Here's where I am: one week after Obama wetworked bin Laden I read a story in Your Fucking Washington Post about a hypothetical humanizing of Guantanamo that either won't happen or will be extraordinarily limited, and I say there are no accidents, this isn't a coincidence, after a week of wOOting over Osama's head split open like a melon it's time to be turn the propaganda dial back to Compassionate America. Snore. A new campaign of Muslim outreach is no doubt in the plans too.
Ork ork ork! Beyond that, a day to let the scabs heal before I scratch them off and ork in the gore tomorrow and the day after and the day after or not.
- Hey Joe.
- Our depravity.
- There are no accidents.
- On the above.
- In all seriousness.
- Also in YFWP, wetfart.
- Crises of capitalism.
- Death of mcmansions?
- Blegsylvania dying, yo.
- Adopt a dog?
- Frederick County road closures.
- A hundred highways.
- Orb and kitten. Sorry for the shrapnel. It was meant to be me.
- Shoot me.
- Listen to Irwin.
SONG OF YES AND NO [COFFEE & DOLLS]
It was a storefront for a small-time numbers runner, pretending to be some sort of grocery. Coffeemakers and Bustello cans populated the shelves, sparsely. Who was fooled. The boxes bleached in the sun, the old guys sat inside on summer lawn chairs, watching tv. The applause from the talk shows and game shows washed out the propped-open door like distant rain. It closed for a few months. The slick sedan disappeared. One spring day, it reopened, and this time a sign decorated the window: COFFEE & DOLLS. Yarn-haired, gingham-dressed floppy dolls lolled among the coffee cans. A mastiff puppy, the size and shape of a tipped-over fire hydrant, guarded as the sedan and the old guys returned. I don't know about you, but I've been looking for a narrative in which suffering makes sense. I mean, the high wail of the woman holding her dead child, the wail that filled the street. I mean the sudden fatal blooms on golden skin. I mean the crack deaths, I mean the ice-cream truck that cruised the alphabets and sold crack to the same deedle-dee-dee tune as fudgsicles. I mean the raw scabs of the beaten mastiff, and many other things.
death of McMansions?ReplyDelete
Not in Bethesda. Tearing down small houses and putting up monsters continues apace.
Yeah, we really don't live in the rest of America.ReplyDelete
The NYT isn't going to let the WaPoop have the puke-cannon all to itself.ReplyDelete
P.S. I just now realized that you'd indirectly linked that by linking to Doghouse Riley, whose post I'd commented on yesterday. But I was more focused on the WaPoop/Chris Cillizza at that time. Damn do they both suck now.
You forgot to mention the part about the time machine that takes everyone back to when the Who wasn't a maggot-infested cadaver.ReplyDelete
I just hope the Guantanamo theme park souvenir shirts have a cool design on them.
Dig that shot of Fleabus.