Sunday, May 16, 2010

Update: Sylvester the Cat, Felinus Domesticus (Video)

As you might recall, the pink one was trying to get rid of me.  His efforts fell flat.

If anything, I am persistent.  Just ask the large, pink one.  Basically, I gave him two choices in my relentless endeavor to carve out a happy niche for myself, in life.  Feed me, or kill me.

Thankfully the pink one chose the kibbel over catocide.  My fate was never actually in doubt, because I know a secret.  Modern, urban humans, like the pink one, are really just big-hearted pussies.

I've settled in nicely.  As you can see from my photo, I'm taking on a more rotund and healthy glow.  Every now and then I slip in through a door left open and really make myself at home.

As I lie, luxuriating, I often wonder what the poor cats are doing today.

Sometimes the pink one and I watch a little TV together.  This is my favorite show:

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Mawwage! Oh, Mawwage! (Video)

Nothing says eternal bliss like I do.  And nothing says, "screw you," like, I do, when the waltz across the clouds comes crashing to the ground.

The Priest:  Do you take this man/woman to be your husband/wife through all kinds of insufferable hell and turmoil not matter what?

The Infatuated Couple:  I do.

[Exit The Priest and one half of The Infatuated Couple; Enter The Judge.]

The Judge:  Regarding this here decree for the dissolution of marriage, do you swear that the testimony that you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

One very disgruntled, vengeful, soon to be divorcee:  I do.

I do, in the context of marriage, is an alpha and omega, fateful bookends, a joker on the left and a joker on the right.  And nothing illustrates the point more poignantly than THIS interpretive dance in two acts.

Note:  Less any esteemed reader of this distinguished, award winning blog should interpret this post on a much deeper level than it was intended to be, let it be known that The Lawyer remains in exceptionally good-graces with Mrs. Lawyer aka She Who Must Be Obeyed, and intends to keep it that way, especially if he ever wants to be in her amorous embrace anytime soon.

Act I

Act II

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Gen X's Revenge

We're the middle children of history.... no purpose or place.  We have no Great War, no Great Depression.  Our great war is a spiritual war.  Our great depression is our lives.  ~From the movie Fight Club
In the midst of the endless cycling of Flock of Seagulls and Culture Club videos, featuring she-men fluttering in front of the camera in outlandish costumes, with whimsical hairdos, wistfully abusing synthesizers on MTV in the late eighties and early nineties, a pressure was building.  My generation was coming of age and chomping at the bit to burst on the scene like a volcanic explosion.  And then it happened.
The gate blew open, and flew off the hinges, when a three-piece band, from Seattle,  grabbed the baby boomers, and the greatest generation by the ears and screamed, "WE'RE HERE FUCKERS!  Time to quit sucking."
The Greatest Generation had given us nightmares populated with mushroom clouds on the horizon.  The Baby Boomers gave us hippy-dippy, pie in the sky, unworkable ideations of peace and love, disco and then the unbounded greed of the free market and cheesy commercialism.  We gave them Nirvana, and put them on notice that the rules were about to change, because theirs didn't work.
Gen X was to be the generation of the authentic.  Postmodern, multi-perspectival, pluralistic deconstructionism was the cleansing agent we offered to scrub all the bullshit away from America's eyes so that the territory ahead could be better seen.
One day, Kurt Cobain crawled into a bath tub with a shotgun and blew his head off.  We graduated from college in the middle of a Republican, trickle-down fueled recession.  The mosh pit lost its steam.  Oh well, whatever, never mind.   
We are turning 40 now.  Some of us have had kids.  Some have gone to rehab.  Some have done both.  But if you have made it this far, Gen X, you know now that our strengths and talents are not in standing out front and leading the charge.  There simply are not enough of us to make the loud, out-in-the-open demands and changes that the Boomers have made and Gen Y is poised to make.
Besides slipping in and out of each day, marinating in a cocktail of absurdity, what's a Gen X'er to do?  Boomers have a lock on the market they are constantly wrecking and, irony of ironies, making it impossible for themselves to retire.  Gen Y, raised on positive vibes and psychotropic drugs to cure their various insanities that didn't exist when us Gen X'ers were kids, will take the reins from the Boomers.  
Face it X.  This world, outwardly at least, will always be about them, not us.  We had our time, and it ended in a splatter of blood and brains on a bathroom wall in Seattle.  Our place will always be behind the scenes, tinkering and tweaking, to do our best to keep it real, and to keep the world from completely sucking ass.  
Most significantly, our place and purpose is to undertake what really is the only solution to all that ails us:  to find our own personal paths to salvation, and let everything else roll out of its own, unfolding accord.  Ours is an inner conquest and exploration, and that's where we shine.  
In the final analysis, there is no way up and out without going inward, and that's what's real.  And that's where we don't slack. 

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Spiritual, Not Religious: Honest, Responsible Agnosticism

After spending a lot of time considering the issue, I have decided that two, equally reasonable conclusions can be arrived at regarding human existence.  We are more than our physical bodies, or we are not.  It is one or the other.

Either consciousness is an epiphenomenon of matter, or matter is an epiphenomenon of consciousness.  We are frisky dust destined for the nothingness of the deep sleep, or we are immortal and this often irritating Earthly experience is a very brief episode in a very long journey.  Life and mind are an accident, against all the odds, or they are part of a scheme, infinitely conceived and beyond the conception our earthly senses and limited intellect can afford us.  Take your choice.  What's your poison? 

I think the reason so many of my atheist friends are atheist is because they have limited the choice in the debate between having to choose between having martinis with Christopher Hitchens or suffer an infuriatingly ridiculous evening with Pat Robertson.  

Between the two institutions of organized, dogmatic religion and The First Church of Atheism we have three options:  heaven, hell, or nothing. I choose a fourth option:  none of the above.

We know that we owe what we can sense of ourselves, and the world we live in, to the Big Bang, but do not know what caused it.  We are involved in matter, but thanks to quantum physics we do not know exactly what matter is.  Matter is not Newtonian billiard balls, but something hardly substantive, more like energy and waves of probabilities than something that can be swatted with a tennis racket.  Space and time are interdependent, curved and relative.  Physicist have postulated the possibility of multiple universes.

As humans we know our physical environment through our senses which are only tuned to consciously perceiving a minutia of the broadband that is available.  We only consciously use a small percentage of our brains.  

The only honest answer to the biggest of ontological questions is that we just do not know, and may never have the capacity to do so given the limits of what we have to work with here.  But that does not mean we should stop trying.  

The True Believers of dogmatic-mythically conceived religions would say we should stop, because all the answers are contained in sacred texts written by ancient inhabitants of Earth who thought the world was flat and not very old. 

