So, it seems the holiday season has so far been filled with snarky goodness fodder and Black Friday flat panel TV clunkers-to-be loss leader giveaways news.  In fact, one of the sources for this piece is a website called Snark Food, just one of the many TMZ wannabe’s trying to get to the bottom of Tiger Crashgate.

In fact, let’s face it, the two previous sentences are just chockablock full of snark-in-waiting right there.  The notion that attorney, (yes, attorney) Harvey Levin (yes, People’s Court guy Harvey Levin)’s webloid is a standard bearer for other TMZ-lite online celebrity gossip sites and webarrazis-in-training is gutbustin’ post-worthy all by itself.  The idea that the government, our government, of us, the people, is working its way down the list of hockable consumer goods it is willing to consider taking in trade in lieu of actually saving or creating jobs promised us in return for stimulating Wall Street to orgasm, and has been planning to do so for months,  could easily be the premise for a what-passes-for-comedy-nowadays made-for-TV movie.  Just add fart jokes and voila! Bob’s your uncle!

Anyway, apparently, everybody’s favorite golfer has reportedly been getting busy outside of hearth and home, and the lady of his manor don’t play that.  So, in an act of poetic justice, seems she took a golf club to his head, possibly mid-drug induced nod, forcing him to beat feet to the Escalade to take cover.  Once inside the luxury truck, the hapless, clueless, poor, misunderstood paragon of virtue slowly came to realize that a stationary vehicle is a potential death trap in the path of a woman done wrong wielding a nine iron, and certainly no refuge.  Thus, Tiger’s razor sharp reflexes literally went into overdrive as he instinctively floored it in retreat without bothering to wipe the blood from his eyes so he could see where the fuck he was going.  Backwards.  Into a fire hydrant.  Then, hastily forward.  Into a tree.  Where his wife proceeded to beat her way into the now immobile car and drag his ass out to the pavement where she forced him to lay still under threat of even more bodily harm while they concocted a story for publication.  At least, that’s the plot I would write to sell to the networks.

But, it gets better.  Seems while Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin have been having a grand old party time snarking back and forth about a potentially shared 2012 presidential ticket and who would get to be on top, venerable news sources and their estranged red-headed bastard step children of the internet have been mining their debate for nuggets o’ gold, completely oblivious to the fact that they all missed a diamond while wallowing in shit.  Given the current status of television rentertainment, (so called because they charge you an arm and a leg for the privilege of boring you to tears between commercials) I can totally see a scripted reality sitcomumentary, “I Can See America From Here!” to air immediately following “Billy O’s Big Top And Hip Hop Hour” co-starring Ludacris.  The only thing producers would have to determine to get the Glenn ‘n’ Sarah show a-goin’ is who plays Opie.

Now, near as I can figure, a smart-assed Fox News reporter decided to ask the former governor, mid self-promoting traveling book tour and road show, about her network cohort’s reaction to somebody’s suggestion of a Palin/Beck presidential mash-up.  Palin supposedly said she thought Glenn probably thought the idea was a “hoot.”  Glenn, upon being asked about this later said he didn’t do “hoots,” and wished Sarah would cut it with them, too.  He then went on to quash the running mate idea on all manner of levels, mainly that he’s not a bottom, and that she would probably be yapping at him all the time like she was in the kitchen.  Whatever.  Seems to me it’s a whole lot of ado about not much of nothing, especially in light of the fact that, in that same smart-assed Fox News reporter’s interview, Palin pretty forcefully floated the idea of a third, conservative, family values party if the Republicans don’t get their shit together, pronto.  Nobody on the Sarah Sucks side said nuttin’ about that.

Speaking of scripted reality ala “stick your kid in the attic and tell the police he’s on his way to Oz” Balloon Boygate, a couple of professional party crashers sold Bravo on the idea that they could get inside The People’s House sans invite in return for a guaranteed schlock slot on the next installment of Real Cheesy Housewives of Wherever.  Of course, the ravenous, Audrey II-like (feed me, Seymour) 24/7 news monster is treating this Twitter-planted advertising ploy like an army of jihadists with explosives strapped to their asses just popped out of a big wooden gift horse on the White House lawn.  Yawn.

First of all, the first and only rule of gate-crashing is, act like you belong.  99 times out of a hundred, that’s the whole enchilada in a nutshell.  In case that doesn’t work, and they don’t let you in the front way with your camera guys in tow, as apparently happened in this case, send the crew away, promise to take pictures that their designated unaffiliated (wink, wink) news crony can later “discover” via social media, then go around the back and act like you’ve been there all along.  Nobody among the nouveau fru-fru wants to admit to being out of the loop about anything or anybody, so, if you’re there, you must belong there, dahlink, even if they can’t quite place your face.  They meet soooooo many people, you know.

But, in this case, there’s even more of the less than compelling than meets the eye.  The crashing couple, Tareq and Michaele Salahi, has a veddy int-er-est-ink background that just might be made out of whole cloth.  Whatever the case may be, it seems clear that the Salahis have quite a history of hobnobbing with the rich’n'famous du jour, feuding with them, and even going so far as having the Mrs. register as a lobbyist to more effectively fight their battles:

Michaele Salahi registered as a lobbyist in Richmond and helped forged House Bill 2643, which removes the power of county zoning authorities to regulate “customary or usual” vineyard activities, such as wine dinners or weddings. The so-called buy-right legislation went into effect in July. Then Hurricane Isabella hit, wiping out their crop.

Whether the couple was cleared, invited, or had an inside man or woman to help them with this particular ruse remains to be seen.  Methinks there is more to this story yet to be revealed.  However, the brouhaha regarding the supposed Secret Service lapse seems a bit overblown.  Has everyone forgotten the stolen Blackberries from the Bush meeting story, that maybe wasn’t, but resulted in the firing of a Mexican official anyway, or the young Barbara Bush mugging and Secret Service man beatdown?

