I’ll be honest: I don’t have any insights into Dan Rather’s lawsuit against CBS and the tossing thereof. I just wanted to draw Dan Rather with a banana clamped to his head.
I hate Dan Rather.
Hate him like Gloria Swanson hated the talkies. Always have done. There’s something humorless and plodding and mean about him. And phony. Phony as Dolly Parton’s left tit in Madame Tussaud’s parlor. Steyn said, in one of his I-wish-I’d-said-that columns,
Dan’s been play-acting at being a reporter for so many years now — the suspenders, the loosened tie, and all the other stuff that would look great if he were auditioning for a cheesy dinner-theater revival of ”The Front Page”; the over-the-top intros: ”Bob Schieffer, one of the best hard-nosed reporters in the business, has been working his sources. What have you managed to uncover for us, Bob?”, after which Bob reads out a DNC press release.
Wikipedia absurdly says of 60 Minutes, “the show pioneered many of the most important investigative journalism techniques, including re-editing interviews, hidden cameras, and ‘gotcha’ visits to the home or office of an investigative subject.”
Dude. Slash-and-burn editing and ambushing a company director before he’s had his first cup of coffee is not journalism, it’s dumb hack theater. 60 Minutes so outraged my infant sense of fair play, it pushed me down the first flight of steps from apolitical to proud poo-flinging ‘winger basement monkey.
If I had to nail the moment civility went out of modern political discourse, I’d nail it smack in the middle of Dan Rather’s massive forehead.
Rumor has it Dan put up $5mil of his own money to float this suit. Let’s hope he feels every dollar of it. Like flossing a dog’s butt with razor wire. Like shoving butter up a cat’s ass with a hot awl.
Aiiiiii…please make me stop!
September 30, 2009 — 6:06 pm
I signed up for Twitter ages ago — before I left the States, I think — and occasionally, I get notification that someone is following me. But beyond that, I haven’t touched it. I haven’t really got the rhythm of the thing.
I signed up for FaceBook at the same time, under my people name, and I kind of get the rhythm of that. I change my status every few days and once or twice a day, I check in to see what my buds from Rho d’Island are up to. Though, even then, way too much of the traffic is some paste-eating mouth-breather from High School telling me what’s for supper.
Oh. Yeah. I’m also a level 125 Fearless El Jefe Experto in Mafia Wars. Yes, that kindofa loser.
So, tell me how you use Twitter. Do you mostly follow people, or topics? How do you know when something interesting is going on? Do you talk back and forth? Does it become like a conversation? How much of it is paste-eating mouther-breather dinner menus? Is it just something to fill the time when Hot Air hasn’t updated for an hour, or have you found it genuinely useful?
Inquiring weasels want to know.
September 29, 2009 — 5:21 pm
Iowahawk, of whom I am a huge fan-grrl, is having an art contest. At stake is a generous arts grant of thirty three dollar and eighteen cents.
These moneys, they am not good here. Our moneys are pretty color and they has a picture of a old lady in a sparkly hat.
Still…art contest. How can a weasel resist?
Okay, mine isn’t quite finished, but here’s the current draft. Yes, the full sized one is color. The contest doesn’t close until Sunday, so I have time to get this just right.
It’s imitative of the moving style of Gig and Keane and their richly evocative pity kitties. I suppose you could call it a Pity President.
In the first draft, he was licking his sore paw. But somehow, painting the presidential tongue was kind of. I don’t know. You know?
September 28, 2009 — 6:28 pm
Princess Bernie for the win! Susan Atkins, Manson grrl and stabber of Sharon Tate, died in prison, aged 61. During her stay, she renounced Manson and found Jesus. Jesus was apparently unimpressed, as Atkins contracted brain cancer and died a slow and horrible death. Yay!
Ummm…I don’t feel quite right mailing a copy of Nuts to someone named Princess Bernie. It just don’t seem etiquette. Especially in light of the sheer fabulousity of the next prize. Perhaps we can negotiate something, Princess.
Meanwhile — fingers on keyboards! Step up and pick yer stiff. You know the drill — one per customer. First come, first served. Any kind of celebrity (excluding death row inmates with executions penciled in — Allen, you sneaky bastard). Type fast and snag the good ones. Strangers and noobs welcome. You’re SO going to want this prize.
September 25, 2009 — 4:21 pm
So we were watching the late TV news roundup last night — Obama at the UN, I think it was — and Uncle B suddenly says, “did you see what he just did there?”
I didn’t, but they helpfully replayed the clip: there was a toast, Obama conspicuously raised his glass all around, and then quickly palmed it without taking even a sip. Just whipped it behind his back and disappeared it. Most odd.
So I went and did a Google images search, and all of the pictures I could find of Obama with a glass of hooch, he’s either holding up a full one, or making a weird smoochie face in the glass like in this picture. You gotta open your mouth to drink a beverage, sport.
Sadly, I don’t think I can spin it into a good teetotal-Obama-is-a-secret-Muslim yarn. I suspect he probably does actually touch the stuff occasionally (Politico says he does). It was just…a conspicuously weird thing to do for a toast.
