Congressional Republican outflanked Teabaggers today by leaking forth a new and really convincing Contract For America. In it, they pledge all of America's assets in exchange for a no-tax promise for all Americans, not just the rich and small businessmen like George Soros and Tom Cruise.
"America'r rich peoples' wealth and its resulting trickle can only be maximized if tax cuts are retained and improved to a zero marginal rate for those earning over $250,000 per year. Without nagging taxes, America's rich will be incentivized to invest their super wealth in new job-generating projects! That these projects are in China and Vietnam is best since the jobs are the type Americans don't really cotton to all that much, like in manufacturing which can be kind of dirty!" declared a House Republican in a simple black knit ski mask without his/her name emblazoned upon it.
"George III cut taxes for everyone for a couple election cycles and we want to be even more creatively destructive than that great indomitable American pet goat wrangler."*
*(In a later addendum, the statement was revised to "great American pet goat story narrator.")
Part of the promise is that Republicans, when put in power again by the Supreme Court, will not mark their ears ever again. It is unclear what that actually means.
Other clauses call for a freeze of hiring anyone other than security guards and for saluting anyone who is non-gay, non-Christian or non-Brown. Non-black is no longer considered much of nonsaluting problem.
Top goals are to Hedge-Fundize Social Security. The bold if Mickey-Mouse(tm) plan of turning Social Security over to Wall Street having been 2008'ed, Republicans now demand the use of hedge funds for all Americans retirement subsistence.
Republicans, patriotically on a mission, promised to roll back "Obamadontcare" as their very first missionary position: "Americans should only be screwed the traditional family way!" Also, Obama's Blue Cross Rejection and Termination Death Squads will be repurposed as redistricting committees.
Congress itself will be reprioritized and moved to K-Street where it belongs. Iraq will be forgotten, Afghanistan treated for bipolar disorder and Iran bombed back to the bronze age from which it almost emerged in the film "300".
Republicans realize that the American public is enraged enough to spurn coffee for tepid tea and is pretty much the way they were in "Network", so Republicans have resurrected their reassuring practice ducking and covering to avoid falling Flat-screens running Sean Hannity-Glenn Beck musical revivals.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Gulf Boom Starts Monday
Things have been hard along the Gulf Coast, especially for shrimpers and slip-and-fall lawyers.
Oil slicks on the beach are causing thousands to fall onto the sands of Nothern Gulf Coast beaches. Injuries are mostly benign, but everyone just sends BP an email for compensation. Don't need a lawyer for that.
The shrimpers are another story. Sure they can get money from BP, too. Many have augmented their income selling Drill Babies(tm) and Drill Baby Accessories, often with a dozen free gulf shrimp slipped in.
The Big O forced Lady O and the kids to spend time down on the Gulf recently instead of some extra days in Spain or on Martha's Vinyard. TBO wanted the world to see that you can still vacation on the Gulf. Uh. With TBO's credibility swimming in the nearby port-o-john, that may make things worse.
This Blog has spent some time studying "Mad Men", Season One, and has conjoured a solution worthy of whoever Don Draper actually is.
No, neither sexual daliances, top shelf bourbon nor cartons of Luckies were involved. (And damn it.)
What seafood is better than deed-fried shrimp? Seriously? Fried clams or crabs may be as good, but better? Fish Sticks (even the "South Park" brand)? No way.
But Gulf shrimp, usually at 200 million pounds a year, are losing out to shrimp from China (big surprise) and Thailand.
Thailand? Isn't that the place where political dissent is written in a way that inspired the cranky new American Blood Party? Really. Dissent. Written. In blood. On your house. Like Red John in "The Mentalist", but without the cute smiley face or less cute body bags.
To counter this loss of business, the Gulf Shrimp industry needs a new, pithy, Don Draper-style marketing slogan. And no waiting for the art department to get back from their olive-spiked lunch this time.
Here it is:
No Extra Oil Needed! (tm)
Quick, Betty. Fire up the deep fryer.
No extra thanks needed, either.
Oil slicks on the beach are causing thousands to fall onto the sands of Nothern Gulf Coast beaches. Injuries are mostly benign, but everyone just sends BP an email for compensation. Don't need a lawyer for that.
The shrimpers are another story. Sure they can get money from BP, too. Many have augmented their income selling Drill Babies(tm) and Drill Baby Accessories, often with a dozen free gulf shrimp slipped in.
The Big O forced Lady O and the kids to spend time down on the Gulf recently instead of some extra days in Spain or on Martha's Vinyard. TBO wanted the world to see that you can still vacation on the Gulf. Uh. With TBO's credibility swimming in the nearby port-o-john, that may make things worse.
This Blog has spent some time studying "Mad Men", Season One, and has conjoured a solution worthy of whoever Don Draper actually is.
No, neither sexual daliances, top shelf bourbon nor cartons of Luckies were involved. (And damn it.)
What seafood is better than deed-fried shrimp? Seriously? Fried clams or crabs may be as good, but better? Fish Sticks (even the "South Park" brand)? No way.
But Gulf shrimp, usually at 200 million pounds a year, are losing out to shrimp from China (big surprise) and Thailand.
Thailand? Isn't that the place where political dissent is written in a way that inspired the cranky new American Blood Party? Really. Dissent. Written. In blood. On your house. Like Red John in "The Mentalist", but without the cute smiley face or less cute body bags.
To counter this loss of business, the Gulf Shrimp industry needs a new, pithy, Don Draper-style marketing slogan. And no waiting for the art department to get back from their olive-spiked lunch this time.
Here it is:
No Extra Oil Needed! (tm)
Quick, Betty. Fire up the deep fryer.
No extra thanks needed, either.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Alice Sarah Palin: The Creator
There are few celebrities who command attention as does Sarah Palin, know principally as The Alice of the Tea Party of Wonderland. She has seen great distances and traveled far. She has single-handedly helped to nearly elect many.
But she is now credited as the poster pinupfore in the dimly remembered cause of "If You Won't Go Back to Hispania, Learn Some Frakin' English!"
It is unfair, of course, to misreprobate The Alice for this creationism, but she has disappointed, too.
Flexicoining, The Alice called for New Yorkers to refudiate the implantationing of the Very Spanish-sounding Cordoba Center. She was zeroing in on the plan to build a cheerful Islamist Shrine and Yoga Bar pretty much where the twin towers of the World Trade Center were once knocked down by... well... some bad guys of irrelevant faiths.
The Alice has brought mockery upon a more noble crusade: To create words as if she were a god. Or at least, as she Twittated, Shakespeare.
Forget the whole Allahu Akbar and a Few Laps in Our Face thing, this word creation is creating, itself, a mighty stirrup. There is even a whole new world in Twitteria, @ShakesPalin, to populate with repurposed and prepositioned Shakespearean doublet cuff-offs.
It is a sad misdirection, for The Alice is, by her very nature, the Queenessence of the newly concocted. Who but Lewis Carroll himself reimbued English with words from nowhere but Wonderland. The great Jabberwocky is a poem that the Bard himself could never match in quilling words that had never even been declined in Latin.
The Jabberwock's poem was an original part of The Alice's Odyssey, "Through the Looking Glass and What [The]Alice Found There". Has she forgotten her Wonderland heritage? Is The Alice so busy velcoring syllables together for Tea Party retweettating that she can not refer to the nearly limitlessness of her birthright?
Worse, Twitteria has missed this as well. The Twiterians seem so bespeckeled by The Alice's own Shakespearean insight that they, too, forget her most libertarian literary running--and jawing--mate.
Perhaps, we can take heart, though, as the Jabberwock itself did not make it to the end of its own story even if the Jabbertalky did.
But she is now credited as the poster pinupfore in the dimly remembered cause of "If You Won't Go Back to Hispania, Learn Some Frakin' English!"
It is unfair, of course, to misreprobate The Alice for this creationism, but she has disappointed, too.
Flexicoining, The Alice called for New Yorkers to refudiate the implantationing of the Very Spanish-sounding Cordoba Center. She was zeroing in on the plan to build a cheerful Islamist Shrine and Yoga Bar pretty much where the twin towers of the World Trade Center were once knocked down by... well... some bad guys of irrelevant faiths.
The Alice has brought mockery upon a more noble crusade: To create words as if she were a god. Or at least, as she Twittated, Shakespeare.
Forget the whole Allahu Akbar and a Few Laps in Our Face thing, this word creation is creating, itself, a mighty stirrup. There is even a whole new world in Twitteria, @ShakesPalin, to populate with repurposed and prepositioned Shakespearean doublet cuff-offs.
It is a sad misdirection, for The Alice is, by her very nature, the Queenessence of the newly concocted. Who but Lewis Carroll himself reimbued English with words from nowhere but Wonderland. The great Jabberwocky is a poem that the Bard himself could never match in quilling words that had never even been declined in Latin.
The Jabberwock's poem was an original part of The Alice's Odyssey, "Through the Looking Glass and What [The]Alice Found There". Has she forgotten her Wonderland heritage? Is The Alice so busy velcoring syllables together for Tea Party retweettating that she can not refer to the nearly limitlessness of her birthright?
Worse, Twitteria has missed this as well. The Twiterians seem so bespeckeled by The Alice's own Shakespearean insight that they, too, forget her most libertarian literary running--and jawing--mate.
Perhaps, we can take heart, though, as the Jabberwock itself did not make it to the end of its own story even if the Jabbertalky did.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Scaley Has Jon-Bob Spank Terror-Huggers
Antonin Scaley's black-robed possee dealt terrorist-huggers everywhere a major setback.
Ruling 6 good to 3 not-invited-next-time, the Court ruled that if you give a terrorist group advice or training, you are just as bad as they are.
Scaley's nominal Chief Justice, John Roberts ("Jon-Bob" to friends of this blog), was assigned to write down Scaleys' thoughts on the matter.
Justice Stephen Breyer ("the Ice Man", for obvious reasons), was allowed to disagree in public. The Ice Man read his dissent aloud so FOX Spews would not lose the text completely.
TBO sent some minions to agree with Scaley's view, although it is not clear where he could find any. Through them, TBO claimed that "material support", under the Be Unkind To Terrorists statute, meant pretty much anything. TBO now has more power over Americans that Dick Cheney or The Alice of the Tea Party of Wonderland, Sarah Palin.
According to Jon-Bob, here's it works. TBO scans the globe (Mars starts next term. And ha ha). He then points a finger at a bunch of Sihks, say, singing acapella to their favorite candidate on a Charleston, SC street corner. That is enough to designate them as a terrorist group, even if TBO was just indicating that he liked the hue of the lead singer's raghe... turban.
Now that, the group is a designated terrorist group, they are off limits for any training or advice, because anything that helps the terrorists, ups their morale, makes them happy--or even less miserable--or better informed is now a waterboarding offence.
Examples Jo-Bob probably meant would be:
Showing a terrorist how to inflate his new Nike's on the subway;
Teaching a terrorist how to surrender;
Giving any New York cabbie directions to Yankee Stadium;
Paying any New York cabbie;
Adding terrorists to your nightly prayer list;
Putting a soaking wet towel on your head in 99 degree heat;
Suggesting, just in passing, that a terrorist consider making peace with infidels;
Broadcasting Sean Hannity (no, wait, it said "better informed");
Showing stills of any Megan Fox scene in which she wears a boostier in "Jonus Hex";
Showing stills of Megan and Brian Austin Green with BAG's face photoshopped out and replaced with that or your favorite blogger;
Explaining a Scaley Court decision;
Offering a terrorist five tiny pretzels on a three-hour USAirways flight that will connect through Philadelphia to anywhere useful;
Feel free to add ideas in comments below. Do not worry, though, no terrorists read this blog, because it seems to be a big damned secret.
Ruling 6 good to 3 not-invited-next-time, the Court ruled that if you give a terrorist group advice or training, you are just as bad as they are.
Scaley's nominal Chief Justice, John Roberts ("Jon-Bob" to friends of this blog), was assigned to write down Scaleys' thoughts on the matter.
Justice Stephen Breyer ("the Ice Man", for obvious reasons), was allowed to disagree in public. The Ice Man read his dissent aloud so FOX Spews would not lose the text completely.
TBO sent some minions to agree with Scaley's view, although it is not clear where he could find any. Through them, TBO claimed that "material support", under the Be Unkind To Terrorists statute, meant pretty much anything. TBO now has more power over Americans that Dick Cheney or The Alice of the Tea Party of Wonderland, Sarah Palin.
According to Jon-Bob, here's it works. TBO scans the globe (Mars starts next term. And ha ha). He then points a finger at a bunch of Sihks, say, singing acapella to their favorite candidate on a Charleston, SC street corner. That is enough to designate them as a terrorist group, even if TBO was just indicating that he liked the hue of the lead singer's raghe... turban.
Now that, the group is a designated terrorist group, they are off limits for any training or advice, because anything that helps the terrorists, ups their morale, makes them happy--or even less miserable--or better informed is now a waterboarding offence.
Examples Jo-Bob probably meant would be:
Showing a terrorist how to inflate his new Nike's on the subway;
Teaching a terrorist how to surrender;
Giving any New York cabbie directions to Yankee Stadium;
Paying any New York cabbie;
Adding terrorists to your nightly prayer list;
Putting a soaking wet towel on your head in 99 degree heat;
Suggesting, just in passing, that a terrorist consider making peace with infidels;
Broadcasting Sean Hannity (no, wait, it said "better informed");
Showing stills of any Megan Fox scene in which she wears a boostier in "Jonus Hex";
Showing stills of Megan and Brian Austin Green with BAG's face photoshopped out and replaced with that or your favorite blogger;
Explaining a Scaley Court decision;
Offering a terrorist five tiny pretzels on a three-hour USAirways flight that will connect through Philadelphia to anywhere useful;
Feel free to add ideas in comments below. Do not worry, though, no terrorists read this blog, because it seems to be a big damned secret.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Afghanistan Idiot: We Know What's Worth Fighting For
Face it. Do you or Green Day really care about Afghanistan or its combative tribes? Iraq, now that had oil worth fighting for. Afghanistan has what? Plants.
Of course, they should have democracy, burqas by Donna Karen, used voting machines from South Carolina and an American air base. They should be free to press, process and ship-by-super-tanker all the Poppy Juice Cocktail American can drink, too. They can make those nice throws and dogs, as well.
But, they are still pretty much Muslims who don't want infidels, largely and recently ambivalent about Muslims, shooting up their mountains, deserts and thorougfares. Not just Natoans, but Russians, as they indicated pretty well in the 1980's.
America and its willing allies really ventured into Afghanistan (damn it, not "invaded") to catch one guy, Osama bin Laden and break up his day camp network. The Taliban were simply so obsessed with Buddha shards and repurposing soccer stadiums that they missed the significance of one particular September in New York and, consequently, had to be shown both the boot and the door. Which door, unfortunately, led them back to Pakistan's mountains where they settled in next to Osama himself and where the Paki Intelligence Service just couldn't see them.
But really. Afghanistan?
Oh, my. How all that has changed.
Suddenly, under all the craggy hills, velcro-jamming sand, motley goats and prayer rugs Afghanistan is rich. Trillion dollars in minerals we need rich.
In a country where almost half the population lives on less per day than it cost to buy your Starbuck's latte on that day; where more than a third of $13 Billion in GDP comes from poppy juice and its derivatives. And that gaudy GDP is about 20% of what the US spends in shooting up the montains, deserts and both thoroughfares there.
The US Geological Survey, under contract with Harmid Karzai (but hopefully not his cleverer brother, Ahmid), found lots of gold, copper, iron ore and other mundane minerals. Like iron ore is worth an hour of drone fuel. True, but that's not the sexy stuff.
Sexy? Afghanistan? The camel vacation spot where Mullah Monocle made the guys where scraggly beards and the women head-to-toe draperies?