A Secret Service agent on the advance detail got into an “altercation” with someone after a night out and was badly beaten, according to the law enforcement reports.  The Secret Service said today the incident was an attempted mugging that occurred while the agent was on his own time. The agent is doing fine.

The purse snatching took place on Barbara’s first night in town while she was dining in the picturesque San Telmo neighborhood.  According to the reports, the Secret Service agents failed to notice the incident.

Wonder if any of that will come up in Obama’s investigation, huh?  We’ll see.

In other news, religiously motivated hate crimes against gays are up, tickets for TEA with Sarah and Michele are going cheap,  Ah-nold’s got tax problems, and Good Morning America scrapped an appearance by Adam (I kissed a boy) Lambert because his American Music Awards performance was too nasty, only to replace him with…choir boy Chris Brown, and Alicia Keys is set to do an American Express sponsored charity HIV/Aids concert aired live on You Tube.

And, oh, those wheels on that bus…

Well…I know it’s been a while, but, frankly, the events of the last few days (weeks? months? coupla years?) have really gotten to me.  So, rather than jump aboard any and everybody else’s Knee-Jerk Express, I decided to make like a Thanksgiving turkey and stew in my own juices for a bit.  I’m still ruminating on a few things, but, hey, it’s this blog’s second Thanksgiving, and I’m in a reflective enough mood to share.  Pre-festivity libations will do that to ya.  However, Thanksgiving is a day of…uh…(burp!)…(hic!) ’scuse me!…giving thanks.  Anyway,  being the first holiday after the debacle of the Culmination of the Kool Aid Predestination Indoctrination of ‘08, Thanksgiving will always have special meaning for me.  So, with all that in mind, here’s my list of thanks I can’t wait to give away.  Mind you, this is not my pre-Christmas wish list; that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of snark.

Number one:  I would like to thank Barack Obama for being the uber qualified Spokesmodel-in-Chief, (and nothing more) that I always thought he was.  I’d like to thank him for that, but I can’t.  That sucketh too much for thanks.  Even though he has proven himself to be far more qualified as a TelePrompTer reading vacationing front man and party host than his predecessor, that bar was set low enough for Munchkin babies to limbo under, so that ain’t saying much.  Since I hate to be wrong, I am proud of the fact that I had him pegged all along, and said so every chance I got, so it’s not my fault the country screwed itself in the ass by (s)electing him.  Unfortunately, it’s not the first time the country has exercised its right to vote as an act of contortionary masturbation, and probably won’t be the last.

Secondly, I’d like to thank Sarah Palin for proving herself to be the same photographic negative image of the hologram of a blank screen that is Obama that she has always seemed to be, just as I, and other O.P.’s (Original PUMAs) knew she was the first time we saw her.  Though some F.S.P’s (Formerly Sane PUMAs) have inexplicably designated the whiny former governor (“waaaahhhh! they’re picking on me, so I quit!”) a poor woman’s Hillary (Never Give Up ‘Til The Bitter End When The Last Of Your Former Friends Who Still Owe You Big Take You In A Room And Make It Clear They’ve Abandoned You And Are Not Letting You Out Until They Can Call Co-Conspirator Keith Olbermann And Tell Him You Did Even Though You And Your Opponent Are Basically Tied And He Cheated) Clinton, Team Player,  just because she and the self designated “Pit Bull With Lipstick Hockey Mom” have both experienced massive doses of the pervasive sexism all women face, she’s still an anti-choice conservative Republican when all’s said and done, and Hillary’s…not.  For some unfathomable reason to the clinically rational, the fact that only one of them folded under the pressure, calls herself a “Pit Bull With Lipstick Hockey Mom,” and quit mid-term, seems lost on some people.  Pit Bull With Lipstick Hockey Mom? Is that a feminist term of empowerment nowadays?

I’d also like to thank both halves of the living Polaroid of a Narcissus reverse mirror water image for being so consistently forcefully vague that they can be loved and reviled for the same things by different people at the same time.   In the case of the male, dark (negative? positive?) half, he’s either a Socialist, (according to Angelina Jolie) or a stealth Republican wet dream of a Trojan Horse, (according to this tongue-in-cheek oxymoron, a conservative,  black, “blame the victim” Republican, and the people who took him seriously) and on the other female, light (yin? yang? wallawallabingbang?) side, she’s either the spawn of Phyllis Schlafly, or She-ra, Symbol Of All-American Womanhood.  Way to go Political Hologram Marketing and Magic Co., Inc.!

Next, I’d like to thank Secretary of State Hillary Clinton for…being Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.  I’m extremely grateful that in her current position on the world stage as a power player, she has managed to stay above the Obama healthcare shamscam fray, and vindicate herself and her previous efforts in that regard at the same time.  Not so easy, eh ‘Bots?  Even with your testosterone-laden Magic Sixty you’ve managed to screw things up far more royally than anybody named Clinton ever did, could, or would have the second time around.  Hardy har har har.  Guess Hillary’s scary evil witchy vagina had nothing to do with anything after all, huh?

Lastly, I’d like to thank my family and friends, including those of you who have faithfully supported me and my opinionated snarky blog, for always being here when I need you.  You validate me, challenge me, support me, and give me strength, and I am far more grateful to you than you’ll ever know.  Even those who disagree with me at times, (that’s pretty much all of you, and don’t think I’m not keeping tabs) are important to me; your insights and willingness to respectfully mix it up (to a point, there’s only so much crap I’m gonna take, ya know?) have taught me, given me pause, and helped me grow.  I humbly thank you all, and luvya back.

