Category: Bullshit

Which way did he go?

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 37 Comments
Left? Right? Straight? Sheeyit, he’ll never go straight. …

There’s enough bullshit in the media for Texas to open a branch office. And you’d still have enough left over to start two law firms and a Christian bookstore. — George Carlin, “40 Years of Comedy.”

Read and rave, or ride and run?

I think you know the answer to that one.

Marco Arment, whose technical advice I took regularly when Radio Free Dogpatch still roamed the Great Audio Wasteland, wondered the other day whether we might have been better off “before we knew everyone’s hot takes on everything.” (h/t John Gruber at Daring Fireball.)

George Carlin’s advice I have been taking for much, much longer.

I caught Carlin’s act early on, when he gigged on “The Tonight Show” with Jack Paar and later Johnny Carson. But he really got my attention with the 1972 album “FM & AM.” His treatise on bullshit didn’t arrive until 1997, during his live HBO special “40 Years of Comedy,” but as usual he was (a) right on target, and (2) prescient as hell.

What would he have to say today? Plenty, I expect. Carlin was a master alchemist who could transform bullshit into gold.

Me? Strictly an amateur. JV. In it for the yuks, which have proven elusive lately. Can’t quite spot the diamonds in the dung.

“I’ll get you for this,” says Miss Mia Sopaipilla following her visit to the groomer.

So instead of blogging I’ve been riding and running, feeding the birds, watching some standup (Kyle Kinane, Rory Scovel, Leanne Morgan), taking Miss Mia Sopaipilla to the spa for a wash and brush-up, contemplating various household projects long deferred, and reading fiction — no, not the news, actual for-reals fiction.

And I’m definitely not trying to round up enough pennies for the rumored foldable iPhone Duo. $2K and up for something you can leave on top of your car at the gas station or drop in a toilet?

I mean, talk about bullshit. …

Marvel-ous

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 26 Comments
Eurocrossin’ in the New Mexican desert.

Why is a Steelman Eurocross better than a BMW 7 Series?

Well, for openers, it’s a Steelman Eurocross. And you can’t just slide on down to your local Steelman dealer and drive one off the lot, because Brent Steelman isn’t making them any longer.

Even if you could, its touchscreen wouldn’t be showing you an ad for “Spider-Man: Brand New Day” the instant you climbed aboard, which BMWs are doing. My Steelman Eurocrosses ain’t got no steekeeng touchscreens. Oh, sure, they share an ancient Cateye Velo 8, but it doesn’t say shit to me because it saw what I did to Herself’s sportswatch with a claw hammer when the fucker started beeping and wouldn’t shut the hell up.

I knew this day was coming the first time I pulled into a gas station for a tank of the cheap stuff and the pump started shrieking advertising bullshit at me. I nearly drove off right then and there, but I was running on fumes, and figured that if one station was doing it, they all were.

And they all are.

The Eurocross “touchscreen.” One button, no Spider-Men.

So, guess what? If six-figure BMW 7 Series sedans are inflicting advertisements upon their owners — and nobody at BMW gets fed feet first into a wood chipper over it — your $24K Kia Shitbox will soon be pitching Happy Meals, weight-loss programs, and boner pills at you.

My 2005 Subaru Forester? Not so much. The only screen in that sucker is the windscreen, as the Brits call it. The clear one I look through to see where in the hell is it that I’m going.

John Gruber sums up the whole deal nicely at Daring Fireball:

This is absolutely insane, especially for cars that people own. If you own a car and an ad is shown in your car, you should get paid for the ad. And you should need to agree to it first. BMW is supposed to be a luxury brand, and one meant for driving enthusiasts. This is so absurd it’s hard to believe it’s real. 

Ho ho ho. What isn’t?

Tonight, on The Trump Channel!

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments
It’s a hard rain, etc.

A hard-and-fast rule around Ye Olde Dogge Haus is, “Disregard anything that follows the phrase ‘Trump says. …”

But rules are made to be broken. And while I had been planning a grocery trip, now I wonder whether digging a bunker in the back yard might be a better use of my time.

