Dear All: Please die. Now. I'm laughing too much for my own good already.
'Sluts' unite against Republicans, Rush Limbaugh
I guess the idea of ignoring such imbeciles (served buffet-style, take a little of each and stir them up together) was always off the table.* Still, at least a 'slut' has his - sorry, Mister, er, Mizz, I forgot you were a womyn - uses, at least until we radical masculists can fertilize our own eggs in ways other than I do as I make my morning two-egg, one-man omelet. How about it, science?
*Was there really a time when I used to read, if only in deadly earnest, like Jack Wrangler's flames per his flame, round the edges,**
**People, 1987: When Margaret Whiting met Jack Wrangler, she had no idea he was a star with 85 films under his belt -- including Raunch Ranch, Heavy Equipment and Summer Heat. Not even Rod Serling could have come up with this scenario: Famous pop singer (Whiting's hits include That Old Black Magic, Moonlight in Vermont and My Ideal) meets gay male porno star 22 years her junior. They fall madly in love and have been in this blissful state (yes, inquiring minds, the relationship is sexual) for 10 years. For the last eight years they have lived in Whiting's spacious midtown Manhattan apartment. In the words of T.S. Eliot: ''Oh, do not ask what is it, let us go and make our visit.''
... Both love to laugh, and humor often puts their relationship in perspective. Once, during an argument in a restaurant, Wrangler shouted at Whiting: ''I'm trying to tell you I'm a fucking faggot!'' Replied Margaret: ''Only around the edges, dear.''
political blogs of all persuasions***
***Including, but not limited in their imbecility to, The Shoptalk Around 'The Corner', The Couch Files with Jonah Goldbrick, Queen Sully, King Lahtifat, Little Seen Footfalls, Arianna H.R. Huffanpuff, Feminists Fisting as Fast as We Can Because We Can, Horton Hears a Queer, One-Hand Rubberband Man, Getting and Going Mad Not Glad, Bitching to Beat the Band, The Bitching Post, Kissin' Cousin Christopher's Bitchins' Post, Hickorydickerydocking Points Mammo, Angry Black Mama, The Black Mambo and The Snake She Wrote In On, CBS Eye: My Mammy, Don't Make Me Come Back There, Crunchy Condom, The Smith Brothers' Coughing Points Memo, Big Words from Little Dicks Grow, Six Inches to Sundown, The Cousins Gibb (later The Fighting Ceegeez, after the trio's naval deployment patrolling the waters just offshore from an orange grove south of San Diego), Snuffy's Myth, Choppin' With All My Might, Barmy Google, InsteadIPunnedIt, Full-Bodied Seamen (another naval blog, during the days of Don't Post, Don't Link), Beating Them Off With His Dick, Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman's Corns; some of these, to no weeping whatever save for that from joy in eternal beatitude, are no longer active
that in their serially bottomless ignorance fail to persuade?
Which is only a restatement of the more obvious question, Has there ever in all of pre-recorded post-Bang history been a collection of fucking nerds more colossal in their artless hivelike self-regard than the American political commentariat, whether in the much-abused "mainstream"****
****Or, among the ninety-two-year-old two-year-olds who read, and write under the name of, Michelle Malkin, "lamestream"
media, on cable, in journals of opinion, or across the gobblosphear (the last so-styled for the grain-guzzling turkeynecks compos[t]ing it in all their wattle-chinned red-ascot pretension)?
Civil if abusive libertarian, if not of the utopia-junkies' laissez-faire-radical economic sort, that I am whenever clinging to a principle over a precipice is either necessary or just handy, I tend to affect for the cameras a set-piece setting of my jaw against book burning in any form save for that required when our propane runs out.
But my got-up mojo for Milton and Mill, once so hot in days of yore and also mine, runs up against its inbuilt limits in these days of brummagem spoiled-brat rage on the cheapest of the cheap. Anyone know how you burn blogs? Or at least cut them, from the mightiest of redwoods to the sappiest of saplings, already, down to size - ideally to matchsticks or at most Popsicle sticks? Can you cut one down by going at its comments box with a proverb from an e-mail forward, i.e., a chain-letter saw? Because to merely tell them all to suck the proverbial bag of dicks is, after all, merely to risk a dunning letter from Louis C.K.'s brace - if not retainer - of copyright attorneys with a specialty in well-turned maledictions and anathemas. Speaking of which latter, I could use a good strong purgative anathema right now, assuming ReXalls still carry them, backed up in bottomless if big-bottomed loathing as I now see I am.*****
*****Watch for C.I.M., my latest Geiseline/Steigian essay in whimsically-drawn children's spy sagas - the title stands both for Clandestine Intrigue Minions and the closing line of the book's double-agent hero to its Moscow-stationed heroine when upon her sobbing plaint "I thought you were one of ours!" he removes his fur coat and hat to reveal a Super Dave Osborne suit and cap. It doesn't take an Einstein to read it, but that last line was inspired by an Einstein of another line of genius.
