Blog Noir.An interplay of cultural references, snark, the occasional smutty joke, Dadaism, Mamaism, and a genuine outrage at the horrors of The Situation.
--to paraphrase Freddy el Desfibradddoro
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sing Along With Mitt!
Consultants ask why Mitt’s a guy With “perfect” hair Noon and night. Hair that’s uptight It’s perfect high and low Advisers ask why Don’t know Maybe it’s the Rogaine Unlike John McCain...
Give us a candidate with hair But not too “perfect” hair Shining, streaming, Focus-grouped And gleaming
Give us we-can-vote-for-him hair Reaganesque not fruity Here’s Duncan, there’s Gingrich Everywhere Rudy, Rudy Hair, hair, hair, hair, Hair, hair, hair Chart it, part it Let’s get the campaign started Mitt’s hair! Let it fly like the flag And put His nomination in the bag Make a home for the brave in his hair A little gel Would be swell Our surveys tell There’s none to compare With the beauty, the splendor, The wonder Of Mitt’s... Hair, hair, hair, hair, Hair, hair, hair Chart it, part it Let’s get the campaign started Mitt’s hair! Voters want it there but not Too fuzzy Or snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty Oily, greasy or mussy Shining, streaming, Focus-grouped And gleaming Angled, star-spangled Tested, trusted, trained Shampooed, air-dried, and admired Too neat, never tangled, Unglued, or on fire! Oh say Did you see The exhaustive internal Campaign document leaked to The Boston Globe?
Mitt’s hair’s much too perfect Perfect here Perfect there Perfect where His handlers are worried They’ll forsooth Mitt at the booth When they see him over-coiffed His pompadour aloft Brilliantined Mormon hair His hair so Allegoric Maybe voters will adore it! Oh his handlers still fret The voters Will be upset By Mitt’s hair, Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair Chart it, part it Let’s get the campaign started Mitt’s hair! Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair Chart it, part it Let’s get the campaign started Mitt’s hair! Mitt’s hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair Chart it, part it Let’s get the campaign started Mitt’s hair!
This week's I Miss Fafblog Comment of the Week, Spot! comes from another hold-over from the Actual Fafblog! commenting community, MarkC, who writes:
Cheney had been down this road before. He thought to himself, Karl got it right about history repeating itself: the first time as tragedy, the second time in Farsi.
We chortled. We sobbed uncontrollably. We felt vaguely like we'd heard something similar to this once before. We dismissed said feeling as the painful delusional effects of ice cream headache from our fruit smoothie.
Well played, MarkC!
Special thanks also to new linker Matilda's Advice and Rants, and as always, Blue Gal, and somewhat surprisingly, my own self -- for people other than me clicked the link from my other place this week -- for the traffic we send our way.
AND: [Only tangentially related gratuitous blog promoting]: Blue Gal is hosting Carnival of the Liberals this time around. Submit your work now. If you have no work to submit, at least stop by and visit the Carnival on Wednesday.
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The long grey beard made Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei look older than he was, but it wasn't like that at all. I knew he could move fast if he had to. He turned his head and pretended to see me for the first time, and began to urgently wave a column by Thomas Friedman of the NY Times in my face. One about how the United States and Iran need to engage each other.
"We are natural allies," he said. "Because now the major threat for both Iran and the U.S.A. is al-Qaeda."
I wasn't fooled and I ain't leashed by any diplomatic niceties. I worked up a mouthful of gob and spit it as close to his new Reeboks as I could.
His face broke into in an ugly sneer. "We are not after conflict, Mr Cheney. We are not after crisis. We are not after war. But we don't know whether the same is true with you. If the same is true with you, the first step must be to end this vicious cycle that can lead to war."
I dropped down in a chair across from him. "Any way you want it, Khamenei," I said insolently. "I'm listening."
"We do not want to have to prove that we are strong. Our nuclear program is not to show the U.S. we are strong. It is because of our previous centuries of threats and invasions," he said.
My tongue ran over my lips. "Khamenei, you forgot something. You forgot that I'm a guy that takes no crap."
"Mr. Cheney, each of us is afraid of looking weak if we take the first step," he replied. "We have this fear in common with America. Before contemplating recognition, each side feels it necessary to convince the other side that 'I am not weak.'"
I pulled out my .45 and shot him in the kneecap. He screamed Allah something or other as he grabbed his leg.
