. Better to stick with goofy Spider-Man.

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Sunday, August 24, 2008

It'll Get You High

I'm always amazed that no matter what is happening on MSNBC's "Hardball," host Chris Matthews manages to work a Clinton angle into the picture. It's amazing, but not surprising considering this transcript funneled to me from a media back channel.

get you high.jpg

"It'll Get You High"

Setting: MSNBC studios. Chris Matthews is sitting at the "Hardball" set reading through the script while Andrea Mitchell sits across from him also reading her notes. Both look a little out of sorts, especially Andrea who keeps scratching herself and is sweating profusely. They both look jittery and stressed as they prepare for tonight's show.

Chris Matthews:
(Reading over his script for "Hardball") Tonight! Surrogates gone wild? Jesse Jackson is caught making an off air mumble that's become a mess for ... I (slamming down the script) ... I can't do this. It's just ... it's just not the same! I need my Clinton Crack! (scratching underarms) I'm jonesing over here! Look, Andrea! My face is all bloated and red!

Andrea Mitchell: (Involuntarily twitching) Your face is always bloated and red, you ignominious bastard! There would still be some Clinton Crack if you hadn't smoked it all!

Chris: (To himself) I can't go back.

Andrea: (Wiping nose, suddenly calm) I sometimes huff paint thinner.

Chris: Really? Does it work?

Andrea: It'll get you high. I mean, if you're desperate.

Chris: I don't know. You said that about Romney refeer and all it did was make me gain 20 pounds and buy a bunch of Marie Osmond records. I guess I could try that Brangelina stuff, but that seems more like a kid's party drug.

Andrea: I lost 10 pounds doing Brangelina, but I also stopped sleeping, had sex with Billy Bob Thorton and adopted six Ugandan orphans.

ENTER KEITH OLBERMANN

Keith Olbermann enters the set, walking by, looking peppy.

Chris: How do you do it Keith? Your eyes are always so glassy and you always look so happy, despite being nebbish and tense and kind of killjoy. What are you on? And don't say Ron Paul freebase because Jack Cafferty sold me a sack of that shit and it does not work!

Keith looks left-to-right then leans in to take a seat next to Chris and Andrea.

Keith Olbermann: (whispers) I have something TEN TIMES more potent than Clinton Crack.

Chris: I'm interested.

Keith: Obama Opium.

Chris: Opium? They still make that?

Keith: No. Not just regular opium. Obama Opium. It's the main ingredient in Black Tar Heroin.

Chris: I think they liked to be called African American now.

Keith: What?

Chris: It would be African American Tar Heroin. You know? I thought you were more racially sensitive than that? Whatever. Forget about it. Tell me about the drugs. Where did you get it?

Keith: Well, you can't tell anyone.

Chris: This is just between you me and Andrea.

Andrea: (twitching) Did you just say you had some Clinton Crack?

Keith: No.

Andrea: Because we'd have some if Chris hadn't smoked it all!

Chris: I get it, Andrea! I'm a fat bastard. All right, Keith. Tell us. Where did you get the stuff?

Keith: (mumbles) Muurrr-murrrr.

Chris:
What? Speak up. Why are you mumbling?

Keith: Sean Hannity.

Chris: What?

Keith: I got it through Alan Combs from Sean Hannity. I was desperate. It so hard to act like I give a shit night after night. I just needed a little something to take the edge off. I used to snort that Bush Blow, but it doesn't work like it used to. Plus it made me really, really angry. Or maybe that was just the Rove 'Roids. I was trying to lose weight. I just needed something to even me out and Combs told me Sean was smoking the Big O every night. He hooked me up.

Chris: Does it work?

Keith: Oh (smiling) ... it'll get you high.

Chris: Can you boil it down like real Heroin because I just want to take a shot of Barack and put it in a hypodermic needle and shoot it right into my eye ball?

Keith: I think I have a spoon around here somewhere.

