Merry Christmas, you’re fired!

The Bibleburg Gazoo continues to bleed like a hemophiliac with Ebolla in a sandpaper suit.

Yesterday word came — not from the Gazoo, natch — that owner Freedumb Communications had sacrificed another dozen or so staffers to The Invisible Hand of the Free Market.

It wasn’t clear whether editor Jeff Thomas was among those fed to the Beast or resigned in protest.

Today, the G finally issued a statement — in MarketSpeak®. Any journalist who would write content-free spooge like the following should be slapped in the mouth with a copy of “The Elements of Style” (duct-taped to a baseball bat).

The goal is to reposition The Gazette’s content center strategically to create and facilitate community conversation around issues that are important to the region, and deliver relevant information that serves the needs of readers on any platform.

“We need to evolve to meet the changing needs of our audience,” (content director Carmen) Boles said. “We’re embarking on a transformation. We want to collaborate in real-time with the community in defining what is relevant.”

Talk about spinning a story about continuing layoffs at a struggling newspaper in hopes of showing vision rather than myopia. This would be good for an F-minus in any tank-town community-college journalism class. George Gladney would have stuffed copy like this up the author’s ass back in 1977.

I still know people at the G, folks who are doing good work under difficult circumstances. But there are some dreadful hacks on the payroll, too, as the above clip shows all too clearly. And frankly, any newspaper that gives Michelle Malkin a platform is going to have trouble “defining what is relevant.”

It can’t be long before Billy Dean Simpleton at Digital Fist-MerdeNews adds the poor old Gazoo to his odiferous collection of bumwads. There goes the neighborhood.

Nuts, si; balls, no

From "An Informal Gathering" by Pat Oliphant.

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.

Thorazine is on my Xmas list

Miss Mia Sopaipilla views with alarm
"You said a bad word," says Mia. "And another. And another. And another. ..."

What’s been going on around here, you ask?

Well, let me think here for a minute. Hmm. …

We had the big Thanksgiving Day U-turn from Bibleburg to Fort Collins and back on Thursday; a full day of VeloNewsery plus dinner with our across-the-street neighbors Larry, Jill and Wendy on Friday; lunch with (and saying adios to) our wonderful next-door neighbor Judy on Saturday, with an extra-large side of work; and work work work on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday, culminating in yet another dinner with friends tonight, a northern New Mexican project to which I tended between bouts of pixel-pushing for the Boulder boyos.

Whew. Long week for an old dog. And it ain’t over yet.

As you might imagine, something’s had to give around here, and that something is exercise. My ass is approaching critical mass, and I ain’t talking about the traffic-snarling bicycle parade, either.

I did sneak out for a 20-minute “run” this afternoon before putting the beans on the stove. Folks probably thought they were seeing a particularly ugly, sluggish zombie on the prowl.

And I probably managed to sweat off a couple of grams running around the kitchen, chopping, mincing, slicing, sautéing and stirring bits of this and that until in desperation, running out of time, I finally dialed down the menu from cheese enchiladas in green sauce with one side of beans in chipotle and another of red chile roasted potatoes to a bare-bones platter — bean burritos smothered in green with a side of the aforementioned spuds.

The bad news is, I probably put those lost grams right back on by going back for seconds. Plus pie. Did I mention pie? Oh, Lord.

Meanwhile, we will return to our regularly scheduled snark come Thursday, when I have a day off — and the weatherman is calling for wind-driven snow and a high in the 20s. I foresee much grumbling and the first stationary-trainer ride of the season, not necessarily in that order.

No cash? No problem

Herself and I ordinarily start our Thanksgiving Day drive north to dine with my sis and bro-in-law by listening to Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” and finish the drive home with Sam Kinison’s “Live From Hell.” It’s not exactly your typical family tradition, but then we’re not exactly your typical family.

Alas, this trip we got rooked out of Arlo — KRCC wasn’t playing it until noon, when we were well out of range, and KUNC must have played it before we got in range. *

So we listened to Sam on the way up and Richard Pryor’s “… is it something I said?” on the way back. And thus, since the Comedy Rule of Three is clearly in effect here today, and in order to shine a bit of comedic light on the festival of consumerist idiocy called “Black Friday” that precedes The Greatest Bullshit Story Ever Told, we herewith present a portion of George Carlin’s 10th HBO special, “George Carlin: 40 Years of Comedy.”

* Incidentally, we did finally get our Arlo fix around 8:30 p.m. Bibleburg time thanks to the miracle of the streaming internets. There may be a god after all.

That was absurd, let’s eat dead bird

Mia and Turkish
Mia and Turkish watch as Buddy (not pictured) gets a grooming from Herself.

The mighty river of VeloNews finally slowed to a trickle today. I fired off an invoice to Corporate and slipped out for a short ride.

Several impatient motorists seemed in dire need of a brisk hosing down with a fire extinguisher full of tryptophan on this day before Thanksgiving. I tallied exactly 349,392 moving violations intended to kill me before abandoning the count.

Plenty of static violations, too, my favorite being the bulbous land yacht parked smack dab in the middle of the bike lane, right under the “No Parking In Bike Lane” sign. This appalling lack of reading comprehension is not encouraging to those of us who earn our meager livings from wielding the English language.

Oh, well. At least I got my big ass out in the late-November sunshine (this is not strictly accurate, of course; it was wearing bib shorts). Herself and I took the critters out for an airing, too. Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein, Miss Mia Sopaipilla and Banzai Buddy the Japanese Wonder Chin all scored themselves a little free vitamin D, which can be hard to come by this time of year.

That’s a little something to be thankful for in trying times when we 99 percenters hear the distant ring of carving knives clashing rhythmically against sharpening steels and wonder if we’re what’s for dinner.

And if that doesn’t get your drumstick throbbing, raise a glass to longtime Friend of the DogS(h)ite Boz, who notes in comments that he’s back to working for The Man.

From our family to yours, happy Thanksgiving.