Neener neener, scream fans of Team Democrat, look at what hypocrites those Christian conservative fans of Team Republican are, voting for serial adulterer Newt Swingrich (TM) and I need say, neenerer, please: blowjobs, infidelities, or team loyalty. Obama, as portrayed, as far as we know, is a loyal faithful husbands in the Father Knows Best tradition, he has betrayed your Team Democrat fandom in bodycounts of dead civilians alone, Obama could tomorrow betray your deepest liberal article of faith and you'd still vote for him this November over anybody run by Team Republican.
Which Republican currently running, if elected POTUS, would make your head explode most? That's why Gingrich won South Carolina with the Christian conservative vote.
- Well, that and Romney not being of the body no matter how much he pretends to be self-absorbed.You're welcome.
- Graeber on power, ignorance, and stupidity. (h/t)
- Bomb Iran or be assassinated.
- Left to Obama: fight Citizens United. The Left is funny.
- Deceit in progress.
- Hollywood regroups.
- Killing the cloud.
- Two lessons from megaupload.
- By the way, please please please please please may Newt be GOP POTUS nominee. Please please please please please. Entertain me.
- While I find it inconceivable Gingrich will (a) be the nominee and (b) if he is beat Obama, I'd hold off on the Snoopy dances, Mr Professional Progressive.
- Mad Tebow party.
- Wind power without the blades.
- Fuck Baltimore County.
- Joe Paterno has died. Prepare now for the onslaught of obits and op-eds by promising yourself not to read any.
- 50 most quoted lines of English poetry.
- New Robert Pollard project in March. I must confess, the latest GbV did not rock my world nearly as much as Pollard's recent solo projects.
- A friend reminded my of Asylum Party.
It was Jessica Grim the American poet
who first advised me to read Violette Leduc.
Lurid conditions are facts. This is no different
from daily protests and cashbars.
I now unknowingly speed towards
which of all acts, words, conditions—
I am troubled that I do not know.
When I feel depressed in broad daylight
depressed by the disappearance of names, the pollen
smearing the windowsill, I picture
the bending pages of La Bâtarde
and I think of wind. The outspread world is
comparable to a large theatre
or to rending paper, and the noise it makes when it flaps
is riotous. Clothes swish through the air, rubbing
my ears. Promptly I am quenched. I’m talking
about a cheap paperback which fans and
slips to the floor with a shush. Skirt stretched
taut between new knees, head turned back, I
hold down a branch,