Scared strait

Hello, Comrade Yeti, me love you long time.
Zdravstvuĭte, tovarishch Yeti, me love you long time.

Ho, ho. The brownshirts who cuffed one journo’ and tried to intimidate a couple more during a Joe Miller tea party at an Alaskan public school are apparently active-duty soldiers moonlighting without approval from their chain of command.

You’ll notice in the video still that one of these Nazis is giving the sieg heil with the wrong hand. Thirty days close arrest, Heinrich. If you’re lucky. Dis-miss.

What is it with Alaska, anyway? These Arctic Circle assholes suck the public sugar tit drier than a popcorn fart, like Nosferaturu locked onto a fat artery after a few hits of killer bud, then complain that they don’t like the taste.

What say we hire a few of these out-of-work fellas I hear so much about lately in the lower 48 to saw this frozen shithole off the continent and shove it across the Bering Strait to to Siberia, see how these freedom-loving dingbats like it over there? Love it or leave it, beeeyotch. Preferably the latter.

That lame-ass beard surrounding Miller’s smirking yap ought to look like porn-star poontang to some horny Russian yeti. Probably be the first time that mouth of his has been put to good use since his mama whelped him in a Kansas trash can.

Dumb and dumber

Stick a microphone in John McInsane’s face and something mind-numbingly stupid will pop out of his mouth. Guaran-fuckin’-tee. The senator (R-Asylum) is like a jukebox that only plays one tune — the Horst Wessel song.

Chiming in on the arrest of a suspect in the attempted Times Square bombing, this fine legal mind opined on the Don Imus show: “Don’t give this guy his Miranda rights until we find out what it’s all about.”

No, Numbnuts, the U.S. Constitution is not merely advisory, like a stop sign in Bibleburg. You don’t get to tear it up every time some dingbat tries to blow a bunch of us up. Not if he’s an American citizen. Not even if he’s a brown American citizen. Jesus. You’d think a guy who spent a few years in a cage getting beaten into a confession would have figured it out by now.

And Traitor Joe Liederkrantz (I-Cheesedick) is no better. This tool wants to strip Americans of their citizenship and constitutional rights should they “choose to become affiliated with foreign terrorist organizations.”

Who gets to decide what constitutes a “foreign terrorist organization,” Joe? Let’s hope it’s not you, you sanctimonious sack of shit. Listening to you and of the GOPers you pal around with, I get the idea that being a member of the Democrat Party might qualify.

Remember when these tinhorns squeak that the U.S. Senate was once considered the greatest deliberative body in the world.

Flying fish gets wings clipped

When people learn that I detest flying, they generally ask, “Why?” Here’s part of the answer.

I mean, shit, c’mon. Osama bin Laden probably saw this directive before Flying With Fish did. It’s like having the FBI kick down your door for for ripping off a Matt Groening cartoon (see previous post).

And what could the bloggers do but bend over and take it? If the TSA tried this sort of stunt with The New York Times it would be wearing a thick coat of lawyers the way a dead hog wears flies. A free-lance travel writer with a kid in his arms is going to be a good deal less aggro’ than a hungover editor with three bitchy ex-wives, ’roids and a bleak professional future without some best-selling book to pitch to Random House — say, about how he stood tall while having his nuts squeezed by some brownshirts from the Department of Open Your Duffel, Take Off Your Shoes and Shut the Fuck Up.

Jesus. This is why I drive everywhere. I don’t have to get to the Subaru two hours before departure, I can carry on everything from bikes to guns to jumbo bottles of booze, and nobody is ever setting his boxers ablaze in the seat next to me.

Ho ho ho, Baby Jesus!

Turkish seeks Jesus in my drawing board's lamp.
Turkish seeks Jesus in my drawing board's lamp.

We haven’t even sat down to Thanksgiving Day dinner and the pulpiteers at Focus on the Fambly are already trotting out their annual Christmas In Peril fantasy. Focus Action spokescreature Carrie Gordon Earll breaks it down for us in Palinesque style (and I’m not talking Michael here):

“The eradication of Christmas is a politically correct idea that we can’t have sacred ideas in our culture.”

Uh huh. Can someone please ask Spock to pop round with his Universal Translator? I assume it handles Cretinese.

The more I see of industrial Christianity, Bibleburg style, the more I like Zen. You never see a mob from the local sangha berating the manager of a Best Buy because he won’t hang banners inscribed with the Four Noble Truths on Shakyamuni’s birthday. George Carlin had this crowd nailed, you should pardon the expression.

Meanwhile, thanks for all the music recommendations. I’d forgotten how much I like some of your suggestions, especially The Band’s “The Last Waltz.” Wouldn’t you know the sumbitch isn’t available on iTunes? Yo, Carrie, forget about that eradication-of-Christmas bullshit — we got a real problem right here.

McNamara dies, goes to Hell

It’s an old National Lampoon gag, originally concerning Generalissimo Francisco Franco, but it seems appropriate in this instance. Robert McNamara was the Donald Rumsfeld of his generation, a whiz kid who was too smart for his own good (and ours).

Daniel Schulman at Mother Jones notes that Salon.com founder David Talbot wrote a 1984 cover story for the magazine on “the transformation of McNamara, former National Security Advisor McGeorge Bundy, and ex-CIA chief William Colby from Vietnam-era hawks to advocates of a nuclear weapons freeze.”

Talbot, Schulman said, described McNamara as “the cost-control wizard who thought the war could be run like a Ford assembly line: body counts, kill ratios, bombing raids. And when he saw that it wasn’t adding up, that it did not compute, he repeatedly lied — to Congress, to the press, to the American public.”

What a shame Hunter S. Thompson isn’t around to piss a quart of filtered Wild Turkey on this warmonger’s grave, the way he did on a ceremony for the unveiling of former Secretary of State Dean Rusk’s portrait at the University of Georgia Law School (see “Jimmy Carter and the Great Leap of Faith,” from “The Great Shark Hunt”).

“They should have run the bloodthirsty bastard up a flagpole by his heels,” Thompson wrote.

In his absence, we have war correspondent Joe Galloway, author of “We Were Soldiers Once and Young,” who seems pleased that “the aptly named Robert Strange McNamara has finally shuffled off to join LBJ and Dick Nixon in the 7th level of Hell” and eulogizes him as a serial liar, a distorter of history and “the original bean-counter — a man who knew the cost of everything but the worth of nothing.”

Here’s hoping Bob, Dick and LBJ save Don a seat by the fire — or better yet, in it, since it seems that unlike McNamara, Rumsfeld will never have any fleeting doubts about the countless graves he has filled, with our people and theirs.

Oh, yeah. There was a bike race today, too. Somebody won. Nobody died.