September 27, 2006

A Couple of Questions on George Allen and His Godfather Moment

First, is this a violation of federal law regarding misuse of a postal receptacle? I think it obviously is. And if so, has the statute of limitations run now that his "identity" has been uncovered?

Second, might it have been reported is a hate crime either to local, state or federal authorities at the time? And if so, where are the reports? Would it have been included in statistical evidence for civil rights reporting by the DoJ, the Feebs (directly), the Virginia AG's office or version of the Feebs, NAACP, ACLU, Southern Poverty Law Center, etc.?

Third, that's a pretty horrific event for the victim(s). Are they still around? Do they remember the incident? Might there be a neighbor, a child or a law enforcement official who might recall the incident?

Fourth, would it be permissible to start the line now for those interested in kicking Herr Felix in his little, tiny ass, racist balls? If so, I'm first in line. I cannot tolerate this type of shit. And I'm from the South and have many racists in my family.

September 26, 2006

Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch Is Dead!

It's official. We can break out the munchkins. The John Bolton nomination for US Ambassador to the UN is dead. As in a house dropped on him dead.


Ding Dong!
The Witch is dead.
Which old Witch?
The Wicked Witch!
Ding Dong!
The Wicked Witch is dead.
Wake up - sleepy head, rub your eyes, get out of bed.
Wake up, the Wicked Witch is dead.
She's gone where the goblins go,
Below - below - below.
let's open up and sing and ring the bells out.
Ding Dong' the merry-oh,
sing it high,
sing it low.
Let them know
The Wicked Witch is dead!


As Mayor of the Munchkin City,
In the County of the Land of Oz,
I welcome you
most regally.


But we've got to verify it legally,
to see


To see?


If she


If she?


Is morally,

(Father No.1)

Spiritually, physically

(Father No. 2)

Positively, absolutely


Undeniably and reliably


As Coroner I must aver,
I thoroughly examined her.
And she's not only merely dead,
she's really most sincerely dead.


Then this is a day of Independence
For all the Munchkins and their descendants


If any.


Yes, let the joyous news be spread
The wicked Old Witch at last is dead!

Hey, Condi!

Eat my ass you lying bitch. I cannot get over what a complete waste of space you turned out to be. My hopes for you were high being that every mentor I had during college and law school was an intelligent, confident black woman, but you are not any of those things. Well, obviously you're black (or well tanned) but the rest of it you are definitely not.

How you can have the audacity to call Bill Clinton a liar and state he was not telling the truth about how you and Bush and all the rest of your henchmen were asleep at the wheel during 2001 was predictable but still is beyond me. I cannot fathom how empty you must be inside to be able to get up day after day and lie to the American public. The very same people for whom you are working and who pay your salary and expenses. I've been sitting around since last week wondering how long it would take you to decide not to play fast and loose with the facts and just plainly attack him. You beat my guess by one day (I had higher hopes for you).

Dick Clarke and a myriad of other credible sources have repeatedly pointed out your, Unca Dick's an Dubya's shortcomings with regards to national security and the fight against rogue extremist groups. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt during the Israel-Lebanon crisis when you plainly looked weary and exasperated. I tried to shrug off your elitist attitudes so publicly exhibited when you went shoe shopping instead of rushing back to DC to help with Katrina relief or when you entertained dignitaries with your still honed piano skills a few months back, but I can no longer apologize or find common ground with you that would allow me to grant you that benefit of the doubt. (BTW- how did you find the time to stay in practice in between lying to the Lebanese and us? You must have a great scheduler to work all that in between bouts of shoe shopping and fittings.)

You are a sellout. A wastrel. A self-serving bitch. An elitist monster who deems everyone else without Ferragamo shoes beneath you. You have no business serving the American people.

I hope you are fired. I hope your oil tanker grounds itself (when it's dry of course would hate to hurt the environment). I hope your face freezes in that sincerely ugly frown you seem to always have. And, finally, I hope that one day you grow enough in yourself to develop the very trait that everyone you surround yourself seems to be lacking- Empathy.

Until then eat my ass.

September 25, 2006

Observations From My Broken Brain

My recurring headache is back. I believe this makes almost 3 weeks in a row. A record for me. And so painful I am thinking about breaking out all the lightbulbs in the room.