My atheist friends and I can agree that we are evolving creatures.  Everything evolves.  Nothing does not evolve.  And anyone who would challenge the facts that science has provided us should be shunned and marginalized, like the Pat Robertsons of the world.   

I would add, we are here to evolve, not just physically, but spiritually.  That this world might be a laboratory designed to force us to evolve, and no matter what happens here, we graduate intact. 

It is my choice to believe that we are more than our physical bodies; that we are primarily consciousness and only secondarily matter, and therefore something immortal.  That choice is built on hunches of intuition which I cannot take out of a box and show anyone.  It is also based on the rationalization that it makes existence infinitely more interesting and wide open with possibilities. 

Dogmatically based religion would have us put a lid on scientifically verifiable knowledge when it is not in line with the mythic-fantasy espoused by it.  Atheist would have us put a lid on speculation that we, and the world we live in, might be a subset of a much greater universe, or universes, that are conscious-mental-spiritual, not physical, in nature.    

Science, logic and reason are indispensable tools to be utilized on the quest to knowing ourselves and the reality we live in, not just a means by which to minimize pain and maximize pleasure.  As evolving beings, we owe it to ourselves to keep open the possibilities and not to shut the door on mature, reasoned speculation no matter where it might lead us.              

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

A Smug Ass' Guide to Verbal Superiority

Today's installment of A Smug Ass' Guide to Verbal Superiority features a word that should always be in handy reach when a quick, show-stopping insult is in order.  When the end of an otherwise perfectly amicable relationship is required, troglodyte never fails to deliver dissolution better.

By pulling out the troglodyte card you can show the world that you are adroit and erudite at the fine art of insult through the use of multisyllabic elocution.  So, troglodytes, you subterranean boneheads, enjoy.

trog-lo-dyte, noun
1a.  A member of a fabulous or prehistoric race of people that lived in caves, dens or holes.  b.   A person considered to be reclusive, reactionary, out of date, or brutish.
2a. An anthropoid ape, such as a gorilla, or chimpanzee.  b.  An animal that lives underground, as an ant or worm.

Use it with gusto and zeal.  But remember, The Lawyer and The Engineer are not responsible for any physical harm that may result from the unwieldy use of said stinging rebuke.  Caveat Emptor, troglodytes!

Sunday, April 4, 2010


 “Yo Tony! Tony, are you in here?” Charley said. “Boss, I need to talk to you about something.”

Charley “Two Bit” Scarfonso was the lieutenant of the Brasi crime family, second in line for the top spot, a spot that he didn’t want. His motto was “If you’re at the top, you’re the one with the target on your back.”

Just then Tony walked out of the bathroom.  “My sister, love her to death, but she is the worst cook! The worst! How she can mess up Mom’s recipe for Manicotti is the great mystery. Don’t go in there by the way.

So just what did you need that was such a frickin rush? Did you get the Vig from the Lorenzo cleaners like I asked ya?”

“No, Tony! Listen to me! Just like I told you twelve times before, we killed them last month! Remember?” Charley said.

“Oh ya... sorry, I keep forgetting.” Tony lamented on, “Charley,  it ain’t like it used to be is it? Remember when we could just walk down the street and people worshiped us. Money in our pockets, dames, respect!  Remember that Charley? Respect?”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about! Remember my cousin Louie?” Charley asked.
“Louie…Louie…oh ya I remember, the skinny punk who went to college? College boy, ha! What about him?”

“Well, he knows this accountant, and from what he told me, it’s going to be the good times all over, Tony. This accountant has got this scheme to make us all rich bastards. Just like the old days.” said Charley “And the best part of it is, we don’t have to use hardly any of our own money!”

“Accountant huh, what’s this pencil pushers name?” asked Tony

“Well, he is coming over right now so he can explain it all himself. His name is Golden Sack. But he likes to be called Arnie. I think it’s Norwegian or some shit like that.” said Charley

Tony started laughing, “Ha, now that’s a laugh. I gotta tell ya, if I was named Golden Sack…”

Just then the door knocked. Tony nodded for Charley to let him in. Charley walked over and open the door. There stood a person of the most unfortunate genetic material. He was bald on top but his hair went straight out on the sides like a birds nest. He nose was running like a fire hydrant and the rest of him must have been about 98 pounds. But worst of all, the color of his clothes were lime green and looked like they hadn't been changed for a week”

Arnie came in immediately. ‘Gentlemen, I won’t waste your time with the boring chit chat. Let me start right in. What if I told you that you can take a small amount of money, say 1 million dollars, and use that to borrow 60 million?”

“You can do that?” Tony asked “With just a million?”

“Trust me you can, new rules since the 1980’s. You remember, back when you were wearing your Tony Montana white suit.”

“Just like yesterday, baby!  Those were the days..” Tony wistfully staring at the ceiling

“Cmon, stay with me on this, Ok?” said Arnie

Tony snapped out of the daydream. “Great great, so we made 59 million dollars by taking that money? Big deal! That’s the scheme?” asked Tony.

“No, let me finish. You take that 60 million and loan it out to other people. But you choose people that are willing to pay a little extra interest, uh what do you mob guys call it,  oh ya…Vig.  Kapeesh?”

“Are you trying to say capice? Cause if you are, stop it numb nuts.” said Tony. “And hurry it up because I got to hit the can again. My stomach is killing me, thank you little sister.”

“Now this is where it gets good. You take those groups of loans, bundle them together like a….a big plate of spaghetti, you guys know spaghetti, right?”

“Hey, hey, you better show some respect, ya bean counting pile of…” mumbled Tony

“Tony, hear him out. Trust me you’ll like what you hear. He is a numbers wiz, this kid.” Charley said.

Arnie continued ‘Well, before I was interrupted, you take that plate and you turnaround and sell it to some other people. People with a lot of money just sitting around collecting dust. We call it in the accounting biz asset based securities. These guys love this stuff because they can make a lot of dough, a whole lot more than normal. “

Tony interrupted again “That isn’t a scheme! We could just loan the money to these people and get the interest ourselves. What do we gain by having these people?”

“Think about it, Tony. You are getting Vig from 60 million dollars of loans and you only put up 1 million dollars!” Charley enthusiastically said.

“Now this is the best part!”  Charley continued. “Because we are the ones that bundled up this plate of crap, we can group the bad loans together and sell those to investors, telling them they are pure gold rated. My cousin owns a company that will rate anything we say as a creampuff.”

