The Ugly Face of Evil

Inside and out, Elena Kagan is vile and ugly (and I rarely, if ever, comment on a woman's unfortunate genetic endowments but will forego that compact just this once, her outer being more likely a product of her inner self.) [Ha! I was wrong. I already forgot Helen Thomas!]

Her collusion with the American Council of Obstetrics and Gynecology just proves what some women have secretly known about their doctors: that some of them are filled with bloodlust for killing babies. I've met women like that only once or twice in person. I still shudder to think of the encounter.

These vile sorts of women serve in the highest offices of administrative power and they continue to gain power through their compact with death.

I would say I don't care what you think about abortion, but I do.

I will say however, that anyone who adamantly defends partial-birth murder has an agenda so dark and unspeakable as to make the bravest amongst us quake at the unknown depths of it. Lest you think my raw opinion to be hyperbole, I shall counter by questioning the humanity of the beyond-all-reason method of stabbing spinal cords and sucking brains as a viable medical procedure in any imagined world of danger.

That the procedure was found to be unnecessary in any scenario is the plain fact. That Elena Kagan manipulated that fact out of all plain meaning, and that the ACOG's legislative director went along with it is easy enough to verify. [so let's verify. let's ask her.] But why do you think it was important enough for an attorney general policy staffer to suborn a professional body of practitioners and scientists for her own ends?

What it all means for civilization is up to your imagination. In her own words to Clinton, Kagan worried thus:

Todd Stern just discovered that the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG) is thinking about issuing a statement (attached) that includes the following sentence: "[A] select panel convened by ACOG could identify no circumstances under which [the partial-birth] procedure ... would be the only option to save the life or preserve the health of the woman." This, of course, would be disaster -- not the less so (in fact, the more so) because ACOG continues to oppose the legislation. It is unclear whether ACOG will issue the statement; even if it does not, there is obviously a chance that the draft will become public.

Read it twice. Let it sink in. The face of evil has a name: Elena Kagan.

The Best Way to Assure Propagation of a Species Is To Make It A Valuable Commodity: Dinosaur Meat!

And in order to assure Laura that we will always have T-Rex around, what could be more sensible than T-Bone Rex Steaks? Behold the Jurassic Butcher's offerings:

Of course, you'd need a special freezer to keep it as fresh as the Paleofrostbite Age:

Blame foodiggity, of course.

I See an IRS Audit In His Future

And if Biden doesn't lower Scott Borkin's (and every small business owner's) taxes, I see a bill for $4.95 plus tax in Biden's mailbox. A revealing interview after the fact:

"Bite Me" Biden acts offended at the idea of lowering taxes like, "why would I want to do that?" The aristocracy is in full umbrage at the notion!

They would do well to remember that the little people can still fashion politically effective solutions from nothing more than a bit of lumber, rope and sharpened steel. The basket would be for our convenience, not their dignity.

h/t Gateway Pundit.

Oh Yeah? Make me.

Don't wanna blog.

So, there.

Veggie Seppuku: From Totally Nuts to Soup

A little summa-summa for your summer:

Blame Foodiggity.

How Does the Air Conditioner Know That We Have Company Coming Tomorrow?

Eleventy million Crazy Joan Heads TM of heat index and we have no AC.

I shoulda stayed at work.

Update: Crew arrived at 8:00 p.m. Fixed by 9:00. Awesomeness!

A More Efficient Way to Kill the Internet: Summer.

Summer is soooo lame.

And hot.

I'm working my ass off at work. I could put in 80 hours this week and not be caught up. My assistant doesn't start for another two weeks.

Working my ass off at home as I have company coming on Thursday, staying through the weekend.

And tomorrow the Jolly Roger has a birthday.

And the next day we commiserate 31 years together. Uh. . . celebrate. Yeah. That's the word.

Too hot to use too many words.

That's all for now.

Big Butter (Touchdown!) Jesus and Me

Wherein I discover just this past week that:

a) there was ever such a thing as the Big Butter Jesus,

b) that the style of its rendering seemed vaguely familiar,

c) that it has its own wiki page,

d) that, yep, as I suspected was true, I used to have an adjoining office to the designer and he used to have a bunch of maquettes around that looked like butter sculptures of Jesus.

e) that the statue was struck by lightning after even God got tired of it.

f) that there is a wonderful song that mocks the grotesque idol:

No Checkered Flag For GoDaddy's Web Hosting

Looks like either Wordpress.org has been hacked, or GoDaddy has, but the two of them aren't speaking to each other. I see that where WordPress had listed GoDaddy as a preferred web-host on Friday night, no longer does so this morning.