Can you spell Lithium?
No, not as in the med you just refilled. For batteries. The bass-drum-beating bunny things we're just beginning to need. For Priuses and their electric cousins; for storing solar energy where the sun don't shine and wind power when your flag flags. For our army of iPads and Droids. For crystal meth manu... Well, lots of important stuff.
Trying to revolutionize energy without Lithium is like trying to have a beach party without BP.
Ironically, TBO, just tonight, after asking the very same BP for some cash, has called on all Americans--except Dick Cheney--to gear up, seriously this time, for the green energy revolution. Like it was a big-time war or something. Our Green Day is upon us (to complete a quasi theme). And guess what afterthought is suddenly front and center in that Green Day revolution, at least until solar cells can run on moonlight. That would be long after your Lithium-driven pacemaker quits one last time.
Not a question, this time: Afghanistan.
That's almost like a big-time war already.
Of course, they should have democracy, burqas by Donna Karen, used voting machines from South Carolina and an American air base. They should be free to press, process and ship-by-super-tanker all the Poppy Juice Cocktail American can drink, too. They can make those nice throws and dogs, as well.
But, they are still pretty much Muslims who don't want infidels, largely and recently ambivalent about Muslims, shooting up their mountains, deserts and thorougfares. Not just Natoans, but Russians, as they indicated pretty well in the 1980's.
America and its willing allies really ventured into Afghanistan (damn it, not "invaded") to catch one guy, Osama bin Laden and break up his day camp network. The Taliban were simply so obsessed with Buddha shards and repurposing soccer stadiums that they missed the significance of one particular September in New York and, consequently, had to be shown both the boot and the door. Which door, unfortunately, led them back to Pakistan's mountains where they settled in next to Osama himself and where the Paki Intelligence Service just couldn't see them.
But really. Afghanistan?
Oh, my. How all that has changed.
Suddenly, under all the craggy hills, velcro-jamming sand, motley goats and prayer rugs Afghanistan is rich. Trillion dollars in minerals we need rich.
In a country where almost half the population lives on less per day than it cost to buy your Starbuck's latte on that day; where more than a third of $13 Billion in GDP comes from poppy juice and its derivatives. And that gaudy GDP is about 20% of what the US spends in shooting up the montains, deserts and both thoroughfares there.
The US Geological Survey, under contract with Harmid Karzai (but hopefully not his cleverer brother, Ahmid), found lots of gold, copper, iron ore and other mundane minerals. Like iron ore is worth an hour of drone fuel. True, but that's not the sexy stuff.
Sexy? Afghanistan? The camel vacation spot where Mullah Monocle made the guys where scraggly beards and the women head-to-toe draperies?
Can you spell Lithium?
No, not as in the med you just refilled. For batteries. The bass-drum-beating bunny things we're just beginning to need. For Priuses and their electric cousins; for storing solar energy where the sun don't shine and wind power when your flag flags. For our army of iPads and Droids. For crystal meth manu... Well, lots of important stuff.
Trying to revolutionize energy without Lithium is like trying to have a beach party without BP.
Ironically, TBO, just tonight, after asking the very same BP for some cash, has called on all Americans--except Dick Cheney--to gear up, seriously this time, for the green energy revolution. Like it was a big-time war or something. Our Green Day is upon us (to complete a quasi theme). And guess what afterthought is suddenly front and center in that Green Day revolution, at least until solar cells can run on moonlight. That would be long after your Lithium-driven pacemaker quits one last time.
Not a question, this time: Afghanistan.
That's almost like a big-time war already.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Solo Teen Sailor Has Screenwriter Hooked
Abby Sunderland has been rescued from the Indian Ocean, five months after she set off from Marina del Ray, CA. The 16 year-old won't fulfill her ambition to become the youngest ever to solo the world in a really nice dingy, beating her brother's record of 17. But you know she will get a lot farther than her stinky brother in Hollywood.
Loyal types have suggested Megan Fox as Abby, but other think Megan too old or too yesterday. Taylor Momsen, Little J of "Gossip Girl" is a natural, assuming she can swim one-tenth as well as she can act or sing.
For product placement purposes, the film will have Abby sail off from the Cheesecake Factory in Marina Del Ray. And because a screenwriter reports they have really good Kobe Burgers. The Japanese not the Laker.
The most important part, finding that screenwriter, has been taken care of. Part of the script is actually already written, especially for Morgan Freeman as the Captain of the Quantas Airbus A330 search plane. An excerpt was stolen minutes ago.
Ext. Plane flying low over the Indian Ocean. DAY
Int. Cockpit DAY
Three men cram the cockpit, desperately searching for the tiny sailboat...
SCATTY (off screen)
The fuel lines! They're ruptured! One more minute, Captain, and the engines will stop!
DR. BANES
Bad time of year to scuttle anything but an American-made Boeing in the damned Indian Ocean, Jim.
FIRST OFFICER SPACK
A330's are not designed well for such a rough Ocean, Captain.
SCATTY (off screen)
Did I say a minute? I meant ten seconds! Ago!
CAPTAIN (in God's voice, American-Australian Accent)
Restart engines.
Engines, ignoring their severed fuel lines roar into action.
CAPTAIN (same voice, More American Accent now)
Find me that little girl. Before the French do.
Now, Abby, aside from formatting, is a rewrite even necessary?
Loyal types have suggested Megan Fox as Abby, but other think Megan too old or too yesterday. Taylor Momsen, Little J of "Gossip Girl" is a natural, assuming she can swim one-tenth as well as she can act or sing.
For product placement purposes, the film will have Abby sail off from the Cheesecake Factory in Marina Del Ray. And because a screenwriter reports they have really good Kobe Burgers. The Japanese not the Laker.
The most important part, finding that screenwriter, has been taken care of. Part of the script is actually already written, especially for Morgan Freeman as the Captain of the Quantas Airbus A330 search plane. An excerpt was stolen minutes ago.
Ext. Plane flying low over the Indian Ocean. DAY
Int. Cockpit DAY
Three men cram the cockpit, desperately searching for the tiny sailboat...
SCATTY (off screen)
The fuel lines! They're ruptured! One more minute, Captain, and the engines will stop!
DR. BANES
Bad time of year to scuttle anything but an American-made Boeing in the damned Indian Ocean, Jim.
FIRST OFFICER SPACK
A330's are not designed well for such a rough Ocean, Captain.
SCATTY (off screen)
Did I say a minute? I meant ten seconds! Ago!
CAPTAIN (in God's voice, American-Australian Accent)
Restart engines.
Engines, ignoring their severed fuel lines roar into action.
CAPTAIN (same voice, More American Accent now)
Find me that little girl. Before the French do.
Now, Abby, aside from formatting, is a rewrite even necessary?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Helen Thomas is Right About Moving
As usual there is much ado about anything that anyone says about anything. Helen Thomas, the premier White House Seat Filler for years, is just the latest.
All Helen said was that the Israelis (known here as "Firstians") should get out of [Proximania(tm)]. (Helen actually said Palestine, but this Blog no longer uses that term, having invented a new, improved and trademarked one, Proximania.) Helen opined, outloud, that the Firstians should go back where they came from, that being, as she recalled first-hand, Germany and Poland and, maybe, the US.
At first bright-red blush, this may sound incredibly stupid. This, even while taking into account that Helen is, like Miss USA, of Lebanese descent and breathtaking, if in an entirely different way. Helen thinks it only fair that the land of Proximania be returned to the people who were originally there.
Uh oh.
Helen is really old, but not old enough to remember when the Laterians (aka "Arabs") first took over Proximania. It was pretty recent, in Proximanian years, in 638. A couple thousand years before that the Firstians wandered into Proximania without the aid of a Garmin or iPhone app. Because the Firstians were in Proximania before any of the other current claimants, they get to be called that. Unfortunately, as is the case with most real estate, the Firstians couldn't hold onto the place and all manner of historical rivals took over the neighborhood.
(All of this you should know already, since you surely have read this Blog's background piece about the neighborhood.)
In any case, after all the Babylonians, Greeks, Romans and a few others tromped all over Proximania, the Laterians arrived, however late, conquered and held it for a few hundred years, after which the Turks took over. The Turks are not Laterians, in case Helen forgot.
After World War I, the Turks were essentially replaced by the British, who, as usual, screwed up an entire region to make themselves feel important.
But Helen doesn't really care about that, nor should she.
Pretty much everybody in Proximania claims to be biblically descended from Abraham. The Laterians claim descent from Abraham's first born, Ishmael, Firstians from number two son, Isaac. Sounds pretty equal until one recalls that Abraham sent Ishmael packing so he could give everything in and around his tent to Isaac. This was probably unfair, but Ishmael was smart enough to go where the oil was, while Isaac got stuck with sheep, goats and the as-of-then unbuilt Jerusalem.
Take a minute to calculate who got the better deal. Use a computer.
Ishmael's descendants, the Laterians now seem to want the oil and the sheep, goats and since-built Jerusalem. But Helen doesn't see that as a problem since the Laterians were there when she was born, so she was an eye-witness to their rights.
However, astonishingly dumb that may sound, Helen is still right. Everyone should go back where they came from. To show evenhandedness, start with Americans. It is well known that no one was in America to begin with. Dinosaurs, ferns and cockroaches, maybe, but people? Nope. So, every American must go back to...
Before you leave, Helen, help your fellow Americans out, here. Where did Americans come from? Really. Or Europeans? Nigerians? The Hawaiians? Not to mention the Firstians and the Laterians Proximates.
The answer has been established in this Blog (see link above) and, admittedly, elsewhere.
It all started with the Big E, Mitochondrial Eve. So, starting tomorrow, everyone--repeat, everyone--everywhere, including Helen, pack one carry-on and report to the nearest train station. Next stop: Kenya.
All Helen said was that the Israelis (known here as "Firstians") should get out of [Proximania(tm)]. (Helen actually said Palestine, but this Blog no longer uses that term, having invented a new, improved and trademarked one, Proximania.) Helen opined, outloud, that the Firstians should go back where they came from, that being, as she recalled first-hand, Germany and Poland and, maybe, the US.
At first bright-red blush, this may sound incredibly stupid. This, even while taking into account that Helen is, like Miss USA, of Lebanese descent and breathtaking, if in an entirely different way. Helen thinks it only fair that the land of Proximania be returned to the people who were originally there.
Uh oh.
Helen is really old, but not old enough to remember when the Laterians (aka "Arabs") first took over Proximania. It was pretty recent, in Proximanian years, in 638. A couple thousand years before that the Firstians wandered into Proximania without the aid of a Garmin or iPhone app. Because the Firstians were in Proximania before any of the other current claimants, they get to be called that. Unfortunately, as is the case with most real estate, the Firstians couldn't hold onto the place and all manner of historical rivals took over the neighborhood.
(All of this you should know already, since you surely have read this Blog's background piece about the neighborhood.)
In any case, after all the Babylonians, Greeks, Romans and a few others tromped all over Proximania, the Laterians arrived, however late, conquered and held it for a few hundred years, after which the Turks took over. The Turks are not Laterians, in case Helen forgot.
After World War I, the Turks were essentially replaced by the British, who, as usual, screwed up an entire region to make themselves feel important.
But Helen doesn't really care about that, nor should she.
Pretty much everybody in Proximania claims to be biblically descended from Abraham. The Laterians claim descent from Abraham's first born, Ishmael, Firstians from number two son, Isaac. Sounds pretty equal until one recalls that Abraham sent Ishmael packing so he could give everything in and around his tent to Isaac. This was probably unfair, but Ishmael was smart enough to go where the oil was, while Isaac got stuck with sheep, goats and the as-of-then unbuilt Jerusalem.
Take a minute to calculate who got the better deal. Use a computer.
Ishmael's descendants, the Laterians now seem to want the oil and the sheep, goats and since-built Jerusalem. But Helen doesn't see that as a problem since the Laterians were there when she was born, so she was an eye-witness to their rights.
However, astonishingly dumb that may sound, Helen is still right. Everyone should go back where they came from. To show evenhandedness, start with Americans. It is well known that no one was in America to begin with. Dinosaurs, ferns and cockroaches, maybe, but people? Nope. So, every American must go back to...
Before you leave, Helen, help your fellow Americans out, here. Where did Americans come from? Really. Or Europeans? Nigerians? The Hawaiians? Not to mention the Firstians and the Laterians Proximates.
The answer has been established in this Blog (see link above) and, admittedly, elsewhere.
It all started with the Big E, Mitochondrial Eve. So, starting tomorrow, everyone--repeat, everyone--everywhere, including Helen, pack one carry-on and report to the nearest train station. Next stop: Kenya.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Ragheads (and Hatters) Unite!
It only took a deep South minor league Republican to do it.
Jakie "Not-Really-Webster" Knotts jested about his fear of having a "raghead" in both the White House and the South Carolina Governor's Plantation. This side-splitter was Jakie's highlight on a June 3rd internet radio show.
It seems that his opponent, Nikki Haley, was born a Sikh and, like TBO, converted to Christianity. Sikhs are not Muslims, by the way, and their Dastaar brand turban-style hats are no more rags than Jakie's own midnight-white head covering.
As a religious convert and, herself, a name-changer, Nikki should be a soul mate (sorry, Nikki) of Jakie, who converted from Webster to Knotts, as soon as he was old enough to know he was not unusually short, black and a TV star.
Ragheads, anyway, are a large faction of American culture. If one is old enough, one will remember Catholic women wearing everything from bonnets to doilies to half a spare Kleenex as head coverings before they were allowed to enter a church. Head rags in places like Pittsburgh and Milwaukee are sometimes called babushkas and there are usually yummy pierogies involved. The Crips and the Bloods Social Clubs popularized certain colors of head-wrappers, called do-rags, to tell each other apart when under stress.
And, Jakie, you probably still ride by night with a bunch of dedicated headcoverers.
So, Jakie, there are lots of ragheads out there, many converted to nonragheadedness, but still feeling (and probably dying) their roots. You've pissed off a whole lot of voters and some who don't bother with ballots in favor of spraying bullets, swinging baseball bats and knotting ropes.
Worse, Jakie, you've gone up against one Nikki-endorser who should scare you plain sh_tless: The all-powerful, ubiquitous (that means all over the fraking place, Jakie) The Alice herself, Sarah Palin. Coincidently, she and a dozen really mad Hatters are coming to your neck of the backwoods, accent on neck, just hoping you'll keep on jesting.
Don't think (please), Jakie, don't talk (double please), just hide the hell under the sheets tonight.
Oh. Like that would be any different.
Jakie "Not-Really-Webster" Knotts jested about his fear of having a "raghead" in both the White House and the South Carolina Governor's Plantation. This side-splitter was Jakie's highlight on a June 3rd internet radio show.
It seems that his opponent, Nikki Haley, was born a Sikh and, like TBO, converted to Christianity. Sikhs are not Muslims, by the way, and their Dastaar brand turban-style hats are no more rags than Jakie's own midnight-white head covering.
As a religious convert and, herself, a name-changer, Nikki should be a soul mate (sorry, Nikki) of Jakie, who converted from Webster to Knotts, as soon as he was old enough to know he was not unusually short, black and a TV star.
Ragheads, anyway, are a large faction of American culture. If one is old enough, one will remember Catholic women wearing everything from bonnets to doilies to half a spare Kleenex as head coverings before they were allowed to enter a church. Head rags in places like Pittsburgh and Milwaukee are sometimes called babushkas and there are usually yummy pierogies involved. The Crips and the Bloods Social Clubs popularized certain colors of head-wrappers, called do-rags, to tell each other apart when under stress.
And, Jakie, you probably still ride by night with a bunch of dedicated headcoverers.
So, Jakie, there are lots of ragheads out there, many converted to nonragheadedness, but still feeling (and probably dying) their roots. You've pissed off a whole lot of voters and some who don't bother with ballots in favor of spraying bullets, swinging baseball bats and knotting ropes.
