- Next month Obama would receive approval to raise the debt ceiling $700 billion.
- A "resolution of disapproval" would then be taken up by Congress on an expedited basis (i.e., no filibusters allowed).
- If the resolution passes, Obama can veto it.
- If he vetoes it, it requires a two-thirds vote of both houses to override.
- If there's no override, the debt limit is increased, but Obama would be required to lay out a "hypothetical" set of budget cuts totalling $700 billion.
- This would be repeated (in $900 billion increments) in the fall of 2011 and summer of 2012.
The GOP Branch Office of Corporate can't be this stupid on purpose, proposing this transparently cynical plan just two hours after Obamadick told you no catfood for you in August, the motherf.....
Look who's fifty-one! today!
Aarp! Aarp! Aarp!
I was going to obsessively whine about my complicity and then bleggalgaze morosely, but instead I got you kittens! I'll drop them off Saturday.
- You're so easy to rule.
- Fear the coven.
- Motherfucking crackers.
- Vox populi.
- I saw this pigfucker in the Social Safeway a few weeks ago and shame
lesslyfully didn't call him a pigfucker to his face.
- I have no idea who this fucker is at YWFP, but he asks his question without a dollop of irony.
- Holyfuck, I agree with Dana Milbank: whack this fucker with a shovel.
- Things you might have missed.
- This week's stuff.
- Why soccer is not a real sport.
- I'm pissed United isn't playing tonight.
- I can't go into why today is going to ucksay at orkway, but one reason is that I can't watch - or even track - the USWNT gave versus France.
- Please put ::wood s lot:: into what feedreader you use.
- Try it before you buy it.
- Better than Camper van Beethoven.
EMPIRE OF DAYS
When I finally took power in the Nomenclature, simply by outlasting my rivals, never arriving early or too late at the meetings, repertoire of sage nods, my mind had distanced itself from the world. I no longer knew to whom I was talking, or the topic, though I was certain of myself. Hunger and desire lasted, savage as in boyhood. It was the names that flew away, leaving a maze of empty nests.
I had devoted myself to the constellation of slights, shades of loyalty... now the maps rolled in front of me - a gesture of traditionalism, they could easily be projected - and the pincer movements of the army conveyed by pushpins.
What army? What remote border? Who are the fat or excessively thin men in visored caps waiting for me to speak? Who is the soft-lipped stenographer?
So the great victory was won, the Visigoths or Aleuts turned back, the Nile and Ganges were dammed, and my name is carved into the plinth of the statue by a mason who works so slowly... a tap at dawn, a tap at dusk: is he dreaming of home?