Have a wonderful holiday; may you enjoy your feast, family, and friends beyond all your strongest hopes and highest expectations, and may your least favorite relative volunteer to do the dishes while you sneak your ‘net fix in.

Happy Thanksgiving!

*NOTE: Some of the videos, images and websites found on this page are not the least bit safe for work, nor are they much safer for home.  Especially if you have kids, or a short temper and glassware you want to keep.  Discretion highly advised.  You’ve been warned.

Funny, the things you can find while you’re tooling through cyberspace, surfin’ the ‘net like Moondoggie in yellow swim trunks with hair that never moves, (like a Ken doll) a-wavin’ at cute, bubbly Sandra Dee years before she was immortalized in “Grease“…but, I digress.  And, when I say funny, I don’t mean “funny”… ha-ha, I mean, “funny”…hmm.  In fact, now that I think about it, what I found that inspired this post doesn’t qualify as “funny” at all, and, it has nothing whatsoever to do with Moondoggie.

See, I’m reading Buzz Tracker, politics section, and I spot a Riehl World View headline that catches my eye, so, I opened it, natch.  Whaddid I do that for, huh?  But, if you saw a headline on a conservative white guy’s blog that said “Wow!  I’m A Gangsta!  I Rock!” what would you do?

I mean, I’ve come across this guy’s deliberately provocative headlines before, usually beckoning unsuspecting readers to admirably short opinion pieces full of heavy-handed snark, so I wasn’t really looking for…much of anything, really, but, come on, when a guy who looks like him trumpets he’s a rock star gangsta, ya gotta at least peek at the article after the click, right?

So, it turns out, Dan was commenting on a piece entitled “Not. Okay.” by Vanessa that he found over on Feministing.  What’s so “not okay” is a Danish public service announcement ad game thingy called “Hit The Bitch,” which is designed to discourage domestic violence by encouraging men to live out their fantasies of beating women bloody, and then calling them assholes for doing so.  Whether any of the guys who are supposed to get this message actually will is debatable, given that such sexually aggressive behavior usually leads them to a cigarette during heavy-lidded, jelly-limbed  “afterglow.”   Who can see or hear “idiot!” through half-closed eyes rolling back in his head, and over the thudding of his heart as it tries to redistribute the blood newly released from his happily deflated appendage, now free to rush thunderously through his ears?

Assuming this is all not some kind of a sick joke, it seems the goal of the producers was noble, if the execution, poor.  At least, that seems to be the consensus from those who actually “played the game(?)” and accepted the invitation to repeatedly hit the taunting woman onscreen until she shut up, the guy felt better, or, presumably, she died.  The way you know that somebody neglected to think things through when they put this campaign together, is that having the woman pull out a large caliber handgun and shoot her abuser in the balls as many times as he punched her in the face with all his might, was apparently not an option.  I also get the impression from some comments left on sites discussing this PSA, and lamenting the fact, that body blows and kicking the bitch are not allowed.

I wouldn’t know.  I’m getting my info from other people’s reviews.  Sure, I went to the website, but, after getting a pretty good idea of what I was going to be experiencing from reading a few posts, I couldn’t even contemplate waiting for the webpage to load before I clicked away.  For one thing, the length of time it seemed to be taking indicated to me that it was way too popular, and that pissed me off.  Secondly, or, more precisely, primarily, I just had no desire to slap the actress (I hope she was an actress and her bruises were skillfully applied make-up) for any reason.  I don’t wanna know what it feels like to hit, or be hit, or pretend to be some guy looking to get his rocks off by kicking a woman’s ass.  I’m pretty sure that 99 times out of a hundred, if given that opportunity, I’m gonna pass.  The hundredth time, I’d have to be tits up drunk with some practical joker manipulating my hand for the amusement of other revelers, themselves on the verge of losing consciousness, or, being held against my will and forced at gunpoint.  Which, in my opinion, would be incredibly sadistic, and a tad redundant.

If you’re looking for more info and perspective on this story, try Alternet, or, go here, here, or, here, all of which link to the “game.“  And, by the way, Dan says he kicked both the video bitch’s, and Vanessa’s asses; he got to “idiot” level in fewer punches than she did.

What’s equally, or more, disturbing about all this, is the road that Googling “hit the bitch” can lead you on.  Apparently, men are not alone in their pounding on girlflesh fetish, there’s a “song” entitled, “Hit That Bitch With A Bottle” accredited to various female “artists,” or one young woman with either multiple personalities or a guilt complex.  Whatever.  Anyway, the booming beat rides under lyrics describing how the “artist/singer/performer/rapper”(?) doesn’t like to fight or argue, preferring to take a bottle to the head of other women who piss her off by messin’ wit’ her man.  Which takes the earlier, “Where My Girls At?” (itself a next-generation “We Are Family” on crystal meth and steroids) by 702 to a higher level.

Another disturbing song of not-so-recent past by TLC, (a group whose songs, some of which have themes of feminine insecurity/empowerment, notably “Waterfalls” and “Unpretty,”I personally have found entertaining, if not downright admirable, at times) is “I’m Good At Being Bad,” subtitled, “Bitch Like Me.”  This one explores whether a “nigga” can handle a woman with the singer’s degree of bitchitude.  Thankfully, the ladies assure us that the woman in question is “not a ‘ho.”

I did find this though.  It’s Dreamworld’s 3, a film examining the consequences and implications of misogyny in contemporary music by University of Massachusetts Amherst communications professor, Sut Jhally.  From his website:

Dreamworlds 3, the highly anticipated update of Sut Jhally’s groundbreaking Dreamworlds 2 (1995), examines the stories contemporary music videos tell about girls and women, and encourages viewers to consider how these narratives shape individual and cultural attitudes about sexuality. Illustrated with hundreds of up-to-date images, Dreamworlds 3 offers a unique and powerful tool for understanding both the continuing influence of music videos and how pop culture more generally filters the identities of young men and women through a dangerously narrow set of myths about sexuality and gender. In doing so, it inspires viewers to reflect critically on images that they might otherwise take for granted.