Chris: I'm excited about this. I mean, I've been using Clinton Crack since 1992. It was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. But I only partied with it. Nothing serious. Then one day, boom, it was gone. I forgot about it. Didn't touch anything. But then they came back. And there was just so much of it. I didn't really pace myself. So ... so I'm in deep shit. I mean. I gotta have it. I need it. I want it. But they cut me off. I asked James Carville two months ago if I could get 5 grams of Bubba for $50 and that son-of-a-bitch said "Drug store's closed." Can you believe that? Drug store's closed! I've had to get my Clinton Crack through Andrea ever since.

Andrea:
Alan got me hooked.

Keith: Alan Combs?

Andrea: Alan Greenspan. He and Bill still talk sometimes.

Keith: (to Chris while cooking the drugs) Don't go crazy with this. Alan said Hannity's been hitting it so hard he almost OD'ed while watching some Rev. Wright footage Sunday. He's sobriety partners with Rush Limbaugh now.

Chris: I bet Rush does a lot of this stuff.

Keith: Nah. He's on Nicorette and OxyContin-laced Twinkies dipped in embalming fluid now.

Andrea: They call them "RushBaughs." I tried that once and I woke up fully dressed in a bathtub full of water after a party at Brian Williams' house. Brian doesn't do drugs but Willard Scott was passing them out. I just thought they were hor' devours. One minute I was dancing to Starland Vocal Band and making out with Ann Curry, then the next I was up to my neck in warm, soapy water. It was sooo awkward when Brian asked me to pass him the soap. He has very nice abs for such a boring man.

Keith: Wait ... he was?

Andrea: He said he didn't want to wake me, but regained consciousness when my head slipped underwater and I almost inhaled his loofah. And that's not a euphemism. I was actually gagging on a his sponge.

Keith finishes cooking the Obama Opium and draws it into a hypodermic needle.

Keith: You kissed Ann Curry? What was that like?

Andrea: She tasted like cocaine and strawberries.

Chris: (Annoyed) Enough with the chit chat! Let's do this. (Rolls up sleeve and ties belt around forearm) Get me high, mother fucker!

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Monday, July 28, 2008

Au Revoir, Le Juillet

Goodbye, July! What aspects of this red, white, and blue month have you enjoyed? Barbecues? Crazy thunderstorms? Young Americans dying for nothing under the scorching Middle Eastern sun? Or perhaps, if you are continentally inclined, "le tricoleur" and Bastille Day? With semi-naked French dwarves gyrating to sappy, insipid music? Oh wait, that was just me and Carla Bruni.

One feckless July I arrived in Paris in time for "Le Quatorze juillet", where I planned to meet up with my friend Charlie Hunter and pass the hat for the buskers, while I worked on a novel which never transpired. The details of my plans were hazy, and I was broke. But apart from my go-go dancing job, nothing of interest was holding me in San Francisco. I got off the plane, and since I had not bothered to book a hostel, I decided, with the logic of a recently homeless youth, that I would head up to Sacré Coeur cathedral and hang out with the street musicians all night until an opportunity for accommodations arose. Sure enough, after a few minutes, I was engaged in a conversation with a small man who offered to help me find a cheap room. His name was Danny. I was a tiny bit apprehensive, but I reasoned that Danny couldn't harm me. I figured that since he was a dwarf, I could take him on if he tried anything; and since he was black, he probably wouldn't try, as any black man with an ounce of sense would be aware of the severe repercussions should he try to harm the lily white. Danny explained that there were several cheap hotels in nearby Place Clichy, and we set off.

But first Danny had to get a coffee. This turned into several coffees at several different cafes. Our conversation was stilted, as my French was basic, and I was very tired after my long flight. Finally, I entreated Danny to take me to the cheap hotels. Danny explained, since it was now so late and the hotels would be closed, that my only alternative was to stay at his apartment. Although I realized this wasn't particularly prudent, I relented, reminding myself that I could take Danny on if anything bad happened.