Anyhow- here goes my list of observations over the last several days:

1. The NYT and WaPo and LATimes need to get real. Of course everyone with a goddamn brain knew that invading Iraq would make terrorism worse. WTF? I don't need a leaked National Intelligence Estimate from April 2006 to tell me that. I knew that in October 2002 when the dumb mutherfucker was making noises about Saddam. I knew it on Sepetmber 11, 2001 when they couldn't find the chickenshit little fucker because he was hiding somewhere shouting about how that "bad man who tried to kill my daddy" did this.

Let's call this this the biggest "DUH" moment in the universe to date.

2. Dick Cheney shooting people in the face is still funny. There was a cartoon on last night (Family Guy I think) and they ran their take on it. Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! It was good.

And he's still a dick.

3. Condi Rice is as interesting as styrofoam. And so is Katie Couric. Can we please just bury them both under piles of rhinoceros shit dyed pink up to their chins and let them jabber about how great the moist heat from the dung pile is for their dried wrinklely ass skin? Can we just learn to ignore them as they talk about that special dryness they get in their naughty bits thanks to The Change?

Please????? They really don't need to destroy what used to be the finest hour of TV in the land.

4. Meredith Viera is going to have a meltdown. I can't take any more fake laughter as she looks at Matt Lauer's spotty scalp or Al's shiny chins. I like Meredith okay, but they made her blonde and implanted her with the incessant giggle chip. It's like she has been taken over by the Pod People and their leader is Katie Couric a/k/a El Numero Uno Stepford Wife. I hope the paycheck is worth the hell. That and knowing Rosie's kicking serious ass.

5. There are a lot of good new series on like Jericho, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Shark, Vanished, and Standoff. There are more to come out in the next few weeks, but those are really pretty good. All of them have good actors, great production values and meaty storylines that can keep viewers interested. All of the CSI's, however, have been off. I think the producers wigged out when they heard Grey's Anatomy was throwing down the gauntlet so to speak. And as far as returning shows- the best so far are House, Criminal Minds, Without A Trace, Grey's Anatomy, Desperate Housewives, My Name Is Earl and Numb3rs. Especially Numb3rs and My Name Is Earl (Beullered??? That's too good.)

Too bad Sunday nights suck shit now. Grey's needs to move back. Pronto. Ignorant fucks.

6. NBC's board of directors must have read my post because the dumbass who was in charge of programming is now gone. Kudos for knowing enough to know I was right.

7. SCI-Fi's programming director is the shit. Eureka is most awesome and I understand from my geek friends that Battlestar Gallactica or whatever is supposed to be the best show on TV this year. I don't really care for most sci-fi stuff so I'll more than likely take a pass since I'm not that much into special effects and make-up. (Just ask my friends.) Hey SCI-FI, give him/her a raise or FOX will come a-knocking.

8. The Gators rule, but the D has to start making those tackles stick the first time during the 1st half. The guy you're hitting should never be able to spin around you for an extra 3-5 yards. Nail his ass the first time as if he were Jenna Jameson and you are Dave Navarro on viagra and meth.

9. Indian food completely rocks and is great for some serious cable laying. My compliments to the chef at the newest take-out Indian place. I can't wait until they have delivery. I'll so way 500 lbs and smell like the inside of an onion crate.

10. It's hard to do an intervention with a beer in your hand.

11. Bill Clinton is still the best guy in politics. He's smart, savvy as hell and can communicate better than Ronald Regan's handlers ever pretended he could. Big Dog's ass fucking of Chris Wallace was deserved, but he was at his best on Larry King. A must watch if you have access to it. He explains the Iraq situation in 100 words or less and makes you understand what a cluster fuck it is and how bad Bush and his cronies really are without actually saying it. All you have to do is compare the messages. I'd give him a blowjob if I were ML. Hell, yeah. That man deserves one.

Anyhow, those are the Badger Lessons for the day. Go forth and fuck some shit up. Or bake cookies. I suggest snickerdoodles if you have the Cream of Tartar.