Worse, Jakie, you've gone up against one Nikki-endorser who should scare you plain sh_tless: The all-powerful, ubiquitous (that means all over the fraking place, Jakie) The Alice herself, Sarah Palin. Coincidently, she and a dozen really mad Hatters are coming to your neck of the backwoods, accent on neck, just hoping you'll keep on jesting.
Don't think (please), Jakie, don't talk (double please), just hide the hell under the sheets tonight.
Oh. Like that would be any different.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Scaley Deals Miranda Out. Defendants to get Deck of Rights Cards
It has taken him a long time, but Scaley has finally and forever finessed Miranda.
Once upon a time, criminal defendants in America were guaranteed certain Constitutional rights by the Founding Fathers. The best one--and, admittedly, the hardest one to use--was the Right to Remain Silent. If you're a criminal, you are probably so damned proud of how smart you are, you'll want to taunt David Caruso to his sideways, half-cocked, sun-glassed face. If you're an innocent, you want to provide all the details of your not-guilt. Stay silent? Very hard. Talk a blue streak? You bet.
The 1966 Miranda case, along with some others Scaley didn't like, required the police to tell a suspect that he or she had Constitutional rights and to summarize what they were. After a few fraked up cases, police started carrying cards with lawyer-approved sentences printed on them. The whole card was shorter than your last tweet, but really helped those who dozed through Constitutional Law in their first year of law school.
The police would spank their suspect against their cruiser, read the card to their suspect and invite him or her to flush all those Founding Father assured rights down a nearby port-a-potty. This was not called a "flushing", which would have made sense, but the better known, lawyer-word "waiver." This "waiver" became the most sought after thing in all of law enforcement. Next to health insurance.
Generally, when you waived your rights, the police could understand that. Your suspect might say, "Waive my rights? Sure. Them Founding Fathers didn't know shinola about crime, so phooey on them and their wigs." Or something very close to that. After that it was, "Hey, call Dick Cheney!" and off to jail.
Not always, however, were suspects so clear about waivers. Some got into the habit of looking skyward, scratching their chins and saying, "Hmm. I think I maybe want a lawyer." Or, "Perhaps not talking to you fellas would be more advisable than not." How is a cop to know if that's serious waiver talk?
So, Scaley directed his usual mouthpiece, Tony Kennedy, clear all that up. As of Tuesday, June 1, 2010 (mark it down and don't whine about it from behind bars if you forget), suspects are the beneficiaries of the Supreme Scaley Court's clarification of Miranda, called Berghuis v. Thompkins, which shall be referred to forever, here, as Thompkins v. Miranda.
Scaley, generous as ever, has actually enlarged upon Constitutional rights. From now on, a suspect gets a terrific new right: You have the right to waive the right to remain silent by neglecting to remain absolutely silent for however long you can be interrogated.
You are surely pondering this. Does Scaley mean that if you say, "yes" to the wrong question in day two of UN-approved waterboarding, you will have to no longer remain silent? Is that fair to the cops, who will now be getting the endless ear-beatings, not Scaley?
Damn, Scaley, are you sure about this? Isn't everything even more confusing?
Well, this blog is here mostly to help Scaley out of predicaments like this one. As of tomorrow, this blog may very well mail out to every potential criminal suspect a deck of cards that state "I choose to invoke" such-and-such sacred Constitutional right. The cards will likely have colorful graphics; maybe a caricature of Scaley in a wig indicating, with one finger, the right being invoked; and, by the way, a fast acting poison that robs one of the power of speech upon a single touch. For at least three hours.
Thes cards might be written in English and whatever other languages Google Translate can handle, except Spanish, since this blog supports Arizona so much.
Once upon a time, criminal defendants in America were guaranteed certain Constitutional rights by the Founding Fathers. The best one--and, admittedly, the hardest one to use--was the Right to Remain Silent. If you're a criminal, you are probably so damned proud of how smart you are, you'll want to taunt David Caruso to his sideways, half-cocked, sun-glassed face. If you're an innocent, you want to provide all the details of your not-guilt. Stay silent? Very hard. Talk a blue streak? You bet.
The 1966 Miranda case, along with some others Scaley didn't like, required the police to tell a suspect that he or she had Constitutional rights and to summarize what they were. After a few fraked up cases, police started carrying cards with lawyer-approved sentences printed on them. The whole card was shorter than your last tweet, but really helped those who dozed through Constitutional Law in their first year of law school.
The police would spank their suspect against their cruiser, read the card to their suspect and invite him or her to flush all those Founding Father assured rights down a nearby port-a-potty. This was not called a "flushing", which would have made sense, but the better known, lawyer-word "waiver." This "waiver" became the most sought after thing in all of law enforcement. Next to health insurance.
Generally, when you waived your rights, the police could understand that. Your suspect might say, "Waive my rights? Sure. Them Founding Fathers didn't know shinola about crime, so phooey on them and their wigs." Or something very close to that. After that it was, "Hey, call Dick Cheney!" and off to jail.
Not always, however, were suspects so clear about waivers. Some got into the habit of looking skyward, scratching their chins and saying, "Hmm. I think I maybe want a lawyer." Or, "Perhaps not talking to you fellas would be more advisable than not." How is a cop to know if that's serious waiver talk?
So, Scaley directed his usual mouthpiece, Tony Kennedy, clear all that up. As of Tuesday, June 1, 2010 (mark it down and don't whine about it from behind bars if you forget), suspects are the beneficiaries of the Supreme Scaley Court's clarification of Miranda, called Berghuis v. Thompkins, which shall be referred to forever, here, as Thompkins v. Miranda.
Scaley, generous as ever, has actually enlarged upon Constitutional rights. From now on, a suspect gets a terrific new right: You have the right to waive the right to remain silent by neglecting to remain absolutely silent for however long you can be interrogated.
You are surely pondering this. Does Scaley mean that if you say, "yes" to the wrong question in day two of UN-approved waterboarding, you will have to no longer remain silent? Is that fair to the cops, who will now be getting the endless ear-beatings, not Scaley?
In the case of the soon-to-be-convicted Mr. Thompkins, he had a really good chance to waive his rights, by saying, "Of course, sirs, I waive all of my sacred rights", but he did not take that chance. He also had a good chance to speak up, proudly and say, "I invoke my right to remain silent..."
The Thompkins v. Miranda case, simply stated for any non-lawyers out there, stands for this proposition: If you do not remain silent, you waive your right to remain silent. Easy?
In a way, Thompkins, the perp, didn't miss out on much. Under Scaley's Thompkins v. Miranda Rule, Mr. Thompkins would have waived his right to remain silent by uttering the single word "I".
What if the bewildered suspect says, "I invoke my right to counsel, mister officer"? There goes the right to remain silent. And what good's a counsel then?
What if the bewildered suspect says, "I invoke my right to counsel, mister officer"? There goes the right to remain silent. And what good's a counsel then?
Damn, Scaley, are you sure about this? Isn't everything even more confusing?
Well, this blog is here mostly to help Scaley out of predicaments like this one. As of tomorrow, this blog may very well mail out to every potential criminal suspect a deck of cards that state "I choose to invoke" such-and-such sacred Constitutional right. The cards will likely have colorful graphics; maybe a caricature of Scaley in a wig indicating, with one finger, the right being invoked; and, by the way, a fast acting poison that robs one of the power of speech upon a single touch. For at least three hours.
Thes cards might be written in English and whatever other languages Google Translate can handle, except Spanish, since this blog supports Arizona so much.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Firstian Proximates(tm) Subdue Armada Sissormen
Things have been quiet over in Proximania for weeks. Or, maybe, you have been too busy watching oil and water mix, badly, in the Gulf of Mexico and Mexicans and Golfers mix, badly, in Arizona.
Well, the Firstians (as in "We Were Here First Before We Weren't-ians") of Proximania saw trouble coming while everyone else was cheering R& Paul and his repeal-Amendments-13-through-14 speechifying and BP's... well, whatever it is BP has been doing.
If you missed it, too, there was huge Armada of six ships teaming with foreigners and steaming for Proximanian waters. It must have been pretty clear that this Armada might shatter the Firstian blockade and boost the morale and diet of the Strippers faction of the Laterian (as in "We Came Later But Still...") Proximates, led by the dreaded Head-Scarfing Strippers, by landing munitions like falafels and Chinese dry wall. The lead ship may have had as many as 600 active sissor-wielding blockade-busters.
Perhaps, only the Firstians understand that even air from a Turkish boat is better than Stripper air and, thus, as indirectly toxic to freedom and democracy as a Hatter's Tea Party. The Armada stubbornly refused to turn tail when confronted by the long-established Firstian blockade. Thus challenged, Firstian commandos to board the Armada, armed to the teeth with annoying paintball weaponry, just as soon as the Armada crossed Proximania's 300 mile limit.
Sissors versus automatic paintball fire? Ugly enough, but you wouldn't expect anyone would get killed.
In Proximania, anything can happen. Again.
Fight your reflex against everything paintball, though, before you condemn the Firstians. Remember, these ships were not exactly the Disney Cruise Liners peopled with charming six-foot mice and sexy Tinkerbells. These ships had more foreigners on them than a pickup in Tuscon and they were out to break the Firstians favorite blockade come hell or... in this case, just the hell part.
The Firstians had no choice. Strippers might get ideas or, worse, supper, for once.
Many of these Armadian foreigners were from Turkey and were with the Free Gaza humanitarian and gaming movement, hoping to spur tourism for the Strippers by comping all hotels and meals for those gambling their wallets and lives to visit Stripper venues.
Ironically, Turkey was, until this Armada thing, the Firstian Proximates closest friend in the Middle East, which may not be saying much. Needless-to-say, planed joint exercises, such as yoga, paintball war games and a late lunch at Chucky Cheese between the Turks and Firstians are pretty much off.
A lot like The Big O's upcoming tea with Bibi Netanyahu (like either one cares).
And, as usual, when the Firstians defend themselves, foreign protesters hit their foreign streets and vie for TV time with a multimillion dollar plume of crude under the sea, the Greek budget and Shrek.
With the usual success.
Well, the Firstians (as in "We Were Here First Before We Weren't-ians") of Proximania saw trouble coming while everyone else was cheering R& Paul and his repeal-Amendments-13-through-14 speechifying and BP's... well, whatever it is BP has been doing.
If you missed it, too, there was huge Armada of six ships teaming with foreigners and steaming for Proximanian waters. It must have been pretty clear that this Armada might shatter the Firstian blockade and boost the morale and diet of the Strippers faction of the Laterian (as in "We Came Later But Still...") Proximates, led by the dreaded Head-Scarfing Strippers, by landing munitions like falafels and Chinese dry wall. The lead ship may have had as many as 600 active sissor-wielding blockade-busters.
Perhaps, only the Firstians understand that even air from a Turkish boat is better than Stripper air and, thus, as indirectly toxic to freedom and democracy as a Hatter's Tea Party. The Armada stubbornly refused to turn tail when confronted by the long-established Firstian blockade. Thus challenged, Firstian commandos to board the Armada, armed to the teeth with annoying paintball weaponry, just as soon as the Armada crossed Proximania's 300 mile limit.
Sissors versus automatic paintball fire? Ugly enough, but you wouldn't expect anyone would get killed.
In Proximania, anything can happen. Again.
Fight your reflex against everything paintball, though, before you condemn the Firstians. Remember, these ships were not exactly the Disney Cruise Liners peopled with charming six-foot mice and sexy Tinkerbells. These ships had more foreigners on them than a pickup in Tuscon and they were out to break the Firstians favorite blockade come hell or... in this case, just the hell part.
The Firstians had no choice. Strippers might get ideas or, worse, supper, for once.
Many of these Armadian foreigners were from Turkey and were with the Free Gaza humanitarian and gaming movement, hoping to spur tourism for the Strippers by comping all hotels and meals for those gambling their wallets and lives to visit Stripper venues.
Ironically, Turkey was, until this Armada thing, the Firstian Proximates closest friend in the Middle East, which may not be saying much. Needless-to-say, planed joint exercises, such as yoga, paintball war games and a late lunch at Chucky Cheese between the Turks and Firstians are pretty much off.
A lot like The Big O's upcoming tea with Bibi Netanyahu (like either one cares).
And, as usual, when the Firstians defend themselves, foreign protesters hit their foreign streets and vie for TV time with a multimillion dollar plume of crude under the sea, the Greek budget and Shrek.
With the usual success.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Afghanistan: Operation Candlehour Burns
Or, about as brightly as you'd expect it to.
With Operation Candlehour, the US and NATO (or Not Afghan Treaty Organization) intend to take Kandahar, Afghanistan and turn it into condos. A bold and meritorious idea, but not easy to accomplish in that market as in Marjah.
Candlehour means "light at the end of the tunnel thrown by one candle for one eleventh hour". Or not very damned much. Named after several different Vietnam-era strategies, all of which ended with both the tunnel and the city of Saigon being named after some other guy with a scraggly beard who was not Uncle Sam.
If it worked well in Vietnam... Well, it's worth a shot, anyway.
You may remember Kandahar as the poppy-festooned capital of the Taliban when they were blowing up Buddahs and stoning... well, just about anyone wearing lipstick in repurposed soccer venues. Incredibly, many Kandhardians are whistful for those days of "very serious, tough but fair" government, the current one being failry tough to take very seriously. And, please, watch your wallet.
To set the tone for the operation, US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton has announced that, under Operation Candlehour there will be no tank tops parading down the streets of Kandahar, which is both good PR and practical disaster planning. The last tank top parade you saw was the Pride thing at Disney Orlando and that sucker brought on a mess of huricanes.
Operation Candlehour is going to be tricky, as the generals will need a measure Afghan political clearance to advance very far. Before the US and NATO brass can so much as blow up a house, for example, they must consult President and Closeted Talibanista Harmid Karzai. It seems clear that President Karzai has the de facto power of veto. But only as to one house, after which whole neighborhoods may wish for that tank top procession instead.
Plans are to flood the area of two million Taliban sympathizers with 10,000 extra troops, primarily looking to help only the good Kandahardians across the street to Iraqi-style democracy.
Kandahardian city police, usually on street duty, have been extensive retrained, mostly in ducking and covering, like there was an atomic bomb coming (see Plan B below). Most of the provincial courtrooms are overseen by fewer judges than "Dancing With the Stars", which, it turns out, is okay. The Kandahar jail is already way over the one-prisioner-per-HD-TV rule mandated by American sensibilities. So, there is no place to put all the soon-to-be-stranded-across-the-street suspects. Not this side of Waziristan, anway.
The second phase of the plan is to bury Kandahar in smiles, ribbon-cutting-worthy developmen and heart-felt promises of more to come, a strategy that worked so well in, say, Watts or East St. Louis. Trying to find honest pro-Karzai officials to run such projects is harder than getting Lindsay One-Name into court for fifteen minutes worth of "Oh, Je suis désolé, but I just lost it partying, on Wednesday. And my passport,too."
Ahmed Karzai, Brother-in-Chief in charge of influence-by-EBay, sells access to Harmid for thousands of pounds, like he was a Fergie who can't sing and it's dried poppyade. Ahmed boasts that he can--and please start the bidding--bring the Candlehour-chastened Talibanista to the table. The table in question being the one so feebly lit by the tunnel-visioned candle for which all this was named to begin with.
Sure, he can, but he make them stop with the RPG's anytime soon after they get there?
Remain calm. The Big O has a Plan B just in case Operation Candlehour gets snuffed. Unfortunately, he has to keep the plan a complete secret until Tuesday, after Jack Bauer finishes up on "24".
With Operation Candlehour, the US and NATO (or Not Afghan Treaty Organization) intend to take Kandahar, Afghanistan and turn it into condos. A bold and meritorious idea, but not easy to accomplish in that market as in Marjah.