Obviously, the good professor has his work cut out for him, Googling “hit that bitch” also leads you here.

And, by the by, I’m no longer PUMA.  Those of you who are,  I bear you no ill will, and, in fact, wish you well.  It’s just that I cannot in good conscience remain part of a group that seems to becoming more and more dedicated to trashing liberal women on a regular basis, in favor of solidarity with conservative ones.  Does Not Compute.  I’ll just stay here in my own little world, callin’ ‘em like I see ‘em.  Feel free to drop by anytime.

In Hollywood, it’s “let’s do lunch!”  In girl talk, it’s, “let’s get together for coffee!”  Either way, it means, “yeah, sure, when hell freezes over.”

If such meetings are ever forced to come to pass, they are usually filled with air kisses, strained smiles, polite, inconsequential small talk, and furtive glances at timepieces.  They are generally ended by pre-arranged cell phone calls received by one, or both of the attending parties, declaring some state of emergency foretelling impending global doom that only the callee can potentially rectify.  At least, that’s what their lunch partner is supposed to deduce from the overheard end of the conversation.  What is probably being said by the the caller is likely more along the lines of, “is the bitch still there?”

In two separate Sunday morning news show interviews, ABC’s “This Week,” with George Snuffleupagus, and NBC’s “Meet The Press,” with David Gregory, which, in the interest of full disclosure, I didn’t watch, since Sunday morning news shows tend to give me wicked gas and make my eyes bleed, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton obviously handled herself admirably enough, without providing sufficient controversial fodder to feed the ravenous appetites of subsequent Sunday news network rehashes of their morning shows, that the hosts felt compelled by their producers to goad and provoke her by dangling “Sarah said” red meat in front of her face.  In the political equivalent of “when she said you looked well rested now that your face has filled out, wasn’t she calling you fat?” Clinton was asked about statements made by Sarah Palin on the campaign trail, and in her book, “Going Rogue,” (subtitled “By Quitting My Job and Writing This Book.”)  In a fashion typical of one skilled in the social graces, Clinton replied with what amounts to, “Well, now that I’m not constantly on the go, I have put on a few welcome pounds.  I was too skinny before.  I’m glad people are noticing.”  At least, that’s the way The Christian Science Monitor sees it:

On two separate Sunday morning talk shows, Secretary Clinton said that she would “look forward” to chatting at a café with Ms. Palin – the former Republican vice presidential candidate, soon-to-be millionaire author, and closest thing that politics has to a lightning rod in a red pant suit.

It was, almost certainly, a moment of Sunday morning small talk. Yet if cable news’ coverage of Obama’s Beer Summit is anything to go by – with their countdown timers to zero hour and careful deconstruction of each man’s beer selection – CNN, Fox News, and MSBNC are surely mustering all of their resources into seeing if there is any possible way to bring about Clinton Kaffeklatsch (a.k.a. “Beer Summit, the Sequel”).

The New York Daily News, Politico, The Wall Street Journal,the Associated Press, and Lynn Sweet all report on the potential catfight-to-be-that-wasn’t with varying degrees of hand-rubbing glee, while Newsbusters seems to be waiting for the other Jimmy Choo to drop.

Of course, in some circles, this has all lead to speculation that the two women are on their way to sharing a 2012 presidential ticket, and that this would be a good thing.

Check, please.

For my money, nobody who opposes guaranteed, comprehensive healthcare for all Americans without reproductive restriction, not just the sham of the pretense of mandatory access to something like it, gets my vote for anything.  No matter who they are.

Pass it on.

Ooops, he did it, again!  Yep, that’s POTUS, Pretendident of the good ol’ US of A, bowing nose down, ass up, to yet another foreign leader.  What’s up with that, Obie?

Maybe somebody should pull his coat and let him know, in no uncertain terms, to cut that shit out.  Predictably, the other side of the aisle is having a field day with this, while the Obapologists are…having a hard time coming up with a snappy comeback.  The “sign of respect” shtick as an excuse is getting old.  Besides, it’s bogus.  Bowing is not a sign of respect, it’s a voluntary act of submission.  It’s only done to those deemed “greater than” self; never among equals.  Which is why the pious bow only before God, (and His Duly Appointed Messengers) and courtly men bow before women.

But if you’re an insecure world leader, worried that your grip is slipping among the Masses, never fear!  For the price of a phone call and a photo-op, Baracus Hubris Maximus (Hail, Caesar!) will board the Peoples’ Plane between head-swiveling scripted speeches, at taxpayer’s expense, travel halfway ’round the globe to your little Bumfuckistan, then, at your cue, stand before cameras, grab your hand, and go from “kick me” to “spank me” pose as he gleefully kisses your ring from crotch-licking distance, all so that you may record it for posterity and properly impress your subjects with the spectacle of your power and magnificence, ad infinitum.  I mean, let’s face it, pictorial proof of the guy who claims to have the most powerful job in the world with his ass in the air slobbering all over your God-given nose picker and ass-wiper has gotta be worth at least a few Brownie points in the nether reaches of the boonie dwellers and their progeny, right?

It’s kinda ironic that I should run across this story today.  For some reason, yesterday, the thought came to me, unbidden, of whether  Barack Obama could have been elected President of the United States with the support of black America in the sixties.  Or, more to the point, given the reality of the times, (that he would never have been allowed to run, let alone be elected president back then, period) could he, or a guy like him, have even passed muster in the ‘hood well enough to get their support, if no one else’s?

No.

Hell to the naw.