Slowly, I got up. "I'm over being scared," I said. The Ayatollah moaned softly as I thumbed the hammer back and took aim at his other knee.
Back in 1994, Karl Rove acquired the potion and sent it to the Republican National Committee (RNC) for testing. He had discovered that zombies aren't raised from the dead, but are instead created from living beings! Rove's potion contained the crushed bones of Richard Nixon, a toad and an immature egg from the sex organs of a Potomac River male smallmouth bass. In correct dosages, these three elements would cause Republinica Parasthesia, a chemical disposition that starts with a tingling sensation in the perineum and advances to a state where the victim appears brain dead. After burial, Rove would simply dig his victim up and massage the head with "a little dab" of Ronald Reagon's Brylcreem. The hair cream's unique blend of ingredients acts as an antidote to the original toxin, inducing a zombified state where the victim appears clinically "conservative." The undead monster could now be easily manipulated for whatever diabolical scheme the GOP had in mind...
Fast forward to February 2007. RNC chairman Mel Martinez is today behind bars in an undisclosed Federal Correctional Institution after his chilling plan to raise an entire zombie army was uncovered. Shirley Dobson (wife of James Dobson, leader of the conservative Christian organization Focus on the Family) was horrified to discover Martinez's plan in a written proposal on his desk at the RNC's Washington headquarters. In it, the chairman outlined how to use Rove's potion and Reagon's Brylcreem to create a corps of undead GOP primary voters who would nominate Mormon cultist Mitt Romney for president. Outraged, she reported it to Secretary of Homeland Security Michael Chertoff.
Mercifully, Romney was was kidnapped in Grand Rapids, sprayed in the face, forced into a van and renditioned to Uzbekistan by agents from the Central Evangelical Agency before the macabre plot could be executed. Despite his protestations, authorities there have wisely decided to cage and mercilessly torture the miscreant nominee.
The Stooges move into the White House after getting elected by mistake. Their friends want them to do something after terrorists fly planes into the World Trade Center. The Stooges have a great idea. They decide to invade Iraq! Dick keeps on slipping on soap and having his head dunked in a bucket of water. They ruin efforts to stop North Korea's push to develop a nuclear bomb and generally makes a mess of everything, but the press passes them off as vaudeville comedians and they are invited to have a second term. Dick takes apart the entire government and after installing his friends in very high places, they all fall and almost break it completely! Moe gets mad because now he has to prove he's not an international confrontationalist, warmonger and diplomatic bungler.
I was absent on Monday, but here is your new Comment of the Week.
Retroactively taking effect yesterday at noon, Fannie Farmer (Mrs.) is the reigning I Miss Fafblog Commenter of the Week, Spot!
Mrs. Farmer always cooks up the most delicious comments. No matter how bad things get out there in "the world" she nourishes our souls, lifts our spirits and reminds us that the revolution, when applicable, doesn't arrive on empty stomachs.
This week, Fannie Farmer (Mme.) offered this tasty tidbit of language-arts cuisine, and we laughed:
When the French say..., they mean...
While looking for blood sausage recipes, I came across some French food idioms that our friend Diana had gotten from the L.A. Times. To wit:
You're turning my blood into blood sausage (Tu me fais tourner le sang en boudin): You're worrying me.
I could eat a parish priest rubbed with garlic (Je pourrais manger un curé frotté d'ail): I could eat a horse.
Oh, mashed potatoes! (Oh purée!): Darn it!
I can eat my soup on your head (Je peux manger ma soupe sur ta tête): I'm a head taller than you.
Worry about your own onions (Occupe-toi de tes oignons): Mind your own business.
Onions (oignons): Buttocks.
Make fried marlin eyes (Faire des yeux de merlans frits): Make goo-goo eyes.
Your rear end is surrounded by noodles (Tu as le cul bordé de nouilles): You're extremely lucky.
Go ahead, tall unhooker of sausages! (Va donc, grand dépendeur d'andouilles!): Go ahead, you big lug! (The guy who unhooks the andouilles from the ceiling must be very tall and not very smart.)
To have two eggs on the plate (avoir deux oeufs sur le plat): To be flat-chested.
She has the banana (Elle a la banane): She's got a big smile.
That puts the butter in the spinach (Ça met du beurre dans les épinards): That's icing on the cake.
He's sugaring his strawberries (Il sucre les fraises): He's old and senile, one foot in the grave.