Arriving at his tiny home, former maid's quarters at the top of an apartment building, Danny offered that I could sleep in the bed with him. I declined, saying that I was perfectly comfortable on the floor, and began to put my pajamas on. Danny disappeared into a small room on the other side of a beaded curtain, much to my relief. As I drifted off to sleep, colored disco lights and the strains of Billy Ocean awakened me; I looked up as the beaded curtains parted. Danny came forth, wearing only a pair of leopard skin bikini underwear and a gold chain bearing a medallion. He swiveled his hips and rolled his disco fists to the music. I could only gape as he danced toward me in a bizarre simulacrum of eighties eroticism. What should I do now? I certainly was not going to accept the amorous advances of this lilliputian Lothario, but it was the middle of the night. As he started to grope me, my survival instincts kicked in and I flipped out. I leapt up and threw my clothes on, screaming every French and English insult I could think of. Danny, now quailing, begged me in a pathetic whine not to wake the landlady. I grabbed my luggage and ran out the door like an ingénue on a gothic novel cover, half-dressed, with the shadow of a man looming in the darkened doorway behind; or rather, darkening the doorstep, pint-sized.

So much for Franco-American relations, continually on the downswing since then. I realize that not all French people are miniature creeps, though people such as Danny and Nicolas Sarkozy cause me to make that association. Perhaps the xenophobia of fist-pumping July has rubbed off on me. As Sarkozy slashes France's welfare and social programs, does he wear a leopard print bikini under his suit, just for joie de vivre?

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Thursday, July 3, 2008

The Hot Comb Bible

Madam Walker was an entrepreneur who built her empire developing hair products for black women ... When confronted with the idea that she was trying to conform black women's hair to that of whites, she stressed that her products were simply an attempt to help black women take proper care of their hair and promote its growth. -- Women In History, Madame CJ Walker

Assimilation is a bitch.

Twice a month I got "assimilated" as a kid sitting between my mother's knees either getting my long curly hair braided, or worse, holding the cap from a jar of Afro Sheen over my ear, protecting it from the hot comb as she pressed my hair straight.

This is the penitence countless black women and girls pay to pretend our hair just grew out that way.

Simply because of racism and the works of first black millionaire Madame CJ Walker, the First Lady of the United States cannot rock an afro.

Michelle Obama, definitely black enough ball up her hand in a fist, shout "down with The Man" and rock an afro, cannot do so because the rules of engagement require her to fashion her hard to straighten hair into a killer bob more brutal and precise than the laser-like precision of Condoleezza Rice's killer bob.

I hate the bob. It is, by far, the least attractive 'do. It's corporate black hair designed by committee. It's been marketed and tested as patented follicles that don't scare white folk. Although I don't know how much good it does her with people opening up emails about "Michelle Obama Whitey" tapes only to find Rick "Singin' Like A Negro" Ashley telling them how he's never going to give them up.

But while Rick can ululate like Frankie Beverly and Haddaway, Michelle can't embrace her nappy roots.

It was Sarah Breedlove, aka Madame CJ Walker, who made this dream of straight hair assimilation a reality by inventing the pressing comb.

An ingenious device made of iron, it was comb you heated up on stove whereupon you would apply oil to your hair and sizzle the curls away. Finally, the Western standard of beauty was half-ass obtainable for black women. The hot comb created the black hair care industry and launched the careers of millions of black women who became economically self-sufficient as beauticians. The press n' curl was a lucrative 'do that kept the sisters coming back. After all, a drop of water, a touch of humidity or a slight sweat on the scalp returned the hair to its naturally nappilicious state.

Today, taking natural hair and turning it into something unnatural and making that look halfway coherent still takes work. They can event an iPhone, but they still can create a way to conform black hair to white standards in less than two hours.

The best technique is using hair that's not your hair. Back when white girls were still working a crimping iron and dressing like Mayim Bialik, black girls were mastering the glue, the sew and the braiding of synthetic/"treated" hair grown from the heads of broke chicks in Asia, then textured to better match our wave patterns.

So the secret's out. That is not all of Michelle's hair.

I've seen the older pictures of her. She's done what it took Condi four years into the Bush Administration to figure out. Get some damn weave to fill out that killer bob. Create the illusion of health and thickness to give your natural hair a break, lest it break off.

