Okay, I'm not sure how a blog carnival works, but I'm doing one of idiots. Post up links to or stories of the biggest idiots you've ever known; or maybe just idiots ripped from the headlines. There's the usual suspects like Cindy Sheehan, but here are some more:
People Blaming Katrina on Global Warming - Namely, these Germans and RFK Jr. You're all idiots. Glen ('Heh' yourself you pithy pundit you) and the NYT talk hurricane cycles and explain why you're stupid. I mean, other than the fact that you obviously suffer from a mental disease that disallows you to form logically based arguments and that you're probably too ignorant to find your way out of a wet paper bag with scissors in your hands. And a fucking map.
The lady at work who pulled her skirt down to show me her hugely disgusting belly, upon which she had tatooed a pixy. Very classy dear.
Bill. Because he's probably the only person on the internet who knows less about it than I do. It's lonely at the bottom isn't it buddy?
The cellphone=tumor people. You can put away your tinfoil hats and shit now; it's been debunked.
And of course, myself. Because what kind of idiot calls people out via the internet, and expects everyone to agree with him. You fool!
So yeah, if you know of any idiots, post links or trackback with your stories. It's Carnival time!
Dear Bill,
Your blog is about as screwed up as the gulf coast right now. I’m talking about this blog. I say that because you also have a blog rotting on the vine here, and another one someplace else where you sell fake diplomas.
I don’t know what you’ve done to the comments on this blog, the one you’re trying to use, but they don’t work. And let’s face it, without comments you’ve got nothing. That target rich environment you call a blog requires comments, lest we have no way to abuse you.
You have a perfectly serviceable munu blog, but it’s been abandoned in favor of that latest blogspot debacle. I suspect you forgot your password and not knowing what else to do, you simply fled into the night, embarrassed and unnoticed.
I offer no remarks on your diploma blog.
You could install comments from haloscan on your current blog. Even you could probably do that unassisted. This would enable me to leave nasty comments and help pass the day. Or you could walk back down the road to your old munu blog, by having Pixy shoot the lock off.
I have been forced to post this here because you didn’t have the decency or the intelligence to leave an email addy on any of your fucked up blogs.
Please take some sort of action immediately.
I apologize to the public at large for having to address this completely FUBAR situation out here in the front yard.
For somebody to say the devastation in New Orleans is God's punishment for their sins and depravity. I know it's coming. I know it's already been said somewhere, probably many somewheres, I've just been avoiding the places where it's most likely to happen so I've been able to miss it.
But eventually, somewhere, whether it's on the street, waiting in line at the store, in the break room or while out having a smoke, I'm going to hear those fateful words.
And then I'm going to punch that person right in the throat.
I’ve avoided saying anything about New Orleans since the ordeal has actually taken place but I have to voice an opinion here before I have a stroke over it.
It’s quite simple really. Death to all looters. I’ve been through hurricanes, including Andrew--a category five storm. I’ve been without power for weeks, had nothing to eat, the whole nine yards. However, as miserable as that was for me, I had a lot going for me. I still had a structure to live in. Damaged, to be sure, but I still had most of my possessions and a leaky roof over my head.
These poor bastards on the gulf coast have nothing left in many, many instances. Nothing. The sum total of their lives has been wiped fucking clean. They have nowhere to go and no hope for the foreseeable future. And anyone who would take advantage of a situation like this is beyond my contempt.
Looters have already shot a cop in the head in New Orleans. I would have no problem executing these savages with no remorse.
From here:
“A giant new Wal-Mart in New Orleans was looted, and the entire gun collection was taken, The Times-Picayune reported. "There are gangs of armed men in the city moving around the city," said Ebbert, the city's homeland security chief. Also, looters tried to break into Children's Hospital, the governor's office said.”
My response would be to end this problem right now. I’m a martial law kind of guy. One warning shot below the waist before I unload a clip.
I’ve never been big on leniency.
Victor here, taking up more slack. At least I'm not neglecting my own blog as much as I normally do.
