Archive for September, 2008

Thirty-some days left, time for the big closing number – All Crisis All The Time. Gosh, who could have imagined?

Well, at least the House killed that prettified-with-lipgloss Paulson atrocity today. I’m still waiting for an adult, any adult, to appear on the scene. Even all the brilliance and savvy and sincerity of a Barney Frank is just shilling for an unsustainable game. These people all still act like free ponies conjured out of nothing is a viable financial system. No one is serious. I never even hear the word “derivatives” on the MSM news. To hear the chirpy NPR babe tonight, you’d think the entire global financial system was melting down because a million Americans defaulted on their mortgages. (Oh, and what is this “predatory lending” you speak of?)

Among best things I read today was Stirling Newberry’s piece on Kos. I love how he delivers “duh” truths in a majestic, spare, founding-fatherish prose style:

If the powerful know that they can obtain any license merely by compounding failure upon failure, and then be unaccountable for the results, then we will have more failure.

(You’d think a thing like that would be obvious, wouldn’t you? But like I pointed out, there are no adults.)

Anyway, that’s just the economy. But if markets continue to roil, it wouldn’t surprise me if Bush has “national emergency” and martial law up his sleeve.

Nor would it surprise me if on top of all this, they toss a fresh match on the Middle East by bombing Iran.

Just sayin. They’re insane, after all. And there’s thirty-some days left. Chaos. Go big.

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(Can’t remember where I stole this from. Think it was Jeffraham Prestonian)

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I just turned off the debate because I couldn’t stand another second of Barack’s POLITE, PUSSIFIED, POLITE PUSSIFICATION.

I’m fucking sick of his speaking style, for that matter. The pauses annoy me. The polished rises and falls, the cadence, seem merely glib when the words are those of A PUSSY WHO WILL NOT ATTACK THE BROAD SIDE OF A FUCKING BARN DELIVERED ON A SILVER PLATTER WITH DANCING GIRLS AND A FUCKING BRASS BAND.

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Photo of the Year

Hands down.

(Thanks, Watertiger!)

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Well, if Nixon was gay and too drunk to stand unassisted.

Really though, doesn’t it look like Chimpy’s practicing for his Historic Final Prezdential Helicopter Ride Farewell Wave? Since it’ll be such a super-important Photo Legacy Moment, the word is he’s even hired several private coaches to help. Though RuPaul reportedly bowed out early, saying “I’ve done all I can – he’s just too big of a sissy. It’s too deep in him. He has this idea he’ll look like Ike or Churchill – but how can you do that while you’re swishing your hips like Betty Grable? Girl, please. Hopeless.”

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Operative word: fiction

From an interesting Danny Schecter piece at CommonDreams:

Across the pond where the Bank of England was joining other central bankers including the Fed in pumping additional billions into money markets, the right wing magazine of Tory leanings, The Spectator ran a piece that said; “FACE IT, MARX IS HALF RIGHT ABOUT CAPITALISM.” Oh the pain in that admission. The article focused on DEBT, the ‘d’-word that is so often conspicuous by its absence:

….This crisis exposes the element of basic unreality in the situation – the truth that almost unimaginable wealth has been generated by equally unimaginable levels of fiction, paper transactions with no concrete outcome beyond profit for traders. But while we are getting used to this sudden vision of the Emperor’s New Clothes, there are one or two questions that, in government as in society at large, we at last have a chance to ask.

Sigh … the only questions I see being asked in the USA still have to do with how to keep pushing the shitpile around and pretend it doesn’t exist.

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Sry Barry .. I iz bitch today

You know I didn’t mean that nasty stuff earlier, snookums. Just rude and awful. The only people I talk to like that are people in other cars who can’t hear me, in those rare instances where my zen slips. But today I’ve just been – well, fucking demented. Yes. With fury, rage, ire, disgust, horror, nausea, and that sinking feeling that never ends. And Barry, I’m still looking forward to your help with it. Srsly. Since I know you forgive me.

And if you don’t, I’ll just rename myself AT&T and consider myself off the hook.

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