His Excremency’s latest proclamation.

This fuckin’ guy. A mouth like a yawning hippo and the brains of a flea on the hippo’s arse.

And nary a zookeeper in sight.

A friend and I were chatting this morning and he wondered why we hadn’t been hearing anything lately about the whole “running out of ammo” thing that the press had been pushing not long ago, as the U.S. military pitched top-shelf armaments at bargain-basement threats.

So … what exactly will John Whine be packing for the showdown in this Western he’s produced, directed, and stars in?

A few of the lefty bloggers I read are thinking the Fat Man wants to go all — well, Fat Man, the bigger-and-better 2026 edition — on Iran. And here I sit reminiscing about the Good Old Days, taking cover under my desk at Randolph AFB Elementary.

That was one of those solid Air Force issue deals, not this cheapo Office Depot number I’ve been working at for the past couple decades. I’m not sure it’s up to the task of sparing Your Humble Narrator that difficult job interview down below, at The Lake O’ Fire Apocalypse-Intelligencer.

Notice how His Excremency pitches the “death of a civilization” as though it were just another shitty episode of reality TV: “We will find out tonight, one of the most important moments in the long and complex history of the World.” But first, this message from Mar-a-Lago-Mars!

What I’d like to find out — and what the legacy media is not telling me — is what the other nuclear powers think about this slobbering shit-gibbon swinging his ’shroom around like a Central Avenue tranq addict oscillating between peeing and jacking off.

We know where Congress stands: watching from a safe distance and doing fuck-all, as per usual. Waiting for the midterms, I expect.

Aren’t we all? ’Scuse me, got a hole to dig. …

April pool

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments
No foolin’.

¡Agua free-, ahhh!”

They said it might rain. But then they say a lot of things, don’t they?

I don’t see any mention of precip’ in my 2026 training log since a bit of snow on Jan. 25. This morning, our weather widget reports 0.08 inch of rain overnight, and we will take it, with gratitude.

Maybe some of this will fall on War Piggy’s parade this evening, when he is expected to either declare victory in his oil-burning Excursion and then run away with his armor all soiled like Sir Robin, or go full Curtis LeMay on Iran, bombing it “back to the Stone Ages,” which I suppose is where he thinks Fred and Wilma live.

Either way, the goal is getting back to the important stuff: turning the White House into a whorehouse with casino attached; flushing our health care down his golden loo to pay for all his impeachable offenses; and slapping his punk-ass name on everything, including the money he’s stealing from us.

The only good part about having this pendejo as president is that it frees up a lot of time you might otherwise waste listening to, reading about, or watching anything he has to say. If you see his name followed by a verb like “says,” well, you can just go about your business. Because whatever he says will be (a) incomprehensible without Mr. Spock’s Universal Translator, and (2) what George Carlin described in “40 Years of Comedy” as “bullshit” — top to bottom, stem to stern, inside and out.

Of course, George was speaking back in 1997, when American presidents cared enough to put some thought into the tales they told, a soupçon of savoir-faire, delivering what he called “high-quality bullshit, world-class designer bullshit, to be sure. Hospital-tested, clinically proven bullshit.”

War Piggy just brings the stink, and it’s hard to tell which end of him smells worse.

Pontificating from the rectumry

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments
Barking mad and talking out his arsehole as per usual.

His Excremency King Piggy the Sticky-Fingered will be farting higher than his ass this evening during what the legacy media insists upon calling “the State of the Union address” but will almost certainly be more along the lines of the late George Carlin’s “Complaints and Grievances,” only not funny.

I will not be watching for mental-health reasons. Not his mental health; that leaky vessel has sailed, caught fire, exploded, and sunk. My mental health. What with the tariffs and inflation and whatnot, new TVs are way too pricey for me to be shooting ours in a fit of rage.

What say we all give it a miss this time around? If the senile old toad doesn’t stroke out tonight in what he promises will be a long airing of Crimes Against Him, he might just get ferried across the Styx tomorrow by the sort of ratings you might expect from a live goat fuck on the Trinity Broadcasting Network.