September 21, 2006

Time Sure Is Fleet-Footed This Year

I cam home the other night from meeting some friends at the local watering hole. I wasn't out late and, frankly, would have preferred to just stay home and wallow in my own misery. Instead I ventured out, had a couple of drinks and made my way home at a quite decent hour. When I left it was still daylight. Seemed like a normal late Summer afternoon. It's the return that got me.

I pulled up to the front of the house, shut down my car and got out. As soon as I stepped onto the curb, I knew something was different. The wind picked up for just a moment and a glint of gold made me look up. In the three hours I was doing my best to entertain the troops, Mother Nature switched gears into Fall.

It's damn hard to believe that all it takes is three hours for leaves to go from bright green to bright gold. Three hours is the length of a good movie. Three hours is the length of a good bubble bath. Shit. Three hours isn't even long enough for a GD football game.

But three hours was all it took for me to realize that I have basically lost most of my Spring and all of my Summer. Fully 5/12 of one year has elapsed since I made the unfortunate choice of walking and chewing gum at the same time. 2006 has fucking sucked.

In that 5/12 of a year, I have missed out on getting my yard in shape (it looks like hell right now), I missed out on dozens of long walks with Pig. And I missed out on being able to travel to see friends. Or cook-out. Or finish any one of the number of half completed projects I have going on about the casa. I spent several weeks in a drug induced numb state and several more in agony when I chose to go off meds altogether. And then there's the inability to remember things for a good portion of late April and the whole month of May. It's like I was doing a really good Ronald Reagan impression.

I miss that 5/12's of a year. I miss the lost opportunities. I regret not having driven that night instead of trying to enjoy the weather and people watching. I miss not having scars and near constant pain. And I damn sure miss not setting off metal detectors an not limping.

For a while, I thought it might be sorta one those lameass blessing in disguises the televangelists are always going on about. Bullshit. Sure it slowed me down. It's depressed the shit out of me and made me more angry about shit I am powerless to control. It's one of the reasons I haven't said a lot about politics in recent months- I'm just too damned pissed. Instead of venting, I would be harping and fuck that. I'm not the typical nagging bitch.

It's not a blessing. It's a goddamn curse. I lost a lot of time. A lot. And if anything else is clear from my discovery the other night, it is that the world doesn't fucking wait. It goes on. It's like when you lose friends and family to Death. You think about them, sure. But in the end, time moves on without them and along with time, you move on, too. Makes you feel pretty insignificant, huh?

Anyhow, that's my take on 2006 so far. The holidays are just around the corner and soon it will be 2007. Then 2008. And 2009. And then I'll wake up and I'll be 70 with a colostemy bag wishing that I had slowed down.

September 15, 2006

Donkey Dicks and Other Mundane Things

Ther are times you just feel like kicking the shit out of every person who walks within a ten foot radius of you. There's no rhyme or reason to it most of the time. You're just on edge. I've got the rhyme. And I've got a reason: That asshat prezznit keeps takling over the public airwaves for bullshit drama.

I'm tired of "We're interupting your normal programming for this special news bulletin..." What is fucking special about George Bush? Wait. Never mind. I get "it." They meant "special" in that small bus kinda way. Ohhhhhh. Clever devils.

But wait. As I like to often say "WTF?"

They give him 30+ minutes every other day. Does this mean little Georgie has threatened to shit himself everyday unless he gets playtime on CBS? That would be my guess. Besides, I feel really sorry for the poor mutherfucker who has to change his di-dee. Could you image? I bet little Georgie likes to slide around in his own poo and make wall art for Barbara. Hey! Maybe he and Jenna do that together. You know? As a father-daughter bonding moment.

But I digress.

"Breaking News" tags should be used for important stuff like the stock market crashing, or a bombing of a daycare or the discovery of the world's largest donkey dick. It shouldn't be used for 'Let the Eagle Fuck You in the Ass" Ashcroft to allege terrorist activity with the Kremlin in the background (that's fucking good foreshadowing even by Dickens' standards), or for there to be some long ass segment on non-existent Miami or London-based terrorists (for crissakes- a terrorist by definition is someone who strikes terror in someone's heart- does someone w/o the requisite passport to board let alone bomb an international flight or some shoeless schlepp who takes a dumbass oath from an undercover Feeb strike terror in your heart???). Going on TV today to try and ramrod his anti-Geneva Convention BS down our throats is a waste of time, a waste of programming space and lost ad revenue and insulting to boot.

