Missed him by that much

God is trying to get Paddy McQuaid, sending a flood to bugger up cyclo-cross worlds in Kaintucky, but the fat bastard keeps bobbing and weaving, ducking the punch.

Word is that Sunday’s races have been shoehorned into Saturday’s schedule, so come the Lord’s day we’re unlikely to enjoy the sight of Fat Paddy sailing down the Ohio River on a raft composed entirely of his own bullshit, more’s the pity.

Just one more reason I’m an atheist with a Zen streak.

• Late update: My fellow Bibleburger Casey B. Gibson is shooting worlds for the VeloNews mob. Here’s his latest gallery. The sandbags are going down and the water is coming up. Good times.

Hope and (spare) change

Mister Boo
Mister Boo feels the torpor of the unemployed.

As the coronation of King Socialist Muslim I proceeds in DeeCee, word on the streets in Bibleburg is that job growth locally is confined to pitching greaseballs at motorists through drive-up windows, answering phone calls from pissed-off Comcast customers and blowing shit up, in part because the locals are too fucking stupid to sell legal weed.

The good news is, gas is cheap for anyone who wants to leave town in search of greener pastures.

The local unemployment rate has been at or above 8.9 percent for three and a half years, and would be more like 12 percent had not some 4,000 Bibleburgers given up looking for work altogether, according to the Gazette.

Interestingly, local number-cruncher Tom Binnings of Summit Economics LLC estimates that 24 percent of Bibleburgers are self-employed, “making money where they can and finding a way to survive, but not much more.”

That number seemed steep at first, until I started thinking about most of the local folks I know. A couple are educators, one has a gummint job, and a few are private-sector employees, but a substantial percentage of the others is self-employed: artist, screen printer, construction contractor, bike-shop owner.

We’re not all struggling to survive, but I’m certain we’d all like to be doing better. Thing is, how do we get there? Ranching the view doesn’t put beans in your burrito, blowing shit up seems likely to go out of fashion if DeeCee ever gets serious about reining in spending, and cheap gas isn’t much of a solace if you have nowhere to go.

A sure cure for Big Tex fever

I’ll tell you what will take your mind off TCWSNBN real fast — the flu that’s going around.

Lordy sweet Jeebus, I recommend in the strongest possible terms that you do not contract this bad boy. It got me on Friday and ever since I have felt like I got et by a coyote and shit off a cliff. Not even green chile helps. Hell, I don’t even want a drink, so you know it’s bad. That said, some of my symptoms might belong to the DTs rather than the flu, so your mileage may vary.

Needless to say, I did not get up at dark-thirty this morning to hustle up some pirate video of Katie Compton clinching the World Cup title in Rome. No, instead I curled fetus-like under a heap of sweaty bedclothes, emitting feeble mewling sounds interspersed with mighty honks into tissues and the occasional hacking jag one might expect from a Vegas bluehair working three slot machines at once with a Chesterfield glued to her lower lip.

Later, in the shower, after a few moments of abominable racket reminiscent of a pack of werewolves with kennel cough trying to kick-start their Harleys I passed a lung biscuit the approximate size, shape and color of an apricot. I thought it bore the likeness of Our Lord, but that was probably just the flu. Or the DTs.

Wayne’s insane

If anyone thinks the NRA is a voice for responsible gun owners and not a shameless shill for the bang-bang biz, well, ol’ Wayne LaPierre sure wised ’em up today.

This guy is a walking, talking 90-round drum of full-auto, armor-piercing batshit. And the only solution to him and those like him is to go full-bore after the merchants of death who prop his dumb ass up in front of the cameras when he so clearly belongs in a rubber condo, getting daily doses of Edison medicine.

Here’s a transcript of the remarks it took the NRA a week to arrange. Thank God they didn’t shoot from the hip, so to speak.

Meanwhile, happy birthday to Frank Zappa, who was born on this day in 1940. Thus endeth Zappadan.

All the news that fits, we print (part five)

While we were amusing ourselves with rich people who trade our newspapers, websites and magazines like po’ folks do tips for making a tasty stew from a handful of weeds, a sheaf of unpaid bills and the family pet, a friend who works for The New York Times wrote to note that another round of buyouts is in progress, the fourth in five years, to be followed by layoffs if enough employees don’t take them.

In other words, jump or be pushed.

“Merry Christmas,” notes my friend, sourly. Indeed.

Things appear even grimmer in Cleveland, where the staff of The Plain Dealer is fighting back against cuts planned by Advance Publications by taking their case to the paper’s dwindling readership. They’ve produced a TV ad, created a Facebook page and plan a “Save The Plain Dealer” party on Thursday at the Market Garden Brewery and Distillery, co-owned by ex-paperboy Sam McNulty. The New York Times reports that the brewery is releasing a new beer, 7-Day Lager, which it says is “best when enjoyed daily, because one a day keeps ignorance at bay.”

Advance has already cut back several papers to three days per week, among them the storied Times-Picayune in New Orleans. With that in mind, McNulty invited Steve Newhouse, chairman of Advance’s pixel pirates, to join the party. Newhouse would not say whether he would attend, though McNulty offered to underwrite the trip.

However, Newhouse did say that the company was “working to develop a localized approach that will allow us to continue to fulfill our commitment to quality journalism in an increasingly digital world,” adding, “I support the work of our team in Cleveland and have passed on your input to them.”

This, of course, is chairman-speak for “Fuck you.” Eschew obfuscation, Stevie old scout. In other words, speak (and deal) Plain-ly.

• Late update: Also going tits-up: The Daily, Rupe Murdoch’s iPad-only daily “newspaper.” Nieman Journalism Lab takes some lessons from its surprisingly successful failure.