Wordpress.org's "Where to Start" page is a Nigerian email spam this morning. [I see they fixed it now!]

GoDaddy can't answer their phones in less than a 6-minute wait. It'a Maaaddddhouse!

Got my money back. I'll give it a go in another couple of weeks. I have no time between now and mid-July.

They don't call 'em the Intartubes for nothing.

Working on Saturday

Meh. GoDaddy is holding my new site hostage for 24 hours.

So, I'm at work trying to catch up on things. Amazing how much you can get done when everyone else isn't hogging all the copiers!

:o)

Later.

useless update: still later. GoDaddy is still holding everything hostage. I'm very nicely told I'm "in line" and I must be patient. Meanwhile, my weekend is disappearing under the crush of coming company, birthdays, anniversaries and events.

I guess I'll camp out at Blogger one more week, though it kills me to do so.

Done with Gmail. Done with Blogger. Done with Google Chrome. Done with Google.

I don't have the time to transfer my blog outta this format, but I'm going to give it a go this weekend.

So, if this blog suddenly disappears, and someone actually notices it, well . . . won't that be special?

See ya on WordPress soon. I've had an account there forever and mostly use it as an alternate for hosting pics that I want to post elsewhere.

I thought to roll it out on the Fourth of July to celebrate my independence from all things Evil, like Google, but the spoofed emails convince me I've been hacked. No time like the present.

'ta! Off to work.

Dale Peterson: He's Got Your Six

If possible, it's even better than the last one:

Change-up

Moving from the fast-ball series to a nice change-up, high and inside, found at Whiskey River:

ANY MORNING

Just lying on the couch and being happy.
Only humming a little, the quiet sound in the head.
Trouble is busy elsewhere at the moment, it has
so much to do in the world.

People who might judge are mostly asleep; they can't
monitor you all the time, and sometimes they forget.
When dawn flows over the hedge you can
get up and act busy.

Little corners like this, pieces of Heaven
left lying around, can be picked up and saved.
People won't even see that you have them,
they are so light and easy to hide.

Later in the day you can act like the others.
You can shake your head. You can frown.
- William Stafford

Still Semi-Conscious

And I'm still unmedicated, but will soon remedy that and wind down. The day's stresses are still seeking an outlet so I shall post until the dials go back under eleven.

I think Etheridge is the worst sort of age-ist. You know he treated those college men the way he did because he disrespected their youth. That kind of shittiness from good ol' boy patriarchs makes for the great "authentic" Southern voice in the memoirs of the sons of the South. I half expect Vman to weigh in with wistful anecdotes. I also wonder if Etheridge's grown kids saw the video and nodded in sad understanding of the heavy hand. That all came too quick and natural for the man. He got shook like a seltzer bottle and what is really inside him came out under the pressure.

***

I stole this pic from Westsound Modern (where Morgan makes a brilliant observation in the comments) because I think it to be the perfect summary of Obama the man: juvenile, and tremendously able to suck at every opportunity, Mr. I can't suck it all up with a straw. Well, he could try.

Okay, I now have a drink that would knock Obama on his ass. (It's helping, Fran, honest!)

****

One other thing I heard on Bob&Tom this morning: it costs 5 cents to make a dime, and it costs 10 cents to make a nickel. Seizing opportunity, Obama has ordered the making of 350 million nickels in order to stimulate the economy. I LoL'd.

Stream of Semi-Consciousness

So some of you fessed up to never having anything in draft form for publication, but you just "put it out there, stream of consciousness."

However, being the smallest of eight kids has left me with an inevitable reticence to just spout things and await the avalanche of naysaying comments, derision, scoffing and torment.

And like you, my mind ain't right-- and nobody needs to see it naked.

But if I did drop another fan in my dance, it might look like this:

Man, the 8'oclock drivers are way better than the government worker and lawyer 9'oclock drivers. They are faster, more focused and know what lane they want. I've always maintained that who we really are is who we are when alone in our car. Me, I'm a director: "You there! You are too timid to be out on the streets at this hour!! Go home and collect yourself, sir, and come back when the soccer moms are out and about yammering on their phones and ignoring back-seat demon-spawn. That would be more your speed!"

If a town could be measured in assholery by the sheer number of BMWs on its streets, Charleston takes the prize. If a town could be measured for pretentiousness by the number of bow-ties and seersucker (I LOVE that word!) suits, Chucktown would take the prize just as soon as it can stop looking at itself in the mirror. South Carolina men all sound a bit gay as they lisp through their drawling take on the English language. That's why all the NASCAR guys sound so gay. It really is how most men around here talk. Like Nicki Haley's accuser with the bad rug and lisping drawl. . . just. . . no.

