Democratic Pussies and the Jesus Factor (Part of the "Taking the Fight To Where They Live" Series):
Gee-whiz, boyoboy, we got 'em yesterday, didn't we? Democrats everywhere can say we did good. When Ohio Rep. Stephanie Tubbs announced in the House chamber, where Congress was busily annointing George Bush the elected President, that Senator Barbara Boxer had signed on to a protest of the Ohio vote, you could hear the weeping of revelatory joy across the land. All over, good citizens thought, "Cool. Now that scene in Fahrenheit 9/11 won't repeat itself." Man, and then? Oh, sweet photo op, while the media and the Republicans ignored them, the Democrats huffed and puffed, but, like that wolf at the brick house, there was no way they were gettin' at those succulent piggies inside.
And, really, and c'mon, while supporters of Tubbs and Boxer might want to say that this is about "calling attention" to the "irregularities" in the electoral process (some might call it a "broken" system), what this really was about was the scene four years ago when Al Gore took a dive that'd make Terry Malloy proud. It was goddamn pathetic, like when an asshole gets in your face at a bar to fight you, and when you back down, he calls you a "tit-sucking mama's boy." Then, on the shameful car ride home, you think, "Yeah, I should have said, 'Tell your mama to keep her tits in her shirt'" before kicking yourself for the missed opportunity. The only thing more pathetic than your initial action would be to go up to the asshole the next time you see him and say it. Yeah, it'd been a beautiful thing if, in 2000, some Senator had had the balls to stand up to the unending bullying by Republicans. But you know what would have happened - the Republicans would have whined like bitch puppies about unfairness and the Democrats would have gone prone and said, "Oh, okay, fuck away."
That's because they hadn't seen the true face of squalid hate that is the way of the Bush Republican party. And now that they have seen it? They're still fuckin' prostrate at the overwhelming debauchery of the Republicans.
Yesterday's "hearing" on the nomination of Alberto Gonzales as Attorney General should have been a no-brainer. Oh, you cynically manipulated the language of the law and our international treaties to justify acts of torture that included sleep deprivation, physical pain, and unending degradation? Why, then you shouldn't be Attorney General, charged with enforcing the laws in whatever way the whim strikes you (see John Ashcroft, who was so bloodthirsty he ordered federal prosecutors to go for the death penalty any time they could). See how easy that is? Gonzales may say he doesn't support "torture," but if he changed the definition of "torture," then how the fuck do we know what he means? Or is what he says meaningless? It's like "Clear Skies," "No Child Left Behind," and so many other things - sure, everyone knows what "clear skies" means, but that doesn't mean the administration is using the same fuckin' dictionary, now, does it? Gonzales' defense was to say that he didn't believe the Geneva Conventions applied to al-Qaeda, but he wouldn't even acknowledge the existence of a policy that he helped craft that was applied in other ways, like at Guantanamo and Abu-Ghraib. And the Democrats' response? In essence, "Well, you're gonna get confirmed, but, boy, if you're ever nominated for the Supreme Court, watch out - all the shit we wanna say now, we're gonna say then." And somewhere in the White House, a cry was heard as Karl Rove sprayed jism all over the drapes of the Red Room as a housemaid rolled her eyes when she thought about sending them out for cleaning again.
The path to defeating Gonzales was so easy. Again and again, the Rude Pundit is saying: take the fight to them. Get the citizens of the Red States behind you and the Republicans will crumble like so many houses of cards. Here we go: you know how popular that little movie, The Passion of Beating the Shit of Christ, was with its vision of a gooey Jesus on the cross? Those who have suffered through the bizarre movie, which is supposed to make us feel the pain of the Lord, understand that Jesus was an innocent man tortured at the hands of brutal soldiers, with a mad king condemning Christ to the lash, the thorns, etc. (ad nauseam - really). Those who tortured Jesus believed in King Herod, or at least feared him, and, in the film, gleefully went about their nasty business. Ahhhh, you see where this is going? Mel Gibson gives cover for politicians who want to say no to Gonzales, no to anyone who supports torture. And will anyone deny that Jesus was a torture victim at the hands of a government? Sure, sure, the risk is there that someone will say, "Are you comparing al-Qaeda members to Jesus?" and the answer is, "No, we're talking about innocent victims who have been tortured, like Jesus." Now, argue with a politician who says Alberto Gonzales is, at best, Pontius Pilate. Prove he isn't. What the religious believe is that if they had been in that crowd that chose Barrabas over Jesus for mercy, they'd have yelled differently. Now is the time for them to prove it.
Doesn't anyone in the Democratic party get the way the world of politics works now? It ain't about give and take. This ain't about resistance, motherfuckers. It's about complete war. If the Democrats don't act like the survival of the country is at stake, then they deserve to end up in the mass graves of forgottenness along with the Whigs and the Know-Nothings. Rolling over on Gonzales (why? For fear of opposing an Hispanic?) simply says that we, as a nation, accept and agree with the idea that torture is a useful, necessary evil, and, once again, we are all complicit. And can there not, at the end of the day, be some things we won't abide?
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Taking the Fight To Where They Live, Part 1 - Force Them To Eat Their Own:
If there's one thing that the White House fears more than the President on a coke binge, it's the shadow of the Gipper. Why? Because the dark, gigantic shadow of Ronald Reagan eclipses the dim light of the strange, sad little man who occupies the Oval Office. We saw it when Ronnie had the poor timing to die when Bush was giving a speech on D-Day, conjuring thoughts of the old Nazi-cemetery-visitin' Prez's speech at Normandy, fondly remembered by genuine conservatives and speechy wonks everywhere. We saw it again, when Karl Rove threatened to break Nancy Reagan's hips if she even visited Boston during the Democratic Convention. Bush breaks into gales of weeping at the idea of Reagan, his true father, being seen as reprimanding him, reaching a wrinkled finger out of hell to shake at George, Jr. It's because for the Red Staters, the White House knows, the Gipper is worshipped in ways that Bush can't imagine.
So as we gear up for the battle over Social Security, the greatest tool in the toolbox of the Democratic Party is actually Ronald Reagan. Because, you know, history is a series of repetitions: "As you know, the Social Security System is teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Over the next five years, the Social Security trust fund could encounter deficits of up to $111 billion, and in the decades ahead its unfunded obligations could run well into the trillions. Unless we in government are willing to act, a sword of Damocles will soon hang over the welfare of millions of our citizens." That's from Reagan's 1981 Letter to Congress, setting up a bipartisan commission to look into solutions for Social Security. Reagan said there were three goals in preserving Social Security: "First, this nation must preserve the integrity of the Social Security trust fund and the basic benefit structure that protects older Americans. Second, we must hold down the tax burden on the workers who support Social Security. Finally, we must eliminate all abuses in the system that can rob the elderly of their rightful legacy." Sure, sure, Reagan at one point had pondered privatization, but he knew it wouldn't fly, and, sure, sure, Reagan wanted to use massive cuts in Social Security to save it, and, sure, sure, Reagan was dealing with a Congress that had a Democratic majority. But these are - wait for it - nuances in any argument against what Reagan actually did. And we know, Lord, how we know, nuance is a dog that don't hunt.
By the way, this was at a point when Social Security really, really was looking down the barrel of insolvency. But let's give it over to Joshua Green, in his article in the Washington Monthly on "Reagan's Liberal Legacy": "Reagan made one of the greatest ideological about-faces in the history of the presidency, agreeing to a $165 billion bailout of Social Security. In almost every way, the bailout flew in the face of conservative ideology. It dramatically increased payroll taxes on employees and employers, brought a whole new class of recipients--new federal workers--into the system, and, for the first time, taxed Social Security benefits, and did so in the most liberal way: only those of upper-income recipients. (As an added affront to conservatives, the tax wasn't indexed to inflation, meaning that more and more people have gradually had to pay it over time.)" The Social Security Amendments of 1983 are a fuckin' gift from heaven to our current Democrats.
Of course, the truth of the matter is far more complex. Reagan's monumental blunder, early in his presidency, on cutting Social Security, led to large congressional losses for Republicans, so, in essence, Reagan was saving his ass. But, you know, in the world of political rhetoric, who gives a happy monkey fuck? All that matters is this: in the war with the White House, invoking Ronald Reagan gives cover to every politician who thinks George Bush is a craven, greedy, petty monarch. Start the ad machine now: "Ronald Reagan rescued Social Security without wrecking it - why can't George Bush?" Now, what died-in-the-wool Oklahoman or Mississippian is gonna choose fancy-pants Bush over the Gipper?
And the beauty part? It's Freddy Vs. Jason, motherfuckers, Dracula Meets the Wolf Man. It forces the White House to argue with the ghost of Ronald Reagan. It forces them to eat their own or get eaten. They're either going to have to dig up the Gipper and make a soup from his gnarled bones or the Democrats are going to have to use the zombie corpse of Reagan to eat Bush's brain. Either way, it is an engorgement that'll be pure pleasure to our tired hearts.
(Side note: the Social Security Administration website actually is quite compelling in its history of the act. Check out the Brief History, with its look at what existed prior to the SSA. Scary, funny, prescient.)
Tomorrow: More on Social Security and maybe a bit on Alberto Gonzales.
If there's one thing that the White House fears more than the President on a coke binge, it's the shadow of the Gipper. Why? Because the dark, gigantic shadow of Ronald Reagan eclipses the dim light of the strange, sad little man who occupies the Oval Office. We saw it when Ronnie had the poor timing to die when Bush was giving a speech on D-Day, conjuring thoughts of the old Nazi-cemetery-visitin' Prez's speech at Normandy, fondly remembered by genuine conservatives and speechy wonks everywhere. We saw it again, when Karl Rove threatened to break Nancy Reagan's hips if she even visited Boston during the Democratic Convention. Bush breaks into gales of weeping at the idea of Reagan, his true father, being seen as reprimanding him, reaching a wrinkled finger out of hell to shake at George, Jr. It's because for the Red Staters, the White House knows, the Gipper is worshipped in ways that Bush can't imagine.
So as we gear up for the battle over Social Security, the greatest tool in the toolbox of the Democratic Party is actually Ronald Reagan. Because, you know, history is a series of repetitions: "As you know, the Social Security System is teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Over the next five years, the Social Security trust fund could encounter deficits of up to $111 billion, and in the decades ahead its unfunded obligations could run well into the trillions. Unless we in government are willing to act, a sword of Damocles will soon hang over the welfare of millions of our citizens." That's from Reagan's 1981 Letter to Congress, setting up a bipartisan commission to look into solutions for Social Security. Reagan said there were three goals in preserving Social Security: "First, this nation must preserve the integrity of the Social Security trust fund and the basic benefit structure that protects older Americans. Second, we must hold down the tax burden on the workers who support Social Security. Finally, we must eliminate all abuses in the system that can rob the elderly of their rightful legacy." Sure, sure, Reagan at one point had pondered privatization, but he knew it wouldn't fly, and, sure, sure, Reagan wanted to use massive cuts in Social Security to save it, and, sure, sure, Reagan was dealing with a Congress that had a Democratic majority. But these are - wait for it - nuances in any argument against what Reagan actually did. And we know, Lord, how we know, nuance is a dog that don't hunt.