Fall in the apples (tomber dans les pommes): To faint.
Make some salads (faire des salades): Tell tales out of school.
Push on the mushroom (Appuie sur le champignon): Step on the gas.
Make a total cheese (en faire tout un fromage): Make a big deal out of something.
She pedals in the sauerkraut (Elle pédale dans la choucroute): She doesn't understand diddly squat.
A noodle (une nouille): An idiot.
Make the leek (faire le poireau/poireauter): Wait impatiently for someone.
Send the sauce (envoyez la sauce): Make an effort.
She has the heart of an artichoke, she has an artichoke heart (Elle a le coeur d'artichaut): She's sentimental.
The carrots are cooked (Les carottes sont cuites): It's too late to do anything about it.
The end of the string beans (la fin des haricots): The biggest deal possible, in a catastrophic way.
with cross-cultural best wishes, Fannie Farmer (Mme.)
While this award may not be... how do you say(?)... la fin des haricots in Fannie Farmer (Mrs.)'s world, we think it is important to honor her generosity in the only way we know how -- other than by letting the belt out a notch and sighing contentment while rubbing our overfull bellies.
Well played, Fannie Farmer (Mrs.)!
Also, thanks to Jon Swift and Grow A Brain for sending traffic our way with shiny, glittery hyperlinks. Thanks again!
"...Speaking of George Bush, with whom Sharon developed a very close relationship, Uri Dan recalls that Sharon's delicacy made him reluctant to repeat what the president had told him when they discussed Osama bin Laden. Finally he relented. And here is what the leader of the Western world, valiant warrior in the battle of cultures, promised to do to bin Laden if he caught him: 'I will screw him in the ass!'"
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Every day we receive GLOWING TESTIMONIALS from our customers who have tried Ken's StainScram. Here are just a few!
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The Cheney cabal has left our national security decision-making process with a most powerful stench. It was just overpowering, let me tell you! We were convinced we would have to replace the entire bureaucracy! We took a chance, though, and bought a case of Ken's StainScram and guess what? It's a miracle! The smell is almost gone! Gone, gone, gone! Even the Defense Department is smelling cleaner!
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After my Party and I woke up from a six year nap we decided that we were never going to leave our country alone with the GOP again! The whole place smelled so awful that it was driving us batty! I was driven over the edge after I shampooed an area of the House of Representatives. George Bush walked right over to my freshly cleaned area and took a pee!! I was furious! That's when I discovered your TERRIFIC product. The GOP still haven't forgiven us, but the House smells terrific again!
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For instance this is what Murtha and Pelosi have in mind:
They call it their ’slow-bleed’ plan. Instead of supporting the troops in Iraq, or simply bringing them home, the Democrats intend to gradually make it harder and harder for them to do their jobs. [Republican National Committee]
Can you believe that in today's world of the political sound bite, they actually call it their 'slow-bleed' plan?!
There is a better plan.
Remember when Dutch Schultz punched Billy Bathgate in the nose to cover up the bloodstain on the hotel room carpet? Remember how Billy Bathgate dropped to his knees, and the blood flowed as if the bottom had dropped out of a bucket?
This is not an example of what you would call a 'slow-bleed,' now is it? It is the ideal strategy for US in the Mid East, however.
The effect of a sharp blow across the bridge of the nose of Iran, followed by a quick massive hemorrhage will be threefold:
Aspiring rogue, evil, nuclear, terror state, Iran, will be brought to it's knees and come to understand it's place in Our World.
Our World will quickly forget about the unsightly bloodstain on the carpet that was Iraq.
The fledgling Phoenix of Mid East Democracy will rise, clean the dry, cracked blood from its muddy face and sign reconstruction contracts and free trade agreements with all the nation of Our World; answering the collect call of the universal appeal of liberty and accepting the charges.
In the end, Our New Mid East will be a shining example of the Naked Power of Freedom.
We cannot allow unhinged mavens of peacenickery, the Slow-Bleeders, to hijack the process of freedom! VICTORY OR BUST!
--Chaplain Montag of the First Knights of the 19 Quart Lobster Pot
Smoothly, swiftly Georgina's car spun past the leafy quiet of the sorghum farms on the pleasant road to the beach. Past marshland, old oilwells and sand dunes, to the Gulf. White tipped waves rolled in with a dull roar, the salt wind blew, gulls flapped overhead on strong gray wings.