“Now tell them the best part, Arnie. You got to hear this boss!” said Charley

Arnie went on with his explanation. “Because we know which one is the bad plate of noodles, we can take out some insurance that will pay BIG time if that plate, er… I mean securities package fails. It's called a Credit Default Swap and it is completely unregulated. Are you dirty rats with me?" Arnie said with his best Cagney accent.
Charley glanced at Arnie with a "shut the hell up, are you crazy?" look. Arnie slunk down in his chair.

“Cmon, you can do that?” Tony said “How much does it pay?”

Arnie blurted “How does 1000 times what the loans were worth sound to those ravioli ears of yours?” He instantly wished he could take the words back before they finished coming out of his mouth.

Surprisingly, Tony didn’t react with anger. He seemed to be immersed with the idea, mulling it over in his head.

Suddenly, Tony burst out laughing. “Cmon kid, what do you take me for? That has got to be the most cockamamie scheme I have ever heard! And let me tell you, I heard them all. Plus if that ever happened, the government would be all over us like old Charley here is on my Mother’s plate of fresh Cannoli . The Feds would never allow something like that to occur. But, I have to hand it to ya kid, nice try. Now get the hell out of here, I got an appointment with the porcelain gods. Charley, see Mr. Gold Sack here, that name just kills me, out the door. And then bring me a magazine or something, will ya? I have a feeling I may be busy for awhile.”

Saturday, April 3, 2010

An Easter Story by The Lawyer

It’s funny how I remember the dreams better than the times we shared awake and living in the world.  Steve appeared out of nowhere.  To tell you the truth, I don’t know where ‘where’ was in the dream, but all of a sudden, there he was.
“Steve,” I said.  
“Hey, man.”
I asked, “So, what’s it like to be dead?”  
“It’s not so bad,” he said, possessed, with a contented and calm smile.
It was the morning after a ripping bender out on town.  The night before, a bunch of us loaded up in Steve’s old muscle car, a fixer-upper in progress.  A cooler was in the back seat with a case of beer sloshing around in the ice.  After a few bars we
ended up  in an old warehouse downtown that some guy had converted into a semi-inhabitable apartment.
We drank until the wee hours of the morning.  How I came to wake up in my own bed the next morning is still a bit of a mystery to me.  
It was back in the days, before kids, and other pressing responsibilities, when I still could get away with staying up that
late, drinking to my heart’s content, and spend a wasted day nurturing a hangover until it eventually went away.  Or, as was the case on that morning, I would kick the hangover with sweat.  
I called Steve.  “Dude, I am so fucking hungover.”
“Me too,” he said.
“Let’s go sweat it off.” 
“My thoughts exactly,” he said.
For a month, or so, Steve had not been acting right.  Steve was a talented defender on the soccer field; tall, fast and fearless.  He showed up to the match without shin guards.  To not wear shin guards was not an option and against the rules.  Steve knew that.  Everyone knew that.  But on that day he protested his rights not to wear shin guards with the referee to the point that all of us there thought a physical altercation would break out between them.  
A couple of us stepped in and calmed Steve down.  Pushing and pulling him away from the referee, Steve sputtered, “Fuck him, fuck him,” over and over.  
“Hey man, you have to wear shin guards,” some one said.  “Just go buy some real quick and come back,” some one else said.  “Calm down,” I said, or some one else said, or maybe I just thought it.
Steve drove off, and headed for a Walmart close by.  “What in the hell is wrong with him?” I was asked.  I didn’t know, and shrugged.
Steve returned with these ridiculous little cheap shin guards for a six year-old that were not up to the task, but they were good enough for the referee to allow him onto the field.  
This was an adult men’s league.  No one was being paid to play.  There was no trophy at stake, and the spectators mostly consisted of other players on other teams waiting for our match to end, and for theirs to begin.  Slide tackling was frowned upon and would eventually get you a red card.  Steve knew that.  Everyone knew that.
He played that day like a man possessed with fury.  When a benign shoulder tackle would do, he would come sprinting up, take flight, cleats out, clear the ball away and take the opponent’s feat clear out from under him.  More than once he would end up in a cloud of dust with a midfielder or forward from the other team toppling down to the ground on and around him.  He was red carded, and left the field, while strongly suggesting to anyone who wanted to listen that they could go and fuck themselves.  
“What in the hell is wrong with your friend?” a teammate asked me after the match.
I didn’t know.  He had always had a bit of a fiery disposition, but this was something else.  It was too violent.
There was another time, a week before the beer drenched night out on the town, and the horrible next day.  Steve was parked out in front of our house as I pulled up arriving back from the office and another day’s work.  Steve got out of his car, slammed the door.  His shirt was torn, and he was mad with rage.  The way he explained it, and the way I remember it, was that he had gone to a convenient store close by to fuel up his car.  He wasn’t sure how it happened, or maybe it was that he didn’t know how to explain it.  He had gotten in a fist fight with a total stranger and didn’t know why.
I sensed that there was more than rage boiling in him.  He was equally scared and confused; not all his normal self.   “Why did you get in a fight with the guy?” I asked more than once.  He could not give a good answer.  He had beaten a man up for reasons that couldn’t be understood or explained.  Eventually he calmed down over a few beers on the front porch.
Steve had been on his own since he was a teenager, supporting himself working odd jobs , dealing marijuana, and renting apartments.  He was born into the unfortunate circumstance of being an intelligent, free spirit to authoritarian parents.  He didn’t fit the role they intended for him, and whoever’s choice it was it wouldn’t do for him to live under the same roof as his parents.
He was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome.  I was always envious of his talent for walking into a party, or a bar, and pretty much pick and choose which girl he would get in bed with that night.  
I knew him in high school, but was reacquainted in Norman where he was putting himself through college and I was attending law school.  We began hanging out a little and eventually became close friends.  Good conversations and lots of laughs, combined with confiding in each other life’s irritations and mysteries made us like brothers.  
He introduced me to my future wife, to whom I would be married, and who would be pregnant with our first daughter at his funeral.  
There have been other dreams and other people.  One that comes to mind is when Jerry, my mentor in law practice, appeared in my dream.  It was night time, and we walked along a paved path together for a while, talking about life in general.  Suddenly there was a house in front of us.  “That looks like a nice place to live,” I said.
“If you want it, then it is all yours, boy,” he said and then slapped me on the back which sent me stumbling forward and caused the contents of my pockets to empty in front of me.  And he was gone.
The next morning I got the call that Jerry had been found dead on his front porch,  with a hand full of files scattered around him, and his dog Danny lying next to him licking Jerry’s hand.  Either he was just leaving or returning when he dropped dead of a heart attack.
The dream I had about Nanny was the most livid and lucid.  I had no doubt that I was dreaming as I walked through a dusty ranch style house and found her lying in bed in a nicotine yellow room.  The light streaming through the window illuminated a column of dust floating through it.  
Nanny was my great grandmother.  She had died of emphysema.  We still joke about how in her last days she would unwind the hose to her oxygen tank so that she had enough length in it to go outside and have a cigarette.  
Nanny was fond of saying to me, “You’re my favorite little shit.”  It’s one of the perks that come with being the first born of a generation.  It was always good and comfortable being with her, because I could feel that she loved me.  
The weird thing, I remember thinking, was that the dusty ranch style house was not hers.  I had never seen it before.  But there she was, sitting up in bed as I came in.  “But, you’re dead,” I said.
“Why weren’t you at my funeral?” she asked.
“I couldn’t do it,” I explained.  “I was scared to see your body.”
We talked for a while.  Eventually she grabbed my wrist and pulled me to her.  “I’ve got to go,” she said.  She looked at me, completely serious, and said, “Learn, learn, learn, and never quit learning.”  
I walked down to the field with my soccer bag slung over my shoulder.  Steve was sitting on the front row of aluminum bleachers at the side of the field with his back to me, probably lacing up his cleats, I thought.  I sat down beside him, opened my bag, pulled out my cleats and started to put them on.  
“My head is killing me,” I said.  “It’s a nice day though, maybe a little hot.”  Steve did not respond.  “How long have you been here?” I asked.  No response.  
I looked at Steve for the first time since I had sat down.  He only had one cleat on with the strings resting untied on either side of his foot as he looked out across the field in front of him.  “Steve,” I said.  “Are you okay?”  He slowly turned and looked at me, his head kind of swiveling like he had been spun in circles and couldn’t keep it all straight and focused in front him.  “Steve, what in the hell is wrong?”  His eyes rolled back into his head and he lightly fell on his side towards me.  I caught him and gently eased him down to the ground.  He vomited yellow bile on my cleats.  I rummaged in his bag, found his cell phone and dialed 911.  
It was a stroke.  Twenty-seven years old and hit with a massive stroke, out of fucking no where.  “What drugs is he on?” asked the gruff, gray-headed emergency responder, while others lifted the gurney and rolled Steve into the back of the ambulance.  “Come on!” said the responder.   “You need to tell me.  What drugs is your friend on?”
“He smokes a lot of pot,” I said.  “That’s it, and he drinks, too.  We were out here to play soccer, not to get fucked up, damn it.”
While in the hospital his eyes had gone from brown to silver.  He couldn’t talk.  He could raise his arms to gesture exasperation, doubt and ignorance at anything he was asked.  He was in a helpless and hopeless place and didn’t seem to know how he got there.
Two weeks later I got the word.  He died at the hospital after a second surgery.
That was thirteen years ago, almost to the day.  It was Easter weekend. 