By the way, this was at a point when Social Security really, really was looking down the barrel of insolvency. But let's give it over to Joshua Green, in his article in the Washington Monthly on "Reagan's Liberal Legacy": "Reagan made one of the greatest ideological about-faces in the history of the presidency, agreeing to a $165 billion bailout of Social Security. In almost every way, the bailout flew in the face of conservative ideology. It dramatically increased payroll taxes on employees and employers, brought a whole new class of recipients--new federal workers--into the system, and, for the first time, taxed Social Security benefits, and did so in the most liberal way: only those of upper-income recipients. (As an added affront to conservatives, the tax wasn't indexed to inflation, meaning that more and more people have gradually had to pay it over time.)" The Social Security Amendments of 1983 are a fuckin' gift from heaven to our current Democrats.
Of course, the truth of the matter is far more complex. Reagan's monumental blunder, early in his presidency, on cutting Social Security, led to large congressional losses for Republicans, so, in essence, Reagan was saving his ass. But, you know, in the world of political rhetoric, who gives a happy monkey fuck? All that matters is this: in the war with the White House, invoking Ronald Reagan gives cover to every politician who thinks George Bush is a craven, greedy, petty monarch. Start the ad machine now: "Ronald Reagan rescued Social Security without wrecking it - why can't George Bush?" Now, what died-in-the-wool Oklahoman or Mississippian is gonna choose fancy-pants Bush over the Gipper?
And the beauty part? It's Freddy Vs. Jason, motherfuckers, Dracula Meets the Wolf Man. It forces the White House to argue with the ghost of Ronald Reagan. It forces them to eat their own or get eaten. They're either going to have to dig up the Gipper and make a soup from his gnarled bones or the Democrats are going to have to use the zombie corpse of Reagan to eat Bush's brain. Either way, it is an engorgement that'll be pure pleasure to our tired hearts.
(Side note: the Social Security Administration website actually is quite compelling in its history of the act. Check out the Brief History, with its look at what existed prior to the SSA. Scary, funny, prescient.)
Tomorrow: More on Social Security and maybe a bit on Alberto Gonzales.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
More and More Tales of the Christ Weary:
Once more, the Rude Pundit presents tales from the strong-souled who have endured punishing proselytizing from the mouths and the hands of the righteous. We are victims no more, empowering ourselves to say, "You know what? Being born once was traumatic enough." From South Dakota to South Carolina, from Catholics, Methodists, and roll-on-the-ground-and-swallow-yer-tongue Baptists, your stories tell them all that we are oh, so, weary of your callow brand of Christianity. (With, you know, minimal editing and no vouching for veracity.)
From PC: The evangelicals are all too often Christ-free Christians. They are really in love with the good old days of the Old Testament. One such case involves some friends of mine. The family is Pentecostal. The father was a preacher. Both mother and father raised their children in what they believed to be the best way: liberal, Jesus-loving, and you-are-your-brother's-keeper.
The mother and father are old now, and still Jesus-loving liberals. But because they voted for John Kerry, one daughter is barely speaking to them. As far as she's concerned, anyone who questions George Bush is playing cards with the Devil. They wonder how this happened. As the mother said, "When did Christianity turn its back on the people?"
From Mike in Minneapolis: At age 12 or 13 I was still the all-American alter boy, going to church every Sunday, and Wednesday catechism. (Lent brought more and more church.) Fall was in the air and deer season was on. One Sunday, sitting in the pew listening to the sermon the priest started spouting out things I had never heard before. There was but one doctor in all of South Dakota who performed abortions at that time. Suddenly during the sermon, our spiritual leader (in a Catholic church) told us that if we saw this particular person out, we should feel obligated to shoot him and gut him and God would love us for it. I have never believed in the Catholic church since that moment.
From Robert S.: I attended Bob Jones University, the infamous southern fundamentalist Baptist school, from 1989-1995. Here's a few quick stories from my time there:
Two friends of mine who were dating were told to break up because the school didn't allow interracial dating. He was Korean-American, but lived his entire life in the US. She was American. The school finally got rid of the no interracial dating rule a couple of years ago. This was the mid-90s.
The school wouldn't allow us to receive the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition or even the summer J. Crew catalog featuring bikinis. Since by law they can't withhold our mail, the school called every guy who received these at the school post office up to the Dean of Men's office and asked for their individual permission to either throw the offending magazine out or have it sent to their home address.
Guys were kicked out for masturbating or if they were discovered to be gay. However, one girl I know had a roommate who was moved into her room, after she assaulted another girl who was sleeping in the middle of the night. So, she was a kind of aggressive lesbian I guess. She wasn't kicked out, just moved to another room. Apparently, her parents were big contributors to the school. Not saying she should've been kicked out necessarily. Just pointing out the hypocrisy.
No drinking, no dancing, no movies, no rock 'n roll. No jazz or big band for that matter. No kissing, no holding hands. No blow jobs, of course, although the school's initials are BJU. These rules all hold true to this day.
Evolution is hardly mentioned at all, except to disparage it with rebuttals forged from bad "science."
While I attended there, Bob Jones III, the school's then and current president (they like to keep it in the family, you see) outraged even some of the students and faculty when he declared that Billy Graham had done "more to harm the cause of Christianity in the 20th century than any other person." (quote from memory)
I ate with Dr. Bob III one evening at a banquet for the school's student media leaders. For conversation, he brought up a TV anchor he'd met at a conference or something who claimed to be a Christian, but he couldn't possibly be a Christian, Jones said, because he was holding a glass of wine in his hand at the time. (Not making this up. I had met the anchor before, too and it would never have occurred to me to question his Christianity.)
When I first came to the school, I worked at its electrical co-generation plant. This building was located across the street from some faculty housing and a few houses down from Dr. Bob's house. He complained to my boss that when we left the huge roller door open to this building it increased the noise, which he could hear at his home. The next time he noticed that one of my fellow employees left this door open, he fired my boss for it. My boss had a wife and at least one kid and was fired from his job for something he had no control over.
From Kris: My story dates back to the beginning of the end of the Vietnam War. My husband, already in the Air Force, decided he could no longer be part of the war machine and filed for conscientious objector status. He needed to have a member of the clergy say in writing that he was sincere in his beliefs. We went to the pastor of the church I'd been brought up in, the Missouri Synod of the Lutheran Church. I don't know if anything's changed in the last 30 years or so, but at the time it was about as Calvinistic and fundamentalist as Lutherans get. Anyway, the pastor was adamant on the necessity of war and the necessity of draftees to fight in wars. I said something to the effect of, "But what about the dropping of the atomic bomb? What about all those deaths in Hiroshima and Nagasaki? How can that be defensible?" To which he replied, "But think of all the Japanese who converted to Christianity from heathenism after that."
Send your stories of Christ-weariness to: rudepundit@yahoo.com.
Once more, the Rude Pundit presents tales from the strong-souled who have endured punishing proselytizing from the mouths and the hands of the righteous. We are victims no more, empowering ourselves to say, "You know what? Being born once was traumatic enough." From South Dakota to South Carolina, from Catholics, Methodists, and roll-on-the-ground-and-swallow-yer-tongue Baptists, your stories tell them all that we are oh, so, weary of your callow brand of Christianity. (With, you know, minimal editing and no vouching for veracity.)
From PC: The evangelicals are all too often Christ-free Christians. They are really in love with the good old days of the Old Testament. One such case involves some friends of mine. The family is Pentecostal. The father was a preacher. Both mother and father raised their children in what they believed to be the best way: liberal, Jesus-loving, and you-are-your-brother's-keeper.
The mother and father are old now, and still Jesus-loving liberals. But because they voted for John Kerry, one daughter is barely speaking to them. As far as she's concerned, anyone who questions George Bush is playing cards with the Devil. They wonder how this happened. As the mother said, "When did Christianity turn its back on the people?"
From Mike in Minneapolis: At age 12 or 13 I was still the all-American alter boy, going to church every Sunday, and Wednesday catechism. (Lent brought more and more church.) Fall was in the air and deer season was on. One Sunday, sitting in the pew listening to the sermon the priest started spouting out things I had never heard before. There was but one doctor in all of South Dakota who performed abortions at that time. Suddenly during the sermon, our spiritual leader (in a Catholic church) told us that if we saw this particular person out, we should feel obligated to shoot him and gut him and God would love us for it. I have never believed in the Catholic church since that moment.
From Robert S.: I attended Bob Jones University, the infamous southern fundamentalist Baptist school, from 1989-1995. Here's a few quick stories from my time there:
Two friends of mine who were dating were told to break up because the school didn't allow interracial dating. He was Korean-American, but lived his entire life in the US. She was American. The school finally got rid of the no interracial dating rule a couple of years ago. This was the mid-90s.
The school wouldn't allow us to receive the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition or even the summer J. Crew catalog featuring bikinis. Since by law they can't withhold our mail, the school called every guy who received these at the school post office up to the Dean of Men's office and asked for their individual permission to either throw the offending magazine out or have it sent to their home address.
Guys were kicked out for masturbating or if they were discovered to be gay. However, one girl I know had a roommate who was moved into her room, after she assaulted another girl who was sleeping in the middle of the night. So, she was a kind of aggressive lesbian I guess. She wasn't kicked out, just moved to another room. Apparently, her parents were big contributors to the school. Not saying she should've been kicked out necessarily. Just pointing out the hypocrisy.
No drinking, no dancing, no movies, no rock 'n roll. No jazz or big band for that matter. No kissing, no holding hands. No blow jobs, of course, although the school's initials are BJU. These rules all hold true to this day.
Evolution is hardly mentioned at all, except to disparage it with rebuttals forged from bad "science."
While I attended there, Bob Jones III, the school's then and current president (they like to keep it in the family, you see) outraged even some of the students and faculty when he declared that Billy Graham had done "more to harm the cause of Christianity in the 20th century than any other person." (quote from memory)
I ate with Dr. Bob III one evening at a banquet for the school's student media leaders. For conversation, he brought up a TV anchor he'd met at a conference or something who claimed to be a Christian, but he couldn't possibly be a Christian, Jones said, because he was holding a glass of wine in his hand at the time. (Not making this up. I had met the anchor before, too and it would never have occurred to me to question his Christianity.)
When I first came to the school, I worked at its electrical co-generation plant. This building was located across the street from some faculty housing and a few houses down from Dr. Bob's house. He complained to my boss that when we left the huge roller door open to this building it increased the noise, which he could hear at his home. The next time he noticed that one of my fellow employees left this door open, he fired my boss for it. My boss had a wife and at least one kid and was fired from his job for something he had no control over.
From Kris: My story dates back to the beginning of the end of the Vietnam War. My husband, already in the Air Force, decided he could no longer be part of the war machine and filed for conscientious objector status. He needed to have a member of the clergy say in writing that he was sincere in his beliefs. We went to the pastor of the church I'd been brought up in, the Missouri Synod of the Lutheran Church. I don't know if anything's changed in the last 30 years or so, but at the time it was about as Calvinistic and fundamentalist as Lutherans get. Anyway, the pastor was adamant on the necessity of war and the necessity of draftees to fight in wars. I said something to the effect of, "But what about the dropping of the atomic bomb? What about all those deaths in Hiroshima and Nagasaki? How can that be defensible?" To which he replied, "But think of all the Japanese who converted to Christianity from heathenism after that."