She was thinking of a drive to another beach. The night she met him at his mother's house. She wished she had never gone to Mrs. Cheney's. Better never to have known him than to...suddenly a man walks across the road directly in front of her...Oh noooo...blackness rolls over her...
The two of them are rushed to the hospital, and both are admitted. The man is badly injured. They are put on the same floor in rooms next to each other.
After Nouri painfully settles in, he crawls over to Georgina's room.
"Yes, Mom, they took tests...I have to stay overnight so the doctors can examine the results. I am sure that everything will be fine. Go back to sleep and I'll call you in the morning. Tell Daddy I love him. I've got to go, I've got company...it's the man that I hit with my car. 'Night, mom."
"Well, I'd have to say you're the most beautiful woman that ever ran me over."
Tears form in her eyes as she stares down at him on the floor. She tries to push her hair back. "I'm the prettiest woman who ever almost killed you?"
He struggles to reach up to push her hair from her face and then strokes her cheek. "You look pretty good to me." He stares into her eyes for a few seconds and continues, "I don't get it. I know we've only just met but I feel like I've known you forever." He pulls his hand away quickly and says, "Sorry. I'm being forward with you. I should drag my crippled body back to my room and let you get some rest."
She takes his hand and holds it and looks into his eyes and says, "You're not being forward. I don't know why, but I feel the same way!" Her voice gets husky as she whispers softly, "Please stay a while longer."
He is so kind, so good. It will be so empty in this room without him. Without his comforting hand, his pleasant smiling eyes. If only there was some way of keeping him...some way of making him understand...surely he would understand...
He smiles up at her and realizes the floor is cold as they hold hands.
He tries to raise himself up and she moves...fast. The phone in her other hand smashes against the side of his head and he crumples back to the floor. He is still aware enough to realize that she has dragged him out of the room and that he is now falling down stairs. Then he thinks about how he should never step into blind alleys, but because of a pretty dame in a car, he's suddenly forgotten all about it.
So, Spot, there I was on the tread mill, just bein' all aerobic an sweaty an trying to distract myself by watching the second TV from the right, which was the only one with news on.So anyway, I guess some astronaut chick went all ballistic on a rival for an astronaut dude. You know it rocks to be an astronaut dude if the chicks hafta get in line. So anyway, Guy Anchormanhair and Perky Anchorpersonhair, keep chatting about this chick wearing a diaper cross-country. It seemed to me that it kinda made sense, and I remembered something about astronauts bein jet pilots, an then it hit me, it hit me so sudden that I just stopped running. Of course the treadmill did not stop. My feet shot out backwards and my face bounced off something, I’m not exactly sure what - it happened too fast. The next thing I knew I was just sitting there holding my right eye. But sitting there, in my pain an humiliation, I still couldn’t get the image out of my mind. It was like a tape playing over and over. A man in a flight suit is strutting in front of a sign that says ‘MISSION ACCOMPLISHED’ and all I could think was, "Oh my God, I always thought it was a codpiece."
INTERNETS -- In a quiet ceremony at an undisclosed location, the winner of the first ever I Miss Fafblog, Spot! Comment of the Week Award was announced. The award recognized Mistah Charley, Ph.D.'s comment on Ken from Ken's Kitchenses' D.C. STORY post.
The comment thread had been sidetracked by a conversation about a certain star-crossed astronaut and unrequited lover, when Mistah Charley, Ph.D. brought things back down to Earth:
The space case in question clearly has had trouble staying grounded in reality. It shows how important love is, and how confused people can get sometimes about it.
May the Creative Forces of the Universe have mercy on all our souls (if any).
The awards committee called the comment "...a compassionate look at the fundamental truth behind a story that seemed a little too easy to make light of... With an estimated 46 bonus double entendres!"
Independent sources could not confirm the exact number of double entendres, but one source who has read the comment said, on condition of anonymity, "46 may be a bit high."
Mistah Charley, Ph.D. has been well known as a prolific commenter on the Original Fafblog! and many other websites. He is also proprietor of the apparently inactive blog Mistah Charley.
The awards committee also indicated that it was "a horse race, or to be more accurate, a coin flip," with MR. Bill in a virtual tie. His comment, a uniquely American sentiment on the nature of wisdom, and a cunning bit of Fafblogic to boot:
...the road to wisdom leads through the palace of Excess, and by the window of the Fast Food emporium of silliness.