I’m forty now, and am becoming acquainted with middle age; the usual stuff, like waking up sore for no reason.  My hairline is receding.  I’m not easily outraged by things like politics and injustice like I was thirteen years ago when I was full of righteous indignation and principle.  
I am a dad of two girls, a husband, a lawyer, a writer, a seeker.  I am also a whole lot of other things that I can intuit from time to time; things that I have a dreamy but distant sense of, like seeing a form in a thick haze that is just out of sight and out of touch, but there, more than my physical self, and more than can be adequately explained in language--much more.  
The best thing about growing older for me is that I have lost my fear of death.  It’s not some horrible specter that needs to be covered up with all kinds of tricks of the psyche that make people weird and paranoid.  Death is going to happen eventually, but in the meantime I enjoy being alive and in the world, watching the people around me being alive and in the world.  
I often wonder what Steve would be like at forty, and whether he would be married with kids, or divorced and working on his third marriage, and his forth career, or a perennial bachelor.  I wonder how the serious business of having to work for a living might have affected him.  Would life have made him bitter and harsh, insipid and uninspired, or profound and wise.  What choices would he have made?
Steve appeared out of no where.  It was like we were in a different place, not here.  I sensed a certain serenity in him--a peaceful calmness that had not been there in such abundance before, the raw edginess, gone.  
“Steve,” I said.  
“Hey, man.”
And I asked, “So, what’s it like to be dead?”  
“It’s not so bad,” he said, possessed, with a contented and calm smile.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

I, Sylvester--Love Me

Hi.  My name is Sylvester.  I'm a bastard.  As you can see in this photo--a damn handsome representation of yours truly, if I may say so--I am one charming go-getter.

Owing to my unrelenting allure, I was able to hypnotize the corpulent, pink, two-legged mammal that took this photo, into feeding me on a pretty regular basis.  Things are definitely looking up.

My credentials:  I'm a real man.  The towering pink one verified this by turning me over on my back and pointing at my beans and dangler, as he declared, "Irm ug blah storgen falpuden," or something like that.  I don't speak English, just Cat.  I'm very affectionate;  some say to the point of being f**king irritating.  I'm the tri-state area champion mouser, or so my business card says.  Recommendations provided upon request.

If you are interested in me adopting you, please contact the ridiculous prick that took this photo of me.

Did I mention, I am also a certified, licensed acupuncturist.    

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

H.R.3590, Motion to Concur in Senate Amendments Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act: The Opera

Being philosophically opposed to helping people in need and making life better for anyone other than the 1% wealthiest of Americans, Fox News and their affiliates, the Republican Party and the Tea Party, ratcheted up the rhetoric and theatrics ahead of the vote in the House of Representatives last Sunday.

Members of the Tea Party on Capital Hill on Saturday made their voices heard like a thunderous fart echoing off the sanctuary pews.  How did they make their objections heard?  By calling one African-American member of Congress, who was beaten within an inch of his life in the early sixties for his efforts to secure civil rights, a--it starts with "n" and rhymes with chigger.

Less the frothing throng of idiots feared that they did not make their opposition to H.R. 3590 clear enough, they took it one step further.  Barney Frank, a serious legislator and a great statesman, was reminded what he already knows about himself and has told the world.  Some mentally challenged Teabagger (was that redundant?) called Representative Frank a--starts with "f" and rhymes with maggot.  Though he does virtually flutter up the steps of the Capital on his way to work every morning, he doesn't pretend to be something he isn't like some of the most religiously pious, wide-stanced, closeted homosexuals on the other side of the aisle.

During Sunday's deliberations, GOP members of the house egged on, from a balcony of the Capital, their functionally illiterate constituency below by holding signs that read, "KILL THE BILL," and the "Don't Tread on Me," coiled-snake flag.