The sixties were about everything Barack Obama isn’t, the opposite of everything that he is.  An obsequious, ambivalent bridge-builder would have incurred the wrath of black people from sea to shining sea.  Who the hell wanted to build bridges from where we were to where we wanted to go?  On the contrary, we wanted to burn those mothers down and design new ones.

For those who are thinking, “but, wasn’t Martin Luther King cut from the same kind of cloth as Barry O?”

No.

Bite your tongue.

The button-down mind and manner of BHO is more reminiscent of Bob Newhart than MLK.  In fact, compared to Obie’s Mr. Rogers-esque slippers and cardigan style,  Dr. King was a Kunta Kinte cloth dashiki with a clenched fist medallion and Afro pick on a leather chain.

The sixties were about respect, dignity, empowerment.  No black man would have been caught dead willingly bowing to any other man, for any reason, back then.  In an era of rebellion against being subject to be forced to submit to lesser men at any time, simply on the basis of skin color, such an event would have caused a loss of face even among blood brothers.  To think that his children, wife, parents, neighbors, anyone who knew him at all, might witness his humiliation at being made subservient at another man’s whim, would have been unbearable to most black men alive at that time.

Unlike the willingness to endure chastisement from the HNIC for their lack of “personal responsibility,” blacks in the sixties were desperate to exercise it.   The first time I heard the phrase, “yes, I can,” it was the title of Sammy Davis, Jr.’s “autobiography,” and subsequent song detailing his struggle for acceptance and success on his own terms.  “I don’t want nobody to give me nothin’, open up the door, I’ll get it myself,” were more than just lyrics to a James Brown song.   It was every family’s mantra, the mindset I was raised under.  Back then, black enterprise was more than a goal, or a magazine, it was a possibility.

In Chicago, we had a newspaper, The Defender, Ebony/Jet magazines of Johnson Publishing, Johnson Beauty Products, Soft Sheen, Luster Silk, (all beauty product manufacturers undoubtedly influenced by the legendary Madame C. J. Walker) Parker House Sausages, Metropolitan Assurance Company, as well as a pretty thriving Black Muslim (Nation of Islam) business community.  With all the other small neighborhood businesses fueled mostly by hope, pride, hard work and optimism that struggled to flourish in our midst, and guys like Curtis Mayfield daring to compete with music industry icon and shining beacon of the promise of possibility and the possibility of promise, soul sister-city Detroit’s Motown Records, we grew up fully invested in the American Dream, even when the American Dream seemed to refuse to be equally invested in us.

Then, there was Muhammad Ali, who, managed by Elijah Muhammad’s son, Herbert, once resided on Chicago’s South Side.  Ali not only bowed to no man at a time when all black men were required to, he went a giant step past standing up for himself; he boldly threatened to beat them up if they dared try to make him.  This threat was not limited to opponents in the ring, cheeky white interviewers, as well as supremacist-minded autograph seekers, often found themselves staring at his big, clenched fist thrust menacingly into their faces.  Against the backdrop of Civil Rights marches and Black Power activism against Jim Crow laws and mentality, such brazen behavior was tantamount to a capital crime.  In fact, Ali’s bold cockiness sometimes frightened even his staunchest supporters, who feared that the backlash engendered by his actions threatened them, too.  “Oh, Lord, he gon’ get us all killed!” was probably a phrase heard in every black household, by every black child at the time.  Yet, we all knew that what we were feeling was the excitement of hopeful fear in support for his bravado, not the shameful fear for perceived cowardice we were more accustomed to.

I simply cannot imagine that at a time when outspoken men like Martin Luther King, Muhammad Ali, Malcolm X, Thurgood Marshall, and any other black man who refused to submit, took his life in his hands by doing so, Barack Obama’s spineless waffling and propensity for concession would have made him any friends in my neighborhood.  His public, Kabuki-for-white-folks’-benefit finger-waving in the face of other black men, especially without a brotherly commitment to the dedication to change the dynamic that caused the limitations imposed upon their reality, would have made him a sworn enemy of “the people” who chose as their champions men like the uncompromising Muhammad Ali, the courageous Dr. King.

Nope, clever, successful marketing of Ohbrotherplease as a black hero took a couple of generations of blaxploitation, minstrelcoms, “we sho is po’” films, books, and made-for-TV movies, and gangsta rap in praise of the ghetto to accomplish.

http://cannonfire.blogspot.com/

There’s a myth that politicians take the women’s vote for granted, and just give us whatever they want us to have, even if they have to shove it down our throats like a date rapists’ 12 inch penis after a Rohypnol-laced Sex On The Beach cocktail.  While the second part is undeniably true, the first couldn’t be further from it.  Neither political party takes our votes for granted, they fight each other tooth and nail for them.  They just know that all they have to do is play us like babes to get them, so, that’s just what they do, and we let them get away with it, giggling like school girls when the Big Man on Campus du Jour, with his movie star looks, and rock star status,  flashes his megawatt smile at us over his date’s head, gives us the high sign behind her back, and whispers, “be right witcha, babe” with his impossible-to-master arched eyebrow wink.  Even though we know he’s fulla shit, because we saw him make the exact same moves with every other woman in the room, at the door, and every other place he passed on his Magic Red Carpet behind the Velvet Rope, from the flashy car to his current location, we convince ourselves that the Masked Superman of Our Dreams is our very own personal Hunka Hunka Burning Love, and is just playing all those other girls for the foolish tramps they are.

From John Kennedy’s ruggedly handsome, windblown hair, perfect teeth and fake athleticism, to Ronnie Raygun’s real aging movie star scripted cowboy charm, to Bill Clinton’s twinkling eyes, boyish smile and oozing he-man virility, to Georgie Bush’s endearingly bungling flyboy-who-wasn’t lopsided grin, to today’s milk chocolate Denzel Does Dumbo playing Gable-eared Prince Charming as a mild-mannered Mandingo, women have been voting for promises they haven’t heard over the thumping of their fluttering hearts, or seen for the stars in their eyes.