The awards committee also wanted to express gratitude to Blue Gal, Miss Cellania and Doug Richardson "for linking and sending traffic at I Miss Fafblog, Spot!" Their support is "much appreciated," the awards committee added.
The entire enormous hotel bed was vibrating, but this wasn't one of those honeymoon suites from the movies with a massage bed. He rolled over off the mobile phone wedged under his hip, still clipped to the pants he still wore from the night before. His head felt like a frozen pineapple. The thin line of light seeping through the window shade troubled his eyes and pained his whole face. The excess of the plush Renaissance bedroom with Louis XVI furniture, hand-frescoed walls, and a colossal mahogany four-poster bed were lost on him this morning.
Where the hell am I?
The mini waste can he had been spooning with in his sleep was emblazoned in gold leaf with the monogram: HOTEL RITZ MONTREAL.
Slowly, the fog began to lift.
Beeblebrox flipped the tiny phone open. "Hello?"
"Monsieur Beeblebrox," a polite voice said. "Wake up, jackhole!" The voice continued, though not as polite as before.
Still bleary-eyed, Beeblebrox squinted at, and had to numbly fumble for the button to light the face of his Casio G-Shock, too tight around his wrist, thick from the night's excesses. It was 5:32 A.M. He had collapsed less than an hour before, and now he felt undead. Does room service here serve brains? the zombie mused silently, smirking to himself.
"It's Jean." Beeblebrox's Montreal connection, an old drinking companion from their college days and now boniface of a local inn and tavern. "A man was just here looking for you. Said it was urgent. I think he was a police detective."
Beeblebrox cleared his head and focused. A police detective. He reached for the glass of water he'd had the forethought to leave on the bedside table. When he picked up the glass to drink, his eyes lingered on the makeshift coaster, a creased card-stock flyer.
THE NEW THEOLOGY CENTER OF MONTREAL Proudly Presents An Evening With Montag Beeblebrox Chaplain of the First Knights of the 19 Quart Lobster Pot A Discussion of Symbology from Beyond Space and Time
Beeblebrox chuckled. It was snake oil. It served its purpose well as the 'official' purpose of his travels; but he was beginning to see how lucrative this founding a religion thing could be.
This trip, it was also bringing unwanted attention.
Beeblebrox's visibility had increased a hundred-fold after his involvement in a widely publicized incident at the Vatican. Since then, trouble seemed to follow him everywhere like a subterranean current. Even to Montreal.
Beeblebrox wasn't about to embark on a self-indulgent replay of the previous evening's events, but he was being recognized more and more often. For his 'official' work, as well as for 'other' things.
It seemed at every moment his separate lives were in danger of colliding; that he would one day meet someone able to make the connection between them; that with only the slightest misstep he might reveal the link himself. His tenuous home of cards might fall with no more impetus than the breath required to extinguish a candle and he would be exposed. Or worse.
"Do they know where I am?" Beeblebrox asked.
"I didn't tell them," Jean answered.
Beeblebrox didn't pause long enough to appreciate the humor of the message printed on a hotel pamphlet left on the chest in his room: SLEEP LIKE A BABY IN THE CITY OF MARY. SLUMBER AT THE MONTREAL RITZ. He would have time for a good laugh about that later. But now, he needed to get gone.
When the door closed behind him, he didn't hear the ringing of his hotel phone.
In the narrow, soft-lit hotel corridor, a heavy fist pounded on Beeblebrox's face.
"Going someplace, Monsieur Beeblebrox?" Asked the rumpled man with thick fingers. "I need to speak with you." The man continued in fluent, but proudly accented English. "My name is Inspector Clouseau of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."
Beeblebrox was thrown off his game by that name. But this was no bumbling simpleton of a policeman who believes himself to be a brilliant detective, made most famous by Peter Sellers. This Clouseau was a hard hitting, (which Beeblebrox's face could attest to,) humorless, brilliant detective; the pride of Canadian law enforcement six years running.
Beeblebrox regained himself when he realized who he was dealing with. The Mounted Police. 'Royal Canadian Mounted Police' is French for 'FBI.'
Not quite sure which aspect of his tortured existence this visit pertained to, Beeblebrox asked, "What is this all about?"
"The Royal Canadian Mounted Police require your expertise... for confidential reasons."
"What-- now?" Beeblebrox warily probed.
"We understand you were planning to meet with one Vartouhi Budge last evening."
