Remember the Yippies? Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, et al.?
The wildmen who lit up the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago may have a descendant in the City of the Big Shoulders — a cyclist who gave the old razzle-dazzle to La Migra and seems to have gotten away scot free. (A tip of the Mad Dog Red Zinger cap goes out to Digby and Tom Sullivan.)
I emailed Grant Peterson about getting him a sponsorship through Rivendell Bicycle Works — a Charlie Gallop would be just the thing for Charlie Hustle there — but no deal so far.
During his nearly two years in office Zinke came under at least 15 investigations, including inquiries into his connection to a real estate deal involving a company that Interior regulates, whether he bent government rules to allow his wife to ride in government vehicles and allowing a security detail to travel with him on a vacation to Turkey at considerable cost.
I guess Turkey was too far a trot on horseback, alone, like Clint Eastwood’s Man With No Name (in this case, more like a Man With No Shame). And now there’s one less horse’s ass in this criminal clusterfuck. Two, if you count the horse.
But before we cheer too loudly, consider this, from The New York Times:
Rather than an end to Mr. Zinke’s pro-fossil fuel policies, the resignation quite likely signals a passing of the playbook. Mr. Zinke’s deputy, David Bernhardt, a former oil lobbyist, is expected to step in as acting head of the department.
In the meantime, Charles P. Pierce uses his weekly newsletter to call for the impeachment process to start, today. Sez Chazbo:
If the House doesn’t begin its own inquiry, and very soon, then the impeachment power in the Constitution is what Jefferson called it — a scarecrow. … The Founders made it a point in the Constitution that it would be the House, the half of the national legislature thought to be closest to the people, that would possess “the sole power of impeachment.” The exercise of that power begins with the power to investigate independently—independently, not only of other investigations, but also independently of political calculation and institutional timidity.
The green light for gay marriage doesn’t mean Fat Tony has to suck a bag of dicks. But he probably should anyway.
A few metric shit-tons of comedic hay have been baled from Fat Tony Scalia’s jabbering over the Supremes’ decision on gay marriage.
The bit of blithering outrage that I found most telling was: “Hubris is sometimes defined as o’erweening pride; and pride, we know, goeth before a fall.”
Ho, ho, etc. Fat Tony has heard so many people call him brilliant for so long that he’s come to believe he’s the sun at the center of our judicial galaxy around which the rest of us must revolve, like it or not.
Well, count me among the rogue planetoids chuckling as Fat Tony’s light went out on Friday. There’s something deeply satisfiying about watching a guy who thinks he should win everything just by being present and accounted for rolling in DFL.
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