So, over at Publius & Co. I took a little quiz that I got offa my gf's blog, that she got offa somebody else's, who got it from Cthullu-knows-who...you get the idea. I realized Jim hadn't taken the test yet so I did it for him! Keep in mind I've never met Jim, and the only picture I've seen of him has him sucking on a cow's teat, so I filled this out by, basically, clicking on whatever the hell I felt like. In all honesty, it wasn't as much fun as I thought it'd be.
Maybe Jim shoulda took the "Leading Ladies" quiz instead.
This has been bugging me. Not Ilyka's post itself, but rather the topic dissected therein. You see, there are three things I really can't stand: idiots, poseurs, and idiot poseurs. They rankle me. It seriously bothers me that people without a basic rational understanding of logic can pretend to offer arguments.
This fellow Robert Crook, a blogger for Salon, makes the following arguments:
Cindy Sheehan is against the Iraq war.Her opinion is valid because her son died there.
Tammy Pruett supports the Iraq war.
Her opinion is invalid because her son did not die there.
Lets boil that down:
The prerequisite to having a valid opinion on the war in Iraq is the traumatic loss of a son in Iraq.
Given that Mr.Crook has not lost a son in Iraq, his argument invalidates his own opinion of the war in Iraq.
That, my friends, is the mental misfiring of an idiot poseur.
UPDATE: Charmaine's post, where Crook supporters are busy saying "HE DID NOT!"
Well, HE DID TOO:
Tammy [Pruett] can get back to us with what she thinks of Gee Dubya's Gulf War II if one of her immediate family members is killed.
Her: I did something bad today.
Me:...What?
Her: I went shopping.
Me:...And?
Her: I spent $XXX.
Me (laughing):...What the hell did you buy for that much money?
Her: Two pairs of jeans and six pairs of shoes.
Me(laughing harder, because crying is not an option): What are you going to do; go barefoot on Sunday?
I laughed until I got in the shower and then I cried, so the water would hide my tears. Tears of hysterical laughter mind you, but tears nonetheless. She wants to take our seperate bank accounts and put them together in one account when we get married. I guess she thinks if we pool our resources we can really take advantage of the investment goldmine that is the Women's Accessories department at Dilliards.
UPDATE: Not sure how I got back into it but I did and this is topical again. The game is on!
I had an interesting imaginary conversation with our normally sweet though rabidly lefty neighbor. It went something like this:
Neighbor: I can't believe you voted against Kerry in the primary.[Note - I'm not a registered Democrat but in Georgia all voters may vote in whichever primary they choose to. Since voting for or against Bush in the Republican primary was a moot point I voted in the Democratic primary.]
Me: I don't like him. If Bush loses I want the person who is President to be the best possible candidate and Kerry isn't that candidate.
Neighbor: IIIIIIFFFFF Bush loses?!?!?! Of course he's going to lose! We're going to knock that lying bastard out of the White House!
Me: Oh, Lordy. You aren't one of those "Bush lied, people died" folk are you?
Neighbor: Of course. He did lie and those lies led directly to people dying so damn straight "Bush lied, people died".
Me: What lie did he tell?
Neighbor: He talked about all of...
Me: Woah! I didn't ask what he talked about. I want to know what he actually said.
Neighbor: He said that...
Me: Stop! I don't want to hear that "He said that...", I want to hear what he himself personally said. What literal lie came out of his mouth?
Neighbor: I'm trying to tell you what he said!
Me: No, you're trying to tell me an interpretation of what he said. Tell me the exact words that came out of his mouth that were deliberate and calculated untruths.
Neighbor: Nobody knows exact words. That's crazy. I couldn't give you the exact words for this conversation we're having right now.
Me: Anybody who wants to can have the exact words that Bush said. They are all recorded for posterity and publicly available. Let's forget about knowing the actual words for a moment. Have you yourself heard the actual words?
Neighbor: Don't patronize me. I keep informed, Jim. I do listen to the news and read the paper.
Me: I know you do, otherwise I wouldn't bother to have this conversation with you. I'm serious here - have you yourself heard and recognized a lie out of Bush's mouth? Have you read his actual words, uncut, unexerpted and un-ellipsed and seen a lie there? Or are you propagating a personal attack on a man based solely on what third parties have said.
Neighbor: [Fuming silence]
Me: Okay, why don't we pick this up later after you've had some time to do some research?