Beeblebrox panicked inwardly, but concealed it outwardly. This Budge character had been very eager to meet him. Weird eager. Beeblebrox hadn't been sure what to think of the man's emails, but this seemed like exactly the type of person he worried about uncovering the connections. He had reluctantly agreed to a meeting-- in private --to find out what this Vartouhi Budge was all about. Of course, as events often unfold in the hospitality of Jean, by the arranged meeting time, 10:00 P.M., 'meeting' was out of the question.
"Yes. How did you know that?" Beeblebrox asked the detective.
"We found your name on one of his DnD character sheets."
Beeblebrox practically heaved a sigh of relief, he was so relieved. The third leg of his life's tripod was Online Dungeons and Dragons. He had played a significant part in adapting the game for online play, and had risen to near super stardom as the foremost Online Dungeon Master. Budge wanted to meet the great DM_Doom_J.
Relieved that his secrets were still safe-- at least from Vartouhi Budge --and that the Mounted Police weren't investigating underground bare knuckled boxing clubs, after all, Beeblebrox spoke; cucumber cool. "I trust nothing is wrong."
The detective's grim visage told him that, indeed, something was wrong. The man held up an open cell phone, blocking Beeblebrox's view of the detective's face, with the gruesome image on it's tiny color screen.
When Beeblebrox saw the image, he puked a little.
"This photo was taken less than an hour ago. In a pharmaceutical warehouse nearby. It's Vartouhi Budge."
"Who would---?!" Beeblebrox stammered, appalled and angered.
"We thought you might help us figure that out, what, with your knowledge of religious symbology and your acquaintence with him."
So it begins. The interlacing of identities. Religious Charlatan, meet legendary Dungeon Master. If we could get chiseled-out-of-wood bare-knuckled-boxing god in here we could have a regular party.
"Acquaintance is too strong of a word," Beeblebrox remarked, still concentrating on the digitized symbology in front of him, but with a growing, defensive detachment from the subject. This was exactly the kind of thing, he knew from experience, that would get you in big trouble down at the Vatican. At that's the kind of trouble that flows like current; follows you around; clings to you like stink. "You know, I might not be of much help here. My, uh, expertise, is of a ... different nature."
"Oh, but the Capitaine insists, Monsieur."
Beeblebrox hardly heard him. He was still transfixed by the picture. "That is just messed up!" He exclaimed. "Who would do something so..."
"Elaborate?" the detective ventured.
"Elaborate," Beeblebrox agreed, "I can't imagine who would do this to a person."
The detective looked tired, his shoulders hunched, worn down like the nub of a pencil. "You don't understand. What you see in this photograph..." He paused. "Monsieur Budge did to himself."
The action begins with the Jets enjoying possession of their turf. Their leader is Dub: highly intelligent, but a little wacky. His lieutenant is Big Time: super-sized, slow, and steady.
The Jets' sunny mood is the sharply punctuated by the entrance of the leader of the Sharks. Harry is handsome and proud, but has a chip on his sardonic shoulder. The Jets flick him off. Harry returns with more Sharks, but they're flicked off, too. Harry comes back with even more Sharks, and now numerical supremacy, the strength of the Jets, is over. The beginnings of a fight are mild at first: a gangmember being tripped up, or being sandbagged with a filibuster, or even a vote against cloture with overly elaborate apologies.
Mitch runs across a suddenly deserted Chamber, pretending to be an airplane. There is no sound as he zooms along in fancied flight. Then Harry steps out. Then another Shark, and another and another appear, blocking Mitch's panicky efforts at escape. They close in, grab him and pummel him for preventing debate on a resolution criticizing Dub's escalation plan for Iraq while a Shark is stationed up in the visitor's gallery as lookout. As Harry bends over Mitch and assails him for providing political cover for Dub the lookout whistles; the Jets tear on, the Sharks tear on, and a free-for-all breaks out.
[Music starts and Dub sings:]
When you're a Jet, You're the top cat in town, You're the gold-metal kid With the heavyweight crown!
When you're a Jet, You're the swingin'est thing. Big Time is 'the man,' Little Dub, you're the king!