Send your stories of Christ-weariness to: rudepundit@yahoo.com.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Taking the Fight To Where They Live (Prologue):
The Rude Pundit has been on a weeklong visit to the deepest, darkest nether regions of Red State America. When he first arrived, he was greeted by car after car on the highway near the airport still sporting "George Bush for President" bumper stickers. The Rude Pundit is a listener, an eavesdropper. In plate lunch joints and bars, he heard the same things over and over: about how great it was that the President was tough enough to fight the terrorists in Iraq. Hell, the fuckin' newspaper here, in an end of 2004 story on the soldiers from this region, directly stated that the war in Iraq was about avenging 9/11. How do you counter that kind of localized propaganda? But, you know, there's something interesting that happens whenever you engage anyone who believes these things in a conversation: they get really, really defensive about Bush. And not in a coherent way. And not even in the knee-jerk-"I-support-my-President" kind of way. No, it's more of an "I don't wanna talk about it - shutupshutupshutup" kind of way, with ears covered and eyes clenched shut. In other words, they know. They know it's all been a huge failure. But they don't wanna know. And it's just easier to pretend that everything's fantabulous than face that horror, that abyss, of mistrust, of awareness of one's own complicity in the voting booth.
Sitting in a bar with people cheering on Auburn last night, the Rude Pundit explained to a friend about the snobbery of some of the intellectual elite in the Northeast. The friend, who is a university professor, smirked and said, "It's the reverse down here." Yeah, you know what he's talking about - the ones who think that Blue State liberals are snotty little fags and dykes who've never done a hard day's work and who wanna spread the liberal message like so many Bolsheviks in a Red Square coffee house. This is where the fight is. And all the many pundits and prognosticators of the "future" of the Democratic party have it absolutely, exactly wrong when they think the Democrats can triangulate themselves back into consequence. That way lies irrelevance and madness.
The simple truth is that Democrats, moderates, liberals, anyone, won't win by saying, "Lookeeme, I'm like you, Farmer Brown or Factory Worker Sally, look at me compromise on abortion rights and put on shit-stained boots to go out into the fields and talk about how much I hate queers." No, winning comes by saying, "Look here, Farmer Brown and Factory Worker Sally, you are like me." And that means on each and every coming battle - Social Security, judges, tax cuts, Iraq. The people don't want leaders who identify with them. They want leaders who they identify with. It's a fine, but important distinction.
The Rude Pundit is returning back to the warm embrace of Blue State America tomorrow, so he'll be posting some new Tales of the Christ Weary. But starting Thursday with Social Security "reform," the Rude Pundit will offer the path back to power. It ain't gonna be pretty. We'll lose some good people along the way. But their bones will make our stepladders as we climb higher and higher. Gird your loins, motherfuckers, 'cause it's gonna get hot.
The Rude Pundit has been on a weeklong visit to the deepest, darkest nether regions of Red State America. When he first arrived, he was greeted by car after car on the highway near the airport still sporting "George Bush for President" bumper stickers. The Rude Pundit is a listener, an eavesdropper. In plate lunch joints and bars, he heard the same things over and over: about how great it was that the President was tough enough to fight the terrorists in Iraq. Hell, the fuckin' newspaper here, in an end of 2004 story on the soldiers from this region, directly stated that the war in Iraq was about avenging 9/11. How do you counter that kind of localized propaganda? But, you know, there's something interesting that happens whenever you engage anyone who believes these things in a conversation: they get really, really defensive about Bush. And not in a coherent way. And not even in the knee-jerk-"I-support-my-President" kind of way. No, it's more of an "I don't wanna talk about it - shutupshutupshutup" kind of way, with ears covered and eyes clenched shut. In other words, they know. They know it's all been a huge failure. But they don't wanna know. And it's just easier to pretend that everything's fantabulous than face that horror, that abyss, of mistrust, of awareness of one's own complicity in the voting booth.
Sitting in a bar with people cheering on Auburn last night, the Rude Pundit explained to a friend about the snobbery of some of the intellectual elite in the Northeast. The friend, who is a university professor, smirked and said, "It's the reverse down here." Yeah, you know what he's talking about - the ones who think that Blue State liberals are snotty little fags and dykes who've never done a hard day's work and who wanna spread the liberal message like so many Bolsheviks in a Red Square coffee house. This is where the fight is. And all the many pundits and prognosticators of the "future" of the Democratic party have it absolutely, exactly wrong when they think the Democrats can triangulate themselves back into consequence. That way lies irrelevance and madness.
The simple truth is that Democrats, moderates, liberals, anyone, won't win by saying, "Lookeeme, I'm like you, Farmer Brown or Factory Worker Sally, look at me compromise on abortion rights and put on shit-stained boots to go out into the fields and talk about how much I hate queers." No, winning comes by saying, "Look here, Farmer Brown and Factory Worker Sally, you are like me." And that means on each and every coming battle - Social Security, judges, tax cuts, Iraq. The people don't want leaders who identify with them. They want leaders who they identify with. It's a fine, but important distinction.
The Rude Pundit is returning back to the warm embrace of Blue State America tomorrow, so he'll be posting some new Tales of the Christ Weary. But starting Thursday with Social Security "reform," the Rude Pundit will offer the path back to power. It ain't gonna be pretty. We'll lose some good people along the way. But their bones will make our stepladders as we climb higher and higher. Gird your loins, motherfuckers, 'cause it's gonna get hot.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Why Ann Coulter Is a Cunt, Part 1078:
Because the Rude Pundit takes bullets for you, he has reviewed the year-in-review columns on townhall.com, your clearing house for right-wing wackosity. Apparently, 2004 was quite a banner year. What, with liberty spreading in "unimagined" ways, liberals "wrong" about everything, and the de-throning of Dan Rather, goddamn, it was as if every good little boy's and girl's wishes would, at long last, come true. Indeed, according to Jack Kemp, we are on the verge of "a Golden Age."
No one excels at this kind of deranged lying and propaganda better than Ann Coulter, who, in her end of the year "column" (if by "column," you mean "crazed scratchings with bloodied fingernails on a shithouse wall"), runs through every conservative bullshit story from the year. Yep, from the lie about Sandy Berger stuffing top secret documents in his pants to supporting the veracity of John O'Neill and the Swift Boat Vets for "Truth," Coulter lifts every grimy stone and smears herself with mud and shit, wallowing in the decadent smell of rot.
More repulsively, Coulter mocks the Abu Ghraib torture scandal, once again treating the whole thing as if it's just a bunch of oh-so-playful, wacky hijinks by soldiers gently goading the enemy. See? It's like Sgt. Bilko, except with more sodomy and electrodes attached to balls. ("Private Doberman, get over here and put this dog chain on the prisoner.")
And most repulsive, in fact, most repulsive of all the year-in-review articles, is the elevation of Pat Tillman to saint. The pro-football player volunteered for the military and was killed in Afghanistan. Coulter oozes her own brand of slug love all over Tillman's memory, using him to mock John Kerry and Michael Moore, leaving off the crucial detail that Tillman was killed by friendly fire on a mission that was ill-equipped, untrained, and loaded with fuck-ups every step of the way.
Yeah, Coulter's factually correct when she sleazes, "American hero Pat Tillman won a Silver Star this year. But unlike Kerry, he did not write his own recommendation or live to throw his medals over the White House fence in an anti-war rally." Uhh, that'd be because he was dead, Ann. And, you know, because the relatives of the dead and wounded are only useful when they blindly support the cause, one can be sure Coulter has little use for the now famous words of Tillman's brother, Rich, at the funeral, "Pat isn't with God. He's fucking dead. He wasn't religious. So thank you for your thoughts, but he's fucking dead."
Oh, yeah, what a shiny, shiny year for the right. Clear skies and nothin' but smooth-sailin' here on out.
Because the Rude Pundit takes bullets for you, he has reviewed the year-in-review columns on townhall.com, your clearing house for right-wing wackosity. Apparently, 2004 was quite a banner year. What, with liberty spreading in "unimagined" ways, liberals "wrong" about everything, and the de-throning of Dan Rather, goddamn, it was as if every good little boy's and girl's wishes would, at long last, come true. Indeed, according to Jack Kemp, we are on the verge of "a Golden Age."
No one excels at this kind of deranged lying and propaganda better than Ann Coulter, who, in her end of the year "column" (if by "column," you mean "crazed scratchings with bloodied fingernails on a shithouse wall"), runs through every conservative bullshit story from the year. Yep, from the lie about Sandy Berger stuffing top secret documents in his pants to supporting the veracity of John O'Neill and the Swift Boat Vets for "Truth," Coulter lifts every grimy stone and smears herself with mud and shit, wallowing in the decadent smell of rot.
More repulsively, Coulter mocks the Abu Ghraib torture scandal, once again treating the whole thing as if it's just a bunch of oh-so-playful, wacky hijinks by soldiers gently goading the enemy. See? It's like Sgt. Bilko, except with more sodomy and electrodes attached to balls. ("Private Doberman, get over here and put this dog chain on the prisoner.")
And most repulsive, in fact, most repulsive of all the year-in-review articles, is the elevation of Pat Tillman to saint. The pro-football player volunteered for the military and was killed in Afghanistan. Coulter oozes her own brand of slug love all over Tillman's memory, using him to mock John Kerry and Michael Moore, leaving off the crucial detail that Tillman was killed by friendly fire on a mission that was ill-equipped, untrained, and loaded with fuck-ups every step of the way.
Yeah, Coulter's factually correct when she sleazes, "American hero Pat Tillman won a Silver Star this year. But unlike Kerry, he did not write his own recommendation or live to throw his medals over the White House fence in an anti-war rally." Uhh, that'd be because he was dead, Ann. And, you know, because the relatives of the dead and wounded are only useful when they blindly support the cause, one can be sure Coulter has little use for the now famous words of Tillman's brother, Rich, at the funeral, "Pat isn't with God. He's fucking dead. He wasn't religious. So thank you for your thoughts, but he's fucking dead."
Oh, yeah, what a shiny, shiny year for the right. Clear skies and nothin' but smooth-sailin' here on out.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Thursday, December 30, 2004
A Brief Observation On Bush's Brief Statement:
Here's how President Bush's ended his brief meeting with reporters yesterday at the Crawford Ranch, which began with his statement that he feels really, really bad about the whole tsunami tragedy. Some eunuch ball licker from the gathered reporters asked Bush if he had any New Year's resolutions. A compassionate man at that point might have said something about resolving to help the countries through this crisis. A wise man may have said he was going to reach out more to others who are across the political aisle. There's a million things he could have said. Instead, he decided to take a giant shit on the statement of sympathy he had just given: "I'll let you know. Already gave you a hint on one, which is my waistline. I'm trying to set an example."
So that's how the whole thing ended. The eyes of the world were on this appearance by our fearless leader, his absence the last 72 hours having been conspicuous in the way that the absence of a lost dog might make one feel whenever you look at the uneaten food in the dog bowl. And how does he end this little showing? By saying, "I've gotten fat." So, fuck you, all you millions of starving Sri Lankans, Indonesians, and others. The fattened President feels your pain. And, hey, take a hint from Georgie: he's settin' an example- a few days without food'll improve that waistline problem in no time.
On a different note of fattened Americans and the tsunami, thank fucking Christ that "Nike has no reports of casualties among its staff or those of its overseas suppliers and no news of major damage to facilities" in Indonesia. Nike expects only a "minimal impact" on its operations, 'cause, you know, if you don't give a shit if you pay your sweatshop workers a living wage, then why would you give a flying fuck if they have to travel to work over the rotting corpses of their friends and relatives. (Rude nod to reader Cynthia for the heads up - she also mentions that Fox "News" has already done a story on Nike interests in the region.)