Meanwhile, Michele Buchmann, candidate for the nuttiest bitch in the history of humanity award, reminded the Tea Partiers, through a bull horn, that if the bill were to pass that afternoon, first thing Monday file clerks from the Department of Human Services would begin to round up everyone's grandmothers, rape them, shoot them dead, and then rape them again for good measure.

On the floor of the House Representative Bart Stupak, the irritatingly pro-life Democrat was called a "baby killer" by some equally irritating butt hole from Texas.

On the local evening news, a woman with a hair-do like a cumulous cloud in attendance at a kill-the-bill watch party sobbed and sputtered uncontrollably at the horrifying news that the bill had passed and a black man would soon sign it into law.

Democratic representatives' offices were vandalized.  One congressman's brother's gas line at his house was tampered with at the behest of a Tea Party website that mistakenly gave out the brother's address thinking it was the congressman's, proving two things:  Tea Partiers aren't smart enough to do jack-shit correctly, and they are no more mature than a band of villainous thirteen year old boys that were potty trained by threat of physical abuse.

The most disappointing development from the far, honking-mad right is that the fat bastard, Rush Limbaugh, has not bolted for Costa Rica like he promised.  That's right, the fat f^@k has lied to all of us again.  Instead of being sprawled out on the tropical shore of Playa Manuel Antonio like a beached, albino whale, in an utter daze from ingesting a hand full of prescription pills chased with a bottle of rum, the prick is still at his golden microphone pumping several million people's ears a day full of false crap.

On the lighter side of things, the general public is just now starting to understand what is in the bill, and kind of likes it, according to recent polls.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Audio: The Bugle - The greatest satire podcast featuring John Oliver and Andy Zaltzman in the world

Audio: The Bugle - The greatest satire podcast featuring John Oliver and Andy Zaltzman in the world

A Clockwork Beck...And an Engineer's Concern

'Why is this damn phone ringing at 2:00 in the morning?' I thought.

I reached over and picked up the phone, barely able to see or think from the deep sleep I was enjoying.

"Hello and this better be good!" I mumbled.

It was the Lawyer's wife. Why in the world would she be calling at this hour of the morning?  Something was wrong.

"You have to get over here," she said in a trembling voice, "as quick as you can.  It's, it's my husband."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" I said. "I was in the middle of this great dream. There were 8 girls in lab coats and.."

"Shut up and get over here now! It's an emergency!" She yelled.

"Okay," I said, "give me about 40 minutes to get there."

I got dressed as quick as I could and hopped in The Nissan Cube, the official transport of The Lawyer and The Engineer. I drove with the car maxed out, 67 miles per hour, and arrived in less than 35.

I knocked at the door and she let me in immediately. She looked very frazzled to say the least.

"Now what in the hell was the emergency?  What's wrong with your imbecilic husband?" I asked.

"He has been down in the basement for about 14 hours now and refuses to come back up or even talk to me." She cried. "I'm really worried that this Glenn Beck thing has gotten out of control. Since he started watching, he has been behaving more and more...."

"What? Tell me," I implored.

"Well, just weird. Very's uh..well it's just hard to put into words. You just have to see for yourself."

"Oh c'mon...Look, I know you are worried and all but this is The Lawyer we are talking about. He has seen and done it all. Well, I remember just like it was yesterday when...," I said.

"HELLO! A little focus here. Go look for yourself if you don't believe me.  He's in the basement," she snapped back.

I walked over to the basement door and started down the creaky steps. The Lawyer had spent some time and money fixing up the basement, making it his own personal hideway. In fact had nicknamed it the "ManCave."  It had all the accessories to make it rock, like a refrigerator and a killer surround sound system.

I could hear the faint sound of music, but it was some bizarre song that I had never heard before, sounding almost like chanting accompanied by tribal drums.

"Are you down here, old buddy? Hello, can you hear me?" I said, cautiously descending the steps.

I reached the end of the steps and looked around the corner... Holy Shit!!

He was sitting in a chair and directly opposite of him was this..this...thing that he must had made himself. He had taken what looked like 10 rolls of duct tape and formed a crude shape of a head. On that duct tape head, he had placed a blonde wig but with most of the hair cut off so it was short and ratty looking. Then he had placed the duct tape head on a broom stick and somehow had stuck the other end of the broom stick into the floor. Around him was about 12 or so empty bottles of scotch, some rope, and a shovel.

I realized that he was having a conversation with it.  Mumbling, screaming, pleading with it, his arms waving about. Trying hard not to just turn around and run, I slowly walked over to him.

"Uhhh...Lawyer old okay? You want to talk a little?"

He turned to look at me. His eyes were wild looking, like a cornered animal.

"Tell him! Tell Glenn that he is just a stupid fucktard! You gotta do it...gotta do it....," The Lawyer screamed.

"Glenn?" I quizzed.

"He's right here! Can't you see him? Look! Just LOOK!"

"Ummmm, hold that thought and I'll be right back" I said

I climbed up the stairs, quickly, and walked over to his wife.

"Sweet Jesus in a cornfield!! Call 911. Call 911. Shit! He is WAY worse than you had said! He is worse than any words can describe! Holy Fuck! We gotta get some professional help and NOW!"

The Lawyer's wife was all ready starting to dial.  She called her family and The Lawyer's family, as well as the family psychiatrist.

The Lawyer was descended on by every man in the house.  He grew violent, yelling, "It's a government takeover, the government is coming to get me!"  He bit someone's hand.  With some extra rolls of duct tape on the floor they were able to mummify him as the psychiatrist loaded him up with a hypodermic full of happy juice.  Completely rolled in duct tape, except for his smiling face, The Lawyer was carried to an ambulance and rushed to the hospital where he was admitted to the top floor until his sanity might...[sniffle, fighting back the tears]...might someday return.  The initial prognostication was that the chances of a full recovery were bleak.

God save The Lawyer!  

Stewart Employs Some Really Becked-up Logic.

The introduction:  It's a matter of life and death, so watch it.

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Bert the Nazi is infiltrating our children's minds with cancerous thoughts:

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Conservative Libertarian
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Thursday, March 18, 2010

A Clockwork Beck, Thursday

After four days of what amounts to self-inflicted torture, I could feel a gloominess pervading my spirit.  At the grocery store, in the courthouse, at Pet Smart, at the gas station, all the people at those places, all around me--how many of them were shit for brains Beckerheads?  How many of them carry on their daily lives with an air of normalcy, yet inside incubating and cultivating terrific fears that the government is in the hands of a baby-killing, Socialist Satanist?  How many of them are just waiting for the day that their man-boy hero gives them the go ahead to start rioting and kill all the liberals and take back liberty and freedom?  