Personally, I’m more bothered by the sinister take-over of American politics. Obama means half the American presidents since WWII have been left handed. Boo!
Oh, and I’m delighted to see the theory that Bill Ayers actually wrote Obama’s Dreams from my Father has gotten reinforcement. Even if it is from a less-than-unimpeachable quarter.
Once more, for laughs, one of only two pieces of literature known for sure to be written by Obama himself:
Under water grottos, caverns
Filled with apes
That eat figs.
Stepping on the figs
That the apes
Eat, they crunch.
The apes howl, bare
Their fangs, dance,
Tumble in the
Musty, wet pelts
Glistening in the blue.
Yeah, I probably wrote pomes that sucked that hard. When I was twelve. When I was 19? Not so much.
September 24, 2009 — 7:00 pm
Looks like ACORN is going to sue Breitbart and the video kidz under the Maryland law that requires consent of both parties to recording. Save this precious idea for the Museum of Dumb Moves.
I’m sure none of the defendants will have any problem making lawyer money (or even damages, since they are clearly guilty under the oddball Maryland law), and this will blast the thing into the legacy media. For a long, long time. Until perhaps the Obamacorn might be forced to comment.
Thank you, O lord, for the sheer boneheaded dumbassery of our enemies.
September 23, 2009 — 7:02 pm
I was just sitting here with my feet up — I picked a shitload of blackberries and made a shitload of delicious bramble jam (which is what you call it when you make blackberry jam from wild berries) — when it dawned on me…I posted that rude M’chelle picture last night. I have to come up with a post for today.
So, please accept this picture of a mummy gull and a baby gull what I took at the beach a few days ago. Okay, that might be a daddy gull, but the speckledy one is definitely a juvenile. They stay spotty like that for a couple of years and hang around their parents. Ummm…if I remember my birdiculture correctly.
Note that the adult bird is banded. The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds is all over our area.
Thanks to everyone who threw me a link today. Nothing like a ‘lanche to cheer the dessicated lump of pure evil I call a heart.
September 22, 2009 — 8:20 pm
I was going to add a snappy headline in Klingon but, sumofabitch, I don’t know any. Some geek I turn out to be.
And no, I don’t feel a bit guilty making fun of M’chelle.
We Righties were absolutely savagely insulting to Hillary Clinton in the most personal way. Her hair. Her cankles. Good ol’ Crusty the Pantsuit. She mostly deserved it, injecting her bad self and her bad politics into the presidency way over what a First Broad ought. You choose a life of celebrity politics, you hang the Kick Me sign on your back with your own hand.
(But, you know, I developed a sneaking admiration for her by the time it was all over. Baracky the Wonder Dog swooped in at the last minute and STOLE the prize she has worked and suffered and schemed for her whole damn life. And she stood there and took it. Took it like a man).
Yeah, I know. We flinch when it comes to the Obamas. It’s like nobody can imagine how to make fun of people who happen to be black without descending into the toxic racist iconography of last century.
Well, I can imagine such a thing. I can imagine a zillion heartwarming, magical ways to make fun of these people without going there.
At least, I’m pretty sure I can think up enough mockery to last us four years. Please god I don’t has to do it for eight.
Come on. You want it in big, beautiful color. You know you do.
September 21, 2009 — 7:39 pm
And so ends the week on a cheap shot. That I pinched from Drudge.
Honestly, I’d feel bad making fun of Michelle’s fashion sense (I’m no runway model, myself) if they weren’t forever putting her on the cover of Vogue and calling her the beautifullest, elegantest first lady since Jackie O.
You push; I push back.
What’s that around her middle, anyhow? A hose clamp?
Good weekend, everyone!
September 18, 2009 — 7:48 pm
Well, well. Looks like ACORN is well on the way to getting itself defunded after a series of embarrassing hidden camera revelations. I know you know this. I have to give all the background in the first graph, otherwise I come back in a year or two and think what the holy poo was I talking about? This stuff fades fast.
Now, ACORN is chock full of villains and bad actors, all of them up to their nipples in duff mortgages and voter fraud. So, you know, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. But I confess having just…just a little teeny tiny touch of sympathy with them over the actual sting.
I flipping hate hidden camera stuff. And that thing Dan Rather used to do on 60 Minutes, where he’d run across the employee parking lot at seven in the morning, shove a microphone in some dude’s face and scream, “do you eat babies?!” And that confused, hasn’t-had-his-coffee-yet moment you can see the man thinking, “Wait! Aw, shit! Do I?”
Fluffy baby bunnies look shifty on shaky-cam.
And the people who work in urban help centers are not fluffy baby bunnies. Pretty much nobody but down-and-outs really want to spend their days working with down-and-outs. Just the way it is.
I know, I know. They thought they were helping set up a child sex ring.
Maybe. I’m not sure.
If I’m a grizzled inner-city aid worker, and these two skinny goofy-ass middle-class white kids come in asking for help getting a start in organized crime…I am SO TOTALLY going to play along and screw with their heads.
Or is it just me?
September 17, 2009 — 6:17 pm