Oh, and the Phuket Starbucks was damaged.
Yeah, Bush may want us to watch our waistlines, but when it comes to the bottom line? No silly natural disaster of unimaginable proportions and horror can ever get in its way.
Here's how President Bush's ended his brief meeting with reporters yesterday at the Crawford Ranch, which began with his statement that he feels really, really bad about the whole tsunami tragedy. Some eunuch ball licker from the gathered reporters asked Bush if he had any New Year's resolutions. A compassionate man at that point might have said something about resolving to help the countries through this crisis. A wise man may have said he was going to reach out more to others who are across the political aisle. There's a million things he could have said. Instead, he decided to take a giant shit on the statement of sympathy he had just given: "I'll let you know. Already gave you a hint on one, which is my waistline. I'm trying to set an example."
So that's how the whole thing ended. The eyes of the world were on this appearance by our fearless leader, his absence the last 72 hours having been conspicuous in the way that the absence of a lost dog might make one feel whenever you look at the uneaten food in the dog bowl. And how does he end this little showing? By saying, "I've gotten fat." So, fuck you, all you millions of starving Sri Lankans, Indonesians, and others. The fattened President feels your pain. And, hey, take a hint from Georgie: he's settin' an example- a few days without food'll improve that waistline problem in no time.
On a different note of fattened Americans and the tsunami, thank fucking Christ that "Nike has no reports of casualties among its staff or those of its overseas suppliers and no news of major damage to facilities" in Indonesia. Nike expects only a "minimal impact" on its operations, 'cause, you know, if you don't give a shit if you pay your sweatshop workers a living wage, then why would you give a flying fuck if they have to travel to work over the rotting corpses of their friends and relatives. (Rude nod to reader Cynthia for the heads up - she also mentions that Fox "News" has already done a story on Nike interests in the region.)
Oh, and the Phuket Starbucks was damaged.
Yeah, Bush may want us to watch our waistlines, but when it comes to the bottom line? No silly natural disaster of unimaginable proportions and horror can ever get in its way.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Disasters Big and Small:
Maybe if someone informed the President that resorts filled with rich people were involved in the tsunami disaster, he'd be paying more attention. 'Cause, you know, c'mon, this ain't like the Bam earthquake in Iran a year ago, when it was the usual array of screaming vaguely brown people we're used to seeing and shaking our heads at. There were Americans and Europeans involved, and India, proud supplier of talent to outsourcers everywhere, including, as we all know, the Republican Party. Yeah, yeah, Indonesia has its little terrorism problems, but, you know, it also has resorts, filled with Aussies, and they love us, or, you know, their PM does. And, generally, where there's rich people involved, Bush is right out there in front.
But if there's one thing we all know about George Bush, even before Michael Moore made it starkly clear, is that the motherfucker clings to his vacation time like, say, a father holding a child clinged to a palm tree in the Maldives. Sure, sure, we're gonna see him today, when he holds a "teleconference" and makes a "brief appearance" from the ranch, but this is, as all things in this arrogant President's schedule, done grudgingly, only in response to the hue and cry of people who, in this case, wonder why Bush can't take a break from brush clearing and, really, "thinking" to say, in person, "Damn, bitches. This shit sucks for you." When a reporter suggested that "the actual question is whether the people of Asia and those who are suffering from all of this, whether there would be any benefit from seeing and hearing from him directly," Trent Duffy, subbing for Scott McClellan in the spread of lies and misinformation, assured us that the President had "sent letters" of condolence. Howzabout some flowers with that, huh? But we know, from another press gaggle, that Bush is "monitoring" the situation overseas by watching Fox.
Besides, as Duffy added, the President receives a morning briefing, and, in addition, he's "continuing to think about the Inauguration and the State of the Union speech; he's clearing some brush this morning; I think he has some friends coming in either today or tomorrow that he enjoys hosting; he's doing some biking and exercising as he normally does, taking walks with the First Lady; and thinking about what he wants to accomplish in the second term." Now, the Rude Pundit doesn't know about you, but "thinking" seems like a euphemism for "napping." Or "taking a dump." Or "jacking off."
On Monday, the Rude Pundit wondered how long until terrorism was somehow tied to the tsunami. Thanks to a heads up from reader Rosamond, the answer is, well, Monday, when a reporter asked Duffy, "Is there any anti-terrorism component to this? Is the administration concerned about -- that the terrorists might take advantage of the situation?" The proper answer might have been, "Deb, shut the fuck up." Instead, Duffy assured us, "we wouldn't get into any classified types of information, but the American people can rest assured that no matter what happens in the world, that the government will be doing everything it can to protect the American people from terrorism."
God, it's always about us, isn't it? And our insecurities? It's like when you're dating a man who wants you to bandage his stubbed toe when you should be tending to your dying mother.
Meanwhile, the sea keeps vomiting up the dead. The bodies will yield disease. And this long holiday season of suffering goes on.
Maybe if someone informed the President that resorts filled with rich people were involved in the tsunami disaster, he'd be paying more attention. 'Cause, you know, c'mon, this ain't like the Bam earthquake in Iran a year ago, when it was the usual array of screaming vaguely brown people we're used to seeing and shaking our heads at. There were Americans and Europeans involved, and India, proud supplier of talent to outsourcers everywhere, including, as we all know, the Republican Party. Yeah, yeah, Indonesia has its little terrorism problems, but, you know, it also has resorts, filled with Aussies, and they love us, or, you know, their PM does. And, generally, where there's rich people involved, Bush is right out there in front.
But if there's one thing we all know about George Bush, even before Michael Moore made it starkly clear, is that the motherfucker clings to his vacation time like, say, a father holding a child clinged to a palm tree in the Maldives. Sure, sure, we're gonna see him today, when he holds a "teleconference" and makes a "brief appearance" from the ranch, but this is, as all things in this arrogant President's schedule, done grudgingly, only in response to the hue and cry of people who, in this case, wonder why Bush can't take a break from brush clearing and, really, "thinking" to say, in person, "Damn, bitches. This shit sucks for you." When a reporter suggested that "the actual question is whether the people of Asia and those who are suffering from all of this, whether there would be any benefit from seeing and hearing from him directly," Trent Duffy, subbing for Scott McClellan in the spread of lies and misinformation, assured us that the President had "sent letters" of condolence. Howzabout some flowers with that, huh? But we know, from another press gaggle, that Bush is "monitoring" the situation overseas by watching Fox.
Besides, as Duffy added, the President receives a morning briefing, and, in addition, he's "continuing to think about the Inauguration and the State of the Union speech; he's clearing some brush this morning; I think he has some friends coming in either today or tomorrow that he enjoys hosting; he's doing some biking and exercising as he normally does, taking walks with the First Lady; and thinking about what he wants to accomplish in the second term." Now, the Rude Pundit doesn't know about you, but "thinking" seems like a euphemism for "napping." Or "taking a dump." Or "jacking off."
On Monday, the Rude Pundit wondered how long until terrorism was somehow tied to the tsunami. Thanks to a heads up from reader Rosamond, the answer is, well, Monday, when a reporter asked Duffy, "Is there any anti-terrorism component to this? Is the administration concerned about -- that the terrorists might take advantage of the situation?" The proper answer might have been, "Deb, shut the fuck up." Instead, Duffy assured us, "we wouldn't get into any classified types of information, but the American people can rest assured that no matter what happens in the world, that the government will be doing everything it can to protect the American people from terrorism."
God, it's always about us, isn't it? And our insecurities? It's like when you're dating a man who wants you to bandage his stubbed toe when you should be tending to your dying mother.
Meanwhile, the sea keeps vomiting up the dead. The bodies will yield disease. And this long holiday season of suffering goes on.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Even More Tales of the Christ Weary:
When the Rude Pundit started this series, little did he know the nerve he had touched. From across the Christian spectrum, men and women have written in about how fucked up they've been by the righteous who evangelize in the name of false preaching. From molesting priests to families driven mad with Jesus love to the condemning of souls and actions, the endless abuse is, well, fuck, kind of un-Christ-like, you know. The Rude Pundit will deal later to using Jesus against the Bush administration and maybe pick up a vote or two for Dems in the process. But for now, here, once again, on a Rude Pundit travel day to the deep, dark red states, are the stories (with no vouching for truthfulness and with minimal editing):
From KD in New York: My cousin, a self-described New York Humanist Jew, and his wife (Southern, but generally an atheist, raising her kids with more Jewish traditions than Christian) lived in Mobile, Alabama for several years. Their very young son, Abraham, attempted to play with the girl next door, the daughter of some sort of minister. The little girl told him she couldn't play because her daddy said that Abe was damned. In early public elementary school, Abe was repeatedly derided and told by his classmates that he was going to Hell for being a Jew. My cousin and his wife went in for a meeting with the teacher to discuss this travesty. The teacher showed up -- knowing what the meeting was about -- in a t-shirt that read, "Jesus Loves All the Children." When my cousins made very clear what the kids had been saying to their son, the teacher replied, "Well, you wouldn't want them to lie to him, would you?" I guess Jesus loves all the children, except for the Jews, etc. Shortly after, they moved to Connecticut.
From Baskar in India: I am from India, and live in New Delhi. Back in 1994, I had just joined college, pursuing a BA History degree. My college was St. Stephens' College, which is still regarded as the Yale of India. It was set up by missionaries in 1884, and they have a big quota for Christian students. I of course got admission on merit, not being a Christian (my folks are Hindu). So what happened was this. I was in my room in the hostel on a Saturday, listening to old Kurt Cobain's Nirvana Unplugged album. This white dude knocks and comes in. He's one of those young missionaries, and he parks his ass and starts sprouting the usual missionary bullshit. Itry hard to look as disinterested as I can, but they're pros, these guys. The most hilarious part is when he checks out my Nirvana tape, and one of the song titles- "Jesus Don't Want Me For A Sunbeam"- really gets his goat. "Now this is not true. The Lord DOES want you!" He exclaims. He then dishes into his tote bag and takes out a cassette full of Jesus-y songs, asking me to buy (yeah, buy) it. I tell him I'll take it, but that I got no cash on me. He says that ain't a problem, that I can mail him a cheque later. So what I did, I sold the tape to a classmate who was really into Jesus, and bought a couple of packs of cigarrettes with it. Then I got back to Cobain.
From Tomi: My cousin's wife has above average intelligence and yet will argue that the creation myth is factually true. My sister-in-law has refused to send my nephews to school and has been home "schooling". The eldest one is bright (although he has swallowed all of the silly dogma so far) so he's managed to learn to read and write and has recently entered the public school system at the high school level. The younger two, however, are not so lucky. "Jay" is about 13 now. He was paralyzed in a tragic car accident at the age of four so he can't walk. He can't read or write either, and neither can his younger brother. Both of them also have speech difficulties, which have not been addressed, although they would've been had they been in public school. Their mother fears that the secular school system is evil even though she never personally had any bad experiences there.
When I was in junior high, I befriended a new girl who had moved to Southern California from Texas. My mother's second husband had recently left us to be with another woman. I had two younger brothers and a half-brother who was only about
one or two. This girl told me that if my baby brother died he would go to hell for my mother's "sins."
From JE: My story is set in the Cumberland Presbyterian Church, a small fundamentalist offshoot of the main Presbyterian Church. My grandparents were members of a rural Arkansas church, and I was taken to a revival there sometime in the mid 1950's. The preacher told a story about a little boy accidentally being run over by his mother. The Lord, he explained, put the little boy under the wheels to "bring the mother back to God."
