If you've been paying attention to football this last year, you probably know Snyder as the staunch defender of an unambiguously racist name who can't stop putting a loafer in his mouth every time he opens it.Snyder has marshaled every resource of the rich white asshole invoking tradition to defend the indefensible. There's this pro-Redskins AstroTurf campaign from a giant PR firm. There's Snyder co-opting any local media going knives-out on the name or the fact that his team is stupendously mismanaged. There's from Indian tribes. There's Snyder trotting out who , when he's not recently kicked out of office under corruption allegations and in disgust at partnering with Snyder's "," a disingenuous whitewash PR group. There's Snyder sticking his fingers in his ears and pretending the Redskins were named to "honor" an "Indian" coach who turned out to be . Or sometimes he decides the name is meant to "honor" Indian "heritage" in general, and not to identify the team with a much more popular baseball franchise.And that's just the name. You could go on for pages about the paranoid, Hitler-in-the-bunker mentality of the team, or the blithe unconcern with a shredded field and player health that already nearly Cuisinarted RG III's knee. And you could go on for pages and pages and pages of what a clusterfuck of tire fires the Redskins have become under Snyder's tenure, all set ablaze by the flaming sack of dogshit that is what passes for his conscience. In fact, someone already has. , because he wanted to see if the size of his war chest would back them down. Because he could. Because he's Daniel Snyder, and because fuck you. Fuck your access to a true narrative, fuck your local pride, fuck your fandom, fuck your pocketbook, fuck your fun and fuck a genocide. to every contemptuous, miserly, greed-headed, soul-dead move Snyder has pulled in D.C., every bit of it true. Snyder
Whatafucker. I'm thankful for Tiny Daimon Snyder, Ferengi, Triskelion, metonym of clusterfuck. Hate I can embrace, hate I can focus, hate I can enjoy. Gratuitous, self-indulgent, delicious impotent hate.
- Yes, predictable. Shoot me.
- A brief Thanksgiving message.
- Ferguson: Some people think of anthropology as an inherently leftist discipline, one dedicated in principle with fighting for social justice. For some, that’s a bug. For others, it’s a feature. I personally disagree with this position. I don’t think anthropology is or ought to be inherently political. For many of our colleagues around the world, an essentially political anthropology seems a uniquely American obsession. For that reason, I feel like I can’t state this clearly enough: You don’t have to be an activist to believe in pervasive, pernicious, institutionalized racism in American life. You just have to be paying attention.
- The Disgrace of Our Criminal Justice.
- I didn't kill Michael Brown, I voted!
- Nation doesn't know if it can take another bullshit speech about healing.
- Why it's impossible to indict police.
- Ferguson: There was never any chance that Darren Wilson would be charged; the prosecutor acted as defense attorney, not as prosecutor; a grand jury, for all intents and purposes does what the prosecutor tells it to; doing the announcement at 8pm at night was intended to incite violence; police in America are completely out of control, and police have a license to kill; this is bad for anyone, but it is terrible for African Americans and Muslims.
- Death to death.
- Variations on a theme.
- Ruins of our present future.
Lately, the weather aches;
the air is short of breath,
and morning stumbles in, stiff-jointed.
Day by day, the sun bores the sky,
until the moon begins
its some disappearing act,
making the oceans yawn.
Even the seasons change
with a throb of weariness—
bud, bloom, leaf, fall.
If it would help,
I would paint my house silver
or sell it or buy
a red convertible.
I would, but who am I
to try to cheer up
the self-indulgent universe.