Dear sweet Lord, it's only a blog, not a Statement of Intent for Life Itself. Some bloggers get all sniffy about disclaimers and comments and rules and etiquette about never changing or editing content or comments or whatever stick-up-the-ass thing they can conjure. And it's not the basic "please don't sue me" paranoia we all feel at times, but it's the "my words are my sacred bond with the Internet. I value them more than life itself. I will ever be true to this medium and promise never to sully it with late, unannotated edits, fits of pissiness and deleted comments. All corrections will be a remorseful acknowledgment of my failure as a human encyclopedia and will be duly noted with parenthetical, pathetic attempts at integrity." Feh.

What the Hell was that sound? It sounds like someone sledgehammered the wall. Crap! That's the third garden hose in a month that has exploded from the water pressure. Charleston Public Works has got the whole water pressure situation nicely arranged. While it does concern me about hoses and my inability to remember to turn off the spigot, it does make for wonderful showers in the morning.

I have been late for work because of trying to write and publish before I could look it over. I have very little time to write and when I do I type furiously and madly, like now at 8:45 a.m. while running outside to stem the gushing tide of water threatening to was my Apocalypse ride into the side trenches of the yard. Yes, trenches for rainfall runoff. And open trenches along the street where drunks routinely miss their driveway at 3:00 a.m. The gravel business in Chucktown is where the money is at because this neighborhood is so old that trenches seemed a good idea to the town fathers of engineering.

And while I'm at it, I was still considering last night, upon my pillow, that we think we're all so civilized or not based on who threatens, or helps, or supports or denies or politely asks or demands whatever of whomever. But the Whole Truth, the Abiding Principle of Civilization is Water and Sewage Management. I was serious about this way back when I first started this blog and have seen precious little out there to disabuse me of this view. We could live quite handily for quite a while without electricity, but the plumbing and water logistic is the back-breaker, the last, tenuous hold on civic order. Come what may, without sanitary input and disposal of life's most basic need, we're all animals.

And if everybody is "okay," you, me, bi-polar bears, communists, transgendereds, anti-Semites and the terrorists, (but NOT Christians!! fuck them) then why do we still have psychiatrists? Is the "science" settled to a point where everything is permissible, understandable, and perfectly reasonable or at least blame-shiftable? If so, why do we have prisons? Or cops? Or judges?

And now I'm late for work.

Public Servant: Congressional Assault

Democrat Congressman Bod Etheridge (D-NC2). Not fit to serve:

Boots on necks. They mean to rule.

And btw, "heels on throats" and "boots on necks"? You heard it from me before you heard it from Obama.

Voting In South Carolina

Man, I thought all the rukus was about Rev. Al Greene:

I'll Show You Mine

But of course mine was political. So. What's the oldest, mouldering and unpublished thing sitting around in the draft mode on your blog?

This one was from November, 2007, still in shorthandish style:

Justifiable Contempt: the contempt that congress holds the electorate in is perfectly reasonable. I don't blame them. After a while, how can you respect a populace that votes in robt byrd year after year, or denise lee, or any of them? I can well imagine they sit around a local restauarants and say, "watch this" we'll screw 'em like a cheap whore and they'll still re-elect us. We're the only pimps they know.

Cynical much? Sheesh. Unfortunately, I think it stands up to the years.

So, post yours in the comments or link it up or whatever. Let's see it!

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The Post That Was Here Earlier? Gone.

Thanks to anon tipster who alerted me to the hoax. And it was an OLD hoax in Internet terms.

Man, I don't wanna live in a world where you can't trust the C&S.

At any rate, I'll leave off the name of alleged difunto to keep the hoax from spreading.

Must be summer. . .

Chrome and Zone in a Battle to the Death

Which product will I dump first? Google Chrome or Zone Alarm?

They're not getting along. I blame Google Earth for the situation. Ever since I tried downloading that piece of crap, and then uninstalling the huge file, and then ZA insisting on a restart, well. . . that's the end of Chrome's ability to see the Intartubes. IE has no problem, so it's all on Google's intrusive part.

But, ack! I hate to go back to that memory hog, Firefox.

What next? Opera?

Crap.

Thursday Cafeteria Offering: Meatloaf

Just because:

Steeeeee--rike!!

Just when you want to hate Major League baseball, a real, true Phenom steps up and steals your heart all over again. Gonna be a great summer for baseball:

Update: MLB corporation still sucks ass. The best video out there gets pulled by them. Their lame-ass video on the official site is NOTHING as good as this one was. Idiots.



h/t iOwnTheWorld.

