Maybe we will get to see if the country turns more moderate and progressive if America's crackers are properly goaded.
These are the happiest days of their gunfucking lives, have I mentioned this lately? Just goad these dumbfuckers screaming about tyranny into violence, say to one, "You know? You can't spell tyranny without tranny." Sure, some innocents will die during The Cracker Insurrection, but I've waited a lifetime for a fucking Cracker Insurrection to reduce the rump right to political insignificance, stigmatized, petrified, dying like a western Pennsylvania coal town.
You know what's as predictable as me reacting to crackerstani violence with glee? Recovering pwoggles (many of them blegfriends) reacting to me reacting to crackerstani violence.
Liberals with guns are scarier than Tea Partiers, I'm told. Sure, know what's shittier?
Look, I know when Obama goads crackers his target audience is folk like me, which is just one of multiple flaws in the .06% Theory, though verily, what .06% sacrifice of my complicit comfort will I make for the greater good of the world's suppressed? At least .06% more than fucking crackers.
Jeebusfuck, think how politics works at your job, with your friendships, your marriage, your relationships with your kids, how you negotiate truces with your own shitty self, and call me if your rationalization for any selflessness isn't based on selfishness and your insistence on less-shittiness, even a kibble, isn't evoked out of self-interest.
This isn't an obamapology: while I appreciate him goading the crackers for no more noble a reason than goaded crackers entertain me - I'm not afraid of them, I like laughing at them - I harbor no illusions Obama will use the space that would open if cracker violence escalates dramatically to move the country hard left (and I'm not arguing anyone should stop bitching at him from the left), but he might move it .06% further left, and call me if you'd reject .06% better in your job, your friendships, your marriage, your relationships with your kids, or a .06% better night's sleep with yourself.
UPDATE! A follow-up post by Charles Davis to his post linked above the photo of Max Boot.
- UPDATE! Part of what I was trying to say above said both better and more politely.
- Pragmatics v Progressives re: HRC.
- Mr Freedom Lover.
- Fucking pigs fire fucking pig for not being fucking pig enough.
- On the above.
- UPDATE! Oofdah! As a personal aside, here's what pisses me off: there used to be a great hippie commune in Burkittsville, it was called Deva, and it was your one-stop-shop for hippie clothing, hippie food, hippie bliss. Charles Fucking Murray, who I'm sure has written books full of paragraphs as dishonest as the last in that blog post, I didn't know he lived in Burkittsville. Fucker.
- Montag has a bumpersticker for you:
- Debunking subprime's hagiographer.
- Institutional mandate.
- I love you, Blumpkin.
- Post obit on Stites. He had a good life.
- Lost Man Book shortlist. I haven't read the J.G. Farrell on the list, but his Siege of Krishnapur is worth your time.
- New JCO story.
- UPDATE! That Cerphe Colwell is still rated the 3rd best Washington radio personality, even if he was still on local air, is damning on infinite levels.
- It is slow in Blegsylvania this week, perhaps some combination of Spring Breaks and dwindling damn.
- UPDATE! I promise the above was an observation about the net as a whole, not an accusation at my friends (except for Mr Tbydhab), but HEH! linky goodness!
Lynn Emanual As for myself—wherever there was a street going indifferently about
I was the dog.
At first I wept.
I became its beatings, shitting on command, bred and bred into more
and more of it.
I crouched behind its bark, still as a stone ax.
I lunged at a greasy picnic on the table of some lawn.
I was dog's belonging, dog told me. We were nothing in and of
one fiction abusing another.
I woke up in the cave of its crate, in the kennel of its name, the
hinges of our jaws
locked tight by the muzzle.
My nose became an organ of thoughtfulness, my ears were shells
in which the seas of the voices of the world thrashed and
Night fell, day rose, the old died, the young went on.
One night I lay down and in the morning I was dog and my actions
by orders: fetch, lie down, lie down here.
Shaggy mat of thought, intellect swarming on a leash of woofs,
at the door of my own mind wanting out of that empty house.
The tide of abstract thought receded. I grew hushed and flat,
the odd blessings of appetite.
The voices of the masters perched above us said, you are just a
piece of furniture.
The war came and went beyond the bars of my life. I was dog.
Then I embraced it.
Then I was undone and replaced by it.
As for myself—wherever there was a street going indifferently about
Woke up with this in my head. Be in yours.
Woke up with this in my head. Be in yours.