That guy at the other pump, was he one of those nuts that went out and helped to empty the shelves of ammo at the gun shops after Obama was elected?  The woman in front of me, checking out at the express lane, does she believe that Democrats in Congress really want to kill her grandma fucking dead, just for the hoo-ha of it?  

It's them or us, man, I told myself.  They're everywhere, man.  They're coming to get me, maaaaan.  I abandoned my grocery cart and made a run for it, and didn't stop running until I had made it home, and hid myself in the darkest closet in the house.  I rocked back and forth, sucking my thumb, thinking evil thoughts, with a 1.75 liter jug of Dewar's within reach. 

Thursday:  I don't know how much more of his this lunacy I can take.  Glenn has an audience!  The bleachers are packed with white Beckerheads, that are unusually quiet as butter nuts drones on about government take over, and the end of the world as we know it.    Glenn, in his typical fashion of running up to the edge of inciting a riot, warns the crowd that the bill about to be passed is not about health care and education.  In his words, "it's war."  Glenn say he thought and prayed about all of this shit last night, but then doesn't really explain what he thought or prayed about.  He shows film of rioting in Greece, fires blazing in the streets.  Glenn smirks, and points out, we're next.  He is segueing from one non sequitur to the next so fast, I get vertigo and have to take a spirited swig from the bottle to make the room stop spinning.  Glenn suggests that when this health care bill passes, we will be slaves to the government, just like what happened to the Soviet Union.  I have no idea what in the fuck he is talking about.  Paranoid assertions, followed by life-threatening extrapolations based on the underlying premise that progressives are really Stalinists who have nothing but hate in their hearts, are coming at me so fast I can't keep track of his delusional brand of logic.  Glenn shows a pretty picture of an apple tree drawn on a chalk board.  He explains, it's the tree of liberty.  On one side is health care reform.  On the other is ego, lies, and something else equally awful that the American public is being fed.  He explains these trees used to have apples that had three seeds in them--faith, hope and charity!  Progressives are poisoning the the tree of liberty at the roots.  Ben Franklin would be ashamed.  Fuck this!  

I turned the television off and went back to the closet to drink in darkness where my wife found me three hours later passed out, muttering, something about apple trees, Greece, butter nuts and Bolsheviks.  She called her mother. 

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

A Clockwork Beck, Wednesday

Slowly coming to, I rolled in bed towards my wife's side and reached around her for a fervent morning snuggle, copping two handfuls of love.  I felt her shift and roll over to face me.  This might be my lucky morning, I thought.  Opening my eyes I found myself nose-to-nose with Glenn Beck.  "Hey, sweetie," he said in that buttery smooth voice of his.  Throwing the covers off the bed, I bound to the floor screaming in fear.  I woke up panicked and covered in sweat, as I bolted up right.  Cautiously I leaned over my sleeping wife to make sure it was her in bed with me, not the mad, half-wit, Glenn Beck.  It was just a  nightmare. 

Wednesday:  The man-boy with the golden buzz cut is accusing Representative Dennis Kucinich of having a "wee, elfin body."  You're one to start poking fun at the way someone looks Glenn.  Look at him.  Glenn has girlish hips, a small crotch and a fat, irritating face.  He is the embodiment of the kid in grade school you wasted no time laying out flat with a good smack to the gob the first time he came up to you talking a heap of smart-aleck horse shit.  If health care passes, we'll be like Canada, Glenn warns.  Why's that so bad?  Glenn and all of his semi-retarded fans know, Canada is full of Marxist pussies--it's just understood.  No wonder Canada produces some of the best comedians. Glenn sounds the alarm that the IRS will be in charge of health care if the bill reaches the president's desk.  The major theme running through all of his shows is that government is both hopelessly incompetent and explicitly malicious, which is my exact impression of Glenn after these three long days.  Our health care system is the best in the world, according to the golden man-boy, because our top five hospitals conduct more clinical tests than all the hospitals in Canada, Great Britain and Sweden.  If I understand, unnecessary tests are a big percentage of present health care costs, because that's what the insurance companies pay for--tests and procedures, not outcome.  Blah.  Tort reform is the answer, Glenn insists.  Right Glenn, kill all the lawyers, and all that tired crap.  2% of health costs are captured by tort actions.  Why?  Because doctors and hospitals sometimes fuck up.  Right on cue, there is good ol' uncle G. Gordon scaring the shit out of already scared and angry, over weight white people, tuned in all over the country, to buy, you know, gold.  Glenn declares that the U.S. has the "greatest free market health care system the world has ever seen."  And I would add, and damn near the only free market health care system among first world countries.  That's why we are number thirty-seven overall according the those pinko-commies at the WHO.  Glenn points out that Obama's damnable family tree is full of Marxist, therefore Obama is really a Marxist, though closeted.  The red scare is alive and well in the curious mind of Glenn Beck.  The federal government will lie, cheat and steal from Americans if the health care bill passes, says Glenn.  [Drum roll].  And your quote of the day, straight from the pouty lips of the most odious little prick in the known universe:  "Only logic, reason and honesty will save health care."  I just want to lay my head down and cry, or, in the alternative, tazer myself unconscious.  Glenn states that congress is breaking the rules by using congressional rules to pass the health care bill.  Another gold commercial, and Barry Goldwater, attorney-at-law, with a one-eight-hundred number soliciting tort cases.  What ignorant fuck-wad at Fox let that one slip in?  More crap; too much for my mind to capture, hold and purge at this point.  Another gold commercial.  And Beck closes, not missing the opportunity to take one more snarky jab at our Democratically elected Marxist-in-chief by taunting him to pick up the phone and give him a call.  I wonder how many dinner parties Glenn has been thrown out of, head over ass, resulting in a protective order being placed against the creepy little bastard.

My once contentedly functioning cerebral cortex throbbing in disarray, I turned the television off and made straight for the Dewar's.  Shudder, gulp, shudder.  Sitting at my computer I googled, "how to become a Canadian citizen."

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

A Clockwork Beck, Tuesday

The Engineer would have none of it despite my whining and pleading to him on the other end of the phone.  He did hint that he might take over the duty of watching Glenn Beck for the rest of the week if I would agree to baby sit his children every weekend for an entire month beginning Friday.  I conveyed to him the unacceptability of the proposition by hanging up.

Upon arriving home I searched the house for any diversion possible to occupy me in an act of dereliction of duty.  The clothes were folded, the dishes clean and put away, the toilets gleaming and minty, and the yard still brown and in no need of mowing.  There was no available excuse to avoid another lost hour and an inevitable dampening of my spirits.  I did consider one other thing I could do instead, but knew my wife would be home soon, and concluded it would be slightly less disconcerting for her to catch me watching Glenn Beck than perusing

I summoned all the bravery I could muster, and hit play.  