Wake the fuck up.

They’re all lying scum who want to get in your pants and stick you with a kid you hadn’t planned on while they do your sister before whoever’s next on their neighborhood list.  You’re a notch on a bedpost, or, if you’re “special,” a starred name in a little black book to be called if he’s ever in town again, or his horny loser friend needs a date.  And, though I’m sure the pretty sounding Cyrano-scripted words sound sweet and the thigh strokin’ feels real good as you get lost in his smoky bedroom eyes while he’s banging your ass against the dashboard of a borrowed car, or your head against the headboard in a rented room, it ain’t a ring, or a commitment, which would be worthless anyway, even if by some miracle he gave you one.

Stop gettin’ it twisted.

If there was ever any doubt that what I’m saying is true, the latest developments in the patriarchal date rape game that’s all the rage, Hyde The Balls, where they chip a little more of your freedom away and sheepishly shrug their shoulders as they blame a chick for making them do it, should have jarred you awake and out of bed into last night’s crumpled clothing with a quickness.

Unfortunately, some women still seem to think he’s actually gonna call them before he leaves town, he really is, he promised after all, and, besides, it’s his wife’s fault, or the kids’, ‘cuz, he’s so busy, and important, and anyway, he really loves me, me, me, right?

Doesn’t he?

No.

He doesn’t even know your name, sweetie.  He’s got a lot of problems, at least 99, but a bitch like you ain’t none of ‘em.  You’re not special; you’re just warm and wet.  And one of many.  That’s why he needs you.  All salesman need clients, even when they’re selling snow.

He has a secret, too.  He’s terrified of you.  Terrified you’ll either see through him and turn him down, or, you’ll succumb, only to be disappointed.  Both are nightmare scenarios that keep him and his buddies awake at night, worried for themselves and each other; (what if she says “no?” ugly dyke like that) no matter what you look like or what your sexual orientation may be.  For him, and them, failure is not an option, conquest is his job, it’s what he does, why he was sent.  The thought that you might tell your friends he’s not all that, or worse, that he’s a horrible lover with a penis no bigger than your clit, whose tongue technique made you long to be French kissed by a zucchini-wielding star of a Geico commercial, is enough to make him leap up in bed, no matter whose it is, wide-eyed and crazed, hair sticking up all over his head like he sucked down a bucket of electrified mousse, screaming in terror like a 9 year old girl after being locked in a closet and forced to watch “Psycho” alone for the first time by sadistically abusive parents.  Heaven forbid you telephone, telegraph, tele-woman that he couldn’t make his little soldier salute at all, that could send him postal.  He cannot countenance such a thought, you must love him, or he and his buddies will stand under the street light in front of your house, hands on crotches, catcalling insults about your morals loud enough for your neighbors to hear.  If that doesn’t shame you into submission, Homey and the Boyz will try to accomplish that mission by force.  However, if confronted by the reality of you and your sisters and friends, wide awake and locked and loaded, along with a couple of boyfriends, old and new, the brother you love to hang with when his six and a half foot bearded biker friend does drag, plus a few snarling dogs and spitting cats when they break in in the middle of the night, he’s likely to burst into tears immediately before soiling his tiger-print thong.

Not only is he a wimp and a liar, though, he’s just short of a crook, (rape doesn’t count) and can easily cross over the line in a strong wind.  So when he gives especially daring conquests a small token of his “affection” before darting out the back door just ahead of her clueless husband coming in the front, he expects it back, and expects a smart girl like you to know the score.  If said trinket is not returned post haste, in whole or installments, Mr. Lover Lover is not above recruiting his buds for a little second story strong arm with a gratuitous quickie love train and slapfest at gunpoint, in order to smooth his ruffled feathers and facilitate the gang of thieves’ return of pilfered doodad to its rightful owner before it is discovered missing as well as teach the chick so stupid as to believe him who’s boss.

But the bottom line is, he needs you.  He and his Sharks are in a constant conquest contest with the Crosstown Jets and he’s desperate to win, so he can stay Leader.  If the chicks flip to the other side, or horrors, close up shop, leave town, or import new players, they’re all screwed.

Therefore, he will stand with his worst enemy to protect his “right” to continue to use and abuse women.  Thus, guys who insist upon being able to keep medical decisions in the hand of patients and their doctors will see no irony in goading the other team to deny that right and privilege to what both perceive to be their common pool of available mates.  Nor will the goaded guys in the other side (wink, wink) even contemplate standing with their mothers, daughters, current and potential wives and lovers against such infringement.  Similarly, those who engineer bailouts of corporations will see no contradiction in saying government intervention in the healthcare industry for the good of citizens and their families will be the downfall of the Republic, and having their co-conspirators on the other side go along on the downlow.  No, they will all lie, “sorry babe/Mom/snookums, I’m doing it all for (over? to?) you.”

And, the Bamboozled Enablers of the Bambi Brigade will fall all over themselves elbowing and shoving each other aside for the right to stand in the shadows created by the light of his killer smile, bat their eyelashes, and swallow.  Like always.

Wake up.

Say “no!”

And all non-activist women who, like me, don’t call themselves feminists, but are, and will continue to be, courted, abused and negatively affected by the Alpha Males head butting in their ongoing battle for the right to mate and claim their wager’s pot, read here about “the Family,” and their influence, and here, here, and here about the Hyde Amendment, the precursor to Stupak/Pitts, here about abortion funding, and here, here, here, here, here, and here about some of the religious folks trying to influence the all-around debate.

And, just for shitzengiggles, read here how your current Matinee Idol colluded with the Breck Boy to pimp the system and stack the deck against “the girl,” and how everybody’s still making excuses for him.

