1564 shopping days until 184.108.40.206.0 4 Ahau 3 K’ank’in.
Lest we forget his master’s voice:
Random notes on recent events:
It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.
I think I would like a browser called Crone.
Does anyone remember that the original original Maverick as played by James Garner in the sixties TV series was a genial small-time cardsharp and con-man who was always getting into more trouble than he could handle, and who often had to be rescued by shady ladies who were smarter than him?
Debutante VPILF Sarah Palin delivered a roc-em, soc-em convention speech (written by a Bush speechwriter), full of red meat for the RNC oinkers. But the Republican rhetoricians couldn’t decide what they were putting lipstick on–a moose-shootin’ hockey mom–a barracuda–a pitbull? The animal they’re putting lipstick on is a pig. But Palin is the lipstick and John McCain is the pig.
The problem that the McCain campaign now faces is that John McCain is still at the top of the ticket. Choosing Palin as his trophy vice doesn’t change that. As far as the true-believers are concerned, McCain is a drag on the Palin ticket. But they’re suckers for cheap lipstick and bad drag.
I am woman, hear me roar.
I am pitbull, hear me bark.
I am barracuda, feel me bite.
I am shark, watch me jump.
Brother Merle compared Palin to Dubya, but to me she is a young Tom Delay with tits–A fundy thug on the make.
If Palin and Putin faced off in a cage match, who do you think would win?
We no longer have a McCain campaign–it’s the Palin/McCain campaign. It’s a trap, a bear trap that cuts McCain off at the knees. Palin makes him look like a senile Granpa–Mr. Magoo out on a date with Polly-wanna-do-it-all-day. They are on the stump together because Palin is the headliner who draws the happy mobs to trusted venues in the enclaves of the chosen. McCain can’t draw a crowd like that on his own. Palin has roused the GOP zombies to a fine frenzy at the thought of her becoming president when McCain strokes out (before his first term is out is my bet–prayer warriors are already petitioning the Almighy for his demise)–but Palin as POTUS is such a nightmare to the Dem base that they have redoubled their efforts on Obama’s behalf.
Anyone that votes for McCain now is voting for a Palin Presidency. That should terrify anyone who isn’t a Republican and who hasn’t been bitten by a zombie. If the election is about the issues, McCain loses, if it’s about McCain, he loses; if it’s about Palin, he still loses, no matter how much umbrage the zombies wandering around Walmart and the Git-God-N-go churches take at the “vile” treatment of their new paramour and her rapidly extending family by the rabidly timid lapdogs of the MSM and the fight or flight nervous nellies at the Great Orange Satan. The only way the Rubs can win is by “swift-boating” Obama. No matter how the McCain campaign, the noise machine, and the mouse circus rearrange the deck chairs, or whether or not the band plays Barracuda; their boat is the Titanic and the Obama campaign is the iceberg. Need I point out that most of an iceberg is below the waterline?
To my manic mind, the first response to the uncorking of this Gopac-generated B-Movie Demoness is to emulate Bruce Campbell’s illimitable Ash in Evil Dead II: Do it with me: Rev your chainsaw–VROOM! and say “Groovy. Gimme some sugar, baby!”
Your scripture reading for this news cycle, grasshoppers: Proverbs 6. Start at verse 6: Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise.
A co-worker told me he wasn’t voting for Obama because “He didn’t need another Jesus.” I replied, deadpan, “Obama couldn’t be our Savior because Jesus had already returned and walks the Earth as Bigfoot.” This co-worker has not spoken to me since.
Only those of you who have survived to attain village elder status will possibly remember how beautiful, how lithe and swift Muhammad Ali was as a young boxer. Obama reminds me of the young Ali, though analogy is obviously not exact–it’s the strength and skill, and the fact that spectators and opponents tended to underestimate him. When the 22 year old Cassius Clay (soon to be Ali) fought Sonny Liston for the first time, the consenus of fight fans was that the scary thug Liston would kill the young Olympic champion. But the fight ended with a TKO when Liston refused to leave his corner. In 1967 Ali fought Enrie Terrell, who insultingly insisted on referring to him as “Clay” instead of “Ali.” Ali danced thru 15 rounds and pounded Terrell to a pulp, and every time he landed a punch, Ali shouted “What’s my name? What’s my name?”
Float like a butterfly.
Sting like a bee.
Your hands can’t hit
what your eyes can’t see.
The fight is won or lost far away from witnesses—behind the lines, in the gym, and out there on the road, long before I dance under those lights.