I know, I know — I should be babbling on about this, that and the other, but frankly, a few days of spectating at the health-care rumble has left me numb. These overfed, undereducated lice infesting the body politic make soccer hooligans look like Buddhist monks.
Adolf Obama is gonna put these yahoos’ grannies to sleep? Puh-leeze. He’s not a dummy like the last guy to hold the Big Gig. He knows those dried-up, toothless old crones planted their bumper crop of asshats long ago, and that gaggle of fucktards likewise inflicted this latest battalion of jabbering feebs upon us in a nanosecond of meth-addled ardor, with the best bits having clearly dribbled down momma’s leg. Talk about closing the barn door after the horse’s ass is long gone.
No, if we’re gonna put anyone down for the good of the Republic, it has to be these bellowing, pistol-packing pinheads themselves, along with their crotch-droppings, if only to pry them off Uncle Sammy’s three big floppy red communist titties — Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid — which they nurse from so regularly and understand so poorly. Bitch-slaps with Hellboy’s big red mitt for their pastors, teachers and parole officers.
The only outfits in America that have the right to refuse you treatment for an illness or deny you an organ transplant are the health care corporations, if you’re unlucky enough to have to depend on that wonderful private insurance the right wingnuts are so loudly praising and defending.
This is the same wonderful health coverage that’s driven hundreds of thousands of American families into bankruptcy because their private insurers refused to pay for urgently needed surgery or cancer treatment, or simply cancelled their coverage.
Speaking of which, somebody who is in urgent need of medical care — psychiatric treatment, to be precise — is Sarah Palin, who once again has unhinged her snakelike jaws to give us all a good whiff of the rotting brain behind the designer eyewear.
Her contribution to the “debate,” says Political Animal’s Steve Benen, “might be the stupidest thing ever written about health care policy. Just two weeks after she implored journalists to “quit making things up,” Palin has manufactured the idea of a “death panel” out of thin air.”
Remember when batshit-whacko rants like this came mostly from smelly street people arguing with the voices in their head? I’m thinking I’d be in favor of a death panel, if it came equipped with a time machine. Then we could put a few folks’ parents to sleep before they procreate.
If we really want to do something about broken-down, smoke-blowing shitheaps stinking up our nation, shouldn’t we encourage the steadily shrinking minority of sane Republicans to trade in their sputtering party for a brand-new, fully functional, loyal conservative opposition? An outfit that actually presents workable, sane alternatives to Democratic proposals rather than galloping around and squealing about Nazis, socialists, Jesus, lynchings, foreigners, guns and homos like a bunch of ADHD preschoolers on a Ritalin binge? Call it “Right for Wrong” or something? Just sayin’.
Logged onto the Versus video this morning to catch the final kilometer of today’s Tour stage. Cav’ wins again; ho hum. GC unchanged. Close the laptop. Move along, move along, nothing to see here. More of the same tomorrow.
It was refreshing to read Andrew Hood’s interview with Bernard Hinault, who clearly is as bored as the rest of us. Asked what riders should do to break Astana’s stranglehold on GC, the Badger replied succinctly: “Attack! It’s necessary to attack. There are not 36 solutions, just attack!”
I followed Hinault’s advice and attacked, sprinting to the garage, grabbing my second-best Steelman and riding north along the New Santa Fe Trail into the Air Force Academy. The trail exhibits some erosion from the recent heavy rains, but it’s still easily handled on a cyclo-cross bike, though I saw plenty of sissies on mountain bikes. Army types, no doubt. Or maybe swabbies.
Just short of the North Gate, I veered right and tunneled under I-25 to Voyager Parkway, then hung a right to Highway 83. Lots of cheesy Rancho Pendejo-style shitboxes in that neck of the peckerwoods, along with a few half-built shoppettes. If it weren’t for the Zoomie Zoo, Pikes Peak and Nude Life Church you could be anywhere — SoCal, Phoenix, Cleveland, you name it.
I rolled along 83 until just past Academy Boulevard, then took a side street behind a struggling strip mall, crossed Woodmen and picked up the bike path again just past the Nissan dealership, southbound this time. It made for about two hours in the saddle, 30 miles or so, and an interesting study in contrasts.
The wingnut fucktards who rail against the feddle gummint while praising the private sector to the skies ought to take this ride sometime. ‘Cause if it weren’t for the feddle gummint and its Air Force Academy, the private sector would’ve covered that beautiful trail and the 18,000 acres surrounding it with Rancho Pendejo shitboxes about 30 years ago.
"Calling all cars; calling all cars; be on the lookout for a Manx sprinter, 5-foot-9, 150, a pair of guns concealed under the Lycra ... that is all."
Arrgghh. Another one of those days at Le Tour. “As exciting as watching flies do the nasty,” as I tweeted between bouts of posting stories and photos at VeloNews.com. And I don’t know which of those things is dirtier — flies doing the nasty, tweeting or posting cycling journalism to the Ethernets.
The peloton had its collective chamois in a bunch over the decision to ban race radios on this stage and one other, stage 13, which may explain the general lack of action.
Yet who among us can blame them? The riders found themselves alone, cast adrift on a roiling sea of asphalt, with no resources other than teammates, feed zones, cell phones, team vehicles full of directors, spare parts and complete bicycles, Mavic neutral support, the race doctor, guys on motos bearing blackboards, maps of the day’s route and their own intimate knowledge of the strategy and tactics of the sport. Oh, the humanity.
Sure enough, the lack of moment-to-moment radio communication between the team cars and their riders proved so decisive that (gasp) Mark Cavendish won a bunch sprint on a mostly flat stage! Imagine that, if you dare. I tell you, it had me whimpering like a little child.
Meanwhile, in DeeCee, the extremely junior Sen. Jeff Sessions (R-Aryan Nations) tried to bitch-slap Supremes hopeful Sonia Sotomayor during day two of her confirmation hearing today and found himself munching a fat mouthful of his own feeble knuckle sandwich.
Contrasting Sotomayor’s approach to jurisprudence with that of Reagan nominee Judge Miriam Cedarbaum, saying Cedarbaum “believes that judges must transcend their personal sympathies and prejudices,” Sessions got whacked upside his pointy head with a one-two tag-team tap from Sotomayor and Cedarbaum, who was present at the confirmation hearing. It’s a wonder that Kluxer hood of his stays so white, considering where he keeps his head.
Said Cedarbaum, so beloved of Sessions that he didn’t know she was in the room, “I don’t believe for a minute that there are any differences in our approach to judging, and her personal predilections have no effect on her approach to judging.”
Quipped Ian Millhiser of the ThinkProgress Wonk Room in live-blogging day two of the Sotomayor hearing: “Note to Sessions: before you put words in a federal judge’s mouth, make sure that she isn’t in the hearing room to hear your false claim.”
I’ll bet the sonofabitch goes home, spills a generous dollop of Old Tennis Shoes on the carpet and blames it on the maid, then makes his wife fire her. This empty suit is a disgrace to rednecks ever’whur. Thanks and a tip of the Mad Dog gimme cap to Steve Benen of Political Animal.