"Breaking News" tags should be used for "Man Puts Foot Up President's Ass. Karl Rove Recovering." type stories. Not "wah, wah, I want my way or I'm going to hold my breath..." crap.

There will be more of this bullshit from now until election time. Check your heads. Grab your balls. And rent plenty of DVD's at the sex shop. Hopefully, the screwing you get from the DVD's will be better than the one the voters will get in November.

September 12, 2006

When Do You Know When To Quit?

I've been having an ongoing conversation with an attorney friend of mine about relationships and how dysfunctional they can be. I divorce people for a living and I am not exactly fond of the institution of marriage. It's not that I think mongamy is a bad thing. It's not. Nor is commitment, but there's something about the very structure of marriage that dooms many to failure.

First, there's the "expectations" racket. What does each marriage partner expect marriage to be? What do they expect from marriage? From each other? Friend, lover, foe, equal partner, slave driver, master, mistress, buddy, parental figure, house keeper, brood mare, bacon earner....? Do they expect emotional comfort? Silent partner? Drinking buddy? Someone to socialize with? Or just share a room with? If you want a companionate marriage are you sure you even know what the definition is beforehand? Do you discuss this before the trip down the aisle or do you keep communicating those expectations? And when is okay to assume that the other person gets you? What if they stop? Do you get them? Do you realllly get them or are you so desparate not to be alone that you grasp at the first passerby?Do you know what your own limitations are and whether or not they'll adversely affect your ability to mee the other perosn's expectations and needs? ar eyou being honest with yourself when you answer these questions?

Second, there's the whole "trade off (or up) " racket. When you get married you are literally trading off the freedom of singlehood for the supposed tranquility and emotional/physical/legal safety of a monogamous relationship. Bad thing is- you're not. You're not guaranteed sex. You're not guaranteed a shoulder to cry on and you aren't necessarily protected from losing everything you own to the other person. Trust me. I do this shit for a living. Just because it is over doesn't mean she has to give back your toaster from your college bachelor pad. And just because he put a ring on your finger doesn't mean he has to listen to you boohoo about your hang nail. Now, because you are married, you should want to do that for each other. Therein lies the rub- people are horrible, selfish, self-centered shits and they are prone to have their heads up their asses. It's when they are specifically asked to be supportive and they flat out refuse that they should get a good swift kick to the nads of whatever variety.

Third, there's the "representation" model. You both must put forth effort to show to the world you're a couple. Gold bands aren't enough. You're entitled to your own space, but leaving your spouse at a crowded restaurant on a Friday night dinner rush to chat up mere acquaintances for an hour is not ever permitted. Doing so wastes the time of your partner and is embarassing and hurtful. Same goes for oft repeated boys or girls nights out. Living the "single" life is made for singles, not for spouses. You shuld be able to go out from time to time, but doing it more than twice a month amounts to "I don't want to be around you." And that will eventually cause problems.

Fourth, there's the intimacy quotient. And this is the most important one by far on this abbreviated list. Intimacy isn't about sticking it in (or on) each other 1.7 times per week or month or whatever. It's the little shit that makes the other person feel important. The stuff that lets each other know you are thinking about them and don't just take them for granted. Things like knowing their favorite ice cream flavors, or favorite shampoo. Recognizing the traits and likes and dislikes of the person you profess to love. It's that whole "How Do I Love Thee" shit. Do you know where prominent birth marks are, or what type of starch they prefer at the drycleaner? I know it sounds ridiculous, but knowing what they'd want from any restaurant in town is a good start. If you on't know these things and you try to do something nice for your significant other and you fuck it up, it's worse than not having done anything at all. So get your head out of your ass and study up. The person you profess to love is worth more time than you spent on your college chem lab.

So, now that we're through the abbreviated list, the question remains, how do you know when to quit?

I've got no real answer there. I just know in my professional experience that people reach a wall. And they can't go through the wall. Or even over the wall. Or around the wall. They're too tired of carrying around the baggage of hurt by themselves. It's when they can't trust the other person to put the needs of the marriage above their own ego and insecurities that a marriage dies. It's like one of those soul weighing thingamagigs. Too many sins you go to hell, too few heaven. Or whatever...

