Pic of the Day: Right where he wants them.

The wingnuts just can't stop themselves from doing stupid things. When Nobel Peace Prize Recipient President Obama mentioned skeet shooting at Camp David a few weeks ago, the moronati cranked up their conspiracy generators and grumbled about how this makes him a racist, he's lying, there's no proof he ever did any skeet shooting. A very stupid woman from Tennessee doubted his claim and challenged him to a shootin' match.

It's amusing to think that Obama and his minions were trolling for wingnuts, being as how the fishing has been pretty good lately and they just keep hitting the bait no matter how many hooks they've already swallowed. Part of the skill is in letting them come to the bait, nice and easy...wait for it...then set the hook and bring 'em in.

As a Superbowl weekend gift, the White House released this August, 2012 photo of the Fisherman-in-Chief cross-training at Camp David. The wingnuts did not disappoint. They hit this bait just as hard, claiming it's a Photoshop job ("ya kin tell by the PIXELS, man! The PIXELS DON'T LIE!!"), all part of his continuing ploy to take are gunz.

Meanwhile, I imagine the planning stages of Operation Skeetgate might have looked like this:

Hook, line and sinker.

It can't be much longer before the Three Morons of Bengazigate (McCain, his poodle, and their 'deeply-troubled' female replacement for Joe Lieberman hold a press conference demanding a briefing on Skeetgate while skipping the briefing. Darrell Issa, in a desperate bid to seem important, will investigate and hold hearings on the matter, and all of this will get us through February.

OBAMAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

...and now 4 more years of teabag tears. Bwahahahaha!

So which will the teabaggers do first? The circular firing squad, where they turn on each other...

...or the self-destructive, emo approach?

Glad to see that Allen "War Criminal" West lost his bid for reelection. Deadbeat Dad Joe "owes $100,000 in child support" Walsh lost.

Bachmann's only 400-ish votes ahead of her Democratic challenger. [unfortunately, she won. Pity. The funniest thing I read about her was some crying conservative claiming that ol' Crazy Eyes coulda beat Obama. She couldn't even beat ROMNEY.]

The Party of Rape faction didn't do well, either--"Legitimate Rape" Akin lost. "Gawd intended" Mourdock lost. Still waiting to see how the rest of those insane bastards fared.

[UPDATE--speaking of insane bastards, Roy "10 Commandments" Moore got his old job back as chief justice of the Alabama Supreme Court. He says he's not bringing the big stone 10C's monument with him.]

[UPDATE--speaking of circular firing squads, the first name has been selected, and it's...Chris Christie!!]

Bookends & Odds & Ends

The Greater Dumbfuckistan County Fair (colloquially known as the Republican National Convention) has finally ended, after shambling like a drunken elephant herd past any wells of honesty in search of more batshit craziness to dig up.

This cavalcade of FAIL was bookended by The Outlaw Jersey Whale (bwahahaha!) at the outset and the doddering wreck that remains of an actor who played The Outlaw Josey Wales, who spent his stage time talking to a pretend Obama (WTF?) cleverly disguised as an empty chair. There's video at that thar link.
There's plenty of snark at Andrew Sullivan's.

Didn't spend a minute watching any of this crap (more fun to read about in the blogosphere, where the snark flows); spent time reading, organizing, and working on an old flood-damaged Zoom 3030 guitar pedal. It's supposed to do this:







...but mine's not in working condition so far. I scrubbed a film of mineral deposits off of the circuit board, resoldered several of the input/output jacks, and hit the jacks' contacts with a file to clean them up. The last time I tried it out, it was getting input and all the buttons seemed functional (so the processor's good), but there was no sound.

It needs to dry out a little longer before the next power up/smoke test; part of the scrubbing was in a bath of hot water and dish soap. About all that accomplished was to make the board wet and soapy. The mineral deposits weren't impressed. The only thing that's worked so far is rubbing alcohol and cotton swabs--and after a few hours of that, the worst of the tacky white glaze is gone.

Of the three flood-rescue projects I inherited, the 3030's in the best condition. The other two  (a Digitech GSP-5 Guitar Processor and a Digitech RDS 1900 Digital Delay) look a lot worse.

Song of the Day: The Closing Song

In honor of the Olympics finally pissing off.



Not safe for work. My favorite part is when he says "Get the f*ck outta here."

Pic of the Day: The Vulture Picks the Granny Starver

The MittBot has picked Paul "Zombie-Eyed Granny Starver" Ryan as his running mate for his 2012 presidential campaign.

With that in mind, we've selected yesterday's Pic of the Day and its companion video, since rMoney couldn't really have picked a better way to hand Obama another four years without picking Sarah Palin.