Tuesday:   I guess Faith, Hope and Charity is the theme of the week, since fuck face can't quit talking about it.  A passing reference to Democrats as "snakes and cockroaches" in reference to their efforts to pass health care, and overcome the party of No.  "Besides the military, tell me what government does well?" the bastard implores, his eyes wide with daring.  Oh let's see, roads, schools, libraries (where Glenn claims to have educated himself after dropping out of high school), the justice system, disease control, and a thousand other things.  Glenn introduces a panel of three white men.  A cantankerous old bastard that used to be a judge, a frat boy economist, and a pencil-neck Jesus freak.  It is quickly understood that they have a shared hatred of government, and I suspect particularly when the executive is in the hands of a black Democrat.  Judge Napolitano the Cantankerous, suggests that Senator Schumer wants the Bill of Rights repealed.  But, if you want to do away with government, that's as good as place as any to start, your honor.  Glenn comments that passage of health care will guaranty government intrusion into our homes, and then makes this alarming declaration:  "Democrats want people to have fewer babies," the implication being that liberals sanction abortion to satisfy their insatiable lust for the death of the vulnerable and young. I consider punching myself in the dick to make sure I am really awake and this isn't just a fucked up dream.  Thank God!  I never in my life thought I would be so happy to see G. Gordon Liddy pushing gold.  More crap about Faith, Hope and Charity.  I still have no idea what mythic significance these words have for Glenn.  Another gold commercial.  David Barton, the pencil-neck Jesus freak says that liberals misplace faith in government, instead of God.  And this zinger:  "Social justice should be delivered by religion, not government."  Right, Barton.  Close the courthouse doors, get out your pitch forks.  Grab the noose, Cleetus.  It's time to do the work of the Lord.  What an asshole!  Another commercial break, but no gold.  Just a plug for The Teaparty Express coming to a town near you.  I can't fucking wait.  As Glenn sees it, the passing of health care is a constitutional crisis.  The judge opines that faith is being destroyed by government.  Barton accuses the administration of obfuscating facts.  Oh the goddamn irony.  Glenn closes with, "Faith, hope and charity come directly from God to you, to give you the spine to stand up."  Uh, yeah, sure.  The last gold commercial.  Stop.  Erase.

After another hour gone for ever, I imagined this is what it must feel like to have an out-of-body experience, and to have visited an alternative reality where fact and fiction are indistinguishable, inseparably pureed.  I shuddered, mixed a stout one of Scotland's blended finest, and shuddered again.  Only three days to go, I consoled myself.  Damn my eyes and ears.  

Monday, March 15, 2010

A Clockwork Beck

It was my idea, but I felt something more than a tinge of anxiety about the prospect of executing on it.  I asked The Engineer if he would like to run with it.  Citing chronic indigestion, he declined.  So, the matter fell to me, The Lawyer.  I reached down in my pants, verifying that I still had a pair.  I did.  

I determined to watch Glenn Beck's show, on Fox News, for a week and report on it.  Picking up the remote, I noticed my hand just barely shaking.  Reminding myself that merely watching a program on the television could not harm me, I took a deep breath, puffed my chest, and steeled myself, a large container of Tums at the ready.

Monday:  Beck is quoting Thomas Paine; something about standing up to tyranny.  Here, in this context, the tyrant is liberal and progressive government.  It's seems lost on Glenn that the tyrant that Paine spoke of was King George The Insane.  Two very fucking different things!  G. Gordon Liddy is pimping gold in a commercial, reminding everyone that the value of the dollar is going to hell.  Glenn's back, warning his viewers that health care reform is not about doing what's right.  It's not about prohibiting abusive practices on the part of insurance companies hell bent on screwing us all the way to the poor house.  As Glenn tells it, it is a power grab by the Democrats in their demonic plan to take control of the country and deprive every last citizen of their personal freedom.  God help me!  Another buy gold commercial.  With a stack of books next to him as a prop, Glenn rails against the the student loan bill intended to take financial institutions out as the middle men and make college more affordable by eliminating interest on student loans.  Somehow this is evidence of more power grabbing and control mongering by "big government."  Fuck you Glenn.  Thirteen years later and I am still paying it off at 8% per annum.  Another gold commercial.  More paranoid prattling about big government and this quote:  "Your rights come from God, not a politician."  I don't even know where to begin in outing the utter fallaciousness of that statement.  Another gold commercial.  Glenn closes carrying on about some twisted crap about faith, hope and charity being the answer, the assumption being that government could never deliver on those things.

I turned off the television, shuddered, mixed a stout scotch and soda to cleanse my mental palate, and shuddered again.  I  doubted whether I could keep this up through to Friday.                 

Saturday, February 27, 2010

A sisters gift....

When I was 8 years old, my sister let me play all of her records. It was really my first chance at playing music, especially HER music. Having the power over what I got to listen to! It was great! It seems so outlandishly primitive now, but you would put a vinyl record on a rotating turntable, place the tonearm on the spinning disc, and if the vinyl record wasn't too scratched up, music would play!

I played all sorts of records. She had quite a collection. Several groups from MoTown like the Supremes, Temptations, Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gay. She had Steppenwolf, The Doors.Iron Butterfly. EVERTHING! I would listen for hours everyday, over and over again.

But eventually what I loved most would be classified as Hippie music or even maybe "long haired" music like Jefferson Airplane, WoodStock, Country Joe and the Fish, Janis Joplin, Joe Cocker, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, Beatles, and Bob Dylan.

Everybody seemed to be singing in protest of the Vietnam war and singing about love and peace. To me, it eventually transcended from just protesting the war to more of a marching call to creating a better world. If only people would make love not war. Reject this society that has created tools to destroy the world and people with the desire to do it. Who knows, maybe people just got tired of being scared of nuclear destruction.

The Merry Pranksters went on their Magic Bus and Timothy Leary was telling everybody to "Tune in, Turn on, and Drop Out". It seemed to peak around 1967 to 1969 with the "Summer of Love" and WoodStock. I followed all that stuff... always after it happened. My sister would talk and talk about current events, the war, all that was happening. I absorbed it like a sponge even though I think I was around 10 or 11 years old at the time.

Things always took a couple of years to reach Oklahoma. I say that not in a 6:00 o'clock news sort of way, as that was just an instant information thing. No, it was more like the general feel of things brought on by the music and the counterculture stuff. By this time, my sister had a Peace Sign hanging from the mirror, beads everywhere, and long straight hippie chick hair.