I'm an undertaker of sorts. I didn't kill the marriage but I certainly get to bury it. Some deeper than others. That may make me jaded, but I think in some regards I think it also makes me an expert at spotting the listless eyes and rasping breath of a marriage on life support. It's not a pretty sight I assure you.

September 11, 2006

Maturity vs. Just Being Damn Old

I know I complain about feeling old sometimes. That's because the art of complaining is a true mark of age. I can't help it. But there's something else that's better than a true mark or age- it's maturity.

Now I can go on about how maturity isn't sticking your pinky out as you drink a glass of fresh squeezed juice over your Eggs Benedict at brunch while perusing the New York Times Sunday Crossword. Frankly, that's just uppity. Or I can talk about how maturity isn't lengthy discussions about one's spawn's preference for Huggies or Pampers (that's just sad). Maturity is just one of those things that happens when you're too busy bitching. I can say I have had one of those rare moments of maturity over the weekend.

I had a friend that three years ago was one of my closest friends. My relationship with her caused me a lot of grief in nearly every area of my life, but I was still willing to be friends with her until one night over too many Crown and waters, she called me a murderer. See, I had told her about an abortion I had in law school. It had happened roughly 8 years earlier and was the best decision I could have made for a myriad of reasons. I managed to handle the situation with a great deal of maturity at the time and I have never regretted my decision. It was an imformed decision and was (and is) the best decision I could have made under the circumstances. I understand how some people might feel differently, but they're not me and this is not their body. I don't feel guilty about it and never have and that's saying something because I feel guilty if it rains. But this friend did her damnedest to make me feel guilty.

Anyhow, I told this friend and she (in my mind) committed the unforgiveable sin: she passed judgment on me. In all fairness, her little sister had just had one a couple of weeks earlier and she was upset. She's also a mother of two, it doesn't excuse her reaction. We're adults we're supposed to be able to check ourselves. All in all, we have completely different outlooks on things even if our backgrounds are fairly similar, but because of this one issue and the ensuing spat, we did not talk for almost three full years.

That was three years of dirty looks, rumor mongering and generally making all of our mutual friends and acquaintances feel like shit being around either of us either alone or in the same place. That was wrong. Of both of us.

Neither of us had a right to do that to the other and to innocent bystanders (like her kids, and our husbands). I had demanded an apology at the time and she refused. I guess it was the heat of the situation and the fact that neither of us is known for exactly backing down. In the end, she was the one to end the stalemate. She came up to me in a crowded bar one Saturday evening a few months back, drunk off her ass and feeling a bit nostalgic and plainly admitted she missed me. For me it was outta the blue because when I walked in, there was a moment of eye contact and then the angry, awkward, dismissive head turn as though the other person doesn't exist. I admit I was floored. I was floored because I missed our friendship too and because she was the bigger person to say something first. My only response was that it wasn't the time nor the place to hash shit out and I gave her my cell number to call me for a meeting.

Schedules being what they are in this day and age, we have only run into each other a couple of times for drinks with other people and had a couple of e-mails and calls mostly over her case against her ex. We hadn't had one of those down and dirty "let's get the shit out there and deal with it" kind of talks. We managed to have that talk Saturday night as our dogs sniffed each other's asses and my dog tried to be nice about her dog trying to mount him (Don't be gay, Sparky!).

The talk was nice because we were both pretty honest. I told her how badly she had hurt me with her comment and she tried to deny what and how it was actually said (different recollections due to too much booze I'm sure). She told me how hurt she had been at me for reacting the way I did (I didn't even try to kick her ass at the time but I spoke very angrily). And just as we were about to bury the hatchet completely, the old fight started to rear its head in the new form of who was right and who was wrong. So I had to do something to salvage the good will that results from multiple Tuaca and Yeager Blaster shots.

I said "Let's stop." Then I told her that I forgave her for hurting my feelings and that I understood why she was so upset at the time and that she was entitled to her feelings on the subject. Further, I told her although we might disagree, I respected her having the feelings she did and that I didn't have the right to make her feel bad even if I had the right to be angry by what I perceived as an attack on me. Her opinion deserved respect and I was sorry for not giving her (and her opinion) that respect three years earlier.