Ryan is the guy whose "budget" would gut Social Security and Medicare--and the National Park Service, among other things. rMoney's the guy whose company guts smaller companies and feeds off the corpses. They're perfect together!

AND...



A huge thankyouthankyouthankyou!! to Charlie Pierce for starting the "Zombie-eyed granny starver" nickname.

Bonus snark: WereBear coined the campaign name: "Dunning/Kruger 2012." Here's why that's funny.

Bonus bonus snark: rMoney's such a shit that he outsourced notifying the runner-up VP candidates to one of his offspring units: "Dad says you're not it."

Super Extra Bonus Snark from The Thin Black Duke: "And if Romney reminds people of the asshole boss who fires you on Christmas Eve, Ryan is the ratfuck snitch in the office who tells lies to the boss behind your back."

Ryan is the S.S. Mittanic's iceberg. It's all over but the sinking.

Tim Minchin's "Storm"

The plot: Our guy and his wife go to dinner at a couples' place. The 5th guest is a chick named Storm, complete with a fairy tattoo and several mouthfuls of dumb stuff to say through the evening. Our guy finally reaches a point where he can no longer stand it and he cuts loose--brilliantly, clearly, plainly.

The animation and music are just what's needed, with some eye-popping visuals in places.

Elegant Weapon, More Civilized Age, Yo!

Haters gonna hate, gangstas gonna...er...gang, and why you always bring your lightsaber to a fight:



Remember...keep your kids out of gangs!

Wingnut Punk to Libs and Non-Christians: "Get out" of U.S.

So Frothy Mix was hosted by some punk-ass preacher-boy loser in Louisiana over the weekend.

Preacher-boy doesn't like non-Christians or Liberals. Says we gotta go. Doesn't like the gays, either. Buys into the comical notion that this country was founded by third-rate Billy Graham wannabe wingnut losers like him.

Loves him some Frothy. Babbled prayers and drooled over him for a bit, then made the obligatory anti-Obama squeals and whines and asked his imaginary sky-buddy to "do a mighty work" on the bad black guy.



Packed house. Lots of gray and blue hair. I wonder whether there's even one stooped-over Rascal-driver in the room who realizes that ol' Frothy is one of "them ol' Catholics."

Oh--and preacher-boy?

You and what army?

[UPDATE!]

Preacher Boy is apparently embarrassed by all the attention he got when this video went all over the Interwebs and has scrambled to yank it off the Web by...deleting it from the church website.

Y'all be nice and don't tell him about the rest of the Internet, 'kay?

Pic of the Day: Roll Call!

If you thought you were getting "raptured" yesterday and didn't, use the comments to explain why you're still here.

Oh, and bow to Stephen Hawking.

Pic of the Day: Three Barrels

I know I'm not supposed to be swimming yet, with the incision and all, but I'm feeling pretty good.

Those fellas are gonna need a bigger boat.

Song of the Day: Mah Na, Mah Na

This is from Sesame Street's first season in 1969. Don't tell the kids, but the song's originally from an Italian porno.

Brought to you by the letter "F"--for F*ck Republicans.

Parody of the Day: Deep In the Freaking Closet!

I wrote this one a few years ago, around the time Toe-Tappin' Larry Craig's little secret got out. It always amuses me when a lying hypocrite gets nabbed doing the very thing he's railed against.

Maybe it's a little dated...but still seems current, I think, considering the welcoming of a gay political group (GOPride) at the 2011 Conservative Political Action Conference, the rapid defection of various crazy-eyed religious gay-haters from the February get-together, and the subsequent kicking-out of GOProud from CPAC 2012. Big tent, all right.

"Deep In the Freakin' Closet"
(to the tune of "Deep In the Heart of Texas")

The G-O-P, it seems to be
(bom-bom-bom-bom)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!
They're so devout 'till it comes out
(bom-bom-bom-bom)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!

From Restroom stall to D.C. Mall
(bum-bum-bum-bum)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!
They crucify, and then belie
(bum-bum-bum-bum)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!

They rant and rage, then f*ck a page
(bam-bam-bam-bam)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!
When caught we see them shout "Who, ME?!"
(bam-bam-bam-bam)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!

In Dubya's bulge, they would indulge
(bob-bob-bob-bob)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!
That SEXY BRUTE! in his flight-suit
(bob-bob-bob-bob)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!

With nuts to chin, they try to spin
(bom-bom-bom-bom)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!
But are they gay? Who them? NO WAY!
(bom-bom-bom-bom)
Deep In the Freakin' Closet!

Columbo!

No, not the detective.