Keep the stories coming to rudepundit@yahoo.com.
Check the archives for previous posts of the Christ Weary.
When the Rude Pundit started this series, little did he know the nerve he had touched. From across the Christian spectrum, men and women have written in about how fucked up they've been by the righteous who evangelize in the name of false preaching. From molesting priests to families driven mad with Jesus love to the condemning of souls and actions, the endless abuse is, well, fuck, kind of un-Christ-like, you know. The Rude Pundit will deal later to using Jesus against the Bush administration and maybe pick up a vote or two for Dems in the process. But for now, here, once again, on a Rude Pundit travel day to the deep, dark red states, are the stories (with no vouching for truthfulness and with minimal editing):
From KD in New York: My cousin, a self-described New York Humanist Jew, and his wife (Southern, but generally an atheist, raising her kids with more Jewish traditions than Christian) lived in Mobile, Alabama for several years. Their very young son, Abraham, attempted to play with the girl next door, the daughter of some sort of minister. The little girl told him she couldn't play because her daddy said that Abe was damned. In early public elementary school, Abe was repeatedly derided and told by his classmates that he was going to Hell for being a Jew. My cousin and his wife went in for a meeting with the teacher to discuss this travesty. The teacher showed up -- knowing what the meeting was about -- in a t-shirt that read, "Jesus Loves All the Children." When my cousins made very clear what the kids had been saying to their son, the teacher replied, "Well, you wouldn't want them to lie to him, would you?" I guess Jesus loves all the children, except for the Jews, etc. Shortly after, they moved to Connecticut.
From Baskar in India: I am from India, and live in New Delhi. Back in 1994, I had just joined college, pursuing a BA History degree. My college was St. Stephens' College, which is still regarded as the Yale of India. It was set up by missionaries in 1884, and they have a big quota for Christian students. I of course got admission on merit, not being a Christian (my folks are Hindu). So what happened was this. I was in my room in the hostel on a Saturday, listening to old Kurt Cobain's Nirvana Unplugged album. This white dude knocks and comes in. He's one of those young missionaries, and he parks his ass and starts sprouting the usual missionary bullshit. Itry hard to look as disinterested as I can, but they're pros, these guys. The most hilarious part is when he checks out my Nirvana tape, and one of the song titles- "Jesus Don't Want Me For A Sunbeam"- really gets his goat. "Now this is not true. The Lord DOES want you!" He exclaims. He then dishes into his tote bag and takes out a cassette full of Jesus-y songs, asking me to buy (yeah, buy) it. I tell him I'll take it, but that I got no cash on me. He says that ain't a problem, that I can mail him a cheque later. So what I did, I sold the tape to a classmate who was really into Jesus, and bought a couple of packs of cigarrettes with it. Then I got back to Cobain.
From Tomi: My cousin's wife has above average intelligence and yet will argue that the creation myth is factually true. My sister-in-law has refused to send my nephews to school and has been home "schooling". The eldest one is bright (although he has swallowed all of the silly dogma so far) so he's managed to learn to read and write and has recently entered the public school system at the high school level. The younger two, however, are not so lucky. "Jay" is about 13 now. He was paralyzed in a tragic car accident at the age of four so he can't walk. He can't read or write either, and neither can his younger brother. Both of them also have speech difficulties, which have not been addressed, although they would've been had they been in public school. Their mother fears that the secular school system is evil even though she never personally had any bad experiences there.
When I was in junior high, I befriended a new girl who had moved to Southern California from Texas. My mother's second husband had recently left us to be with another woman. I had two younger brothers and a half-brother who was only about
one or two. This girl told me that if my baby brother died he would go to hell for my mother's "sins."
From JE: My story is set in the Cumberland Presbyterian Church, a small fundamentalist offshoot of the main Presbyterian Church. My grandparents were members of a rural Arkansas church, and I was taken to a revival there sometime in the mid 1950's. The preacher told a story about a little boy accidentally being run over by his mother. The Lord, he explained, put the little boy under the wheels to "bring the mother back to God."
Keep the stories coming to rudepundit@yahoo.com.
Check the archives for previous posts of the Christ Weary.
Monday, December 27, 2004
A Few Things Briefly But Rudely Noted:
So, like, how long until the Bush administration in some way ties Indonesian terrorists to the tsunamis that devastated that region of the world?
How long before Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson say it's God's revenge, like Noah's flood, washing those motherfuckin' non-Christians out to sea, leaving behind the ones who will be crying to convert to the faith of those who send relief supplies?
How come the rising death tolls look like we're watching the Dow on a good day on Wall Street? By the way, fuck CNN and MSNBC and Fox "News" and every other American media outlet, so fucking entranced by the higher and higher numbers. Watching the scroll and the updates on the three "news" nets, in between the "year in review" oh-boy-we-get-to-show-Janet-Jackson's-pixilated-titty programs and the constant hawking of merchandise available at cut rates in after-Christmas sales from desperate stores hoping to break even with expectations, was something not unakin to watching your Uncle Geoffrey rape a small dog in between giving you presents under the tree. Better stick with the BBC on this one, with its array of eyewitness accounts.
How come it only took a day or two before Secretary of Transportation Norman Mineta called for an investigation into this weekend's flying fiasco in order to find out how it could have been avoided but it took nearly a year for the President to agree to an investigation of 9/11?
How do the assholes sitting next to the Rude Pundit at this pretentious fucking coffee house expect to win even a school board election with their condescending attitude towards "red staters"? According to the jerk-off in the Anne Klein jacket, certain non-English films are "red state foreign films," meaning, one assumes, that the films are "easy to comprehend." Oh, then jerk-off does a cutesy imitation of a Southerner, saying, "I saw that foreign film. I are cultured." And, goddamn, his asshole friends are tittering up a storm at his cleverness. The Rude Pundit, most of whose friends and family reside in red states and who has spent a goodly portion of his life in this mythical place devoid of culture, who saw Godard films in packed theatres in fine Southern cities, needs to go. He's gotta grab this motherfucker and drag him into the bathroom and teach him some manners. Deliverance-style.
So, like, how long until the Bush administration in some way ties Indonesian terrorists to the tsunamis that devastated that region of the world?
How long before Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson say it's God's revenge, like Noah's flood, washing those motherfuckin' non-Christians out to sea, leaving behind the ones who will be crying to convert to the faith of those who send relief supplies?
How come the rising death tolls look like we're watching the Dow on a good day on Wall Street? By the way, fuck CNN and MSNBC and Fox "News" and every other American media outlet, so fucking entranced by the higher and higher numbers. Watching the scroll and the updates on the three "news" nets, in between the "year in review" oh-boy-we-get-to-show-Janet-Jackson's-pixilated-titty programs and the constant hawking of merchandise available at cut rates in after-Christmas sales from desperate stores hoping to break even with expectations, was something not unakin to watching your Uncle Geoffrey rape a small dog in between giving you presents under the tree. Better stick with the BBC on this one, with its array of eyewitness accounts.
How come it only took a day or two before Secretary of Transportation Norman Mineta called for an investigation into this weekend's flying fiasco in order to find out how it could have been avoided but it took nearly a year for the President to agree to an investigation of 9/11?
How do the assholes sitting next to the Rude Pundit at this pretentious fucking coffee house expect to win even a school board election with their condescending attitude towards "red staters"? According to the jerk-off in the Anne Klein jacket, certain non-English films are "red state foreign films," meaning, one assumes, that the films are "easy to comprehend." Oh, then jerk-off does a cutesy imitation of a Southerner, saying, "I saw that foreign film. I are cultured." And, goddamn, his asshole friends are tittering up a storm at his cleverness. The Rude Pundit, most of whose friends and family reside in red states and who has spent a goodly portion of his life in this mythical place devoid of culture, who saw Godard films in packed theatres in fine Southern cities, needs to go. He's gotta grab this motherfucker and drag him into the bathroom and teach him some manners. Deliverance-style.
Briefly But Rudely Noted:
"And it's hard work. I understand how hard it is . . . You know, it's hard work to try to love her as best as I can, knowing full well that the decision I made caused her loved one to be in harm's way . . . We've done a lot of hard work together over the last three and a half years." -- Republican President George Bush in the Presidential Debate, September 30, 2004, on various aspects of his job.
"I hate the words 'hard work.' You know something? It is all bogus. Hard work is being in a coal mine or something like that. This is interesting work." -- Republican Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger in the December 30, 2004 issue of Rolling Stone, in answer to the question "Is [being governor] harder work than you thought?"
More this afternoon.
"And it's hard work. I understand how hard it is . . . You know, it's hard work to try to love her as best as I can, knowing full well that the decision I made caused her loved one to be in harm's way . . . We've done a lot of hard work together over the last three and a half years." -- Republican President George Bush in the Presidential Debate, September 30, 2004, on various aspects of his job.
"I hate the words 'hard work.' You know something? It is all bogus. Hard work is being in a coal mine or something like that. This is interesting work." -- Republican Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger in the December 30, 2004 issue of Rolling Stone, in answer to the question "Is [being governor] harder work than you thought?"
More this afternoon.
Friday, December 24, 2004
Xmas - And, lo, a small teddy bear will lead them:
In the days before Christmas, the Rude Pundit roamed his neighborhood, looking at the displays in the charming stores and corner markets. There he saw the agony of so many dichotomous feelings about this holiday. One window had a kneeling, praying Santa next to a baby Jesus in the manger. Santa's hat was off. He was balding. Another display had the jolly old fat man landing his sleigh and reindeer on the roof of the manger. Surprisingly, neither Mary nor Joseph seemed rattled by the noise, although a camel was looking upward, as if asking, "What the fuck?" The Rude Pundit loved that camel.
Ah, sweet camel, what the fuck, indeed. Christ and commerce, Alleluia. The Savior has been born and he thanks you for your presents. Santa showing that he'll even honor the king of the Jews in the land of Islam. There's no telling what it means (and don't get all up in the Rude Pundit's face about St. Nicholas). Except this: we want to embrace both things, good deconstructionists that we are: Santa, who soothes our greed,and Jesus, who promises us peace. Either way, we want them both to tell us we're good people, nice people. And, of course, guilt-ridden Christians want to make sure that Santa toes the party line, you know.
For the holiday, here's a few of the Rude Pundit's favorite Nativity sets:
The Polar Bear Nativity (the manger reads, "Alaska")
The Teddy Bear Nativity (because baby Jesus isn't cute enough as a human)
The Mice Nativity
The Native American Nativity (complete with teepee instead of manger and a Mohawk king, 'cause, you know, the Indians benefited so much from the birth of Christ)
This is not to mention the Cativity, the Dogtivity, the Chickentivity, the Safaritivity, and the Forestivity, all available unironically for your Christmas consumption.
Back Monday with commentary on torture of another kind. And Tuesday, with more tales of the Christ weary.
In the days before Christmas, the Rude Pundit roamed his neighborhood, looking at the displays in the charming stores and corner markets. There he saw the agony of so many dichotomous feelings about this holiday. One window had a kneeling, praying Santa next to a baby Jesus in the manger. Santa's hat was off. He was balding. Another display had the jolly old fat man landing his sleigh and reindeer on the roof of the manger. Surprisingly, neither Mary nor Joseph seemed rattled by the noise, although a camel was looking upward, as if asking, "What the fuck?" The Rude Pundit loved that camel.
