Hey, whaddaya know, it’s Dec. 12, which means … something. I dunno what. I got nothin’ here.
Oh, yeah — this was the day back in 2000 that the Supremes pulled the plug on Al Gore’s campaign, which had been on life support for the better part of quite some time.
Well, as “Odd Bodkins” cartoonist Dan O’Neill was fond of saying, “Reality is a 5-4 decision in the Supreme Court.”
We now return you to the reality-based community, which is already in progress.
There’s a snowflake. There’s another. This keeps up, we might have enough to make a snowball by the time President Bachmann closes our embassy in Tehran.
Jesus. When did all the brains leak out of the GOP? I remember when we thought Gerald Ford was a dummy — Pat Oliphant used to caricature him with a Band-Aid on his forehead. But this lot makes Jerry look like James Madison.
The Repugs are a little light in the testicles department, too. Mitt “Who Am I Today?” Romney can’t even field a few slow pitches from Fox News, and then snivels about the questions being “overly aggressive” and “uncalled for.”
Nuts the GOP has a-plenty. Balls, not so much.
• Meanwhile, back at the Mustang Ranch: I propose that if one of the GOP’s serial adulterers makes it all the way to the White House that we rename his workplace the Oval Orifice.
There may be an upside to working five days a week, in addition to the obvious (a heftier paycheck): I spend more time reading cycling news and less time reading real news.
That’s got to be good for the blood pressure.
For example, today I got up at 7, grabbed a cup of Joe, assumed the position before the iMac and began the process of rerouting the contents of my in-box toward the sprawling server farm in Spaminacanistan that hosts the VeloNews.com website. This took the better part of quite some time but upon reflection seems very little like working for a living when compared to covering the interminable GOP “debates.”
The day’s chores included rewriting a press release; editing, augmenting and posting a few Agence France Presse wire-service stories; uploading a couple tech pieces; editing and posting a half-dozen bits from staffers and contributors; finding art to illustrate all of this; changing the marquee pic; and putting the finishing touches on a weekly e-mail newsletter The Company sends out.
I also managed to communicate electronically with distant colleagues in San Diego, Boulder, Laguna Hills, Brussels and Leon, Spain, without once using the word “fuck,” which may be a first.
So I didn’t get around to noticing that our friends at Fox News had decreed pepper spray to be “a food product, essentially,” until pretty late in the day, as I was self-administering a mild sedative that the French supply in liquid form without a prescription.
Pepper spray. A “food product.”
Well, shit. Don’t tell her momma, but it appears that I stealth-sprayed Herself last night. Slipped four dried red New Mexican chile pods into the posole I whipped up for dinner.
She never knew what hit her, the little commie.
A grateful nation sends its thanks to whichever one of you is selling the chronic to Gov. Rick “Goodhair” Perry. The Republic is remarkably resilient, but I’m not certain it could survive another Lone Star shit-for-brains who can’t maintain.
Y’all deserve a Presidential Medal of Freedom, or at least a get-out-of-jail-free card.
The gift that is the race for the GOP presidential nomination just keeps on a-giving. SNL, The Daily Show and The Colbert Report might as well just add their writing staffs to the unemployment stats, because the candidates are serving up all the material they’re ever gonna need, and for free, too.
Herman “Just Kidding (Not Really”) Cain wants to electrify the fence between the United States and Mexico; I’m not sure who picks up the tab for that, but I suspect Cain plans to bill grieving Mexicans for the cost of electrocuting their kinfolk. “Careful, señores, hot fence!”
Meanwhile, Mitt Romney says that rather than providing foreclosure relief to struggling homeowners, he would let foreclosures “run their course and hit the bottom,” put all those bums on the street, and then sell the bums’ houses to investors, who could turn around and rent the bums’ houses back to them (assuming the bums could pass the credit check, raise first, last and damage deposit, and get out of the leases on the Dumpsters, refrigerator boxes and pup tents they’re living in).
And he says this in Nevada, where a day without foreclosures is like a day without sunshine. It’s like throwing an anvil to a drowning man — more than 80 percent of homeowners there are underwater on their mortgages, and one in 44 houses has been hit by a foreclosure filing in the third quarter of 2011, nearly double the number in runner-up California and putting the Silver State squarely atop the foreclosure heap.
Remember, this isn’t your crazy Uncle Hermie who talks to the toaster and Thurston Howell III, who was a TV caricature of an obscenely wealthy, amoral fuck, not the real deal. These are the frontrunners for the GOP nomination. One of them could actually become president.