Candlehour means "light at the end of the tunnel thrown by one candle for one eleventh hour". Or not very damned much. Named after several different Vietnam-era strategies, all of which ended with both the tunnel and the city of Saigon being named after some other guy with a scraggly beard who was not Uncle Sam.
If it worked well in Vietnam... Well, it's worth a shot, anyway.
You may remember Kandahar as the poppy-festooned capital of the Taliban when they were blowing up Buddahs and stoning... well, just about anyone wearing lipstick in repurposed soccer venues. Incredibly, many Kandhardians are whistful for those days of "very serious, tough but fair" government, the current one being failry tough to take very seriously. And, please, watch your wallet.
To set the tone for the operation, US Secretary of State Hillary Clinton has announced that, under Operation Candlehour there will be no tank tops parading down the streets of Kandahar, which is both good PR and practical disaster planning. The last tank top parade you saw was the Pride thing at Disney Orlando and that sucker brought on a mess of huricanes.
Operation Candlehour is going to be tricky, as the generals will need a measure Afghan political clearance to advance very far. Before the US and NATO brass can so much as blow up a house, for example, they must consult President and Closeted Talibanista Harmid Karzai. It seems clear that President Karzai has the de facto power of veto. But only as to one house, after which whole neighborhoods may wish for that tank top procession instead.
Plans are to flood the area of two million Taliban sympathizers with 10,000 extra troops, primarily looking to help only the good Kandahardians across the street to Iraqi-style democracy.
Kandahardian city police, usually on street duty, have been extensive retrained, mostly in ducking and covering, like there was an atomic bomb coming (see Plan B below). Most of the provincial courtrooms are overseen by fewer judges than "Dancing With the Stars", which, it turns out, is okay. The Kandahar jail is already way over the one-prisioner-per-HD-TV rule mandated by American sensibilities. So, there is no place to put all the soon-to-be-stranded-across-the-street suspects. Not this side of Waziristan, anway.
The second phase of the plan is to bury Kandahar in smiles, ribbon-cutting-worthy developmen and heart-felt promises of more to come, a strategy that worked so well in, say, Watts or East St. Louis. Trying to find honest pro-Karzai officials to run such projects is harder than getting Lindsay One-Name into court for fifteen minutes worth of "Oh, Je suis désolé, but I just lost it partying, on Wednesday. And my passport,too."
Ahmed Karzai, Brother-in-Chief in charge of influence-by-EBay, sells access to Harmid for thousands of pounds, like he was a Fergie who can't sing and it's dried poppyade. Ahmed boasts that he can--and please start the bidding--bring the Candlehour-chastened Talibanista to the table. The table in question being the one so feebly lit by the tunnel-visioned candle for which all this was named to begin with.
Sure, he can, but he make them stop with the RPG's anytime soon after they get there?
Remain calm. The Big O has a Plan B just in case Operation Candlehour gets snuffed. Unfortunately, he has to keep the plan a complete secret until Tuesday, after Jack Bauer finishes up on "24".
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Huge US Debt Resolved by Vitrually Everything(tm)
The USA is slimed with more debt than BP is briny crude.
The The Big O's central goverment has a deficit is in the trillions and Congress won't let the pentagon cut its own spending. California's debt is considered junk, being under the cloud of a single European accent. Florida may not be able to afford this year's Tar Ball festival, even with sponsorship by BP and taxes from booming boom sales. Consumers? Hopeless Visa card addicts.
Or, more properly, formerly hopeless.
It has happened before, so you have come to expect it: This Blog proposes the solution: Its own nano$, naturally, but especially Virtually Everything(tm), an idea so evolutionary, it is trademarked.
Everyone knows that a lot of Virtual Goods are being sold, largely through Facebook. You can buy a virtual puppy and send it to your Facebook friend. (Oh. You can have more than one?) Remember, it has always been the thought that counts, not the actual dumb, slobbering, newspaper-averse (and how trendy?) litte darling.
Virtual greeting cards came first, which makes sense, because some of the bigggest card days are completely made up, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Pi Day and Valentine's Day come to mind. Others are simply bogus, like Groundhog Day, President's Day and Patriot's Day in (come on now) Massachusetts. So getting a card for a made-up day was pretty much Wastebasket Day. With virtual cards, at least there was no need to cut down a forest or set aside the newspaper you didn't actually use either to recycle.
Now, you can send any virtual Friend a gift that, likewise, will not take up shelf space, get wrinkled in a closet or claw your furniture legs. Send a virtual pony, which doesn't even have virtual claws. Or the ultimate gift, for now anyway: A virtual diamond necklace. It's virtue is that you won't have to keep in a safe deposit box (like who has one of those) when you don't wear it, which is all the time, since Red Carpet types don't want Harry Winstons getting eyed lustfully instead of the cleavage they paid so much for.
All well and good, an economy of completely made up values. Been there and 2008'ed that.
Serioulsy, this new Virtually Anything Economy, is better than the one Goldman Sachs dreamed up. Using nano$ as the payment mechanism, people will feel virtually super-rich. Face it, having Ten Billion anything stored away in a Fidelity-Division-of-Facebook account or under your iPad makes you feel damned wealthy. The fact that it is only ten US dollars, or can't quite buy a box of real Merlot, gets kind of lost in all the zeroes.
When people feel rich, they binge on both real and virtual stuff. Value is only a mindset, when you think about. A week ago, your "Transformers 3" advance ticket was worth $1000; now you have to pay the landfill to bury it. One day, mortgage derivatives were worth however many trillions Goldman Sachs told Hank Paulson (pardon the redundancy) they were worth; the next day? Less than an NFL cornerback outside of New York.
It is not like using nano$ for virtual currency is cheating anyone. The name "nano" sounds so Greek that it actually is. And everyone, absolutely everyone, knows what Greek money is worth.
But how does the government use the reptillions of nano$ generated by the New Virtual Economy to eliminate its debt? Relax, that part was just awaiting the inevitable "V" reference.
With nano$-addled buyers driving up the values of Virtually Everything, just like Vegas sand-front lots used to be, the government can start repaying debt, not with tons of gold, acres of over-harvested national forests or dozens of cute puppies and ponies, but with Virtually Everything. It's like printing money you don't have, but, again, no carboniverous trees have to be sacrifiecd in the real world and you can go back to using your shredded office paper for mulch.
Future 30-year US Bonds can actually be denominated from the outset in Virtually Anything (a subset of Virtually Everything). Virtual gold bullion is obvious, but more creative things will work, too. My current favorite is Virtual close-to-the-Naples-beach condos, complete with screen saver of the pre-BP Gulf of Mexico. Including in a Virtual tan app, or for some, a duo of virtual implants, to make your video-chat-self look really hot but without the need for medical help. (Come on, bid; this is really important!)
Every Facebook account will be a Monopoly Board with a hotel on every corner, including the Jail, and it's all yours. Can't beat that "wealth effect".
TBO can start tomorrow. And should. Redeem the next bonds coming due with new Virtual nano$ bonds or pay them off, say, with Virtual Blood Diamonds. Rich people crave imported dirty money, since they think it is like wholesale. Speaking of dirty money, an underground virtual economy is already in place thanks to Grand Theft Auto IX.
As innovative as this sounds, its fundamentals are really something the US government mastered a long time ago.
The coup de grace is not new, either. Thanks to Virtually Everything, Facebook will become the new Goldman Sachs, but honest. It will be the clearing house for the entire new Virtually Everything Economy. Its stock will soar into the godzillions. Right then, of course, TBO springs something that comes oh so naturally: He can nationalize Facebook like this is Venezuela.
And when Warren Buffet wants to buy in? "Virtual, my ass."
The The Big O's central goverment has a deficit is in the trillions and Congress won't let the pentagon cut its own spending. California's debt is considered junk, being under the cloud of a single European accent. Florida may not be able to afford this year's Tar Ball festival, even with sponsorship by BP and taxes from booming boom sales. Consumers? Hopeless Visa card addicts.
Or, more properly, formerly hopeless.
It has happened before, so you have come to expect it: This Blog proposes the solution: Its own nano$, naturally, but especially Virtually Everything(tm), an idea so evolutionary, it is trademarked.
Everyone knows that a lot of Virtual Goods are being sold, largely through Facebook. You can buy a virtual puppy and send it to your Facebook friend. (Oh. You can have more than one?) Remember, it has always been the thought that counts, not the actual dumb, slobbering, newspaper-averse (and how trendy?) litte darling.
Virtual greeting cards came first, which makes sense, because some of the bigggest card days are completely made up, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Pi Day and Valentine's Day come to mind. Others are simply bogus, like Groundhog Day, President's Day and Patriot's Day in (come on now) Massachusetts. So getting a card for a made-up day was pretty much Wastebasket Day. With virtual cards, at least there was no need to cut down a forest or set aside the newspaper you didn't actually use either to recycle.
Now, you can send any virtual Friend a gift that, likewise, will not take up shelf space, get wrinkled in a closet or claw your furniture legs. Send a virtual pony, which doesn't even have virtual claws. Or the ultimate gift, for now anyway: A virtual diamond necklace. It's virtue is that you won't have to keep in a safe deposit box (like who has one of those) when you don't wear it, which is all the time, since Red Carpet types don't want Harry Winstons getting eyed lustfully instead of the cleavage they paid so much for.
All well and good, an economy of completely made up values. Been there and 2008'ed that.
Serioulsy, this new Virtually Anything Economy, is better than the one Goldman Sachs dreamed up. Using nano$ as the payment mechanism, people will feel virtually super-rich. Face it, having Ten Billion anything stored away in a Fidelity-Division-of-Facebook account or under your iPad makes you feel damned wealthy. The fact that it is only ten US dollars, or can't quite buy a box of real Merlot, gets kind of lost in all the zeroes.
When people feel rich, they binge on both real and virtual stuff. Value is only a mindset, when you think about. A week ago, your "Transformers 3" advance ticket was worth $1000; now you have to pay the landfill to bury it. One day, mortgage derivatives were worth however many trillions Goldman Sachs told Hank Paulson (pardon the redundancy) they were worth; the next day? Less than an NFL cornerback outside of New York.
It is not like using nano$ for virtual currency is cheating anyone. The name "nano" sounds so Greek that it actually is. And everyone, absolutely everyone, knows what Greek money is worth.
But how does the government use the reptillions of nano$ generated by the New Virtual Economy to eliminate its debt? Relax, that part was just awaiting the inevitable "V" reference.
With nano$-addled buyers driving up the values of Virtually Everything, just like Vegas sand-front lots used to be, the government can start repaying debt, not with tons of gold, acres of over-harvested national forests or dozens of cute puppies and ponies, but with Virtually Everything. It's like printing money you don't have, but, again, no carboniverous trees have to be sacrifiecd in the real world and you can go back to using your shredded office paper for mulch.
Future 30-year US Bonds can actually be denominated from the outset in Virtually Anything (a subset of Virtually Everything). Virtual gold bullion is obvious, but more creative things will work, too. My current favorite is Virtual close-to-the-Naples-beach condos, complete with screen saver of the pre-BP Gulf of Mexico. Including in a Virtual tan app, or for some, a duo of virtual implants, to make your video-chat-self look really hot but without the need for medical help. (Come on, bid; this is really important!)
Every Facebook account will be a Monopoly Board with a hotel on every corner, including the Jail, and it's all yours. Can't beat that "wealth effect".
TBO can start tomorrow. And should. Redeem the next bonds coming due with new Virtual nano$ bonds or pay them off, say, with Virtual Blood Diamonds. Rich people crave imported dirty money, since they think it is like wholesale. Speaking of dirty money, an underground virtual economy is already in place thanks to Grand Theft Auto IX.
As innovative as this sounds, its fundamentals are really something the US government mastered a long time ago.
The coup de grace is not new, either. Thanks to Virtually Everything, Facebook will become the new Goldman Sachs, but honest. It will be the clearing house for the entire new Virtually Everything Economy. Its stock will soar into the godzillions. Right then, of course, TBO springs something that comes oh so naturally: He can nationalize Facebook like this is Venezuela.
And when Warren Buffet wants to buy in? "Virtual, my ass."
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Arizona Passes. In Kentucky: Ru Paul Son Wears TP Well
Politics makes stange bedfellows, the saying goes.
"Throw the Bums Out!" Great, and fittingly throwback, slogan.
Now combine them.
You surely love the spunk of the Tea Party of Wonderland ("TP" on this blog) and their attitude of take-and-torture-prisoners, like Jack Bauer used to when he was calm. But getting into bed with Ru Paul and his son, R& Paul?
No offense Ru, but uh huh.
And this is in Kentucky? The place didn't allow Ru's people on its storied basketball team until last month. Give or take. And still won't allow women, no matter their origin, on its men's team.
And if any one exemplifies "Choice", it is Ru Paul!
Perhaps, TP doesn't care whose butt it favors as long as it TP's some establishment bum, as he/she (no pun intended) flees the political woods. They sure helped R& chase Republican-designee Trey Grayson (almost certainly the protagonist of a Stuart Woods or John Grisham novel) right back to his cozy smoke-filled room.
Wait a second? Didn't the whole TP thing start with movable gatherings of bunches of hazing-crazed Republican frat boys? (But don't call them Greeks these days.) Well, yes, it did, but it has become so more than the still-included close encounter with a teabag and midnight snipe hunt.
TP just hates the Federal Government so much that it will travel over hundreds of miles to put the wipe on anyone wearing a lapel flag pin bearing more than 44 stars.
In fairness, some more modern-minded TP'ers accept the 2009 Republican version of the wearable Stars and Stripes, which sports 49 tiny stars, the island Hawaii being considered part of Indonesia.
And the colorful gray Stars and Bars lapel pin, with its barely noticeable silver medal finish, is always cheered at TP port-a-rallies.
So it is that R& Paul will be gunning (metaphorically one hopes) for a Socialist (TP for "Democrat") bureaucrat in November. Any of you Democrats thinking you can Obalm Kentucky are in for a very rude awakening.
That will be Ru and R& Paul snoring right beside you.
"Throw the Bums Out!" Great, and fittingly throwback, slogan.
Now combine them.
You surely love the spunk of the Tea Party of Wonderland ("TP" on this blog) and their attitude of take-and-torture-prisoners, like Jack Bauer used to when he was calm. But getting into bed with Ru Paul and his son, R& Paul?
No offense Ru, but uh huh.
And this is in Kentucky? The place didn't allow Ru's people on its storied basketball team until last month. Give or take. And still won't allow women, no matter their origin, on its men's team.
And if any one exemplifies "Choice", it is Ru Paul!
Perhaps, TP doesn't care whose butt it favors as long as it TP's some establishment bum, as he/she (no pun intended) flees the political woods. They sure helped R& chase Republican-designee Trey Grayson (almost certainly the protagonist of a Stuart Woods or John Grisham novel) right back to his cozy smoke-filled room.
Wait a second? Didn't the whole TP thing start with movable gatherings of bunches of hazing-crazed Republican frat boys? (But don't call them Greeks these days.) Well, yes, it did, but it has become so more than the still-included close encounter with a teabag and midnight snipe hunt.
TP just hates the Federal Government so much that it will travel over hundreds of miles to put the wipe on anyone wearing a lapel flag pin bearing more than 44 stars.
In fairness, some more modern-minded TP'ers accept the 2009 Republican version of the wearable Stars and Stripes, which sports 49 tiny stars, the island Hawaii being considered part of Indonesia.
And the colorful gray Stars and Bars lapel pin, with its barely noticeable silver medal finish, is always cheered at TP port-a-rallies.
So it is that R& Paul will be gunning (metaphorically one hopes) for a Socialist (TP for "Democrat") bureaucrat in November. Any of you Democrats thinking you can Obalm Kentucky are in for a very rude awakening.