Ah, sweet camel, what the fuck, indeed. Christ and commerce, Alleluia. The Savior has been born and he thanks you for your presents. Santa showing that he'll even honor the king of the Jews in the land of Islam. There's no telling what it means (and don't get all up in the Rude Pundit's face about St. Nicholas). Except this: we want to embrace both things, good deconstructionists that we are: Santa, who soothes our greed,and Jesus, who promises us peace. Either way, we want them both to tell us we're good people, nice people. And, of course, guilt-ridden Christians want to make sure that Santa toes the party line, you know.
For the holiday, here's a few of the Rude Pundit's favorite Nativity sets:
The Polar Bear Nativity (the manger reads, "Alaska")
The Teddy Bear Nativity (because baby Jesus isn't cute enough as a human)
The Mice Nativity
The Native American Nativity (complete with teepee instead of manger and a Mohawk king, 'cause, you know, the Indians benefited so much from the birth of Christ)
This is not to mention the Cativity, the Dogtivity, the Chickentivity, the Safaritivity, and the Forestivity, all available unironically for your Christmas consumption.
Back Monday with commentary on torture of another kind. And Tuesday, with more tales of the Christ weary.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Donald Rumsfeld Needs a Hug:
Donald Rumsfeld is a sad, sad man. How do we know? He said so yesterday at a Pentagon briefing, next to Chair of the Joint Chiefs, Gen. Richard Myers, in an attempt to get Santa to move him from the Naughty list to the Nice one: "I am truly saddened by the thought that anyone could have the impression that I or others here are doing anything other than working urgently to see that the lives of the fighting men and women are protected and are cared for in every way humanly possible." Poor Donald Rumsfeld. Having to bear the burden of the big ol' war on his arthritic shoulders. How could we? Are we not ashamed as Americans to want to beat up this old man?
Look at the picture of him. It doesn't look like he's eating right. His clothes fit him awkwardly. Look through the spectacles and see the recessing eyes of a man who deeply feels the pain of loss. Oh, sure, sure, one might criticize Rumsfeld for having used a machine to sign letters telling families that little Jesse and Janey ain't comin' home for Christmas, but when you are as sensitive a man as Rumsfeld, how could you handle that? Tears smear ink, you know. But Rumsfeld will sign them now, yes, yes, he will, because those thinning arms must support our demands, our whims, of a Secretary of Defense able to chill his heart so he can sign away life after life after life.
Rumsfeld doesn't know when it will end, he says. Not even after the much vaunted elections. He said, "I think looking for a peaceful Iraq after the elections would be a mistake." Oh, but Rumsfeld will be there, we know. He'll be there after the next Mosul. How it must hurt Rumsfeld to know that a suicide bomber can get inside so very easily. Or maybe he just sighs, sad in his terrible knowledge of what is inevitable. Poor, poor Rumsfeld. He needs a hug.
Maybe he can get one from Dick Myers, standing so loyally next to him, all pretty in his military uniform, bringing it all home by making the following bizarro statement: "This attack, of course, is the responsibility of insurgents, the same insurgents who attacked on 9/11." You may think that Myers is saying that poor Sunnis, afraid of Americans and the Shi'a, coordinated and committed the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon. You may think that Myers is saying that the Saudi terrorists were actually Americans who were rising up against their very own government. But then you would think that you understand Dick, and really, can anyone make sense of what Myers said? Perhaps he's not the best candidate to give Rumsfeld a hug.
Maybe he can get one over at Walter Reed hospital, from an armless soldier, driven mad by his memories of a war about which he has to wonder, endlessly, why he fought, why he was there, why he had to leave those hugging arms behind.
Chances are Rumsfeld will have to go home and turn on video of the first month of war, a fire in the hearth, a cognac on the side table, embracing himself, trying to keep warm in the cold, lonely end of year darkness, hugging his body so hard, the sad man who so badly wanted the war.
Thomas Pynchon's epic, absurdist, great big "fuck you" of a novel, Gravity's Rainbow ends with a startling image: we, all of us, the readers of the very book we are holding, are seated in a movie theatre and we're waiting as a rocket, with a young man bound inside, is flying towards our cinema to destroy us all. The book concludes before that rocket completes its journey, but we know that the rocket will fall. It is the nature of gravity.
It's the way the Rude Pundit's been feeling lately, like we're all in this giant movie cineplex, and we're watching some shitty film, and the thing is, we know - hell, we knew from the previews, how the movie's gonna end. And we just keep checkin' our watches, wondering if we could please stop wasting our time and get to the ending already. But above our heads a rocket is at the peak of its arc. It must return to earth. What rises must, indeed, fall.
Donald Rumsfeld is a sad, sad man. How do we know? He said so yesterday at a Pentagon briefing, next to Chair of the Joint Chiefs, Gen. Richard Myers, in an attempt to get Santa to move him from the Naughty list to the Nice one: "I am truly saddened by the thought that anyone could have the impression that I or others here are doing anything other than working urgently to see that the lives of the fighting men and women are protected and are cared for in every way humanly possible." Poor Donald Rumsfeld. Having to bear the burden of the big ol' war on his arthritic shoulders. How could we? Are we not ashamed as Americans to want to beat up this old man?
Look at the picture of him. It doesn't look like he's eating right. His clothes fit him awkwardly. Look through the spectacles and see the recessing eyes of a man who deeply feels the pain of loss. Oh, sure, sure, one might criticize Rumsfeld for having used a machine to sign letters telling families that little Jesse and Janey ain't comin' home for Christmas, but when you are as sensitive a man as Rumsfeld, how could you handle that? Tears smear ink, you know. But Rumsfeld will sign them now, yes, yes, he will, because those thinning arms must support our demands, our whims, of a Secretary of Defense able to chill his heart so he can sign away life after life after life.
Rumsfeld doesn't know when it will end, he says. Not even after the much vaunted elections. He said, "I think looking for a peaceful Iraq after the elections would be a mistake." Oh, but Rumsfeld will be there, we know. He'll be there after the next Mosul. How it must hurt Rumsfeld to know that a suicide bomber can get inside so very easily. Or maybe he just sighs, sad in his terrible knowledge of what is inevitable. Poor, poor Rumsfeld. He needs a hug.
Maybe he can get one from Dick Myers, standing so loyally next to him, all pretty in his military uniform, bringing it all home by making the following bizarro statement: "This attack, of course, is the responsibility of insurgents, the same insurgents who attacked on 9/11." You may think that Myers is saying that poor Sunnis, afraid of Americans and the Shi'a, coordinated and committed the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon. You may think that Myers is saying that the Saudi terrorists were actually Americans who were rising up against their very own government. But then you would think that you understand Dick, and really, can anyone make sense of what Myers said? Perhaps he's not the best candidate to give Rumsfeld a hug.
Maybe he can get one over at Walter Reed hospital, from an armless soldier, driven mad by his memories of a war about which he has to wonder, endlessly, why he fought, why he was there, why he had to leave those hugging arms behind.
Chances are Rumsfeld will have to go home and turn on video of the first month of war, a fire in the hearth, a cognac on the side table, embracing himself, trying to keep warm in the cold, lonely end of year darkness, hugging his body so hard, the sad man who so badly wanted the war.
Thomas Pynchon's epic, absurdist, great big "fuck you" of a novel, Gravity's Rainbow ends with a startling image: we, all of us, the readers of the very book we are holding, are seated in a movie theatre and we're waiting as a rocket, with a young man bound inside, is flying towards our cinema to destroy us all. The book concludes before that rocket completes its journey, but we know that the rocket will fall. It is the nature of gravity.
It's the way the Rude Pundit's been feeling lately, like we're all in this giant movie cineplex, and we're watching some shitty film, and the thing is, we know - hell, we knew from the previews, how the movie's gonna end. And we just keep checkin' our watches, wondering if we could please stop wasting our time and get to the ending already. But above our heads a rocket is at the peak of its arc. It must return to earth. What rises must, indeed, fall.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Putting the "Oh, You Gotta Be Fuckin' Kidding Me" Back In Christmas:
Let us imagine, and why not, that over in Iraq, some of the members of the "legislature" and some of their intellectuals declared that Iraq is a Shi'a country, and if the Kurds and Sunnis don't like it, they can go fuck themselves. The Shi'a religious hierarchy can't understand the bizarro lack of intercessionary figures between the Sunni and God. Don't we all get this shit from the same Koran? In fact, all public displays will include big, huge representations of Shi'a emblems of Ramadan and other holy days. Right there: a big fuckin' Ali, the First Caliph. Sure, sure, we can throw in the token Kurdish and Sunni symbolism, maybe some little tiny reps of the other three Caliphs or of Imam Shaf'i, but motherfuckers better understand: it's a Shi'a country. Get used to it or tell it to the Turks.
Would we living in the big mess tent of America be more than a little worried about the implications of such statements? Even if it wasn't the policy of the Allawi "administration," wouldn't we think, "Oh, this is going to go badly," the slippery slope to Shi'a based laws, the inclusion of Shi'a references in governmental declarations, even a demonizing of those who think you should keep your religious beliefs out of the public space. Maybe then, oh, sweet Iraqi Freedom, an ethnic cleansing of those motherfuckin' Kurds, finally, at last, especially the totally screwed-up ones all into the Sufiism. What the fuck's up with that?
This whole bullshit uproar about "Merry Christmas" vs. "Happy Holidays" and oh-my-fucking-God-they're-not-lettin'-the-public-schoolchildren-dress-up-like-baby-Jesus is a worthless subject for discussion. No one's banning Christmas, the fake date of the storybook character Jesus's birth (chances are the little dude was born in spring or summer - depends on who you ask). If African-Americans want to create a holiday called "Kwanzaa," who the fuck cares? No one's walkin' into your house and takin' down your Christmas tree with the crucified Jesus nailed to the top and putting up a multicolored fruit basket. No one's tellin' you to say "Happy Holidays" to your family. It's just that when, say, a business that deals with people who are, well, shit, Jewish, Muslim, pagan, Zoroastrian, or whatever says, "Happy Holidays," it's saying, "I awkwardly shoehorn this phrase into a greeting because I respect diversity."
But a couple of things ought to be noted here. One is the whole thing smacks of a strange guilt complex from the people who can't afford the usual orgy of presents. Sales are down this year, and one can imagine parents at the local Wal-Mart thinking, as they put back the Tickle-My-Balls-Elmo doll on the shelf, "You know, Christmas isn't about the presents. It's about the birth of Jesus. And, hey, didn't the ACLU just take down the nativity scene outside our kid's school?" Get it? When you can't buy your way out of your misery, you gotta take it out on something.
Bill O'Reilly (who ought to be sodomized with a candy cane) is on to something when he belches forth, "This Christmas battle really stunned the secular forces," but it's not for the reasons he's thinking. It's not because we "secular forces" are taken aback at the ferocity of the defense of Christmas. If you tell a chimp not to throw its feces at you, the chimp is still gonna toss that shit. It's what chimps do. No, the "you gotta be fuckin' kidding me" response from the Left has more to do with the fact that, once again, the right has taken something insignificant, blown it up to something huge, and used it as a distraction from the shit that really matters. Social security "privatization"? Too complicated. Muslims and Jews who don't like Christmas? That's a Crusade we can have an Inquisition about. That speaks to the deep seated xenophobia of so many people, so flamed into rage by the right (like O'Reilly, who now has appointed himself the spokesman for the actions of Jesus when he proclaims that, because of the "attacks" on his birthday, "Somewhere Jesus is weeping." The Rude Pundit gets the feeling that if Jesus is weeping, it's probably watching the cars getting loaded with boxes at the valet parking at a Nordstrom's somewhere).
