What next? The pic on the NYT is a Pulitzer candidate and the news is all bad. As longtime friend of the site K notes: JFC.
Month: March 2011
Don’t mourn, boys, organize
Well, the Repugs in Cheddarland bent over backwards to admit that union-busting has nothing to do with money and everything to do with power and croaked collective bargaining for public workers’ unions. Lovely.
The working stiffs in Wisconsin have shown tremendous courage and staying power so far — it will be interesting to see how they respond to this latest shameless attack on labor. I’ll cast around a bit for more information and if I unearth any means of showing support that doesn’t involve jetting to Madison and giving Scott Walker a kick in the nuts, I’ll pass it along.
Speaking of people who need a swift shot to the ball bag, IRA supporter Peter King (R-Car Bomb) got one from Rep. Keith Ellison (D-Minn.) as the insane Islamophobe King began his despicable hearings into whether all Muslims are killer robots. Good for Ellison, and shame on King, as if the dizzy sonofabitch would even recognize the state.
He’s white, but not quite right
In our latest episode of Guerrilla Theatre (Feline Overlords Edition), Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein demonstrates the Republican technique for thinking outside the box. Stare to the hard right long enough and something is bound to come to you. (Hint: It used to smell like half-baked Alaska, but now it’s more like an Easy-Bake Oven Mitt.)
Professional courtesy?
Just in case you’re not already pissed off this morning, I thought I’d pass on this little tidbit: Larry Houck, the motorist who will not face any charges in connection with the death of cyclist Dr. Ronald Fronczek, is apparently (wait for it) a member of the law-enforcement community — to wit, director of training with the Army’s West Region Police Academy at White Sands Missile Range and quite a hand with the old shooting iron.
I don’t suppose this had anything to do with the New Mexico State Police deciding that any type of citation — reckless driving, careless driving, littering — was necessary in this instance. Back on the sidewalk, you bike-riding, tree-hugging faggots.
Ook ook ook
There are days, today being one of them, when I have grave doubts as regards my status among the higher primates.
The weather looked iffy, and I was ping-ponging back and forth as regards exercise (Do I ride outdoors? Indoors? At all?). Around 2:30 I sucked it up, pulled on a ton of winter gear and hit the garage for the Soma Double Cross, with its full-coverage fenders to keep the booty pristine on dampish days and its minipump mounted at the seat-tube water-bottle cage, all the better to free up pocket room for a jacket, balaclava and various other winter items. Thinking ahead for a change, I was. Or so I thought.
Then I remembered that I was wearing Sidis with Time ATAC cleats under my neoprene booties while the Soma has Shimano SPD touring pedals. Duh.
Bugger it, I thought. Instead of going back inside to unzip and peel and switch shoes, I’ll just grab the Voodoo Nakisi and get right after it. And so I did.
After spending a brisk hour playing rock hockey and dodging cacti in Palmer Park, the snow starts coming down, a nice wet one guaranteed to apply The Brown Stripe to one’s behind. The Nakisi, naturally, lacks fenders.
And as I pulled my jacket out of its jersey pocket, I remembered it lacked something else — an attached minipump. The one I usually stuff into a pocket was at home, sitting on the kitchen table. Double duh.
So if y’all want to find yourself another blogger to follow, I won’t blame you. Nobody this dumb should be allowed to write for public consumption.
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