That will be Ru and R& Paul snoring right beside you.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Miss USA: Girl Gone Uncontrolled
It had to happen. We elected a Mr. USA, The Big O, who was born a Muslim in some place Far Far Away, very west of California or very east of Newfoundland, depending on which way you are facing. He even has a very Middle Eastern name like Barak and a very Osama-like last name
It figures that we'd push back by electing a Miss USA from smack in Middle America, except almost to Canada: Dearborn, Michigan, home, also, of the Ford Taurus.
A Miss USA who happens to be an immigrant. Who happens to be an Arab. Who happens, unlike TBO, to still be Muslim.
(Oh, and, for some gratuitous irony, the Taurus mountains are in the Middle East, at the heads of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers that flow through Iraq.)
At least she is Lebanese, like Danny and Marlo Thomas, pretty damn TV-Star American, those two. Not to mention Danny's Uncle Tonoose.
Rima Fakih may be a Muslim, but she left her burqa in a closest up in Dearborn. And thank God and Allah both for that. She might have broken her pretty neck if she had tripped over a burqa instead of just an evening gown. Fortunately, her swimsuit was not very long (God and Allah, again).
Rima is a Shiite and most of those are in Iran. Therefore, she should know--and would if she read this blog more regularly--that her gorgeous, swooshing hair will almost certainly be causing earthquakes in Tehran. And most other places without adequate cloud cover, for that matter.
An immigrant, Rima was lucky not to get the Do You Like Arizona question that sunk Miss "Round-Baby-Round" Oklahoma. Or the Is Mohamed in that Bear Costume query (wisely bleeped out). Rima only had to declare the birth control pill a controlled substance, instead of the controlling substance it is. But a wink from The Donald overcame the participle problem without the inconvenience of a google.
Speaking of control, Rima went a little girls-gone-wild a couple years ago in winning a Stripper 101 contest hosted by a local radio show called Mojo. Newly released video, however, shows that her t-shirt stayed down below her navel and didn't even get damp. She may have thought it a college class, the way she was dressed. The worst part of the whole bit was that she couldn't keep her hands or pretty butt off the Pole with whom she did the popular ethnic Pecker Dance. The dance being the "ethnic" part.
Like Piotr or whoever complained.
Conservatives in the USA were shocked and frightened by Rima's Muslim victory over the many Crusader choices The Donald had. Many demanded the Threat Level be raised to Reddish Orange or, worse, Orangish Red. Questions ran riot in gated communities: Was this Political Correctness run amok? Was it the Barak-Ombalming of America? Was it a slap in the faces of Reddish White Arizoniums?
The Tea Party of Wonderland, through its spokes-grizzly, The Alice Sarah Palin, asked if Rima will use her new powers to cut income taxes, but only on its members. And can they keep their guns?
They are, ironically (again), nearsighted. You may fear Rima now, but she will soon be in a position to go really wild in America, and far, far beyond. Wait until Rima becomes Miss Universe.
It figures that we'd push back by electing a Miss USA from smack in Middle America, except almost to Canada: Dearborn, Michigan, home, also, of the Ford Taurus.
A Miss USA who happens to be an immigrant. Who happens to be an Arab. Who happens, unlike TBO, to still be Muslim.
(Oh, and, for some gratuitous irony, the Taurus mountains are in the Middle East, at the heads of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers that flow through Iraq.)
At least she is Lebanese, like Danny and Marlo Thomas, pretty damn TV-Star American, those two. Not to mention Danny's Uncle Tonoose.
Rima Fakih may be a Muslim, but she left her burqa in a closest up in Dearborn. And thank God and Allah both for that. She might have broken her pretty neck if she had tripped over a burqa instead of just an evening gown. Fortunately, her swimsuit was not very long (God and Allah, again).
Rima is a Shiite and most of those are in Iran. Therefore, she should know--and would if she read this blog more regularly--that her gorgeous, swooshing hair will almost certainly be causing earthquakes in Tehran. And most other places without adequate cloud cover, for that matter.
An immigrant, Rima was lucky not to get the Do You Like Arizona question that sunk Miss "Round-Baby-Round" Oklahoma. Or the Is Mohamed in that Bear Costume query (wisely bleeped out). Rima only had to declare the birth control pill a controlled substance, instead of the controlling substance it is. But a wink from The Donald overcame the participle problem without the inconvenience of a google.
Speaking of control, Rima went a little girls-gone-wild a couple years ago in winning a Stripper 101 contest hosted by a local radio show called Mojo. Newly released video, however, shows that her t-shirt stayed down below her navel and didn't even get damp. She may have thought it a college class, the way she was dressed. The worst part of the whole bit was that she couldn't keep her hands or pretty butt off the Pole with whom she did the popular ethnic Pecker Dance. The dance being the "ethnic" part.
Like Piotr or whoever complained.
Conservatives in the USA were shocked and frightened by Rima's Muslim victory over the many Crusader choices The Donald had. Many demanded the Threat Level be raised to Reddish Orange or, worse, Orangish Red. Questions ran riot in gated communities: Was this Political Correctness run amok? Was it the Barak-Ombalming of America? Was it a slap in the faces of Reddish White Arizoniums?
The Tea Party of Wonderland, through its spokes-grizzly, The Alice Sarah Palin, asked if Rima will use her new powers to cut income taxes, but only on its members. And can they keep their guns?
They are, ironically (again), nearsighted. You may fear Rima now, but she will soon be in a position to go really wild in America, and far, far beyond. Wait until Rima becomes Miss Universe.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Arizona Month: Lakers Roundup Statement
We're back to--but proudly not in--Arizona.
All around the country, cities and even some states are setting up boycotts against Arizona over its Letters of Transit statute with a pretty broad stop-and-frisk provision. Virtually anyone who is not browner than a medium tan and not black must be stopped and frisked all over for the proper paperwork, called "Letters of Transit". Because Arizona does not have enough enforcement personnel, all reddish-on-whiteish Arizoniums ("Pinkos") have been deputized to do the stops.
The new law probably calls the resulting action "the Roundup the Usual Suspects that Obama Wouldn't Do." It has, thankfully, been shortened to "The Roundup".
Letters of Transit are issued to any alien who registers with the State of Arizona and is granted the privilege of "transit" (German for "walking around or riding in a pickup"). Anyone not legally in Arizona or with unpaid traffic tickets must be be derided as an "illegal", designated as a "Usual Suspect", rounded up physically and detained for a long time. Or until the next opening is found for a tunnel to Nogales.
While sharing a dais (not, thank God, a Diaz) Arizona governor Jan Brewer consulted with The Alice Sarah Palin of The Tea Party of Wonderland for a few seconds to see if Illegals can be also classified as sex offenders. Sex offenders can now be detained from Roundup to until a new Constitution is written. In endorsing Jan, The Alice announced, "All aliens have to have a sex--the census form says so--and they sure are offenders. So, Jan, Round Baby Round!"
Jan, now with TP cred, beamed, clapped and joined in the "Round Baby Round" chant. Jan then instructed all cops and Pinkos to feel up and down, thoroughly, all Usual Suspects for any indications of a sex.
Arizona's Attorney General quickly advised Jan that, Constitutionally, hermaphrodites can only be arrested once.
All of this Roundup stuff is too much for states with with large Spanish speaking voting blocks or with borders near Canada. Massachusetts has declared Arizona off-limits for all state employees, roughly half the city of Boston. St. Paul, Minnesota, right up there by Canada, has ordered its employees to go to redirect their Phoenix-bound flights to the better-conference-town-anyway of Las Vegas. San Diego has bared all travel across the San Diego-Arizona border.
In its own protest, South Naples has banned the playing of Mark Lindsay's 1969 classic "Arizona" by any '60's musical act (and that would be all of them) playing on its street.
Which brings us to the LA Lakers, originally from Minnesota, which explains why the name is not "Tar Pits". The City of Los Angeles has more than a few residents who don't dare travel to the Laker-Suns games in Arizona. In fact, the City of Los Angeles has a name that, all by itself, sounds vaguely in violation of Arizona law.
LA Councilman Ed Reyes wants the Lakers to boycott their own Western Conference Final. At least the games in Phoenix. To even things out, Ed, following San Diego's lead, proposes the banning all Phoenix basketball players from crossing into LA. Except maybe Sur de LA.
"Somethings are more important than basketball," opined the Councilman.
Uh. It's called "money", Ed.
So, the Lakers want to play ball on TNT and get paid. And win the NBA Championship for their own team members who are legal aliens (at least, when in LA). Therefore, pressure from both homes notwithstanding, the Lakers will line up and compare tattoos with the Suns and beat them whereever, even in Phoenix.
In a muted show of solidarity with Usual Suspects, however, the Lakers will publicly protest the Arizona Roundup by wearing Spanish numbers on their jerseys.
All around the country, cities and even some states are setting up boycotts against Arizona over its Letters of Transit statute with a pretty broad stop-and-frisk provision. Virtually anyone who is not browner than a medium tan and not black must be stopped and frisked all over for the proper paperwork, called "Letters of Transit". Because Arizona does not have enough enforcement personnel, all reddish-on-whiteish Arizoniums ("Pinkos") have been deputized to do the stops.
The new law probably calls the resulting action "the Roundup the Usual Suspects that Obama Wouldn't Do." It has, thankfully, been shortened to "The Roundup".
Letters of Transit are issued to any alien who registers with the State of Arizona and is granted the privilege of "transit" (German for "walking around or riding in a pickup"). Anyone not legally in Arizona or with unpaid traffic tickets must be be derided as an "illegal", designated as a "Usual Suspect", rounded up physically and detained for a long time. Or until the next opening is found for a tunnel to Nogales.
While sharing a dais (not, thank God, a Diaz) Arizona governor Jan Brewer consulted with The Alice Sarah Palin of The Tea Party of Wonderland for a few seconds to see if Illegals can be also classified as sex offenders. Sex offenders can now be detained from Roundup to until a new Constitution is written. In endorsing Jan, The Alice announced, "All aliens have to have a sex--the census form says so--and they sure are offenders. So, Jan, Round Baby Round!"
Jan, now with TP cred, beamed, clapped and joined in the "Round Baby Round" chant. Jan then instructed all cops and Pinkos to feel up and down, thoroughly, all Usual Suspects for any indications of a sex.
Arizona's Attorney General quickly advised Jan that, Constitutionally, hermaphrodites can only be arrested once.
All of this Roundup stuff is too much for states with with large Spanish speaking voting blocks or with borders near Canada. Massachusetts has declared Arizona off-limits for all state employees, roughly half the city of Boston. St. Paul, Minnesota, right up there by Canada, has ordered its employees to go to redirect their Phoenix-bound flights to the better-conference-town-anyway of Las Vegas. San Diego has bared all travel across the San Diego-Arizona border.
In its own protest, South Naples has banned the playing of Mark Lindsay's 1969 classic "Arizona" by any '60's musical act (and that would be all of them) playing on its street.
Which brings us to the LA Lakers, originally from Minnesota, which explains why the name is not "Tar Pits". The City of Los Angeles has more than a few residents who don't dare travel to the Laker-Suns games in Arizona. In fact, the City of Los Angeles has a name that, all by itself, sounds vaguely in violation of Arizona law.
LA Councilman Ed Reyes wants the Lakers to boycott their own Western Conference Final. At least the games in Phoenix. To even things out, Ed, following San Diego's lead, proposes the banning all Phoenix basketball players from crossing into LA. Except maybe Sur de LA.
"Somethings are more important than basketball," opined the Councilman.
Uh. It's called "money", Ed.
So, the Lakers want to play ball on TNT and get paid. And win the NBA Championship for their own team members who are legal aliens (at least, when in LA). Therefore, pressure from both homes notwithstanding, the Lakers will line up and compare tattoos with the Suns and beat them whereever, even in Phoenix.
In a muted show of solidarity with Usual Suspects, however, the Lakers will publicly protest the Arizona Roundup by wearing Spanish numbers on their jerseys.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Drill Babies(tm) to Get Twice the Brains
BP's Drill Babies (tm) need to evolve. And fast.
The Gulf-Tar-based dolls are popular enough, especially on Alabama beaches, but, they are, as of now, yesterday's news cycle. Even The Alice and The Tea Party of Wonderland, whose early promotion of the dolls made them a must, have moved on.
The Oil Toy business moves faster than a diesel-powered Loop Current.
The developer of the Drill Babies line, had set to work immediately to diversify the line and to adapt to political pressure in the market.
The first addition was a Drill Baby Inaction Figure, complete with three-piece suit, a miniture Congressional Committee Hot Seat and functioning sweat glands. The early prototype could only move one arm, but could point its index finger in three directions. Now, both arms can move through the full 360 degrees needed. A well-dressed adjunct is the near perfect replica of The Alice, only really, really tan. The Alice figure's head swivels automatically away from other Drill Babies and in the direction of a truckload of assault rifle (being included as of yesterday).
The second is dressed like a deep sea fisherman and has a scale model of a 100 ton sea box (the model weighs less than one ton). The sea box can be attached to a fishing line and dropped in a swimming pool (sold separately) with no effect on anything. But the resulting super cool thud can be heard in DrillBabyDrill headquarters (also sold separately) or at the Republican National Committee (sorry, already sold).
An additional accessory kit allows the fisherman Drill Baby to lower a true-to-scale, remote controlled Iranian Space Worm, equiped with a little rubber stopper in its mouth (whereever that may be). The Tar Baby's Space Worm will snake through the very deep end and attempt jam the plug into any pool's filter or your ear, if you happen to be doing laps at the time.
The number one sold-separately accessory is a full set of 100 scale 55-gallon drums of Drill Baby Chemical Dispersant and Surface-Only Body Wash. The directions make it clear that the dispersent should only be used in a pool your children do not frequent, like your asshole neighbor's. Clever marketing has made use of a Drill Baby without the dispersant completely unrealistic. It's like a Transformer bot without a Megan Fox t-shirted doll to tuck under a crushed toy helicopter. Or a pillow.
Real debate has centered on a third proposed Drill Baby line, targeted at young girls with strong stomachs. The farsighted inventor designed the initial Drill Baby with room for a playful additions. But, now, you can buy your child an extra Drill Baby head, arm or toe to add on. (But, seriously, get the complete set of extras. Evolution moves quickly, too.)
It is easy--and, really, inevitable--for Drill Babies to "grow" their extra parts. But it is recommended that addition be made only after dunking the Drill Baby at least once in a salt water-heavy oil mix made with the Drill Baby Dispersant (using the free cruet). Without the use of the mix to modify the Drill Babies genome, the new parts won't stick very well.
A word of caution: The grateful designer made The Alice-inspired add-on Drill Baby head unusually dense. So, what's new? Well, that means it will likely fall off and stick for years to the kitchen floor. Or get itself scarfed up as your dog's last meal.
The Gulf-Tar-based dolls are popular enough, especially on Alabama beaches, but, they are, as of now, yesterday's news cycle. Even The Alice and The Tea Party of Wonderland, whose early promotion of the dolls made them a must, have moved on.
The Oil Toy business moves faster than a diesel-powered Loop Current.
The developer of the Drill Babies line, had set to work immediately to diversify the line and to adapt to political pressure in the market.
The first addition was a Drill Baby Inaction Figure, complete with three-piece suit, a miniture Congressional Committee Hot Seat and functioning sweat glands. The early prototype could only move one arm, but could point its index finger in three directions. Now, both arms can move through the full 360 degrees needed. A well-dressed adjunct is the near perfect replica of The Alice, only really, really tan. The Alice figure's head swivels automatically away from other Drill Babies and in the direction of a truckload of assault rifle (being included as of yesterday).