Tell you what: howzabout a deal with the goodly, godly Christians who can't celebrate without a public display of their dogma? A trade: you keep your Jesus out of the schools and the legislatures, and you can erect the biggest goddamn nativity on the lawn in front of City Hall, every city hall. Complete with fuckin' camels, man, big fuckin' camels dumpin' great huge piles of camel shit on the filthy wool of the bedraggled sheep. You can nail a baby to a cross and display it in some gigantic manger, get a token black person to be one of the kings to acknowledge where all this shit actually went down. You can have that motherfucker up for the entire month, with "Mary" and "Joseph" forced to stay out there, live with the fuckin' donkeys, man. Yeah, you keep your Jesus away from the kids and away from the Congress, and you can show everyone how big your fuckin' savior is.
(Information on Islamic sects from Global Security.)
Let us imagine, and why not, that over in Iraq, some of the members of the "legislature" and some of their intellectuals declared that Iraq is a Shi'a country, and if the Kurds and Sunnis don't like it, they can go fuck themselves. The Shi'a religious hierarchy can't understand the bizarro lack of intercessionary figures between the Sunni and God. Don't we all get this shit from the same Koran? In fact, all public displays will include big, huge representations of Shi'a emblems of Ramadan and other holy days. Right there: a big fuckin' Ali, the First Caliph. Sure, sure, we can throw in the token Kurdish and Sunni symbolism, maybe some little tiny reps of the other three Caliphs or of Imam Shaf'i, but motherfuckers better understand: it's a Shi'a country. Get used to it or tell it to the Turks.
Would we living in the big mess tent of America be more than a little worried about the implications of such statements? Even if it wasn't the policy of the Allawi "administration," wouldn't we think, "Oh, this is going to go badly," the slippery slope to Shi'a based laws, the inclusion of Shi'a references in governmental declarations, even a demonizing of those who think you should keep your religious beliefs out of the public space. Maybe then, oh, sweet Iraqi Freedom, an ethnic cleansing of those motherfuckin' Kurds, finally, at last, especially the totally screwed-up ones all into the Sufiism. What the fuck's up with that?
This whole bullshit uproar about "Merry Christmas" vs. "Happy Holidays" and oh-my-fucking-God-they're-not-lettin'-the-public-schoolchildren-dress-up-like-baby-Jesus is a worthless subject for discussion. No one's banning Christmas, the fake date of the storybook character Jesus's birth (chances are the little dude was born in spring or summer - depends on who you ask). If African-Americans want to create a holiday called "Kwanzaa," who the fuck cares? No one's walkin' into your house and takin' down your Christmas tree with the crucified Jesus nailed to the top and putting up a multicolored fruit basket. No one's tellin' you to say "Happy Holidays" to your family. It's just that when, say, a business that deals with people who are, well, shit, Jewish, Muslim, pagan, Zoroastrian, or whatever says, "Happy Holidays," it's saying, "I awkwardly shoehorn this phrase into a greeting because I respect diversity."
But a couple of things ought to be noted here. One is the whole thing smacks of a strange guilt complex from the people who can't afford the usual orgy of presents. Sales are down this year, and one can imagine parents at the local Wal-Mart thinking, as they put back the Tickle-My-Balls-Elmo doll on the shelf, "You know, Christmas isn't about the presents. It's about the birth of Jesus. And, hey, didn't the ACLU just take down the nativity scene outside our kid's school?" Get it? When you can't buy your way out of your misery, you gotta take it out on something.
Bill O'Reilly (who ought to be sodomized with a candy cane) is on to something when he belches forth, "This Christmas battle really stunned the secular forces," but it's not for the reasons he's thinking. It's not because we "secular forces" are taken aback at the ferocity of the defense of Christmas. If you tell a chimp not to throw its feces at you, the chimp is still gonna toss that shit. It's what chimps do. No, the "you gotta be fuckin' kidding me" response from the Left has more to do with the fact that, once again, the right has taken something insignificant, blown it up to something huge, and used it as a distraction from the shit that really matters. Social security "privatization"? Too complicated. Muslims and Jews who don't like Christmas? That's a Crusade we can have an Inquisition about. That speaks to the deep seated xenophobia of so many people, so flamed into rage by the right (like O'Reilly, who now has appointed himself the spokesman for the actions of Jesus when he proclaims that, because of the "attacks" on his birthday, "Somewhere Jesus is weeping." The Rude Pundit gets the feeling that if Jesus is weeping, it's probably watching the cars getting loaded with boxes at the valet parking at a Nordstrom's somewhere).
Tell you what: howzabout a deal with the goodly, godly Christians who can't celebrate without a public display of their dogma? A trade: you keep your Jesus out of the schools and the legislatures, and you can erect the biggest goddamn nativity on the lawn in front of City Hall, every city hall. Complete with fuckin' camels, man, big fuckin' camels dumpin' great huge piles of camel shit on the filthy wool of the bedraggled sheep. You can nail a baby to a cross and display it in some gigantic manger, get a token black person to be one of the kings to acknowledge where all this shit actually went down. You can have that motherfucker up for the entire month, with "Mary" and "Joseph" forced to stay out there, live with the fuckin' donkeys, man. Yeah, you keep your Jesus away from the kids and away from the Congress, and you can show everyone how big your fuckin' savior is.
(Information on Islamic sects from Global Security.)
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Man Date - A Poem by George W. Bush:
(All taken from Bush's own words at his press conference yesterday.)
1. Dear Vladimir
I'm optimistic about achieving results, Vladimir.
I will submit and maintain strict discipline, Vladimir.
I intend to keep it that way.
We will provide every tool
We have tools at our disposal, a variety of tools.
We have joint efforts.
Let us keep our commitment a sustained effort.
Because we acted, I will give you a decisive blow in Slovenia.
If we disagree with decisions, we can do so
In a friendly and positive way, Vladimir.
Vladimir, we have got a good personal relationship.
We are two people who've grown to appreciate
Each other and respect each other.
It's a lot less painful to act now
Than if we wait. Otherwise, it will
Make everybody else jealous,
And I don't want that to happen.
2. Negotiating With Myself
Polls go up. Polls go down.
You want to get me to negotiate with myself in public
Polls go up. Polls go down.
I will negotiate at the appropriate time.
Polls go up. Polls go down.
They will want me to start playing my hand.
Polls go up. Polls go down.
I'm not going to negotiate with myself.
I'm not going to negotiate with myself.
Polls go up. Polls go down.
I will try to explain how without negotiating with myself.
Polls go up. Polls go down.
I issued.
3. Regarding Rumsfeld
I know Secretary Rumsfeld's heart.
I've seen his eyes when we talk about the dangers, the youngsters.
He's a caring fellow.
Beneath that rough and gruff, no-nonsense demeanor is
A good human being who cares deeply.
When I asked the Secretary,
I was very pleased when he said, "Yes."
He understands the nature of the forces
And where forces are when the heat gets on.
I said to him, "I will continue to push,
You're painfully aware. You had to suffer.
I'm passionate on it. But we have sent messages.
We've sanctioned ourselves.
People are coming. Yet we will continue to
Work the issue hard." His is a vital issue.
He took that on and absorbed it in the spirit
In which it was offered,
The spirit of two people who've grown to
Appreciate each other and respect each other.
But we have to make it easier to enforce our borders.
4. Postscript
I was trying to be really brilliant.
But I'm under no illusions.
I'm not doing a very good job.
(All taken from Bush's own words at his press conference yesterday.)
1. Dear Vladimir
I'm optimistic about achieving results, Vladimir.
I will submit and maintain strict discipline, Vladimir.
I intend to keep it that way.
We will provide every tool
We have tools at our disposal, a variety of tools.
We have joint efforts.
Let us keep our commitment a sustained effort.
Because we acted, I will give you a decisive blow in Slovenia.
If we disagree with decisions, we can do so
In a friendly and positive way, Vladimir.
Vladimir, we have got a good personal relationship.
We are two people who've grown to appreciate
Each other and respect each other.
It's a lot less painful to act now
Than if we wait. Otherwise, it will
Make everybody else jealous,
And I don't want that to happen.
2. Negotiating With Myself
Polls go up. Polls go down.
You want to get me to negotiate with myself in public
Polls go up. Polls go down.
I will negotiate at the appropriate time.
Polls go up. Polls go down.
They will want me to start playing my hand.
Polls go up. Polls go down.
I'm not going to negotiate with myself.
I'm not going to negotiate with myself.
Polls go up. Polls go down.
I will try to explain how without negotiating with myself.
Polls go up. Polls go down.
I issued.
3. Regarding Rumsfeld
I know Secretary Rumsfeld's heart.
I've seen his eyes when we talk about the dangers, the youngsters.
He's a caring fellow.
Beneath that rough and gruff, no-nonsense demeanor is
A good human being who cares deeply.
When I asked the Secretary,
I was very pleased when he said, "Yes."
He understands the nature of the forces
And where forces are when the heat gets on.
I said to him, "I will continue to push,
You're painfully aware. You had to suffer.
I'm passionate on it. But we have sent messages.
We've sanctioned ourselves.
People are coming. Yet we will continue to
Work the issue hard." His is a vital issue.
He took that on and absorbed it in the spirit
In which it was offered,
The spirit of two people who've grown to
Appreciate each other and respect each other.
But we have to make it easier to enforce our borders.
4. Postscript
I was trying to be really brilliant.
But I'm under no illusions.
I'm not doing a very good job.
Monday, December 20, 2004
A Very Nixon Christmas:
(William Safire and Maureen Dowd indulged fantasy scenarios in their most recent columns. Why not join them?)
Safire is in the kitchen, late, late at night, having put to bed his latest editorial, one of his last for the Times. In this one, Safire, using Philip Roth's latest novel as a jumping off point, envisioned the scenario of a fantasy George W. Bush having opinions of his own, able to stand up to the neocons, and refusing to go to war in Iraq. This single act, of course, leads to Saddam Hussein's ascent to unparalleled power in the Middle East, with a complicit UN behind him. Oh, ho, ho, we dodged that bullet, Safire thinks, searching for the last of the Hannukah brisket in the back of the fridge. When he closes the fridge door, he notices that the room is still cold. He turns to the counter and jumps, for a moment, as he sees the ghost of his old boss, Richard Nixon. "How ya doin', ya short-cocked kike?" Nixon asks.
"Hi, Dick," Safire says. He's old. He's seen many, many ghosts in his time. And Nixon's been a regular visitor of late.
"Goddamn, that was a fine, fine fucking editorial you wrote today," Nixon says, proud that his former speechwriter has succeeded where so many from his administration failed.
Safire says, "Actually, it's technically a column. An editorial is generally done by an editor. I'm a columnist."
Nixon rolls his eyes, "Look, Bill, if you correct my fuckin' language one more cocksuckin' time, I'll feed your balls to Satan's bichon frise."
"Satan has a bichon frise? I'd've thought pit bulls or something."
"Everyone in Hell has a bichon frise. Little fuckers shit and shed, it's all they goddamn do."
"Brisket?" Safire offers.