[All the Jets sing:]
The Jets are in gear, And we got no solutions. But we'll steer clear Of anti-war resolutions! Harry's a chicken! Here come the Jets Like a bat out of hell- Someone gets in our way, Someone don't feel so well. Here come the Jets: Middle East, step aside! Better go underground, Better run, better hide. We're drawin' the line, So keep your noses hidden! We're hangin' a sign, Says "Immigrants forbidden"- And we ain't kiddin'! Here come the Jets, Yeah! An' we're gonna beat Ev'ry last buggin' gang On the whole buggin' street!
A few months ago, when we switched to Haloscan comments, (yet left the Blogger comments turned on so as not to lose legacy comments,) comment moderation (for the old Blogger comments) was turned on, either automatically by the Haloscan installation, or more likely, through my own stupidity. In any case, this turn of events was unbeknown to me.
So this week, when Google forced us to move to New Blogger, the New Blogger Dashboard feature called to my attention several comments that were in moderation. (By several I mean nineteen.) At this late date, they have all been approved. Please accept my sincerest, deepest and humble-ist apologies for this travesty. I am certainly the worst blog host of all time.
We certainly hope that you will all come back and join in again with the knowledge that you will be welcomed and not excluded or moderated or censored in any way.
And to raise the stakes just a wee bit more, in a stroke of brilliance--- the brilliance of stealing someone else's idea (see: The Comics Curmudgeon) ---I lay down the gauntlet of the "I Miss Fafblog, Spot Comment of the Week award." A sort of Miss Fafblog Pageant, if you will. Coming soon to a sidebar menu near you!
So sharpen those poison pens and flex those acid tongues, cause it's winner take all in a battle royale so improbable that hilarity, or mental anguish, are the only conceivable outcomes.
KEN'S KITCHEN - Research suggests that lavender and tea tree oils found in shampoos, soaps and lotions can cause some boys to grow enlarged breasts.
The study also reveals that a number of boys are unhappy with their new breasts. Media images make them believe that the ideal is large breasts with a small nipple and areola, while boybreasts usually have a perky look. As the boys age, the breasts can begin to sag. Many teenage boys become unhappy about this development, too.
Fortunately, parents can have a huge impact on the self-esteem of a teenage boy with enlarged breasts. Here are some helpful tips:
1. Encourage Your Son's Achievements. Focus on what your teenage son is good at while acknowledging the presence of handsome guys in the media by saying, "Obviously rugged good looks are one of his gifts. You've got some 'gifts' yourself!"
2. Help Your Son Get in Touch with Reality. Teens are constantly bombarded with idealized models of what a guy should look like. But the fact is that less than 1% of the guys out there will ever grow boobs. Share this fact with your C cup-sized son while pointing out that our imperfections actually make us who we are!
3. Encourage Dad to Pay Attention in a Positive Way. Help Dad understand how detrimental well intentioned teasing about "man-boobs" can be.
4. Switch Shampoos. Experts point out that the problem appears to clear up over time when the oils are no longer used.
Renowned pharmaceutical discounter Vartouhi Budge staggered between the narrow rows of shelving in the dank store room. In thirty seconds the alarm would be armed, and any movement would alert the security company and the police. He only needed to stay alive until they could reach him. "It's got to be time," he thought.
Budge darted around the end of a row of shelving, into the next claustrophobic bay. A few feet closer to the service entrance. And freedom. The alarm rang silently.
The discounter paused a moment, gasping for breath, taking stock. I am still alive. He peered out from between the racks of medicine to get his bearings and consider his next move.
A voice spoke, chillingly close. "I can see you, Houdini."
Still crouched in a trying-not-to-be-seen posture, the discounter froze, turning slowly.
Thirty feet away, the heavy-set silhouette of his attacker sat hunched at a steel gray desk, peering into a laptop computer screen. More broad than tall, his pale face, mottled by an unsuccessful attempt at a beard, was illuminated by the glow from the screen. He wore a rumpled black flak jacket. The hacker drew a pistol from his coat and aimed it directly at the discounter. The weapon appeared to be adorned with an energy drink can. A homemade silencer.
"You should not have run." His deadpan delivery was an affectation; a fruitless flair for the dramatic. "Password. Now."
"I told you already," the discounter stammered, fearing his adversary would shoot if he made any sudden moves. "There is no password!"
"You are lying." The man stared at him, perfectly immobile except for the light reflecting off his ill-fitting, replica 'Morpheus' glasses. "You possess something that you should not. It is inside this computer; and I am going to take it from you."
The discounter felt a surge of adrenalin. How could he possibly know this?