The second is dressed like a deep sea fisherman and has a scale model of a 100 ton sea box (the model weighs less than one ton). The sea box can be attached to a fishing line and dropped in a swimming pool (sold separately) with no effect on anything. But the resulting super cool thud can be heard in DrillBabyDrill headquarters (also sold separately) or at the Republican National Committee (sorry, already sold).
An additional accessory kit allows the fisherman Drill Baby to lower a true-to-scale, remote controlled Iranian Space Worm, equiped with a little rubber stopper in its mouth (whereever that may be). The Tar Baby's Space Worm will snake through the very deep end and attempt jam the plug into any pool's filter or your ear, if you happen to be doing laps at the time.
The number one sold-separately accessory is a full set of 100 scale 55-gallon drums of Drill Baby Chemical Dispersant and Surface-Only Body Wash. The directions make it clear that the dispersent should only be used in a pool your children do not frequent, like your asshole neighbor's. Clever marketing has made use of a Drill Baby without the dispersant completely unrealistic. It's like a Transformer bot without a Megan Fox t-shirted doll to tuck under a crushed toy helicopter. Or a pillow.
Real debate has centered on a third proposed Drill Baby line, targeted at young girls with strong stomachs. The farsighted inventor designed the initial Drill Baby with room for a playful additions. But, now, you can buy your child an extra Drill Baby head, arm or toe to add on. (But, seriously, get the complete set of extras. Evolution moves quickly, too.)
It is easy--and, really, inevitable--for Drill Babies to "grow" their extra parts. But it is recommended that addition be made only after dunking the Drill Baby at least once in a salt water-heavy oil mix made with the Drill Baby Dispersant (using the free cruet). Without the use of the mix to modify the Drill Babies genome, the new parts won't stick very well.
A word of caution: The grateful designer made The Alice-inspired add-on Drill Baby head unusually dense. So, what's new? Well, that means it will likely fall off and stick for years to the kitchen floor. Or get itself scarfed up as your dog's last meal.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Alice Story Headed to Silver Screen?
A pretty accurate fictionalized film of Sarah Palin's journey from Alaska and Arizona to the top spot in The Tea Party of Wonderland? You betcha.
Blog favorite, Megan Fox is attached to play the lead, The Alice, as a slightly shorter (in centimeters), much smarter dresser (in square centimeters), more literate (in tattooed words) version of the real fictional character.
(This blog is too humble to reveal who wrote the original 23-word screenplay, even while the sequel "Drill Babies BP Cavalcade of 2010" is stuck, really stuck, on page two.)
Lindsay One-Name had originally been tagged as The Alice, but her rigorous, nightclub-and-alley-centric training for her Linda Lovelace vehicle seemed to have her slurring her screen-test line readings.
Ms Fox snagged the choice role on the strength of her work in "Jennifer's Body", in which she played a similar character, and her running body in "Transformers Two.
The challenge for Ms. Fox is to play The Alice beginning in her youth, as the perky point-guard nicknamed "the Barbie-cuda", through her triumph as Miss Gnome (Wasilla being way too hard to pronounce with a sexy giggle), to her stint the cheer captian for a snow-mobiling Dude sponsored by BP. Ms. Fox is fascinated with playing The Alice as a donkey-skinning, ultra-farsighted politician, but is mostly “thrilled to get to run for Vice President with that old beer salesman guy from Panama Mr. Obama beat.”
It is a true American tale of the transformation of a short, small free-country girl to an indomitable presence towering over the nation's political landscape like the Colossus Helios did the island of Rhodes. Before it fell over.
The A-list role has its perks. “It is fun flying in private jets, eating at six-star restaurants and staying in penthouse suites,” actress Fox said. “But I miss Olive Garden and I sneak out for a few bread sticks sometimes. You really need a napkin with all the garlic. I bring one from the hotel.”
“I won't be getting those after a couple weeks. Not the napkins. I still get them. But it's not like the Car-Bot shoot, where they made me gain ten pounds for running in the t-shrit. That was bread sticks 24-7. The Beef was cool--I called him that 'cause it's French--Anyway, Shia? He'd kiss me anyway"
So hard to believe. What a trooper, Shia.
"But this time I have to lose thirteen pounds, can you believe it? Anyone can kiss me now."
"It's because The Alice gets pregnant.”
As the later scenes of the script are being finalized, Ms. Fox, now in gloves, is being fitted for her million dollar Vice Presidential campaign wardrobe.
As for the titleating climax, Sarah Palin's coronation as The Alice, Ms. Fox will, in spite of a the off-the-shoulders pinafore-only costume, “try to play it at least as as realistically as Meg Ryan.”
Casting the fanciful Tea Party of Wonderland characters, each wearing identical 19th Century Libertarian hats and speaking identical lines? Well, that is a chore Ms. Fox is happy to leave to the producers. “I do like animals and I even dated a teabagger. But I know that hatting, it can make your brain swiss-cheesey. Which may explain the Tea...” When a PR assistant interrupted Ms. Fox with a handy breadstick and napkin.
Sarah Palin had demanded final script approval, but yielded when reminded that she had to finish her newspaper first.
The film, in full 2-D, is expected to be released in May 2012.
Just in time.
Blog favorite, Megan Fox is attached to play the lead, The Alice, as a slightly shorter (in centimeters), much smarter dresser (in square centimeters), more literate (in tattooed words) version of the real fictional character.
(This blog is too humble to reveal who wrote the original 23-word screenplay, even while the sequel "Drill Babies BP Cavalcade of 2010" is stuck, really stuck, on page two.)
Lindsay One-Name had originally been tagged as The Alice, but her rigorous, nightclub-and-alley-centric training for her Linda Lovelace vehicle seemed to have her slurring her screen-test line readings.
Ms Fox snagged the choice role on the strength of her work in "Jennifer's Body", in which she played a similar character, and her running body in "Transformers Two.
The challenge for Ms. Fox is to play The Alice beginning in her youth, as the perky point-guard nicknamed "the Barbie-cuda", through her triumph as Miss Gnome (Wasilla being way too hard to pronounce with a sexy giggle), to her stint the cheer captian for a snow-mobiling Dude sponsored by BP. Ms. Fox is fascinated with playing The Alice as a donkey-skinning, ultra-farsighted politician, but is mostly “thrilled to get to run for Vice President with that old beer salesman guy from Panama Mr. Obama beat.”
It is a true American tale of the transformation of a short, small free-country girl to an indomitable presence towering over the nation's political landscape like the Colossus Helios did the island of Rhodes. Before it fell over.
The A-list role has its perks. “It is fun flying in private jets, eating at six-star restaurants and staying in penthouse suites,” actress Fox said. “But I miss Olive Garden and I sneak out for a few bread sticks sometimes. You really need a napkin with all the garlic. I bring one from the hotel.”
“I won't be getting those after a couple weeks. Not the napkins. I still get them. But it's not like the Car-Bot shoot, where they made me gain ten pounds for running in the t-shrit. That was bread sticks 24-7. The Beef was cool--I called him that 'cause it's French--Anyway, Shia? He'd kiss me anyway"
So hard to believe. What a trooper, Shia.
"But this time I have to lose thirteen pounds, can you believe it? Anyone can kiss me now."
"It's because The Alice gets pregnant.”
As the later scenes of the script are being finalized, Ms. Fox, now in gloves, is being fitted for her million dollar Vice Presidential campaign wardrobe.
As for the titleating climax, Sarah Palin's coronation as The Alice, Ms. Fox will, in spite of a the off-the-shoulders pinafore-only costume, “try to play it at least as as realistically as Meg Ryan.”
Casting the fanciful Tea Party of Wonderland characters, each wearing identical 19th Century Libertarian hats and speaking identical lines? Well, that is a chore Ms. Fox is happy to leave to the producers. “I do like animals and I even dated a teabagger. But I know that hatting, it can make your brain swiss-cheesey. Which may explain the Tea...” When a PR assistant interrupted Ms. Fox with a handy breadstick and napkin.
Sarah Palin had demanded final script approval, but yielded when reminded that she had to finish her newspaper first.
The film, in full 2-D, is expected to be released in May 2012.
Just in time.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Afghanistan Phooey. We Have Stuart Little and Arizona.
Sure we need places like Iraq. For their oil and, of course, Iranian democracy. Afghanistan? Not so much.
But what about opium products? That's where controlling Afghanistan is an economic and social necessary.
Or so we all thought. No longer.
A new paper has declared that mice can manufacture morphine. And not the Globe or Enquirer, either. The paper in question was published in something we'll call Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, because, well, that's its name.
How do mice do cook up all this... medication? Do they grab poppy seeds and crush them with their sharp little teeth? Do they stomp on them like so many grapes? No, they just make it from scratch inside their furry, undersized brains.
The test required researchers, led by Meinhart Zenk, to stick thin stainless steel tubes into the little critters heads. And using techniques awfully closed to those discarded as cruel by Josef Mengele during WW II. Anyway, these genteel scientists pumped a gallon or two THP, a chemical that flora use to build morphine, into mousey brains, over four exruciating days.
By the way, mice do show pain on their pointy little faces, and must have been expressing up a storm during those 96 hours of needle work. Just think of the orbital tightening, nose and cheek bulging, ear and wisker flattening going on. Mind you, this mouse expression study came out in Nature Methods, the animal acting journal, well after the pin-cushioning of the mice noggins, so who knew?
Not surprisingly, mice don't make morphine the same way plants do, the scientist determined. They--the scientists, not the mice--extracted brain chemicals, using God knows what methods, and ran them through a really expensive What-Chemical-Is-That machine. This allowed them to track the chemical pathway used by mice being prodded by scientists. Perhaps, it is no surprise that mice with pins in their heads use a different technique to make morphine than plants that just sit there expressionless.
Let Chuck E Cheese-huggers whine their high-pitched squeals 'til bedtime, but the upshot of this study is important. In a world where Americans don't have all the raw materials we need for the future, like oil, neodymium, lanthanum, geranium and formerly poppies, one thing we got. Mice, them we got. And we can grow more really fast whenever we need them.
It is not clear from the study how to process all those little pink noses in order to produce the morphine we want. But how hard can it be. Stick needles in their brains until those pink noses bulge fire engine red and the whiskers receed all the way into their equally bulging cheeks and you know you've got morphine synthesis underway. When the faces relax and get all dreamy, despite an extra twang on the pins, you know the morphine is ready.
The next step requires complete automation or more researchers like Meinhart, since you'll have to grind the tiny cuties into a thin paste or, even better, boil the morphine out of them. Perhaps, you could just eat one whole, like it was sushi. That's the way the thin-skinned aliens on "V" do it.
And you know, pretty soon, our ambitious scientists can tweak American mice to make cocaine, nicotine, caffeine, maybe semi-sweet chocolate.
So, let Stretch bin Laden and Left-Eye Omar have Afghanistan and all those now-useless poppies and ladies in black wrappers. Let those geniuses try to convince Afghans to change their names to Lindsay and Bruce and start up call-centers or to farm tomatoes and corn on the cob for roadside stands. We're done.
America can, once again and forever, pursue happiness, bliss even, on its own.
Oh and the scientists say we don't have to stop at mice. This is where Arizona comes in.
But what about opium products? That's where controlling Afghanistan is an economic and social necessary.
Or so we all thought. No longer.
A new paper has declared that mice can manufacture morphine. And not the Globe or Enquirer, either. The paper in question was published in something we'll call Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, because, well, that's its name.
How do mice do cook up all this... medication? Do they grab poppy seeds and crush them with their sharp little teeth? Do they stomp on them like so many grapes? No, they just make it from scratch inside their furry, undersized brains.
The test required researchers, led by Meinhart Zenk, to stick thin stainless steel tubes into the little critters heads. And using techniques awfully closed to those discarded as cruel by Josef Mengele during WW II. Anyway, these genteel scientists pumped a gallon or two THP, a chemical that flora use to build morphine, into mousey brains, over four exruciating days.
By the way, mice do show pain on their pointy little faces, and must have been expressing up a storm during those 96 hours of needle work. Just think of the orbital tightening, nose and cheek bulging, ear and wisker flattening going on. Mind you, this mouse expression study came out in Nature Methods, the animal acting journal, well after the pin-cushioning of the mice noggins, so who knew?
Not surprisingly, mice don't make morphine the same way plants do, the scientist determined. They--the scientists, not the mice--extracted brain chemicals, using God knows what methods, and ran them through a really expensive What-Chemical-Is-That machine. This allowed them to track the chemical pathway used by mice being prodded by scientists. Perhaps, it is no surprise that mice with pins in their heads use a different technique to make morphine than plants that just sit there expressionless.
Let Chuck E Cheese-huggers whine their high-pitched squeals 'til bedtime, but the upshot of this study is important. In a world where Americans don't have all the raw materials we need for the future, like oil, neodymium, lanthanum, geranium and formerly poppies, one thing we got. Mice, them we got. And we can grow more really fast whenever we need them.
It is not clear from the study how to process all those little pink noses in order to produce the morphine we want. But how hard can it be. Stick needles in their brains until those pink noses bulge fire engine red and the whiskers receed all the way into their equally bulging cheeks and you know you've got morphine synthesis underway. When the faces relax and get all dreamy, despite an extra twang on the pins, you know the morphine is ready.
The next step requires complete automation or more researchers like Meinhart, since you'll have to grind the tiny cuties into a thin paste or, even better, boil the morphine out of them. Perhaps, you could just eat one whole, like it was sushi. That's the way the thin-skinned aliens on "V" do it.
And you know, pretty soon, our ambitious scientists can tweak American mice to make cocaine, nicotine, caffeine, maybe semi-sweet chocolate.
So, let Stretch bin Laden and Left-Eye Omar have Afghanistan and all those now-useless poppies and ladies in black wrappers. Let those geniuses try to convince Afghans to change their names to Lindsay and Bruce and start up call-centers or to farm tomatoes and corn on the cob for roadside stands. We're done.
America can, once again and forever, pursue happiness, bliss even, on its own.
Oh and the scientists say we don't have to stop at mice. This is where Arizona comes in.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Mississippi Welcomes Drill Babies(tm) Ashore
The festive days of Gray History (or We Were Number Two) Month are so over for Haley Barbour, Governor and Historian-in-Chief of Mississippi.
Northern Mississippi more under water than a BoA mortgage, even though Tennessee's Governor and Nashville get all the ink. Haley has had to ask TBO to send Socialist relief money, but only as much as the Feds would have if they only had a fair and Capitalist flat income tax. And please don't call it "relief", it sounds lilke welfare or food stamps, although Haley will quietly take the latter.
Haley is plain desperate for something upbeat.
The news may have given Haley the break he deserves. BP brand Drill Babies will soon be washing ashore along the gulf coast.
Now, most of you don't know exactly what a Drill Baby is. This is hardly surprising since a Drill Baby is borrowed from an old design very familiar to Haley and his nostalgic supporters: The no-longer available Tar Baby.
(No longer available means don't be bugging Amazon.com about it. But you can buy Uncle Remus' stories for you Kindle there, but keep that to yourself.)
You'd think that you'd have a hell of a time having a decent Gray History Month without Tar Babies or lawn Jockeys, but the Grinch known as Political Correctness dampens even the most sacred celebrations. Tar Babies were Americana dolls, as much in demand all across the deep South as knotable hemp rope or midnight white pillow cases.
Tar Babies were made of thick black tar--left over from feathering--and delicately perfumed with turpentine. Most were cheerily dressed like well-treated slaves. These were not your American Girl(tm) dolls, mind you, but they were inexpensive and hard as could be to give up. They were also one quick way to a fox fur coat. Or at least an ascot. But that is another story and one that can not be repeated here (see above).
You can imagine Haley's big eyes getting teary at the mere mention of his boyhood favorite d... action figures. Haley's website leaked plans for Tar Baby Beach Blanket Fortnight in late May...
