I remember I stopped watching the NBC sitcom Ed long before the wretched palm-off of a half-hour finally hobbled off into oblivion some years back, but I didn’t always hate Tom Cavanagh.
But watching him as Zach Braff’s older brother in these re-runs of Scrubs is just fucking awful. He’s a super-annoying ham-assed mofo and I just want to eviscerate him in the middle of the street.
When I first moved to Austin with my old man back in 1982, we lived in this house up in the north central part of town. It was a pretty decent neighborhood. Not upper middle-class or even middle middle-class. But you know the place.
Not long after we were there, we could smell something funky in one of the bathrooms. And it wasn’t either of us for a change. Something —maybe a mouse— had died inside some space in the wall and was stinking the place up.
Well, it was a rental house and we weren’t about to go ripping up anything to remove the dead animal. So, we just waited it out. Before too long, of course, dust came of dust.
I was thinking of that little problem today when I read that Harry Reid thinks we have lost the War for Iraq.
Like a dead and rotting rodent, the Democratic Party’s faith and confidence in our system of government and our institutions is reduced to an offensive odor permeating our civic culture. Their disease-ridden minds never turn to our obligations and duties as Westerners in the fight against Islamofascism, but always to political advantage.
Unfortunately in their case, there is too much stink to ignore. The walls will have to be ripped open and the putrefaction extracted.
People like Reid and Pelosi are going to stink in the nostrils of the American citizenry for a generation to come.
These kinds of stories help change minds:
Three top prospects for this year’s NFL Draft have admitted to using marijuana, NFL team sources have confirmed to The Sports Xchange.But sources also said the admissions should have little or no impact on their draft ratings.
The players cited are Georgia Tech wide receiver Calvin Johnson, Clemson defensive end Gaines Adams and Louisville defensive tackle Amobi Okoye. None of them tested positive for drugs in tests done by the NFL or in any of the random tests conducted in college by the NCAA.
According to ratings by NFLDraftScout.com, each player is the top prospect at his position. Johnson is ranked as the top player in the entire draft, Adams is seventh and Okoye 10th.
Do you think anybody worth listening to is going to think any less of these guys on account of pot? It’s a joke to think about. Are they less likely or qualified to be favorites of the fans and even heroes to our youth?
It’s not like these guys are Len Bias, you know. Let’s draw some distinctions and stop being such fucking cops about everything.
Yeah, well, celibacy sickens the soul.
And did Bill Maher just refer to the governor of his own home state as John “Corzeen”? Maher’s such a dolt. I remember that guy got smoked once on celebrity Jeopardy.
The first thing to remember about Bill Maher is that he is essentially ignorant. From there, all he’s got to do to set the goatee-stroking set aflutter is to cop a chickenshit attitude about anything he doesn’t understand.
Mission accomplished, tool.
One of the best aspects of The Sopranos is the soundtrack of each episode. This past week’s episode ended with this sort of rapid-fire, Mancunian-accented rap-hop track called —I now know— “Evidently Chicken Town.”
I knew I had heard something very like this song before, but couldn’t quite place it. But as soon as I googled up the lyrics to it and saw a picture of their author —John Cooper Clarke— I remembered that he is the guy walking around in the intro to the 1979 Joy Division video “Transmission.”
Check it out. It’s great stuff.
When word of the insanity that roared out yesterday in Old Virginia reached me —and even until late this morning when I began seeing the faces of the slain on the Internet— I did not react as I now would have expected myself to react upon hearing of such an atrocity.
I said things with a shrug, like “Isn’t that silly?” and “Who knows why?”
But it was not registering. The language was holding itself in abeyance. Because a response to the crime was almost literally unspeakable.
I will not use the dirty motherfucker’s name or look upon his face again if I can help it, but what this evil rodent-bastard did was murder 32 people. Thirty-two bright and worthy men and women. He has shattered the lives of far more people than that. I cannot get my mind around it and I am mortified by the pain and fear that must have been felt and by the sorrow and loss that must now be lived through. And it must be, my friends.
One thing that I see in these faces of the slain is that few of them look anything like me. There’s a black guy and an Indian and some pretty young ladies and some other proud young men. I think there was an Asian guy and an old man —a Romanian Jew— who apparently gave his own life in order to give his students the time they needed to save themselves.
And yet, aren’t these all Americans?
Forever so.
I just caught a piece on Ashley Banfield’s CourtTV program Hollywood Heat about Richard Gere’s new movie The Hoax.
It was the usual blowjob treatment of Gere in which he was allowed the requisite assessment of the social impact of his own work. This time, his protagonist —Clifford Irving, the writer who falsely puported himself to be the ghostwriter of Howard Hughes’ autobiography back in 1971— is someone who, despite being a con artist, is worthy of praise because his information led to the downfall of Richard Nixon.
What?!
Look. It doesn’t really matter. The truth is never quite as true as the truthiness that other perspectives can more truthfully bring us.
But, just as Banfield was finishing off America’s favorite Buddhist, she briefly alluded to the fact that Irving himself served as a technical adviser on the film —but had asked that his name be left off the credits because of his disagreement with the film’s many inaccuracies.
Hee hee.
Oh, I quite agree: it is a racist practice by the white-dominated Big Media in this country to always go to Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson on issues said to affect the black community. (The “black community” being a political construct employed by lazy white critics like me to describe the putative solidarity of blacks in America.)
Sharpton and Jackson are the default choices for Big Media and the political establishment itself to turn to for the authentic assessment of black America on whatever the latest controversy is. But they are themselves ridiculous race-baiters and charlatans. How did this happen? Understanding Marion Barry’s appeal is a piece of cake beside this mystery.
Jackson’s been cashing in on his civil rights connections since before I was born, but Sharpton? I remember that lying dukie-chain-wearing sack of shit from when I was in high school. Tawanna Brawley? That shit was a lie. How is it, then, that he was able to emerge from that episode to actually stand on the same stage with the Democratic Party’s Presidential candidates in 2004?
That’s why the kids all say you gotta give ‘em their props. The white-dominated Big Media, that is.
It’s almost like I’m tripping. Said Jesse Jackson to Paula Zahn:
“And the idea of white males fantasizing about black women is — is quite old, quite — and quite ugly, and now quite illegal. And that’s why we really want the truth to be told. We want justice served. And we want the law to serve as a — as a deterrent.”
Is Jackson actually becoming senile? I haven’t paid attention to him in years, I don’t think, and I can’t imagine what the fuck he thinks he’s saying. It’s illegal for me to lust after black women I know? Sorry, “Reverend,” but I can think of several very talkative, sexy, and beautiful black women that I would love to give a good seeing to right about now. And you can’t stop me from imagining that! BWAAHAHAHAHA!!!
I’m just glad that the rape charges have been dropped against Don Imus and that he can get back to broadcasting that great program of his, The Miscegenation and Minstrelsy Hour.
(A big tip of the sombrero to Jeff Goldstein and his reader, John.)