Then, take a trip around the Pumasphere to Wired Left, The Confluence, Not Your Sweetie, and PUMA Pac, to name a few on my blogroll, and read at least 3 or 4 of the posts at each from women and men who don’t tend to agree with each other about what and how things should be done, but do tend to agree that it’s gotta be something.

When you’re done with all that, read this and decide if you want to follow this guy’s advice, or heed the call to arms, and if you might wanna try it this way, this way, this way, or that.

Once upon a time in the future past, when women hated each other for independence of thought, a devastating ideological war erupted over the size of their eggs.  One side, the Femocrats, believed that all politicians must answer to them, or be banished.  They advocated for liberal representation from male and female politicians, with an emphasis on recruitment of like-minded women to achieve parity.

The other side, the Vagicans, endorsed a “parity over policy” philosophy of equal representation, believing that a Magic Number of women in politics, regardless of ideology, or anything else, for that matter, assured feminine empowerment for all.

Needless to say, members of these respective factions couldn’t stand each other.  They sniped, they snarked, they bickered, they carped, they brought out the worst in each other.   In effect, they canceled each other’s efforts out.

Unfortunately, while the Vagicans and Femocrats happily sniped and snarked themselves into irrelevance, another group, the Stepfordists, were busy undermining both groups in any way they could.  Stepfordists believed in the superiority of some women (them) over every other woman, and the subservience to males for all.   Having no compunction about using the Dirty Tricks of Their Masters to assert their own feminine dominance in service to all men, they happily infiltrated wherever they could, and enthusiastically subverted where they couldn’t.  In the end, their strategy prevailed; the Femocrats and Vagicans battled to a draw, and the Stepfordists, as always,  lived happily ever after in accordance to their belief in the Natural Order of Things.

The end.

Imagine if every American woman woke up one day soon, resolved to make it known to anyone who asked, that unless a comprehensive healthcare reform bill was voted into law that ensured medical coverage to every other American in the country, without restriction, or infringement on any woman’s reproductive rights, any politician, male or female, on either side of the aisle, who did not work toward that goal, who compromised in favor of corporate interests, or, who was percieved to be working against the interests of American women and their families for any reason, would be voted against in their next election.

That’s it.  No organizing, bra burning, torch-carrying, letter-writing; nuttin’.  Just millions of women making up their minds, “no healthcare; no vote.”  In fact, if you cave yield to expediency, sell out your constituents, talk out of both sides of your mouth while stuffing corporate cash in both front pockets, or, worse, actively work against passage of a law guaranteeing access to comprehensive medical care to all Americans, or attempt to block such passage in any way, we’re voting you out.  No matter who you are.  What side you’re on.  Who you’re running against.  In fact, if 2 of you major party sellout scum, male or female, are running against each other, we will vote for whoever the third option is, regardless of political affiliation, corporate backing, policy position, or qualifications.  If no viable third party candidate presents him- or herself, we will actively seek to find one, and ensure that his or her name is placed on the ballot, whether that person has any political experience, or desire to run for office.  If we have to recruit our next door neighbor, our child’s cafeteria lady, a bus driver, garbage collector, Wal-Mart or 7-11 clerk, bag lady, or one of those crazy aunts or uncles who remind us of Joe Biden that live in the basement/attic that every family has and none of us talk about, we will put their names in contention, and vote for them.

Wouldn’t it be lover-ly if, with nothing more than a simple whisper campaign,  where she told 2 people, and she told 2 people, and so on, and so on, and so on…we could make every politician in office at every level aware of our resolve?  And, not only them; all those activist/union/religious leaders who want our dues/tithes so they can suck up to power and sell out our interests, have to be told that the same goes for them, too.  You don’t actively advocate on our behalf, ya gotta go.   Let them know that this is no idle threat, if they fuck us over, they lose their job.   Period.  End of story.

When the pollsters poll and the robocallers call, directing us to websites, soliciting our support, what if we just told them to stuff it?  That we don’t care why politicians insist upon working against our interest, from now on, if they do, we vote ‘em out.   When the producers of the “news” shows featuring bubble-headed bleach blondes who come on at five send their stringers out to malls and parking lots to ask “what’s up with that?” wouldn’t it be great to hear Ms. Toothy Smiley Happytalk throw it back to you in the studio by co-signing what Soccer Mom after Soccer Mom said when she told her that she meant just what the Welfare Queen or Meter Maid or Corporate Chick before her said, “no healthcare, no vote.  And don’t even think about fucking with my womb.”

And meant it.

Just like every other woman in the country.

(sigh)

A girl can dream, can’t she?

Anyway, in real news, they’re growing rabbit penises in the lab at Wake Forest University Baptist Medical Center so they can figure out how to fix broken human dicks, cuz, obviously, that’s the Christian way to use technology; a woman broadcast the birth of her daughter live online, sans graphic oozy, gooey shots, so, what was the point? meanies could be trying to frame you by infecting your computer with a kiddie porn worm; and HuffPo informs us that on page 4 of her online “W” interview, Demi Moore says, “call me Puma.”

What she objects to with regard to the whole cougar thing, though, is the label.

“I’d prefer to be called a puma,” she says, explaining how she came up with the new designation and “Twittered it out. People wrote back hilarious stuff, saying, ‘I’m going to get T-shirts that say puma power.’”

In politics, the spontaneous, totally grassroots, real people-powered TEA Party is registering as a legitimate political party in Florida; that state’s Democratic representative, Debbie Wasserman Schultz knows without a doubt in her heart of hearts that the “back of the hand” language contained in the under-the-radar Stupak stinkbomb amendment written by the lucky man who made Nasty Pancakes cry “uncle” will not, will not, I tellya, be anywhere to be found in the final kill bill, or 40, maybe 41 pissed off Dems will write a letter; according to USAT/Gallup, the public is just as wishy-washy about healthcare as their Celebritician-in-Chief; and when Goldman Sachs rapes and pillages the nations coffers, it’s just doing its part in the name of the Lord.