People were wanting to start a new society with, I guess, some sort of group love energy. Reject all of the current ideas and materialistic things. Just get it together!  I know that it really sounds stupid and naive when you try to explain it, And the fact of the matter is, it was stupid and naive.

By the time I was about 13, I probably was ready to run away to a commune. What a laugh!  I was just a little child!

Along with the stupid ideas, there WAS a sense of hope. Hope and a belief in the common goodness of humanity. Funny, but people actually thought that if only these could be brought together in a group, something new could be created. A new age of society! Everybody would tolerate each others differences and work on a common future where each participant is looked as being equal. Basic human needs, like hunger and health, were taken care of. Seems like some pretty radical "really out there" thoughts, huh?

My point being is that no matter how old I get, I never want to loose that naive optimism. I never want to become so cynical that I feel that it is pointless. I never want to believe that basic human nature will continue to always produce a never ending cycle of have and have nots. Never convince myself that it is right for the same country to have billionaires on one hand and on the other, poor families with starving or sick children. Be complacent when 8 figure bonuses are given to some people, while pink slips are given to others. Be silent while others are treated wrongly by the same people that are suppose to protect them.

That silly naive optimism was the greatest gift my sister gave me. The same will be the greatest I can give my children! Thank you, Karen.

Friday, February 19, 2010

New fish discovered in depths of slime pool.

 A completely new species of fish, called Roublard Le' Carpe, has been extensively studied for several months, revealing several never before seen patterns of co-existence thru the use of confusion and fear.

French scientist, Pierre LaFromage, who has made it his life passion to study the the feeding patterns of this strange fish, submitted several scientific articles describing in remarkable detail the curious habits of this creature nicknamed the "Cheney Fish".

Before an assembly of his scientific peers, Pierre discussed his insights to the bizarre creature during an interview with an American biologist, Herman Mandrake.

"Upon discovering a minnow school, the Cheney will use other larger fish, "Teabaggius Extremis" , to actually capture its prey. The Cheney only feeds on the remainder bits and pieces that are too small for the larger fish to bother with. The role that the Cheney assumes is to create fear and chaos in large schools of minnows, steering them into the larger group of fish that have learned to work together with the Cheney to create a collaboration of feeding. The minnows, with the brains the size of a small bb, allow themselves to be steered into the larger fish, not realizing they are running away from the Cheney because of distorted perception of terror that the Cheney creates by rapidly flapping its lips and nose in a rhythmic pattern."

"It tis a remarkable masterpiece of fish poetry" said Pierre,worthy of high praise. Like a Chateau de Pibarnon compliments a Chicken Velouté."

"So you have studied this fish for several months in its own natural habitat. Are you to continue with this research, producing more facts about this fish that quite frankly I think looks like a blob of crisco with a nose?" asked Herman

"Mind your own business, American PigDog!" Pierre replied. "I am thru talking to you and your silly court of jesters!"

"I hope that I didn't offend you with my off-handed description of  this fish. If I did, I apologize." exclaimed Herman

"Chantez à l'âne, il vous fera des pets" Pierre replied as he walked off the stage. "It is possible that you will get several more years if you are not careful!"

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Lunatic Fringe

In a recent poll, conducted by Daily Kos, 2003 self-identified Republicans were asked various questions to gauge their attitudes about current political issues, and particularly their opinions about President Obama.  

When asked whether President Obama should be impeached, 39% said yes and 29% were not sure.  Never mind that as grounds for impeachment the President must be guilty of breaking the law.  No evidence exists to support impeachment; they just feel like he should be. President Obama is, after all, black and Democrat, which is evidence enough of skulduggery and treason in the cynical hearts of that 39%. 

When asked whether Obama was born in the United States or not, 36% of polled Republicans said he was not--22%, not sure.  That points to a significant percentage  unwilling to acknowledge the legitimacy of Obama's presidency.  It gives them a basis on which to declare, he's not my president, notwithstanding the discredited fiction of the initial premise.

63% of polled Republicans believe that Obama is a socialist.  I assume in the minds of Republicans "socialist" is synonymous with "un-American" akin to communist, and definitely in opposition to their unarticulated concept of "freedom."  It troubles that 63% not that there is no evidence that Obama is other than he is, a left-of-center moderate.  Liberals are pissed that he isn't socialist!  But when you crowd against the wall of the lunatic fringe of the extreme right, everything to the left looks perversely liberal.

This one kills me:  24% of the polled Republicans believe that Obama wants the terrorist to win, with 33% not sure, thinking maybe, maybe not.  Christ almighty!  In the words of John McEnroe, "You cannot be serious!"  To believe that Obama is in league with Bin Laden is confirmation of delusional thinking, fueled by paranoia, and the need for psycho-therapeutic intervention.

53% believe Sarah Palin is more qualified to be president than is Obama.  33% are not sure, and presumably need more time to think about it, not that all the time in the world to do so will result in any cogent, well-reasoned conclusion.  This hits on the issue of competence and wisdom.  People who possess any appreciable degree of competence attended by wisdom recognize the same in others when they see it, and instantly sense it when it is lacking.  Fact:  In the arena of competence Sarah Palin is to Barack Obama what an eight-man pee-wee league is to the NFL.  

Asked whether President Obama is a racist who hates white people, 31% said yes, 33% not sure.  Close and bolt the door shut to the room in your brain where reason resides, and get a load of this retarded logic.  Obama is half-white, half-black.  His mother is Caucasian.  Therefore, Obama hates his mother, and presumably half himself.  I guess all those white people in his administration are just window dressing to lure in all white people into believing that he actually likes white people.  Then, one day, having lulled all the white citizens of the United States into complacency, BAM!, all the honkies will be rounded up by employees of ACORN and incarcerated in cracker concentration camps and brainwashed into accepting Muhammad as their personal savior.  Please.

23% believe that their state should secede from the union.  68% do not want Congress to make it easier for workers to form and join labor unions.  51% do not want sex education being taught in public schools.  77% believe public school students should be taught that the book of Genesis is a factual account of how God created the world.  31% are of the opinion that contraception should be outlawed.  67% believe the ONLY path to salvation is through Jesus Christ.

The wide, open arms of Christ's compassion were not present in the poll with regard to undocumented Hispanics and homosexuals, shocking as that may be. 

Let's call these people what they are:  premodern, angry, scared, ethnocentric, insane and intellectually unfit to formulate reasoned, logical opinions.  Oh, here's a statistic for you.  83% of those polled intend to vote in the upcoming 2010 Congressional elections.  Look out.