"Your password," dead serious, the man repeated, aiming the gun even more menacingly, even more directly at Budge's face. The man did that thing one does to a gun to prepare it to fire. "Are you willing to die for it?"
Budge held up his hands where the hacker could see them. "OK," he said carefully. "I will tell you what you need to know."
"Well--- what are you waiting for?"
"It doesn't take a password. You need a key. It has to be plugged into the computer before you start it up."
"And where is this key?"
"I have it here," said Budge quietly, indicating a strap hanging loosely around his neck.
"Thank you." The attacker aimed his gun yet again.
The makeshift silencer spoke, albeit silently. The discounter felt as if he'd been suddenly punched in the stomach. His breath forced from his lungs, he fell back gasping.
As Budge fought for air, the man knelt beside him long enough to claim the key.
Budge felt the warmth of blood welling up from inside. He remembered a line of dialog from Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs. "It takes a long time to die from it. I'm talking days. You're going to wish you were dead, but it takes days to die from your wound. Time is on your side."
Budge felt himself slip into shock and pass out.
. . .
The discounter awoke. Had it been minutes? Hours? It must have only been seconds, but the attacker was gone.
Alone now, Vartouhi Budge listened. He listened to the searing gnawing pain in his gut. He listened for the police sirens that should have been approaching an eternity ago. Their wail did not come. He would have to concentrate; concentrate on other things now.
Diagram of President Bush's plan to save the Earth.
WASHINGTON - The US wants scientists of the world to block sunlight in a desperate gamble to halt global warming.
An upcoming authoritative global scientific report will warn that human-caused global warming is here, and that it will only get worse in the future. Experts from across the world want to devise a worldwide emissions treaty, but the Bush Administration is attempting to steer clear of any efforts to reduce emissions.
Instead, the US favors launching giant mirrors into space or pumping tons of reflective dust into the atmosphere. High quality global sun screens, crank 'n clutch operated shades, and rolling shutters have also been suggested, as well as a planetary patio. Each of these screens sports a Gold Mylar exterior with double-stitched borders, giving Mother Earth an exciting new look. Engineers will attach strategically placed gigantic suction cups to third world countries to ensure that the screens will stay in place and fit perfectly. It's been estimated that this technology could stop up to 90% of the sun's rays before they reach our planet's surface. These planet-screens could be "important insurance" against rising emissions that will save energy, protect highway strip malls, big box warehouses, and fried food franchises from fading away, and reduce glare -- all without blocking the view!
The Bush team is expected to lobby for this strategy to the UN.
Miss Atom-2006, Tasha Knish, takes a break from her duties.
WASHINGTON - President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad says that since Iran has successfully produced the enriched uranium needed to make nuclear fuel, his nation's most radiant female employee in the nuclear sector should be able to compete in Miss Atom-2007.
U.S. President George Bush angrily responded that the prestigious pageant is only open to "beautiful nuclear ladies from 18-35 years of age who work in the free world." Nevertheless, a spokesman said that the Iranian president was determined to have his country glowingly represented. In a televised speech in the northwestern holy city of Mashhad, Mr Ahmadinejad said: "I am officially announcing that Iran has joined the group of those countries which will compete in Miss Atom-2007." His audience broke into cheers and chants of "Allahu akbar" (God is great).
Delegates from 188 countries met this past week with contest organizers and judges. Concern over Iran held center stage. The top U.S. official there said that the international community should cut Iran out of any nuclear beauty pageants because their entry will cheat. They also hinted that President Bush would never enter American girls into a contest with Iran because he thinks that country's president and its reigning mullahs are "philistines."
Some longtime beauty pageant advocates like Donald Trump share the administration's worry over Iran's threat to Miss Atom-2007. "If we let Turkey and Pakistan and these other countries get into this pageant, of course many more countries will want in, too," he said. "And then you have a world where many countries have miniskirted lovelies working with nuclear technology. That's too risky a situation to be able to tolerate. We've got to stop it here. We've got to stop it now."
Others experts say Iran is years away from having a killer contestant, while New Zealand and Luxemburg accuse the U.S. of undercutting its own position by having the Pentagon and the American Academy of Cosmetic Surgery develop a new kind of pageant-buster nuclear beauty.
Voting will take place online and the winner will be crowned with the coveted Golden Centrifuge Award at the International Atomic Energy Talent Agency's VIP ceremony at Crobar, one of New York's hottest clubs.