And I really meant it. WTF???

She does have a right to her heartfelt opinions. She has a right to express sadness and dismay at an unfortunate episode in my life. She just didn't have the right to do it in a way designed to inflict pain on me. And I didn't have the right, no matter how much hurt I felt, to spend three years talking trash, slighting her, destroying her social network and generally being an asshole.

There are a lot of things for me to be angry at her for, but for me that was the most serious offense. The rest of the shit, we'll just work out. But that big hurdle had to be met head on. I'm glad I didn't wuss out and avoid the conversation.

So that was my mature moment of the month (or year). They don't happen often, but I'm glad this one did even if for the moment.

September 07, 2006

"You Suck: A Love Story"

I dunno how many of ya'll out there like Christopher Moore. He's one of my favorite authors and specializes in pretty much being a smartass. His books are bizarre and filled with crazy plots, and colorful characters. He's Carl Hiaasen on LSD. And nitrous.

He's got a new book coming out in January (hence the title of this post) and he's just posted the first chapter online here. It's a follow-up of sorts to "Bloodsucking Fiends: A Love Story" which was pretty damn funny. I hope he brings back frozen turkey bowling......

On another note, his last book, "A Dirty Job," is up for a Quill Award. Please vote for it.

Four Days, Three Nights

I'm a bit sad. Hubbie turned 40 this morning and got on a big jet plane to Chicago. With his mother. We didn't even have birthday sex. Instead, I got a very brief, very chaste peck (partly I suspect because Mommy was standing a few feet away glaring at us for being 7 minutes late). Fortunately, he wasn't really excited about the trip. I dunno if it's because he suspects I'll have a party (I won't) or if he really just didn't want to go on a trip with his mother who has the oh so endearing habit of scheduling every last minute of a trip. (At 11:21, we will take a bathroom break for exactly 2.31 minutes. Theeeen, we'll take a cab ride for 7.1 miles to the McDonald's at 12th and Main where I'll have a cheeseburger kids' meal and you'll have....)

So for the weekend, it will be just me and the big fat Boston Terrier that steals the covers and farts audibly in my face every 7 minutes. Well, us and every damn ignorant footballer looking for a cheap parking place and a bush to piss in. (I hate football fans.) If I get bored and pissed enough, I may turn Pig on them to shit next to their cars and steal their food. Kill the crackers for Mommy.....

I seriously don't have any real plans. I had planned to do yard work, but sadly, my mower broke last night and I have to get it fixed. I know how to work on 4 cycle engines, and this one just needs a new starter cord. Problem is, the fucking designers decided to rivet the starter housing assembly to the engine and in order to access it, it'll take far more time and patience than I currently have. First, I'd have to drain the gas tank. Second, I'd have to remove the gas tank and detach the fuel line. Then I'd get to go thru the various steps of removing the engine housing altogether from the bottom to the top. It's like what the fuck were they thinking??? Now, I'll have to spend close to $150 bucks to repair the damn thing when a new mower is only $200. Fuck McLane. Their designers suck shit.

I guess I'll just strip paint from the kitchen cabinets and mop and wax the hardwood floors. Maybe if I get extra ambitious, I'll make the three quarts of fresh peach ice cream I've been planning on for the last two weeks. Well, provided the peaches are finally ripe enough and I can get Pig under control.

Shit, I used to really like living alone. I guess 5 years of marriage will do that to you. Fuck. I'm so middle aged now.

Well, with that off my chest, I better get back to work. It's going to be a long, lonely weekend.

September 01, 2006

How Do You Spell "Tool?"

That's easy. G-E-O-R-G-E-F-E-L-I-X-A-L-L-E-N.

Why? That's easy, too.

Because he's a carpetbagger, a racist, a liar, a piece of shit George Bush apologist who speaks on dog frequency wavelengths to his racist breathern from the back of a horse.

He's actually riding a fucking horse this weekend in a Labor Day parade. A horse?!?

WTF? Since when did Virginia become the wild fucking west? Last time I checked it was on the East coast and didn't have any desert sands.

Anyhow. I just wanted to get that off my chest for the day.

I hope that horse throws him off, steps on his tiny nads, and shits on his Lee-Press-On-Hair.