Rep. John Boner (R-Punkinhead), soon to be Squeaker of the House, expresses his solidarity with the Common Man by refusing to use a military aircraft to jet back home to Ohio a la Comrade Pelosi and instead flying commercial.
“But that does not mean he will endure the hassles of ordinary passengers,” notes The New York Times, “including pat downs and other new security screenings.”
How’s that hopey-changey thing workin’ for ya, Tea Baggers?
The Smart car folks have been branching out a bit, from four wheels to two — first with an e-scooter, and now with an e-bike.
The story from the LA Auto Show hadn’t been posted for more than a few seconds before some wisenheimer (not me) pissed all over the e-bike’s tires in comments:
“Sweet look, but impractical for commuters. There is no rack on the back to accept panniers. There does not appear to be any way to attach fenders/splashguards. The cellphone/lock idea is nice, but not practical for anyone who rides in the rain. It does not appear to be securely held in place, from viewing videos of the bike from Smart (available on YouTube), and may be subject to ejection when striking bumps, curbs, or holes in the road/path. I hope they do more than produce this pretty looking thing and make something much more practical in the future.”
Frankly, the e-scooter does look a tad more practical for anyone not living in San Diego, though its top speed of 28 mph ain’t gonna cut the mustard in a hilly place like Bibleburg, which also happens to be full of lead-footed libertards who think speed limits are the thin edge of the socialist wedge.
Here’s a gallery from Gizmag.
The equity-group vampires running Freedumb Communications, owner of the Gazette here in scenic cosmopolitan Bibleburg, are said to be entertaining offers to buy its newspapers and TV stations.
“Who gives a shit?” you may inquire, and it’s not an unreasonable question. I worked there briefly in the Seventies and ran away like a Tea Bagger from a meaningful deed. Plus we canceled our subscription quite some time ago, reasoning that it was not in our community’s best interest to keep feeding the retarded, right-wing Rottweiler shitting all over the Gazette‘s Opinion pages.
Still, a daily paper’s sale is almost always bad news, especially for the people who work there, and believe it or not, there are owners both meaner and more inept than the Freedumb libertards.
Take Gannett (please). Gannett is one of the unindicted co-conspirators behind the MacPaperization of the American daily. Thanks to this soulless information-homogenization device — the nation’s biggest publisher in terms of circulation — it’s become impossible to tell one town’s paper from another.
There are rare exceptions; The New Mexican in Santa Fe may be one such, with its recent attempts to focus on local content instead of the redistribution of canned, flavorless generic bullshit. (The New Mexican also kicked Gannett’s fat ass when its 1975 sale to the chain went sideways and returned to local control in 1980.) If you’re not cursed with a Gannett paper in your hometown, as is my sister in Fort Collins, you can learn more than you care to know about the outfit at the Gannett Blog.
Then there’s MediaNews, a nut-cutting outfit that has presided over the miniaturization of The Denver Post, a once-proud regional publication. Like Gannett, MediaNews thins the newsroom herd, sharing staffers among its papers the way dopers pass a bong. And the Post is already sharing content with the Gazette, as you can see here.
It would be in character for MediaNews to snap up first the Gazette, then The Pueblo Chieftain, a privately held typo distributor that should be rechristened Bob Rawlings’ Water Law Newsletter. Slash the staffs to a position or two below bare minimum and share content, ad sales and printing facilities up and down the Front Strange like a truck-stop pimp turning out a couple of new girls.
Who knows? The readers might not even notice. They’ve become accustomed to having their low expectations met, after all. Just don’t mess with the horoscope, the funny pages and the TV listings.
Remember the good old days, when a guy who wanted to achieve the glorious state of “wide-awake drunk” had to horn an eight-ball of the dumb dust and drink a liter of Stoli? Expensive, illegal, yet oh so much fun.
Of course, that was when men were still men instead of women, only with testicles and more fashion sense. Popping some orange sunshine, drinking a case of beer and driving downtown to try to tip over a parked boxcar on Larimer Street was our idea of a relaxing Saturday evening with the fellas.
And then America underwent wussification. The old Denver warehouse district became LoDo, a hangout for art fruits, sushi-nibblers and wine-sippers. The Ell-Ess-Dizzy was supplanted by Ecstasy, immortalized by P.J. O’Rourke as “St. Joseph’s Baby Acid.”
And the nose whiskey/gullet whiskey cocktail? It went mainstream in a lamestream fashion with the debut of caffeinated booze-bombs like Four Loko, a pisspot of 12 percent alcohol, 156mg of caffeine and Christ knows what else that sounds like canned dumb-ass to me.
Thank God the FDA and the FTC have the peddlers of this weenie juice by their immature nutsacks with a downhill pull. Maybe the light-hitters who guzzle this swill will grow a hairy pair and sample a manly concoction like windowpane and Jack Daniels, crystal meth and Schlitz Malt liquor or cocaine and whatever anybody else is buying because we spent all our money on the blow, dude. Really. Seriously.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to make myself an Irish coffee.
Herself has been on a tear of late. Do not be deceived by her diminutive stature — like the tiny Chihuahua, she is full of energy, determination and occasionally bad noise and/or the occasional nip.
With an eye toward continuing her ruthless stranglehold on debt, she got our home loan refinanced from a 30-year fixed to a 15-year fixed, with a local lender, at an interest rate that is so staggeringly low that I am embarrassed to mention it here. We plan to use the money we save on interest to buy Santa Fe.
Then she tapped into several preposterously socialistic federal and state wealth-redistribution schemes and ordered up a new roof plus a massive injection of fresh insulation to keep the cats warm and dry during the brutal Colorado winter (high of 64 expected today). The solar collector came down yesterday, and today a platoon of Spanish-speakers occupies the high ground; shingles are flying everywhere like T-shaped Frisbees.
These dudes have little in common with free-lance rumormongers as regards work ethic. They were on the roof before I’d had my first cup of coffee, the crew boss advising, “It’s gonna get noisy.” Claro que si. Happily, I’m between deadlines. It sounds like Ringo’s drum solo from “The End” ad infinitum up there.
The cats are not amused. Even Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who like Herself is compact yet fearless, views this alarum with alarm.
Mad Blog Media 