And quicker than a Loop Current could grease a near-sighted barracuda off Ft. Lauderdale, Haley's site went quite on Tar Babies.
Seems that he received a three AM ring from the Dude-of-Staff of the leading Presidential candidate. After a funny anecdote about jet skiing on the second floor of a house in Ripley, Tippah County, Haley got to speak to his very own political cousin, The Alice of The Tea Party of Wonderland (TP), and former BP employee-in-law, Sarah Palin.
The Alice had stayed up late working with BP to refine (pun intended) her message on BP's great new, if unintentional, oil gusher, which gusher just so happened to be south of Haley's state. She and BP had gotten wind (and ugh) of Haley's Tar Baby Fortnight plans and had something better to suggest.
The Alice had invested much political capital in BP's Drill-Baby-Drill ad campaign and she hoped to capitalize on the highly ranked brand identity (falling somewhere between E-Trade and Lindsay) and "what the heck is a Fortnight, Hilly?"
"It's 'Haley, Madam Alice'"
"And what's a 'Haley', Hilly?"
Still. Notwithstanding the source, Haley went with the idea.
Everyone relax and enjoy a jolt of the new BP brand Deep Gulf Crystal Meth(ane). Or the Mississippi State drink, Bottled Second Floor Tap Water. Late May in Mississippi will be Welcome The Drill Babies(tm) Ashore Fortnight. There will be Petrol-Black-Tie fancy dress balls, backyard cookouts perfectly contained under giant BP-donated domes, gaily... uh, straight-ribboned gray uniforms and of course thousands of Drill Babies at $45.00 a pop and available now on Amazon.com or at participating BP stations for the small version. The Alice-sized doll will be $10,000 a plate and will not be ashore for another week or so.
Drill Babies are pretty much water-safe, so feel free to use them in your neighbor's pool. And forget fireworks, because Drill Babies burn like hell.
Best of all the "ashore" part? That's in Alabama.
Northern Mississippi more under water than a BoA mortgage, even though Tennessee's Governor and Nashville get all the ink. Haley has had to ask TBO to send Socialist relief money, but only as much as the Feds would have if they only had a fair and Capitalist flat income tax. And please don't call it "relief", it sounds lilke welfare or food stamps, although Haley will quietly take the latter.
Haley is plain desperate for something upbeat.
The news may have given Haley the break he deserves. BP brand Drill Babies will soon be washing ashore along the gulf coast.
Now, most of you don't know exactly what a Drill Baby is. This is hardly surprising since a Drill Baby is borrowed from an old design very familiar to Haley and his nostalgic supporters: The no-longer available Tar Baby.
(No longer available means don't be bugging Amazon.com about it. But you can buy Uncle Remus' stories for you Kindle there, but keep that to yourself.)
You'd think that you'd have a hell of a time having a decent Gray History Month without Tar Babies or lawn Jockeys, but the Grinch known as Political Correctness dampens even the most sacred celebrations. Tar Babies were Americana dolls, as much in demand all across the deep South as knotable hemp rope or midnight white pillow cases.
Tar Babies were made of thick black tar--left over from feathering--and delicately perfumed with turpentine. Most were cheerily dressed like well-treated slaves. These were not your American Girl(tm) dolls, mind you, but they were inexpensive and hard as could be to give up. They were also one quick way to a fox fur coat. Or at least an ascot. But that is another story and one that can not be repeated here (see above).
You can imagine Haley's big eyes getting teary at the mere mention of his boyhood favorite d... action figures. Haley's website leaked plans for Tar Baby Beach Blanket Fortnight in late May...
And quicker than a Loop Current could grease a near-sighted barracuda off Ft. Lauderdale, Haley's site went quite on Tar Babies.
Seems that he received a three AM ring from the Dude-of-Staff of the leading Presidential candidate. After a funny anecdote about jet skiing on the second floor of a house in Ripley, Tippah County, Haley got to speak to his very own political cousin, The Alice of The Tea Party of Wonderland (TP), and former BP employee-in-law, Sarah Palin.
The Alice had stayed up late working with BP to refine (pun intended) her message on BP's great new, if unintentional, oil gusher, which gusher just so happened to be south of Haley's state. She and BP had gotten wind (and ugh) of Haley's Tar Baby Fortnight plans and had something better to suggest.
The Alice had invested much political capital in BP's Drill-Baby-Drill ad campaign and she hoped to capitalize on the highly ranked brand identity (falling somewhere between E-Trade and Lindsay) and "what the heck is a Fortnight, Hilly?"
"It's 'Haley, Madam Alice'"
"And what's a 'Haley', Hilly?"
Still. Notwithstanding the source, Haley went with the idea.
Everyone relax and enjoy a jolt of the new BP brand Deep Gulf Crystal Meth(ane). Or the Mississippi State drink, Bottled Second Floor Tap Water. Late May in Mississippi will be Welcome The Drill Babies(tm) Ashore Fortnight. There will be Petrol-Black-Tie fancy dress balls, backyard cookouts perfectly contained under giant BP-donated domes, gaily... uh, straight-ribboned gray uniforms and of course thousands of Drill Babies at $45.00 a pop and available now on Amazon.com or at participating BP stations for the small version. The Alice-sized doll will be $10,000 a plate and will not be ashore for another week or so.
Drill Babies are pretty much water-safe, so feel free to use them in your neighbor's pool. And forget fireworks, because Drill Babies burn like hell.
Best of all the "ashore" part? That's in Alabama.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Proximania(tm): Okay, We'll Talk Past Each Other
Indirect talks have been okayed in Proximania(tm), at least by the Arab Proximates (or as some would say The Later Immigrants). The Israeli Proximates (or The Earlier Immigrants) have always been willing to hold indrect talks with their fellow Proximates, preferably over a wall.
This Blog has discussed the Proximania issues often enough, probably fourth only to Toyota, Arizona and Megan Fox, not in order of importance or preference. Indeed, this Blog might rightly claim the next Nobel-Obama Peace Prize for easing Proximania tensions with the invention of the catchy new trademark for the region itself.
(Feel free to tweet a nomination at @Nobelprize_org for the Peace Prize, the fiction prize being all but locked up--pun intended--by Arizona.)
The thriving construction industry in certain parts of Jerusalem has been annoying to a lot of Proximates, but apparently, the American President, The Big O--who discretely implied he might just claim all of Proximania himself through his Kenyan ancestors, who really were there first--has prevailed upon PLO (Proximania Left Overs) President Mahmoud Abbas to defer foreclosure proceedings for now.
The indirect talks will be held any place other than Jerusalem or Gaza. Two comfortable chairs will be placed back to back, but not touching. American envoy (French for "Oy, send someone else") George Mitchell will have two small wooden chairs, one opposite each of the Proximate's nicer chairs. George will dance in a prescribed circle until the music stops and sit in the closest of his chairs. The specific dance will be chosen by George's boss' wife, Lady O.
Dancing in an elipse would be more efficient, but the position of the two pins, the length of the string and hardness of the pencil, all needed to draw the ellipse properly, could not be worked out during the Bush Years of Desert Wandering and many indirect indirect, low-level meetings. Maybe two of them.
Once George (the Mitchell one, again) is seated, the party opposite him will talk in his direction for an unspecified time. The music will begin again at a random--like the Oscars--and George will rise and boogie off again. Because the music should reflect the spirit of the occasion, one song each will be chosen by the two Proximate representatives. The choices will be made from the songs of ELO (which sounds as close to PLO as you can get), but only from their Camp David Era (late '70's) and "Xanadu" work. These will then be alternately be played over and over again by the renowned, if rarely enjoyed, International Strings-Attached Quartet.
All major issues will be open for indirect discussion: The history of Jerusalem; putting a subway under the Wailing Wall and the Dome of the Rock; rate of return; who has the better religion; which way is faster to heaven, via Jerusalem or non-stop from Mecca; rebuilding Solomon's Temple, but on casters; iPad usage; the cause of earthquakes; how to domesticate Hamas.
These historic talks will continue as until all issues are fully resolved and peace is declared or George can no longer stand all the disco'ing to ELO in perfect circles.
Suggested name for the talks: The Hustle.
This Blog has discussed the Proximania issues often enough, probably fourth only to Toyota, Arizona and Megan Fox, not in order of importance or preference. Indeed, this Blog might rightly claim the next Nobel-Obama Peace Prize for easing Proximania tensions with the invention of the catchy new trademark for the region itself.
(Feel free to tweet a nomination at @Nobelprize_org for the Peace Prize, the fiction prize being all but locked up--pun intended--by Arizona.)
The thriving construction industry in certain parts of Jerusalem has been annoying to a lot of Proximates, but apparently, the American President, The Big O--who discretely implied he might just claim all of Proximania himself through his Kenyan ancestors, who really were there first--has prevailed upon PLO (Proximania Left Overs) President Mahmoud Abbas to defer foreclosure proceedings for now.
The indirect talks will be held any place other than Jerusalem or Gaza. Two comfortable chairs will be placed back to back, but not touching. American envoy (French for "Oy, send someone else") George Mitchell will have two small wooden chairs, one opposite each of the Proximate's nicer chairs. George will dance in a prescribed circle until the music stops and sit in the closest of his chairs. The specific dance will be chosen by George's boss' wife, Lady O.
Dancing in an elipse would be more efficient, but the position of the two pins, the length of the string and hardness of the pencil, all needed to draw the ellipse properly, could not be worked out during the Bush Years of Desert Wandering and many indirect indirect, low-level meetings. Maybe two of them.
Once George (the Mitchell one, again) is seated, the party opposite him will talk in his direction for an unspecified time. The music will begin again at a random--like the Oscars--and George will rise and boogie off again. Because the music should reflect the spirit of the occasion, one song each will be chosen by the two Proximate representatives. The choices will be made from the songs of ELO (which sounds as close to PLO as you can get), but only from their Camp David Era (late '70's) and "Xanadu" work. These will then be alternately be played over and over again by the renowned, if rarely enjoyed, International Strings-Attached Quartet.
All major issues will be open for indirect discussion: The history of Jerusalem; putting a subway under the Wailing Wall and the Dome of the Rock; rate of return; who has the better religion; which way is faster to heaven, via Jerusalem or non-stop from Mecca; rebuilding Solomon's Temple, but on casters; iPad usage; the cause of earthquakes; how to domesticate Hamas.
These historic talks will continue as until all issues are fully resolved and peace is declared or George can no longer stand all the disco'ing to ELO in perfect circles.
Suggested name for the talks: The Hustle.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Arizona Month: Most Education is Illegal, too
Don't you wish you had made up Arizona? It's a fiction Pulitzer just sitting there.
The Arizonium legislature, fresh from savoring this blog's definitive opinion that the Constitution need not apply, has outlawed school classes discussing anything about any specific ethnic groups, except for casinos and holocausts.
Also, school systems can not teach any course that promotes the overthrow of the US goverment or resentment of any White race, Upper class of people or gated community. Teachers must only teach assimilation and integration, as long as minorities are not mentioned, and Individualism, but only as written by Ayn Rand and played, with a broomstick up his... by Gary Cooper.
Tearchers are so confused by their new obligations, they are reviewing text boooks page by... Screw that, and Global Warming, burn them all.
The results are daunting, especially in history:
The Civil War (or the War to Overthrow the US Goverment In These Here Honorable Slaves States, depending on your flag pin) can not longer be taught, except as reason for Andrew Johnson's, and, later Bill Clinton's, impeachment.
The Revolutionary War can not be taught at all, because it was all about The Tea Party overthrowing the legitimate, if distant and tax-obsessed government of the 13 Colonies.
The Constitutional Convention is off-limits, not just as boring but because that distinguished junta, though unauthorized to do so, supplanted the then-legitimate, if tax-starved, government of the United States of America established in 1781.
Forget the Civil Rights movement, which precipitously replaced long-time Democratic governments with Republican upstarts in Southern States, all that worthwhile integration and motorized assimilation notwithstanding.
It is best to leave out G III's Sojourns in Iraq and Afghanistan, since it might give students the idea that really, really annoying goverments should be overthrown for having oppressive and intrusive governments.
So, maybe teach history over in Nevada.
Science is problematical, too, as orthodoxy is constantly challenged and often overthrown. Thomas Friedman's recent discovery that the Earth is Flat is just one example. The established fact of Intelligent Design, no doubt popular in Arizonium classrooms and subdivisions, has tossed over the once-entrenched Only-a-Theory of Evolution; Partical Physics has swept away the neat solar-system-of-the-atom drawings; the God-is-Highly-Pissed theory has buried the plate tectonics and other explanations of the earth moving.
More marshmallows, please.
Other academic examples are too numerous to list, but: Texting has overwhelmed grammar, spelling and ellipses. Can't teach that. Craig's List and Classifieds; email and snail mail; rapping and poetry; cable and NBC; Velcro and buttons; Web fund-rasing and $10,000 a plate dinners; political depth, intelligence and knowledge has been ousted by high-pitched rhetoric, really great eyesight and nice legs.
Drill-Baby-Drill has been thrown overboard by Boom-Baby-Boom.
By the way, you might not want to display this blog post in Arizonium classrooms.
The Arizonium legislature, fresh from savoring this blog's definitive opinion that the Constitution need not apply, has outlawed school classes discussing anything about any specific ethnic groups, except for casinos and holocausts.
Also, school systems can not teach any course that promotes the overthrow of the US goverment or resentment of any White race, Upper class of people or gated community. Teachers must only teach assimilation and integration, as long as minorities are not mentioned, and Individualism, but only as written by Ayn Rand and played, with a broomstick up his... by Gary Cooper.
Tearchers are so confused by their new obligations, they are reviewing text boooks page by... Screw that, and Global Warming, burn them all.
The results are daunting, especially in history:
The Civil War (or the War to Overthrow the US Goverment In These Here Honorable Slaves States, depending on your flag pin) can not longer be taught, except as reason for Andrew Johnson's, and, later Bill Clinton's, impeachment.
The Revolutionary War can not be taught at all, because it was all about The Tea Party overthrowing the legitimate, if distant and tax-obsessed government of the 13 Colonies.
The Constitutional Convention is off-limits, not just as boring but because that distinguished junta, though unauthorized to do so, supplanted the then-legitimate, if tax-starved, government of the United States of America established in 1781.
Forget the Civil Rights movement, which precipitously replaced long-time Democratic governments with Republican upstarts in Southern States, all that worthwhile integration and motorized assimilation notwithstanding.
It is best to leave out G III's Sojourns in Iraq and Afghanistan, since it might give students the idea that really, really annoying goverments should be overthrown for having oppressive and intrusive governments.
So, maybe teach history over in Nevada.
Science is problematical, too, as orthodoxy is constantly challenged and often overthrown. Thomas Friedman's recent discovery that the Earth is Flat is just one example. The established fact of Intelligent Design, no doubt popular in Arizonium classrooms and subdivisions, has tossed over the once-entrenched Only-a-Theory of Evolution; Partical Physics has swept away the neat solar-system-of-the-atom drawings; the God-is-Highly-Pissed theory has buried the plate tectonics and other explanations of the earth moving.
More marshmallows, please.
Other academic examples are too numerous to list, but: Texting has overwhelmed grammar, spelling and ellipses. Can't teach that. Craig's List and Classifieds; email and snail mail; rapping and poetry; cable and NBC; Velcro and buttons; Web fund-rasing and $10,000 a plate dinners; political depth, intelligence and knowledge has been ousted by high-pitched rhetoric, really great eyesight and nice legs.
Drill-Baby-Drill has been thrown overboard by Boom-Baby-Boom.
By the way, you might not want to display this blog post in Arizonium classrooms.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Far Far Away Blesses Civil Unions
Figures. Get your guy elected President and all hell breaks loose.
