Rewarding failure

Frank Rich at The New York Times draws a bead on John “Wrong Way” McCain, whom he deems chief among “the unrepentant blunderers” who dug us deeply into the twin holes of Iraq and Afghanistan. Notes Rich: “Americans … want to see the fine print after eight years of fiasco with little accounting. While McCain and company remain frozen where they were in 2001, many of their fellow citizens have learned from the Iraq tragedy.”

In noting Rich’s broadside, Steve Benen at Political Animal wonders why, given his long record of bellicose ineptitude, Wrong-Way McCain keeps getting invited to broadcast his ignorance of foreign policy via the Sunday morning political talk shows. Today marks McCain’s 14th Sunday-morning appearance since President Obama’s inauguration, notes Benen: “Not bad for a senator in the minority, who isn’t in the party leadership, who has no role in any important negotiations, and who has offered no significant pieces of legislation.”

The mainstream media often mistakes septic tanks for oracles, but McCain is a particularly odiferous sack of effluent — a military man with the boundless ego, lust for publicity and tactical genius of Gen. George Armstrong Custer.

At least Custer was among those with boots on the ground when the deal went down. McCain’s clearly spent too much time in — and on — the air to have a real sense of the real costs of warfare.

Oh, the weather outside is frightful

Any doubts as to what month it is got put on ice this morning. We awakened to light fog, freezing mist, black ice on the roads and sidewalks, temps in the 20s and a 30-car pileup that briefly closed Interstate 25, which is how Bibleburg officially welcomes the onset of winter.

Even Turkish, who considers being confined indoors the equivalent to a dip in the Lake of Fire, declined to take his morning constitutional. After the usual post-breakfast yowling for freedom he splayed briefly on the glazed sidewalk like Spider-Man on a wall, then rushed straight back indoors to sleep off the horror … the horror. …

Me, I’m trying to figure out where I can set up the Cateye trainer in this midget dwelling so I can take a little healthy exercise without risking frostbite. Herself has annexed the basement in the name of Lebensraum and every other square inch is packed tighter than four fatties in a Smart car. There’s the garage, but that sucker is a giant Igloo cooler — I swear it’s colder in there than it is outdoors. Plus it’s full of bikes, parts and lawn-care implements.

Don’t tell me I’m gonna have to suck it up and go outdoors. I saw how much the Turk’ liked it, and he’s wearing a fine fur coat.

The Old Trouper

The profession is being ruined by amateurs.
The profession is being ruined by amateurs.

With last night’s light snow and this morning’s kerfuffle over the Nobel Peace Prize, Turkish decided it would be a perfect day to debut his one-cat show, an impression of Darth Cheney in exile that he calls “Why Am I Sitting On My Ass Out Here In the Cold When I Should Be Killing Something?”

The score is a work in progress — shotgun blasts and a friend screaming, lightly armored Humvees encountering IEDs, the shredding of the Constitution by a flabby pair of bloody hands — so you’ll have to make do with the visual for now. An imperfect performance, to be sure, but so are they all these days. As the villainous theatre cat Tom told the cockroach Archy in “The Old Trouper” by Don Marquis:

the stage is not what it

used to be tom says

he puts his front paw

on his breast and says

they don t have it any more

they don t have it here

• Late addendum: Kevin Jones of Mother Jones.com, who does a weekly cat-blogging feature as part of his daily blog, recently asked readers for pix of special guest cats to plug into his newsletter, Drum Beat (you can subscribe to it here). Turkish is the second guest cat, with a special guest appearance by Miss Mia Sopaipilla. Shots of table cream all around!

Stockholm syndrome

That monumental clap of thunder you heard this morning was the sound of millions of Repuglican assholes slamming shut at the news that Adolf Hitler Benito Mussolini Mao Zedong Pol Pot Josef “Uncle Joe” Stalin Barack Saddam Hussein Obama has won the Nobel Peace Prize.

Now, I can sympathize with those who may consider this award a tad premature. It’s not unlike stopping the Tour on stage 5 and saying, “Aw, fuck it, give the jersey to Michael Barry. Nice guy, hard worker, real good sport. Chapeau. OK, guys, let’s ride on to Paris, whaddaya say?” There are a few other guys in the contest, and lots of summit finishes and hairpin descents and road furniture between here and there.

Still, it works just fine as a review of the eight-year-long rendition of “The Horst Wessel Song” as performed by the evil organ grinder Darth Cheney and his monkey. Perhaps the award should be renamed this year as the Holy Shit Are We Ever Glad the American Executive Branch Is No Longer Insane Prize.