So I've got a challenge to anybody and everybody who's part of the "Bush lied, people died" crowd. This is not sarcastic and it's not meant to denigrate anybody. I've seen dozens of people who I respect react with this knee-jerk slogan. I myself have never seen or heard an intentional untruth from Bush. If he actually did lie then the proof of it is out there. Show me. Prove it. If you are willing to mouth the words against the man then the least you can do as a person of honor is to verify that what you are saying about him is true. Since you'll be out doing that for your own peace of mind, share it with me here when you are done.
Here's what I'm looking for:
- Actual literal quotes from George Bush
- They must be in context, unedited, un-ellipsed, unmodified in any way. Exactly as they came from the horse's mouth, so to speak.
- They must be linked and referenced. I must be able to go and view the source for myself.
- They must contain intentional fallacies that directly led to US forces going to war in Iraq.
Leave them in the comments to this post. Each instance of a qualifying Bush lie that is reported here will be rewarded with a Snooze Point or two and the eternal thanks of the masses.
Next time you visit a “blogspot” blog you’ll notice a new little flag you can click if you find the content objectionable. They claim on the site that they’re not endorsing censorship and even add the line, “…we prefer to keep in mind that one person's vulgarity is another's poetry.”
Fair enough. Maybe.
“We track the number of times a blog has been flagged as objectionable and use this information to determine what action is needed.”
Now I have to ask, wouldn’t the world at large benefit more if they had a flag to click if the content just plain sucked? Or the blogger was an asshole? Because I’m here to tell you, I really see more potential in going that route.
The best idea I’ve heard in a while, courtesy of the Borowitz Report:
“ARMY TO RECRUIT AT MTV MUSIC AWARDS
Rappers Could Skip Firearms Training, Pentagon Believes
He said that by recruiting soldiers at the MTV Music Awards, the Army would be gaining a pool of enlistees who would require no firearms training whatsoever, saving the Pentagon and U.S. taxpayers billions of dollars a year.
“Teaching these guys how to use a gun would be a serious waste of time,” Mr. Rumsfeld said. “It would be like teaching Courtney Love how to snort powder up her nose.”
While the Defense Secretary would not specify how the Army would induce rappers to enlist, he told reporters, “We are fully prepared to offer them a Cadillac Escalade, and we may throw in a ho or two as well.”
Meanwhile, I've got nothing.
My old lady and I are both addicted to French Market brand coffee. It’s from New Orleans and quite simply, no other coffee will do.
Over the weekend the old lady started to comb all the local grocery stores and buy as many cans of the stuff as she could get her hands on. She’s afraid that if the hurricane hits New Orleans we could be without our beloved French Market coffee for months. Moments ago, I received this email from my wife:
“I bought two more cans at the store today (all they had) and I plan to continue cleaning out the other stores for all I can find. I hope I can beat others to it. I’m sure that most normal people are still worried about the loss of life and destruction of property. I’m worried about that too, of course, but I’ve been addicted to this coffee for over a decade. I don’t know if I can live without it. You could say that I am also worried about the destruction of property, it’s just that I’m concerned with one specific place: The French Market Coffee Company.”
Emphasis mine.
I live for stuff like this. Some wack-job broke into a house five nights in a row to steal a woman’s panties. The woman’s husband was understandably pissed off and set up a home made alarm with a bra, string and coffee cup. When the thief set off the alarm the husband beat the living shit out of him with a wooden leg from his child’s crib. The affidavit makes for an entertaining read. And of course, there’s a picture of the thief all beat to hell.
Oh, I forgot, and the perv kept his collection of panties in a lunchbox next to his bed.
I’m not sure when I got on the bus. Probably five years ago, give or take. The past all clumps together for me like a long ribbon that’s balled up in a drawer. I couldn’t tell you if I boarded the bus under my own free will or if I was pushed. But here I sit and there seems to be nothing I can do about it.
This is how I see life much of the time; through the bus window. It is how time passes. I’m removed from the actual experience. I’m no longer a participant. My emotions are compressed, no great highs or lows. I simply watch as the bus drives along, never fast or slow, and never changing speeds.