"Got any bacon?" Nixon cracks himself up. Safire shakes his head. He's used to the charm of Nixon's Jew-hating humor. He knows that Nixon's heart is good, despite the judgment of eternity. Nixon continues, "Holy fuckin' crap, what an amazing column today. That kind of disinformation I couldn't buy in my time. Least I couldn't get away with it. Fuckin' Cronkite, fuckin' Murrow, fuckin' Huntley, fuckin' Brinkley, fuckin' Woodward--"
"What are you talking about?" Safire interrupts, slicing the brisket and eating it with his fingers. "I don't contaminate the columns with disinformation."
"Ah, you Hebe bastard, you were always thinkin' you were pure. It's why we tapped your phone. C'mon, the lines about Iraq 'harboring' terrorists? Sure, the fuckin' Kurds were always linked up with al-Qaeda, but, remember, America loved 'em because Saddam gave 'em the gas. So, sure, sure, terrorists were within the borders of Iraq, but nowhere near Saddam. They were cavortin' under our protection. And ending with Rumsfeld and Wolfowitz as heroes? Fuckin' genius. Oh, and that line about Condoleeza Rice, that sweet brown pussy, nice and thin, like Pat after the cancer operations, sayin' that 'Saddam seeks awful weapons'? Holy shit, that's some fine revisionism. You know Rice said that there were real and actual weapons, not a desire to seek or some such bullshit. It'd be like sayin' that Joe McCarthy was worried about Communism as an ideology, not actual Communists."
Safire winces. "Really, 'Communism' in the form you're referring to is not an 'ideology,' but, rather, an economic and political system that--"
"Oh, that's it, Bill," Nixon growls. "Every goddamn time I visit you, you Jew bastard, you gotta trot out the Strunk and White. That's it. I'm gonna fuck you now." And the ghost of Richard Nixon slams William Safire down on Safire's kitchen counter, Safire wide-eyed, brisket slice dangling out of his mouth, as Nixon goes to town, his cold cock thrusting away as Safire, at first shocked, eases into it, remembering the good old days back in the Oval Office, with an uncomfortable Kissinger looking on whenever Nixon went into one of his sodomizing rages, telling Henry that this is how he wanted to enter Cambodia before tearing down Pat Buchanan's pants. Or Safire's (Safire was usually Laos).
His stomach bouncing on the counter as Nixon grunts behind him, Safire thinks about his recent work in the Times, and this current administration, filled with men who rose to prominence on the coattails of the Nixonian will to power that he, Safire, helped usher in. And as Nixon grabs his ghost balls and screams in orgasm, Safire thinks, The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Gettin' a Lugaring:
Contemplate the statement by Richard Lugar (remember - some consider him one of the rational, "moderate" Republicans) on yesterday's Meet the Press regarding whether or not Donald Rumsfeld should be fired: "He should be held accountable, and he should stay in office." By that fucked-up logic, no one should ever be fired for anything as long as they're "held accountable." Molesting priests should lead the flock. A postal worker who shoots his fellow employees should still deliver the mail. A goddamn Wendy's employee who burns down the restaurant by accident because she thought she knew how to work the fuckin' fryer should be simply reassigned to the drink machine at the next Wendy's. See? As long as there's some bandage of "accountability," there's nothin' to worry about. Didn't we used to call losing one's job "accountability"?
Ahh, but that's just the corporate culture taking over fully in DC. See, as long as no one's caught doing anything illegal (and the key word there is "caught") then you just keep promoting the incompetent. To fire makes the CEO or area supervisor or whoever seem weak. Like, if Dan in accounting fucked up the projected sales figures but you, as VP of sales, signed off on Dan's fuck-up, you can't reveal Dan's error because it implicates you. But to promote? Why, then you're rewarding the incompetent for something good, right? 'Cause, like, why would you promote someone who is an utter boob? And thus Dan gets the corner office and a fun new title. So, really, and, c'mon, unless Rumsfeld is caught balls deep in the face of a limbless Iraqi child in a Baghdad hospital while Marines block the doctors and nurses from pulling Rumsfeld away before he chokes the child to death, we're going to hear over and over from the White House about how "spectacular" a job Rumsfeld is doing.
Of course, the White House rewarding of incompetence that comes to mind most readily is the whole Soviet-style awarding of the Medal of Freedom to George Tenet, Paul Bremer, and Tommy Franks, the See No, Hear No, and Speak No Evil of the Iraq War. Oh, sure, lots of Left Blogsylvania and even some "mainstream" media members were pissed about the obvious bullshit nature of the use of "the nation's highest civilian award" in such a blatant assertion of the goodness and rightness of the Bush policies in Iraq. But, c'mon, Bush has previously "honored" Irving Kristol the same year as Nelson fuckin' Mandela. He's given it to Charlton Heston, Arnold Palmer, and neocon Norman Podhoretz. Sure, sure, the Presidential Medal of Freedom is given to popes and peacemakers and great doctors and artists, but Bush has made sure it's just another circle jerk in the name of shoring up the base.
(William Safire and Maureen Dowd indulged fantasy scenarios in their most recent columns. Why not join them?)
Safire is in the kitchen, late, late at night, having put to bed his latest editorial, one of his last for the Times. In this one, Safire, using Philip Roth's latest novel as a jumping off point, envisioned the scenario of a fantasy George W. Bush having opinions of his own, able to stand up to the neocons, and refusing to go to war in Iraq. This single act, of course, leads to Saddam Hussein's ascent to unparalleled power in the Middle East, with a complicit UN behind him. Oh, ho, ho, we dodged that bullet, Safire thinks, searching for the last of the Hannukah brisket in the back of the fridge. When he closes the fridge door, he notices that the room is still cold. He turns to the counter and jumps, for a moment, as he sees the ghost of his old boss, Richard Nixon. "How ya doin', ya short-cocked kike?" Nixon asks.
"Hi, Dick," Safire says. He's old. He's seen many, many ghosts in his time. And Nixon's been a regular visitor of late.
"Goddamn, that was a fine, fine fucking editorial you wrote today," Nixon says, proud that his former speechwriter has succeeded where so many from his administration failed.
Safire says, "Actually, it's technically a column. An editorial is generally done by an editor. I'm a columnist."
Nixon rolls his eyes, "Look, Bill, if you correct my fuckin' language one more cocksuckin' time, I'll feed your balls to Satan's bichon frise."
"Satan has a bichon frise? I'd've thought pit bulls or something."
"Everyone in Hell has a bichon frise. Little fuckers shit and shed, it's all they goddamn do."
"Brisket?" Safire offers.
"Got any bacon?" Nixon cracks himself up. Safire shakes his head. He's used to the charm of Nixon's Jew-hating humor. He knows that Nixon's heart is good, despite the judgment of eternity. Nixon continues, "Holy fuckin' crap, what an amazing column today. That kind of disinformation I couldn't buy in my time. Least I couldn't get away with it. Fuckin' Cronkite, fuckin' Murrow, fuckin' Huntley, fuckin' Brinkley, fuckin' Woodward--"
"What are you talking about?" Safire interrupts, slicing the brisket and eating it with his fingers. "I don't contaminate the columns with disinformation."
"Ah, you Hebe bastard, you were always thinkin' you were pure. It's why we tapped your phone. C'mon, the lines about Iraq 'harboring' terrorists? Sure, the fuckin' Kurds were always linked up with al-Qaeda, but, remember, America loved 'em because Saddam gave 'em the gas. So, sure, sure, terrorists were within the borders of Iraq, but nowhere near Saddam. They were cavortin' under our protection. And ending with Rumsfeld and Wolfowitz as heroes? Fuckin' genius. Oh, and that line about Condoleeza Rice, that sweet brown pussy, nice and thin, like Pat after the cancer operations, sayin' that 'Saddam seeks awful weapons'? Holy shit, that's some fine revisionism. You know Rice said that there were real and actual weapons, not a desire to seek or some such bullshit. It'd be like sayin' that Joe McCarthy was worried about Communism as an ideology, not actual Communists."
Safire winces. "Really, 'Communism' in the form you're referring to is not an 'ideology,' but, rather, an economic and political system that--"
"Oh, that's it, Bill," Nixon growls. "Every goddamn time I visit you, you Jew bastard, you gotta trot out the Strunk and White. That's it. I'm gonna fuck you now." And the ghost of Richard Nixon slams William Safire down on Safire's kitchen counter, Safire wide-eyed, brisket slice dangling out of his mouth, as Nixon goes to town, his cold cock thrusting away as Safire, at first shocked, eases into it, remembering the good old days back in the Oval Office, with an uncomfortable Kissinger looking on whenever Nixon went into one of his sodomizing rages, telling Henry that this is how he wanted to enter Cambodia before tearing down Pat Buchanan's pants. Or Safire's (Safire was usually Laos).
His stomach bouncing on the counter as Nixon grunts behind him, Safire thinks about his recent work in the Times, and this current administration, filled with men who rose to prominence on the coattails of the Nixonian will to power that he, Safire, helped usher in. And as Nixon grabs his ghost balls and screams in orgasm, Safire thinks, The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Gettin' a Lugaring:
Contemplate the statement by Richard Lugar (remember - some consider him one of the rational, "moderate" Republicans) on yesterday's Meet the Press regarding whether or not Donald Rumsfeld should be fired: "He should be held accountable, and he should stay in office." By that fucked-up logic, no one should ever be fired for anything as long as they're "held accountable." Molesting priests should lead the flock. A postal worker who shoots his fellow employees should still deliver the mail. A goddamn Wendy's employee who burns down the restaurant by accident because she thought she knew how to work the fuckin' fryer should be simply reassigned to the drink machine at the next Wendy's. See? As long as there's some bandage of "accountability," there's nothin' to worry about. Didn't we used to call losing one's job "accountability"?
Ahh, but that's just the corporate culture taking over fully in DC. See, as long as no one's caught doing anything illegal (and the key word there is "caught") then you just keep promoting the incompetent. To fire makes the CEO or area supervisor or whoever seem weak. Like, if Dan in accounting fucked up the projected sales figures but you, as VP of sales, signed off on Dan's fuck-up, you can't reveal Dan's error because it implicates you. But to promote? Why, then you're rewarding the incompetent for something good, right? 'Cause, like, why would you promote someone who is an utter boob? And thus Dan gets the corner office and a fun new title. So, really, and, c'mon, unless Rumsfeld is caught balls deep in the face of a limbless Iraqi child in a Baghdad hospital while Marines block the doctors and nurses from pulling Rumsfeld away before he chokes the child to death, we're going to hear over and over from the White House about how "spectacular" a job Rumsfeld is doing.
Of course, the White House rewarding of incompetence that comes to mind most readily is the whole Soviet-style awarding of the Medal of Freedom to George Tenet, Paul Bremer, and Tommy Franks, the See No, Hear No, and Speak No Evil of the Iraq War. Oh, sure, lots of Left Blogsylvania and even some "mainstream" media members were pissed about the obvious bullshit nature of the use of "the nation's highest civilian award" in such a blatant assertion of the goodness and rightness of the Bush policies in Iraq. But, c'mon, Bush has previously "honored" Irving Kristol the same year as Nelson fuckin' Mandela. He's given it to Charlton Heston, Arnold Palmer, and neocon Norman Podhoretz. Sure, sure, the Presidential Medal of Freedom is given to popes and peacemakers and great doctors and artists, but Bush has made sure it's just another circle jerk in the name of shoring up the base.
Subscribe to:
Comments
(
Atom
)