Back in 1986, just before I went into Basic, I had to go to the Fitness Training Company. I couldn't pass the minimum on the sit-ups test.

All we did was work out--jogging, push-ups, sit-ups, push-ups, weights, push-ups, and push-ups. Our Assistant Drill Sergeant was a cool guy from Kingston, complete with the accent, mon, but without the Eddie Grant dreadlocks. One afternoon, he took us out on a little hike and called a "cadence" that was...frowned upon by the powers that be.

This is a cleaner version of it--not nearly as raunchy as the one we did:

In eighteen hundred and ninety four,
in the streets of old Bigotti.
There lived a young Italian lad,
selling hot tomalies.
He said the world was round-o,
he said it could be found-o.
The hypothetical, navigatin', son-of-a-bitch Columbo.

The queen she gave him three tall ships,
they all were triple deckers.
The queen she waved her handkerchief,
Columbo waved his pecker
He said the the world was round-o,
he said it could be found-o.
That hypothetical, navigatin', son-of-a-bitch Columbo.

His first mate was a cabin boy,
a dirty little nipper.
They lined his bunk with broken glass,
and circumcised the skipper.
He said the world was round-o,
he said it could be found-o.
That hypothetical, navigatin', son-of-a-bitch Columbo.

It was a welcome change from stuff like this:

Here we go again
Same old stuff again
Marching down the avenue
Six more weeks and we'll be through
I'll be glad and so will you

This was the era of the "New Army"--the cadences had to be cleaned, the Drills couldn't touch you (to administer attitude adjustments), couldn't curse, lots of new rules. I don't think I missed out, really, given my attitude toward authority types. The people I trained with in Basic were smart and knew their stuff, and they were some of the few authority figures I've ever actually respected. I don't think I'd have made it, though, with the R. Lee Ermey approach to Drill Instructors. Still, it makes for great cinema, seeing him in "Full Metal Jacket."

Basic Training was the most fun I've ever had--but when my ETS date came up on August 3, 1992, I walked away and haven't even considered going back: the authority figures in my home unit were lacking. My immediate superior was an insurance salesman who had to be trained by yours truly before he could do his job. More about him...later.

Basic Training & Private Key's hair

I went into Basic on October 1, 1986. I didn't pass the Physical Fitness test, so I got sent over to the Fitness Training Company for a few weeks of pushups, sit-ups, weights, jogs, and the dreaded exercise bike.

Once I was fit enough to leave there, I was assigned to B-Company 6-2-4 (6th Brigade, 2nd Battalion, 4th Platoon).
We awoke daily at 4:30, hit the mess hall by 5 a.m., and were ready to head out by 5:30, Monday through Sunday.

Sundays were more relaxed--no regular training, but those of us who didn't go to church services ended up cleaning the barracks (if I remember correctly, they had a share of cleanup when they came back, so it worked out). You could talk, hang out, whatever, as long as the work was getting done, but sleeping was a no-no.

Private Key sagged down between lockers and fell asleep.

Drill Sergeant Driscoll came out of his office to check on things. He got this grin on his face and held a single finger to his lips, then whispered: "Sshhh! Someone get me their shaving cream!"

Thus armed, he made a good-sized pile of the stuff on Key's head, then snuck back to his office. "Give me a minute."

Silence for a few moments.

"PRIVATE KEY! Come to my office!"

We had to wake the sleeper up--careful not to disturb his decoration. Key un-assed the floor and went to the office. We followed as quietly as we could.

"Sergeant Driscoll, Private Key reporting as ordered!" (I assume he saluted)

Silence for a few moments.

"Private...what is that on your head?"

Confused--then shocked--silence, then a stammered, "I--I don't know, Sergeant."

"Clean it up--and give me fifty for sleeping."

Beating Up the Snack Machine!

This happened a few years back. I was working as a delivery driver for one of the car parts places. I had a run to the local Mitsubishi dealer, who's also a Chevy dealer and Volkswagen dealer. For those of you in Pensacola, he's not the one in Car City.

For all his friendly "I'm-your-pal" crap in his commercials, he comes off as a prick if you're not buying: I hadn't been to this shop before, and as I was pulling alongside the building, looking for a parking spot, I saw him and a salesman talking. I stopped there, rolled down a window, and asked where a good place to park would be (we're not supposed to use customer parking or obstruct doors, gates, and all that). Owner-boy ignores me. The sales guy was an actual human being and pointed me to an open spot.

So I go in, drop off the parts, and as I'm getting close to the door out I hear *BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!* I get through the door, and there's owner-boy rocking the snack machine back against the wall: it cheated him of his M&M's.

Guy's worth millions. *snort*