Who even knew Hawaii had gays and lesbians, let alone Anna Paquins? Isn't it all pineapples, leis and surfing? Is there a gay or lesbian on "Lost"?
Most non-Hawaiian Americans bristle at the idea of a "Civil Union". How odd. After all, some distinguished Bloggers' own mothers were wed at least once in purely civil ceremonies. Whether they subsequently soared up to Heaven or kayaked the Styx is another story for another blog.
The US (less Arizona, of course) has a Constitution that says, "Please leave religion pretty out of the law books." It is othen said that between law and religion America has erected a Chinese Dry Wall. If you wall off religion from marriage, say replace the rabbi, minister or priest with a judge, Elvis or The Love Boat's Captain Stubbing what do you get?
Uh huh.
The government simply deputizes religious officials to perform the civil bonding of individuals--and probably, now, corporations--and if the souls get hooked, too, well, that's just for the parents and their friends. The Honeymoon is something else altogether.
Howt about "What God has Joined, Let no Man put Asunder"? That is pure religion and about as yesterday as Latin. Dozens of men put asunder their joint-ships every day and take fire hydrants along for the ride, the latter clearly a civil matter. Under the First Amendment, God does not get to own any fire hydrants in this country.
Politicians already know this, which explains John Edwards Syndrome. But not the actual haircut.
Think about those weddings performed at City Hall. They are clearly nothing but civil unions, executed without the holy water or glass-breaking. Kissing the bride is something else altogether.
In US law, then, only the civil union part matters; the religious part is on the far side of the Dry Wall with the included embalming vapors and the corroded copper piping. So, get out the dictionary and the Elmer's glue. We are Americans and we redefine terms all the time: For example, a jump to 27.24% interest rates used to be called "usury" or "loan sharking" but is now called "your Amex default rate". (You get to plug in your own examples, like Visa or Macy's, so as to keep this post short.)
Starting today, all the atheists and their near-atheist kin, the liberals and moderates, can proudly state, from now on, that they are "civil unionized" instead of married.
Doesn't have much a lilt to it, does it?
Better to call on the Old English for a suggested rewording: Wedlock is what's left of the Old English words wed and lac, which combine for pledge-giving; and, we already freely substitute wed for marry. That should please Republicans and TP'ers, who long for the good old days, but hate Latin.
And wedlock echoes nicely of ball and chain, too.
Who even knew Hawaii had gays and lesbians, let alone Anna Paquins? Isn't it all pineapples, leis and surfing? Is there a gay or lesbian on "Lost"?
Most non-Hawaiian Americans bristle at the idea of a "Civil Union". How odd. After all, some distinguished Bloggers' own mothers were wed at least once in purely civil ceremonies. Whether they subsequently soared up to Heaven or kayaked the Styx is another story for another blog.
The US (less Arizona, of course) has a Constitution that says, "Please leave religion pretty out of the law books." It is othen said that between law and religion America has erected a Chinese Dry Wall. If you wall off religion from marriage, say replace the rabbi, minister or priest with a judge, Elvis or The Love Boat's Captain Stubbing what do you get?
Uh huh.
The government simply deputizes religious officials to perform the civil bonding of individuals--and probably, now, corporations--and if the souls get hooked, too, well, that's just for the parents and their friends. The Honeymoon is something else altogether.
Howt about "What God has Joined, Let no Man put Asunder"? That is pure religion and about as yesterday as Latin. Dozens of men put asunder their joint-ships every day and take fire hydrants along for the ride, the latter clearly a civil matter. Under the First Amendment, God does not get to own any fire hydrants in this country.
Politicians already know this, which explains John Edwards Syndrome. But not the actual haircut.
Think about those weddings performed at City Hall. They are clearly nothing but civil unions, executed without the holy water or glass-breaking. Kissing the bride is something else altogether.
In US law, then, only the civil union part matters; the religious part is on the far side of the Dry Wall with the included embalming vapors and the corroded copper piping. So, get out the dictionary and the Elmer's glue. We are Americans and we redefine terms all the time: For example, a jump to 27.24% interest rates used to be called "usury" or "loan sharking" but is now called "your Amex default rate". (You get to plug in your own examples, like Visa or Macy's, so as to keep this post short.)
Starting today, all the atheists and their near-atheist kin, the liberals and moderates, can proudly state, from now on, that they are "civil unionized" instead of married.
Doesn't have much a lilt to it, does it?
Better to call on the Old English for a suggested rewording: Wedlock is what's left of the Old English words wed and lac, which combine for pledge-giving; and, we already freely substitute wed for marry. That should please Republicans and TP'ers, who long for the good old days, but hate Latin.
And wedlock echoes nicely of ball and chain, too.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Study: Pets Listen Better than Husbands
According to the study, a full one third of all women think pets listen better.
Including a crayfish.
But do you really need a post on this one?
Of course, pets listen better than husbands. First, of all, they have much better hearing, picking out the sliding sound that a cat food can makes coming off the shelf and what lawn mower? Men can only pick out the sound a six-pack makes landing on the counter and in the middle of the first quarter.
Mostly, though, it is the questions directed to the recipient: And worse, the answers expected. Do women expect their pets to answer in complete phrases? A wag of the tail seems acceptable for any dog; a snout wrinkle for a pig; a blank look for a cat.
Husbands, over time, have experimented with complex gestures, like palms and shoulders up; pleasant expressions like a smile; or single word all-purpose responses, like "fine", all with limited success.
Does a turtle have to worry that "beautiful" will be rejoined with "As beautiful as that little Megan at the Olive Garden?" Turtles can seem to take their time to answer, as well. Husbands have, maybe, a nano-second.
Sample questions from the study:
Pet: Do you want to go pooh-pooh?
Husband: This black pump or... this black pump?
Pet: Do you like flaky salmon?
Husband: So, do you like cold Tuna Helper?
Pet: Do you love mama?
Husband: Will you still love me when I can't wear five inch heels?
Pets: Do you like "Gossip Girl", too?
Husband: Why, exactly, do you like "Gossip Girl"?
Pet: Isn't Daddy an asshole for forgetting his anniverary?
Husband: You can't remember one lousy day a year, you asshole?
Pet: Sit on mama's lap?
Husband: And where was that lap during Happy Hour?
Pet: I know you won't say anything to Daddy, right?
Husband: Why can't you talk to me?
Pet: Do you want to go outside?
Husband: Do you want to sleep in the driveway?
So. Reverse the questions and see how much that damned pet listens.
And are they sure it was only 33%?
Including a crayfish.
But do you really need a post on this one?
Of course, pets listen better than husbands. First, of all, they have much better hearing, picking out the sliding sound that a cat food can makes coming off the shelf and what lawn mower? Men can only pick out the sound a six-pack makes landing on the counter and in the middle of the first quarter.
Mostly, though, it is the questions directed to the recipient: And worse, the answers expected. Do women expect their pets to answer in complete phrases? A wag of the tail seems acceptable for any dog; a snout wrinkle for a pig; a blank look for a cat.
Husbands, over time, have experimented with complex gestures, like palms and shoulders up; pleasant expressions like a smile; or single word all-purpose responses, like "fine", all with limited success.
Does a turtle have to worry that "beautiful" will be rejoined with "As beautiful as that little Megan at the Olive Garden?" Turtles can seem to take their time to answer, as well. Husbands have, maybe, a nano-second.
Sample questions from the study:
Pet: Do you want to go pooh-pooh?
Husband: This black pump or... this black pump?
Pet: Do you like flaky salmon?
Husband: So, do you like cold Tuna Helper?
Pet: Do you love mama?
Husband: Will you still love me when I can't wear five inch heels?
Pets: Do you like "Gossip Girl", too?
Husband: Why, exactly, do you like "Gossip Girl"?
Pet: Isn't Daddy an asshole for forgetting his anniverary?
Husband: You can't remember one lousy day a year, you asshole?
Pet: Sit on mama's lap?
Husband: And where was that lap during Happy Hour?
Pet: I know you won't say anything to Daddy, right?
Husband: Why can't you talk to me?
Pet: Do you want to go outside?
Husband: Do you want to sleep in the driveway?
So. Reverse the questions and see how much that damned pet listens.
And are they sure it was only 33%?
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Supreme Court: A Cross is Almost Pagan
At the Supreme Court, that's what Tony ("That's-Why-The-Other-Guy's-Scaley") Kennedy basically wrote in his majority opinion. The cross in question is in Middle of Nowhere, California, erected as part of a memorial to WWI's fallen.
The VFW put it up ages ago, when the US was still a Christian country. At the time, everyone knew what it meant and loved it, not that they ever saw the thing, it being in the Mojave Desert. You had as much chance of seeing that cross as a Wampanoag does a thousand wind turbines off Nantucket on a foggy day.
The cross is only a little taller than Megan Fox who you would miss completely if she were wearing flats... Okay. The cross is not even as high as, even if as inert as, Nichole Kidman's forehead.
The problem lay in its desert home being on public land, that is, land owned by The Government. Now, had the land been owned by Arizona, we would not be talking about it at all, that state being beyond constitutional enforcement.
Some atheist federal judges from WhereElseButt, California, perhaps projecting their own guilt, said that, in the late, late afternoon, when the sun is low, you can make out a shadow that looks like Jesus' big toe way low down on the the cross.
(Oh, don't go planning a pilgrimage already! It's poetic license.)
(Oh, don't go planning a pilgrimage already! It's poetic license.)
The upshot is that the judges ordered the cross covered with Chinese Drywall, because no will use the boatloads of it sitting in Long Beach and, come on, like it can hurt Jesus.
It fell to the few remaining Christians in California to come up with a scheme to molify the judges. The goverment would sell the hillock with the cross impaled on it to a non-government, maybe one of those free-speech loving corporation Justice Tony loves so much. The rogue circuit judges were not fooled one bit and did everything but nail up the drywall themselves.
The Christians looked at the Supreme Court of the United States and liked their chances at 5 to 4. A lot.
Justice Tony, perhaps with Scaley's whispering, figured it out. The cross wasn't about Christianity at all. The cross was Latin, the Roman culture before Sophia Loren. This was the culture that crucified malcontents for kicks thirty years before Christmas Day went wholesale; the culture that put Spartacus, Tony Curtis and so many of their slave army up on crosses they had to use Velcro.
The cross is an ancient, way-pre-Christian symbol evoking all the thousands of miniture pre-Christian crosses planted across Europe where Ameican soldiers were buried in presumably Latin ceremonies after de-empiring the Germans. Those small Latin crosses were only used to define the uncountable rows and photograph really well. Nobody's religion, or lack thereof, was involved.
The cross is an ancient, way-pre-Christian symbol evoking all the thousands of miniture pre-Christian crosses planted across Europe where Ameican soldiers were buried in presumably Latin ceremonies after de-empiring the Germans. Those small Latin crosses were only used to define the uncountable rows and photograph really well. Nobody's religion, or lack thereof, was involved.
And besides, Tony (the Justice not the Curtis) says, the cross would be someone's private property before anyone actually saw Jesus' shadowy if sacred big toe and built a church around it.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Arizona: Constitution Not Welcome Here, Either
Apologies in advance: It's the Constitution and some history again.
Not even a little interested?
Arizona so agrees with you.
So does The Scaley Supreme Court, as it is known on this Blog. Readers of Empty Glass Full (or Scaley's own My Glass Full Yours Just Wrong) have gained, as a result, a special insight into our Supreme Court's take on the US Constitution.
The basic logic of Scaley's definitive Originalistic Constitutional interpretaion is this: If it wasn't there for the thinking when the Founding Fathers were originally do the thinking in 1787, it isn't covered by the Constitution, or, in the case of the famously dubbed The Top Ten Amendments of 1789. The 14th Amendment, important in the Arizona discussion, would only apply to stuff around in 1866, 1868 at the latest.
The easy part first: There was no Arizona in 1787 or 1789. The United States didn't even own the property then, and didn't even know there was anything worth buying beyond the Mississippi. Therefore, the original Constitution and The Bill of Rights can not apply directly to Arizona.
Bad as that may sound, it acutally is wonderful news, since there were only a few dozen Mexicans and Indians living thereabouts and this is all about giving them no rights at all.
So what about Arizona by 1866? Deceptively good question.
In 1848, the US had made a friendly deal with Mexico in which the US got the norther half of Mexico and Mexico got to keep what was left of its army, its capital and a warehouse full of tequilla. In 1853, the US bought another sliver of Mexico, including Tuscon, Yuma and half the Gila River, and referred to that little purchase as the Territory of Arizona. They picked the a name by joining two Indian words meaning "Last Little Water Before LA".
The final shape of Arizona was set when it developed multiple-personality disorder. It became two territories during the Civil War (or the War to Promote Gray History Month, depending on your governor), one organized by the Union in 1863 without slaves and the other claimed by the Confederates beginning in 1861 with as many slaves as you could get to grow cotton in the desert. The Confederacy gave up its claim to Arizona along with its claim to the beautiful city of Richmond, all those valuable slaves and everything else in 1865.
At the time the Fourteenth Amendment was submitted for adoption in 1866, Arizona was a mere territory, putting off statehood until three years after Barry Goldwater was born, probably unnaturally, in 1909. This being so, the Framers of the 14th Amendment knew about Arizona, vaguely if at all, as a territory but not a real state.
Under the Scaley view, the 14th Amendment can not apply to the State of Arizona, since there was no more a State of Arizona than a Prius, an iPad or a Wonder Bra when the amendment was kicked around and put down in writing. Don't even try to suggest that the amendment applies just because Arizona The Territory did exist in 1868. Assuming, arguendo (as Scaley might himself write in the Latin of the cross), that were true, just try and find a Territory named Arizona today. Go on and good luck. There isn't one.
Thus, neither the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, nor the 14th Amendment apply to the State of Arizona. Arizona can do what it damned will pleases. The State of Arizona could, if it wanted to, outlaw anybody doing anything, including pastry asthmatics swinging clubs at the sand or tall black guys shooting hoops indoors, but it would like to stick to stopping, frisking and, generally, outlawing the beyond-tan walking the streets or riding to off-the-books day jobs in crowded pick-ups.
For now.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Arizona Week Continues: Lesser Arizona Fun Facts
What to call an Arizona Citizen - Arizonium Blanco
State Rock - Arizonium (highly radioactive to aliens)
State Bird - Southerly Pointed Digitum Centrum
State Song - Tomorrow Belongs to Me
State Language, Free Division - English
State Language, Detention Division - Spanish
State Greeting - Letters of Transit, amigo. Pronto.
State Color - Pure White with Sunburn Highlights
State Jewelry - Plasticuffs
State Phrase - Finish up before you go the hell back to Hispanium.
Favorite Conservative - John McCain (April 2010 version)
Favorite Liberal - Barry Goldwater
Favorite Weather - Dry Heat
Favorite Canyon - Echo
Favorite Avocation - Neighborhood Watch Patrol
Second Favorite Avocation - Riding Shotgun
Original Name, English Division - New Mexico
Original Name, Not-English Division - Old Mejico
Greatest Fear - Right of Return
State Rock - Arizonium (highly radioactive to aliens)
State Bird - Southerly Pointed Digitum Centrum
State Song - Tomorrow Belongs to Me
State Language, Free Division - English
State Language, Detention Division - Spanish
State Greeting - Letters of Transit, amigo. Pronto.
State Color - Pure White with Sunburn Highlights
State Jewelry - Plasticuffs
State Phrase - Finish up before you go the hell back to Hispanium.
Favorite Conservative - John McCain (April 2010 version)
Favorite Liberal - Barry Goldwater
Favorite Weather - Dry Heat
Favorite Canyon - Echo
Favorite Avocation - Neighborhood Watch Patrol
Second Favorite Avocation - Riding Shotgun
Original Name, English Division - New Mexico
Original Name, Not-English Division - Old Mejico
Greatest Fear - Right of Return
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