I can clearly remember a time before the bus. When I actually lived life. When I had a burning need to go out, talk to people, socialize. I can clearly remember living my life to its fullest. Sometimes I can clearly remember the tiniest detail of an event. And how I felt. Alive. Vibrant. Bigger than life itself. I was once a character from every novel ever written. I could feel someone turning the pages, watching, completely engrossed in my story—just as I was. For the most part now, I can’t be bothered. I suspect I’ve been hypnotized by life. Keep your eyes on the watch…you’re getting sleepy...sleepy.
Mind you I’m not walking around with my eyes glazed over, slow and weary. I’ve got a spring in my step. I like a good laugh. I’m not depressed, on the contrary, I’m upbeat and I’m usually in a pretty good mood. And I’m not always on the bus.
Often I’ll find myself on terra firma, walking around like a normal person. It usually happens when I’m getting laid, or laughing. A lot of times I’m thrown from the bus by a random asshole that has run a shopping cart up the back of my foot in the cereal aisle. Or honked his horn at me for not making a right on red where it is clearly posted No right turn on red. I suspect these fuckers are the ones who opened the bus door for me in the first place.
I went through a McDonald’s drive-through yesterday at the insistence of the kid. And though there was only one vehicle in line in front of me the episode took twenty-five minutes. Two assholes in a Mercedes 600 felt the need to order a shitload of cheeseburgers all custom made. I could hear them ordering because they were screaming.
“No onions on two of them, and one with no ketchup. Now, on the quarter pounders…”
As they pulled up to the next window they were too far away and had to back up not once but twice, so that they could continue the transaction. Then they started unwrapping all of the cheeseburgers to make sure that each was just right. It was a painful experience. I was not on the bus for this one. It was happening in real time. My wife reached over and squeezed my hand, knowing that I was reaching the point of confrontation.
Eventually we got our shit and got back on the road. And once again I boarded the bus and took my seat.
A little farther from the door this time.
Remember the old joke about a woman going on vacation and leaving her cat with her brother? The cat gets hit by a car and when the woman returns a week later the brother says, “Your cat’s dead, he was hit by a car.”
The woman goes ballistic.
“Puffy’s dead? How could just blurt it out like that? You should have called one day and said that Puffy was on the roof and you couldn’t get her down. The next day you could have called and said that Puffy was still stuck and things looked bleak. A few calls like that would have prepared me for this! It wouldn’t be such a shock!”
Then the brother says, “I’m really sorry. By the way, Grandma’s on the roof and we can’t get her down.”
Well, think about that when you read this. I’m fucking speechless.
Via On the Patio
I'm a better commenter than I am a blogger. Sometimes When I sit down to blog, I'm like - what the fuck? I don't even know what I'm doing here! I think I lack a little basic creativity. The mental inertia to get the ball moving. But when I'm commenting, the hurdle is removed. They set 'em up, I knock 'em down. I mean, if you ask me anyways. I'm sure Jen thinks I'm a fratastic loser and Goldstein probably can't even tell the difference between me and the rest of the freaks cruising his place. But I know. And that's all that matters!
I watched a man make a presentation today, in which he tripped over the most unfortunate succession of spoonerisms and Freudian slips I have ever seen. It was painful to watch, but it's funny to share.
There's a guy, Joe we'll call him, who works in a division we work with a lot who has a great relationship with his boss. He's a young gun, but knows his stuff well; and his boss is a woman, let's call her Mary, of about fifty. Both are very sharp people, and a lot of the time they play off of eachother. I always thought they had a great dynamic going on.
Anyways, the guy's presenting an idea today in a steering committee meeting. At the end of his presentation he opens it up to questions, and Mary fires one right at him. It was a pretty good question, but we knew she was softballing it to him just to make sure he'd done his work. She said something like "Joe I know you're not stupid enough to have overlooked the blah blah blah" in a faux combative manner. Joe volley's back in an equal tone, "Of course I didn't you silly tit."
BEEEEEeeeeooooooooo. That's the sound of time screeching to a halt; I know becuase I heard it right after Joe's one liner. None of us had any idea what the hell he was thinking, calling Mary a fucking tit. I was beside myself trying not to laugh, trying not to point my finger in that way anyone with siblings knows: "OOOOOOOO! You're so TOAST!"