Most black women with straight hair go for the chemicals, but that can lead to the ever-expanding of your forehead space with the sides and the top breaking off over time. There's nothing worse than a perm that's put in for too long, the acid burning into your scalp leaving it scarred, sore and scabby like you just rolled around the the toxic dust of Chernobyl.

That's why the best method, but the least permanent technique to straighten hair is the pressing comb. You might get burned but your hair isn't going to fall out (unless the presser doesn't know what they're doing).

But black beauticians nowadays look at you like you're crazy if you want your hair pressed over a perm. Perms make more money. Historically a press n' curl was cheaper because you already bought the comb. All you're paying for is time. But rather than charging $25 or $35 for good hair sizzle they want to charge as much as they charge for the perm -- $50 and up.

While money is an issue for me, it's not for Michelle Obama. She probably has her own weavologist, press n' curl genius maintaining that killer bob.

I'm sure that if I asked sweetly my mom would let me sit between her knees again from another round with a jar of pressing oil and tensing up as she gets closer and closer to the back of my ears, but I choose just to wear my hair natural.

After all, I'm not trying to assimilate my way to Pennsylvania Avenue. I'm free, by golly. Free to wear my hair in curly twists and have well meaning, but boundary crossing white folks touch my hair like it's mink coat, petting it and admiring that it's so soft.

It's a pain in the ass, but ... eh ... it's better than bob. Rock on Mrs. O. Rock on.

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Saturday, June 28, 2008

The "Kitchen Nightmares" Business Model

Like a ten car pile-up with bodies strewing the highway, I can't tear my eyes away from the reality program Kitchen Nightmares. The pain and squeamishness I feel watching people getting their asses kicked by Chef Gordon Ramsay is tempered by the outrage I also feel at watching people letting their restaurants die through inefficiency, intransigence, and sheer stupidity. As disingenuous as the reality show can be, Chef Ramsay and his team have actual knowledge, informed by experience, as to why these businesses are failing, and make an attempt to turn them around. And as dippy as it may seem, I have come to believe that Ramsay's techniques could be used successfully for all kinds of businesses. If he could tone down the restaurant-bred rage and profanity, I believe that Gordon Ramsay could be the progenitor of an improved business reality.

Like most reality shows, the action in Kitchen Nightmares follows a prescribed format. Chef Gordon Ramsay surprises the restaurant employees as they're preparing for dinner service. He talks to the owner about the restaurant's problems. At dinner, Chef Ramsay orders from the menus and judges the meal, unanimously negatively. He rips into the management. Then, during dinner, he stands over the chef and the staff, screaming at them in derision. A major conflict between Chef Ramsay, the owner, the manager, and the chef ensues. Things get uglier as Chef Ramsay issues pointed insults and character assassinations, usually resulting in someone storming out. He returns the next day with a plan that he believes will save the restaurant. The staff tries it, and lo and behold, it starts to work. There are hugs and tears, as Chef Ramsay then gently explains to them, with convincing sensitivity and concern, that they are all wonderful people, and that all he really wanted was for their restaurant to work. Ramsay returns two months later, and if they have adopted his methods, the business is no longer in peril.

Most of Chef Ramsay's business advice is common sense, something which most of the restaurant owners that are selected for the show do not possess. This is revealed by restaurants that are filthy, disorganized, and rely on menus based on frozen and pre-packaged ingredients. Kitchen Nightmares forces them to try something new, or risk televised humiliation. The other strategy that Chef Ramsay relies upon is also straightforward, if brutal, in its simplicity: breaking someone down to build them back up, shaking off their old, bad habits that are the products of the restaurant owners' bizarrely huge egos. Gordon Ramsay is skilled at psychological confrontation. His bullying is perversely effective, and always squirmingly fascinating to watch.

True, the restaurants that are featured on Kitchen Nightmares are going to be the worst examples of business ineptitude in order to provide television drama. I sometimes feel sorry for the poor idiot who is getting torn a new one by Chef Ramsay, but one has to remember that these people signed up for this. Their dual desperation of wanting to be on TV and trying to dodge bankruptcy has caused the reaming, and so it seems warranted.