I guess the idea of ignoring such imbeciles (served buffet-style, take a little of each and stir them up together) was always off the table.* Still, at least a 'slut' has his - sorry, Mister, er, Mizz, I forgot you were a womyn - uses, at least until we radical masculists can fertilize our own eggs in ways other than I do as I make my morning two-egg, one-man omelet. How about it, science?
*Was there really a time when I used to read, if only in deadly earnest, like Jack Wrangler's flames per his flame, round the edges,**
**People, 1987: When Margaret Whiting met Jack Wrangler, she had no idea he was a star with 85 films under his belt -- including Raunch Ranch, Heavy Equipment and Summer Heat. Not even Rod Serling could have come up with this scenario: Famous pop singer (Whiting's hits include That Old Black Magic, Moonlight in Vermont and My Ideal) meets gay male porno star 22 years her junior. They fall madly in love and have been in this blissful state (yes, inquiring minds, the relationship is sexual) for 10 years. For the last eight years they have lived in Whiting's spacious midtown Manhattan apartment. In the words of T.S. Eliot: ''Oh, do not ask what is it, let us go and make our visit.''
... Both love to laugh, and humor often puts their relationship in perspective. Once, during an argument in a restaurant, Wrangler shouted at Whiting: ''I'm trying to tell you I'm a fucking faggot!'' Replied Margaret: ''Only around the edges, dear.''
political blogs of all persuasions***
***Including, but not limited in their imbecility to, The Shoptalk Around 'The Corner', The Couch Files with Jonah Goldbrick, Queen Sully, King Lahtifat, Little Seen Footfalls, Arianna H.R. Huffanpuff, Feminists Fisting as Fast as We Can Because We Can, Horton Hears a Queer, One-Hand Rubberband Man, Getting and Going Mad Not Glad, Bitching to Beat the Band, The Bitching Post, Kissin' Cousin Christopher's Bitchins' Post, Hickorydickerydocking Points Mammo, Angry Black Mama, The Black Mambo and The Snake She Wrote In On, CBS Eye: My Mammy, Don't Make Me Come Back There, Crunchy Condom, The Smith Brothers' Coughing Points Memo, Big Words from Little Dicks Grow, Six Inches to Sundown, The Cousins Gibb (later The Fighting Ceegeez, after the trio's naval deployment patrolling the waters just offshore from an orange grove south of San Diego), Snuffy's Myth, Choppin' With All My Might, Barmy Google, InsteadIPunnedIt, Full-Bodied Seamen (another naval blog, during the days of Don't Post, Don't Link), Beating Them Off With His Dick, Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman's Corns; some of these, to no weeping whatever save for that from joy in eternal beatitude, are no longer active
that in their serially bottomless ignorance fail to persuade?
Which is only a restatement of the more obvious question, Has there ever in all of pre-recorded post-Bang history been a collection of fucking nerds more colossal in their artless hivelike self-regard than the American political commentariat, whether in the much-abused "mainstream"****
****Or, among the ninety-two-year-old two-year-olds who read, and write under the name of, Michelle Malkin, "lamestream"
media, on cable, in journals of opinion, or across the gobblosphear (the last so-styled for the grain-guzzling turkeynecks compos[t]ing it in all their wattle-chinned red-ascot pretension)?
Civil if abusive libertarian, if not of the utopia-junkies' laissez-faire-radical economic sort, that I am whenever clinging to a principle over a precipice is either necessary or just handy, I tend to affect for the cameras a set-piece setting of my jaw against book burning in any form save for that required when our propane runs out.
But my got-up mojo for Milton and Mill, once so hot in days of yore and also mine, runs up against its inbuilt limits in these days of brummagem spoiled-brat rage on the cheapest of the cheap. Anyone know how you burn blogs? Or at least cut them, from the mightiest of redwoods to the sappiest of saplings, already, down to size - ideally to matchsticks or at most Popsicle sticks? Can you cut one down by going at its comments box with a proverb from an e-mail forward, i.e., a chain-letter saw? Because to merely tell them all to suck the proverbial bag of dicks is, after all, merely to risk a dunning letter from Louis C.K.'s brace - if not retainer - of copyright attorneys with a specialty in well-turned maledictions and anathemas. Speaking of which latter, I could use a good strong purgative anathema right now, assuming ReXalls still carry them, backed up in bottomless if big-bottomed loathing as I now see I am.*****
*****Watch for C.I.M., my latest Geiseline/Steigian essay in whimsically-drawn children's spy sagas - the title stands both for Clandestine Intrigue Minions and the closing line of the book's double-agent hero to its Moscow-stationed heroine when upon her sobbing plaint "I thought you were one of ours!" he removes his fur coat and hat to reveal a Super Dave Osborne suit and cap. It doesn't take an Einstein to read it, but that last line was inspired by an Einstein of another line of genius.
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