Time speeds back up: "...you silly tit. Twat." Now, above when I said time came to halt; well this time it hit a brick wall. I mean, I thought I was going to pass out. This guy just followed tit with twat! WTF Joe!
"...silly tit. Twat. I mean twit. I meant twit." This all happened very fast, like so: "Of course I did you silly tit..twatImeanttwit. TWIT." Of course, by the time that sorry bastard hit twat and before he was onto twit, Mary was fucking two shades past maroon and looked like she was going to burst. Joe's almost pleading with her. She broke for the door and Joe just stood there laughing nervously. none of us knew what to do . I mean, I wanted to laugh my ass off, but I wasn't going to draw any attention to myself.
I can't wait to see Joe at work tomorrow, "Sup tit."
I got caught taking the garbage out in my underwear again yesterday. This time the old lady across the street stood staring while I pretended I wasn’t walking around outside in my briefs. I could tell she was thinking about confronting me because at one point she took a few steps forward, hesitated and then back-peddled when I waved at her. She did not return my greeting.
That’s the third incident in about that many months with regards to the garbage. I have no love of going out there in my underwear, but sometimes it can’t be helped. Like when I just woke up and I hear the goddamned garbage truck coming. If I take it out the night before some kind of feral beasts knock it over and then I’ve got to clean it up.
The first time I got caught it was by the third world guy who lives caddy corner across the street. I don’t know where those people are from but they know no shame. He actually started a conversation with me about the common area landscaping. And while I’m standing there chatting on the sidewalk wearing only my Hane’s briefs, half the neighborhood starts coming outside to get newspapers, go to work or adjust their sprinkler heads. Cars were going by—the whole nine yards. By the time I extricated myself from the foreign guy I felt like a fucking idiot. He’s going on and on about tree trimming and every time someone came outside he’d call over to them and wave which was drawing more and more attention.
The first time was certainly the most embarrassing. It was just getting light outside and I sprinted with the single trash can held in front of me. I slammed it down on the curb and when I looked up I saw that everyone else had their recycling out as well. That meant two more trips and the garbage truck was only four houses away. With two cars in my driveway there’s not much room left in terms of width so I have to dart across the grass to the garage. I got the cans/bottles container out okay but the old hag across the way was now out putting letters in her mailbox. She looked genuinely shocked. And disturbed. I sprinted back to the garage, thinking fuck the paper and cardboard container, but the grass was wet from the sprinklers and I ended up falling and sliding. My underwear was soaking fucking wet.
At that point I was just pissed off. I calmly got up and got the third container and brought it out to the curb. The old lady and I were twenty feet apart. My underwear was soaking wet from the grass and had mud stains and everything. My legs were muddy, and I had bits of grass sticking to me. I had no hope left. I said, “Good morning.”
She just stared at me, unmoving. Unbelieving. Fortunately the garbage truck literally came between us, and as it stopped to pick up at my place I went back inside. As the garage door was closing I bent down to look underneath and she was still standing there in the same spot. A frozen figure frozen in time.
I’m waiting for the HOA letter.
While I’m polishing up some posts I offer this:
I’m pretty sure I’m last to the party on this one, but if you check it out you’ll find some real gems. It’s self explanatory.
Girl on cell: "Hey, how are you? My vagina is sore."
--34th & 3rd
Man on cell: "I can't wait for the naked pussy party."
--Employees Only, Hudson Street
Girl on cell: "Yeah, I think it's a yeast infection...yeah...itching. It's been like a week, though...I'm not going to a gynecologist...I had a bad experience once. I don't know how much longer I can take it, though."
--6th Avenue & 8th Street
Man: "...and then she's gon' ask me, "How was church?" I'm like, get the fuck outta here. How many times have I asked her to go to Goddamn church with me? Every fuckin' Sunday, I ask that bitch to go to Goddamn church with me. Never! Not once has she come with me, now she wants to ask me, "How was fuckin' church?".
--Sephora, 19th & 5th
Dude on cell:" ...so I picked it up and there was, like, some brown stuff on it that I thought was, like, dirt. So I went to brush it off with my hand...but dude, it, like, wasn't dirt...no..."
--Penn Station
I love New York.