Wouldn't it be great if Gordon Ramsay expanded his bellowing métier to other enterprises? Wouldn't there be immense satisfaction if he showed up to turn around the swindling realty in your neighborhood? Gordon, scream at the dishonest louts and force them to return rapacious broker fees! Offer discount incentives in order to sell new property! The too cool for school hair salon? Chasten the staff, who desperately cling to their snotty prejudices! They'll make more money if they're nonjudgmental, not just tragically hip. The rude delicatessen? Why should customers endure abuse to order food from them? Constrain them to volunteer in a soup kitchen and see what it's like to have no job at all! And when these deeds are done, how about a big group hug so that they all feel appreciated and validated? Chef Ramsay, please turn your techniques into a compulsory study for all business owners, and save us from occupational ineptitude.

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Thursday, May 8, 2008

I LIKE HILARY BECAUSE SHE'S A BLOODTHIRSTY MONSTER TOO!


(BTW, that's a new Dreg over there --->>)

I couldn't agree more with Ken Silverstein of HARPER'S Washington Babylon, and his article, "Why I Like Hilary: She's a Bloodthirsty Monster."

Absolutely. Besides, if the Clintons have shown us anything, it is that nothing that they say or do until they get elected actually counts as truth. They know exactly how filthy the game is. Obama is a slick cat but he really hasn't been tarred and feathered and kicked in the teeth and generally hated enough to really know what the deal is. He's still too pretty to be a seasoned heavyweight grappler. He doesn't know how to be heel-kicked and constantly humiliated the way Hilary does.


Inhuman? Perhaps, but Relentless as the GOP

HIlary is a political zombie that can't be killed. She moves kind of slow and she doesn't look quite human, but that pale powdered face, that turquoise pantsuit and those manicured fingernails are going to tirelessly pry their way through the rotten wainscoting and into the political spotlight until someone attaches her to a power pole the way Roy Scheider did in JAWS.

It's admirable in terms of raw survivability. She knows how ugly a presidency can be.

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Wednesday, November 28, 2007

PARTICULARLY LEFTIST AND ORNERY DREGULATOR RIGHT THAR -->


...and I left out all the stuff that is really bone-chilling. You gotta love that Eric Prince of Blackwater is going to go down like Barry Bonds as the sacrificial Jesus Boy martyr of human performance enhancement supplements.

Sterioids? In wartime? For warriors? Why, I never.

Only dirty athletes do things like that.

Still, what's really interesting is this question: just exactly what were the other "judgement altering substances" the Blackwater boys were doing?

Ampakines? Roofies? HOODIA? Yohimbe root? Irish moss? Whippets?

Were they huffing patio sealant? Or just licking uranium-coated tanks for invincibility?

And how can we distribute whatever it is they're taking to our college football teams?

I mean, really, I am beginning to wonder if this kind of short-sighted ruthlessness isn't the New, faster, louder, meaner punk-rock America.

Zero sum Zarathustra, motherf***er!

And just to make this stream-of-zero-sum-semi-consciousness even more confusing, here's Wikipedia's philosophy of Zoroaster and a Polaroid from back in his Masonic fraternity days...


TRUTH IS KILLER


"In his revelation, the poet sees the universe as the cosmic struggle between aša "truth" and druj "lie." The cardinal concept of aša - which is highly nuanced and only vaguely translatable - is at the foundation of all other Zoroastrian doctrine, including that of Ahura Mazda (who is aša), creation (that is aša), existence (that is aša) and Free Will, which is arguably Zoroaster's greatest contribution to religious philosophy.
The purpose of humankind, like that of all other creation, is to sustain aša. For humankind, this occurs through active participation in life and the exercise of good thoughts, words and deeds."

Lo, yea, verily, there it is: Americans are slithering into a hapless, depraved, druj addiction.

Amen, Zorro. And Ecce, Homos.

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