Death by Degrees

Is it better to die from heat prostration while vacationing in the middle of Florida, (geological description: the Great Sandy Ridge, local description: Hell) miles away from any hint of seabreeze, surrounded by great sweating hulks of overweight tourists, as the faint strains of It's a Small World (you're welcome) are being slowly replaced by the high-pitched whine of blood pressure building to a crescendo as you fall to the searing-hot pavement and the world really does become small, focusing to an ever-tightening aperture of regret and disappointment, or. . .

. . . shivering and eventually giving into peaceful sleep from hypothermia in the cold streets of Chicago in mid-February, an idea which I, having no practical imagination for such things must leave it to your imagination as to how cold that sort of cold is-- wait, I remember reading about Eskimo cabins wherein the wood freezes so solid that the steel spikes back out of the walls and have to be re-hammered in the Spring, that kind of cold?

Discuss.

Verse the Fourth: Quaint Religious Sentiment

Or an abiding sense of things that transcend our dulled senses? A video is making the rounds this morning, which prompts a bit of unbidden clarity from my heat-addled brain pan.

66 years ago this morning, young men "stormed" the beaches of Normandy, if sheer numbers be a reckoning of men as agents of the Furies. We have no concept, no frame of reference for that sort of sacrifice until we are called to it. What mere mortal man would you follow into a place like that? What trifle of flesh and blood, no matter how strong, would induce a young man to go against all self-preserving instinct three thousand miles from peaceful home, unless it be a Word, an Idea, a Something that is greater?

I don't care if you don't believe in something greater, you're a beneficiary of those who do. Today would be a good day, Europe, to return to your better angels, or at least remember the ones who gave all in that extravagant sacrifice for Something your leaders no longer believe in. A good day for Americans to hold fast to that which remains.

God bless a Marine with a great voice and an even greater heart:



The fourth verse of our National Anthem:

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war’s desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav’n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Best Hangover Headline Evah: “Drunk parrots litter Australian town”

Via Don Surber, the best beat reporter on the Internet, who points us to the Malaysian Mirror:

“Hundreds of seemingly drunk parrots are falling out of trees and the sky in a northern Australian town, mystifying veterinary surgeons who are struggling to care for them. The brightly coloured lorikeets are showing classic signs of drunkenness by losing all coordination and passing out, and then cowering in cages as they recover from their hangovers.”

Pffft. Could happen to anybody:

"They fall out of trees... and they're not so coordinated as they would normally be. They go to jump and they miss the next perch."

Just be glad they're not seagulls. Seagulls are angry drunks:
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How Hot Is It?

Dear gawd, it's too hot to have an alcoholic beverage.

I know.

I'm afraid if I have a drink and walk outside I will spontaneously combust.

Go here, here, here, and here. for important heat index updates.

Ugly. Very.

Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes to the bone. Sooner or later the outer troll starts to conform to the inner one. And the ugly truth of Helen Thomas --who no longer gives a rip-- comes out:

Helen Thomas is a Nazi. I think I can say that without reservation or fear of overstepping the bounds of reason.

We Con the World

Van der Leun has the lyrics posted. He says pass it on:

How long before the copyright lawyers yank this?

Get Happy. Be Free.

The Beatles never had this much fun:

Christopher Titus is Following Me. Should I Be Concerned?

Looky here at this bit of fine judgment displayed by one of my all-time favorite comedians:

I love Christopher Titus for the same reason I love Pat Conroy: I don't feel it unique or necessary to have to write a book about my youth or growing up in a 1200 sq ft house with seven other brothers and sisters. Between the two of them, they've pretty much covered all the bases.

Which means I can blog about blissfully boring oddities and non-dramatic passages in life.

And I don't have to mention that someone emptied their six-shooter at 3:00 a.m. this morning on the street in front of my house. What? I counted the shots: 1 . . . 23456. I checked the clock. I lay in the bed listening. No car. No shouts. No nothing. I peeked out the window from the darkened bedroom and saw more nothing.

I went back to sleep secure in the thought that I had more guns and ammo than they.

I think.

Excel

why shouldn't days be parted
by columns of night?
or added to rows of hours?
by any calculation
the sheet is spread
with figures
multiplying joys
and dividing sorrows
it all adds up
even if you're no good at math.

Al Gore Loses His First Convert

Forty years. Must have seemed liked 40 minutes. . .

. . . under water.

Westsound Modern has the best, wryest, succinct take on this situation. Won't take ya 60 seconds. Go.

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