While there is much in the news to discuss, much of it inter-connected; and I have certainly spent the better part of the week collecting news articles, videos and links in preparation for a post addressing said issues, instead of spending time and energy fanning the “blame Islam flames,” I’m much more strongly compelled to lash out against what I see as the undue timidity of so-called feminist women in the face of coordinated attack, especially when confronted with forces lead by other women.

Lord knows I am not alone in my outrage about the all-too-predictable capitulation to the Right by our Mighty Morphin’ Majority Democrats for no Earthly apparent reason.  Women everywhere are bitchin’ and  moanin’ about the seemingly calculated attempts at the  Stepfordization of American females.  While I see this as the inevitable result of the efforts of that faction of the country’s politics now being fronted by the insidious Bachmann Palin Overdrive, the eager surrender of females on the Left, either because of faith in the illusion of the myth of political expediency, or due to belief in fantasies of sisterhood, unattainable even in legend and fairy tale, as being necessary for success, the end result is the same; when women buy into the “helpless second, weaker, yet, inherently evil sex” patriarchal theory as their self-identity starting position, women lose.

Leaders lead.  They stake a position, articulate it, and invite others to join.  Whether anybody takes them up on their offer or not, they proceed according to their plan.  You cannot lead by consensus, or by whining about who doesn’t see things your way, thereby blaming them for your condition.   Constantly complaining about other women who don’t support your vision, and how much you wish they would for everybody’s sake, is a masochistically masturbatory waste of time.  If only “she” would think like “me,” “we” could do x, y, z, is a crackhead’s pipe dream.  To take it a step further and fantasize that Utopian Nirvana can only be reached by aligning oneself with “her” anyway, regardless of the width of the gulf between your points of view, simply on the strength of shared anatomical features, is a crackhead’s delirium.

I DESERVE BETTER

“I!”  “Me!”

Not “us,” whining about “them.”  Each woman must empower herself to get pissed.  Righteously indignant.  Then, she must convince herself that she doesn’t have to take shit from any source, for any reason.  Until then, women will remain impotent, sitting around waiting for somebody else to say what they think, and being disappointed when those women don’t do as they would have them do.  Unless, and until we have a generation of women who can at least agree on that much, women won’t be able to agree on anything of import at all.

Hillary Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann are all leaders.  They’ve staked their position, taken their stands, and let the chips fall wherever they may.  Whether you agree with, or support them in all or part of what they do is not nearly as important as the fact that their efforts affect you regardless.  The fact that almost all of them chose to lead on behalf of unsupportable factions and positions on both sides of the male-dominated system of oppression does not lessen their influence, or impact, in the slightest.  You may vehemently disagree with rightwing policy positions on abortion as recently articulated by Sarah Palin, but Michele Bachmannn’s lending her face to the TEA Party protest at the capitol to “scare Congress” against healthcare reform days before the vote on the Stupak amendment, most certainly had an effect, and impacted the outcome, emboldening her compatriots in a public display of solidarity with her brand of conservative extremism, demoralizing her enemies in the face of the perception of daunting opposition.  Nancy Pelosi most definitely rallied her troops to sell out their principles and take what she convinced them they could get, undoubtedly with promises to “fix it in post,” as they say in show business.

Yet, there are still women on the Left who will continue to ring bells and blow kazoos as they proclaim from the rooftops through megaphones for all to hear that our abortion rights aren’t going anywhere, and that the path to female empowerment lies through even more better sleepovers ’round the campfire singing Kumbayah and making S’mores with the Mean Girls along on the way through the woods to Grandma’s House of Happiness.  This makes about as much sense as players in a Women’s Softball League trying to claim runs scored by the other side ‘cuz “we’re all girlz, after all.”   That ain’t the way it goes.

True solidarity in any movement can only be maintained by shared perception of oppression.  Whether the source of the oppression is singular is not nearly as important as whether or not those oppressed believe it to be so.  As long as, for whatever reason, some in the group blame one source, others blame another, still others blame themselves, and a few see no oppression and thus blame no one at all, Kumbayah is always gonna be sung off-key by the group.   However, one lone voice quietly singing its own melody and verse, can often be heard as a siren call by others, while the singer, whose motive is likely only to amuse and entertain herself, would probably be surprised and amazed to realize she was playing Pied Piper to so many of her disaffected sisters who heeded what they perceived to be her call and chose to follow in her wake.  At any rate, a nation of individually self-empowered females would be a force to be reckoned with, regardless of their personal political, or religious, viewpoints and affiliations.

A couple of recent examples of what I believe to be timid feminism come to mind.  One is Rihanna’s latest attempt at public image rehabilitation.  According to reports and the You Tube video posted in my Vodpod collection, Rihanna is now claiming that her motive for finally breaking off her abusive relationship with the young man who “had no soul in his eyes” when he bit her during what she describes as a seemingly endless beating, is a desire to protect other young women in similar situations who might be led to their untimely deaths at the hands of their abusers if they followed her example.  While being a proper role model for your fans is a noble sounding reason to do stuff, it’s a pretty crappy excuse for making good choices of self preservation.  What about Rihanna’s worth to herself as a person?  Isn’t saving her own life reason enough to dump the asshole without apology, or further explanation?  Doesn’t that set a much better example for other women, young or old, who find themselves similarly afflicted with assholiness of boyfriend/lover/parent/husband/wife?

Manipulator/abusers are adept at undermining the confidence of their victims.  They are also, quite often, mad.  Not angry; crazy as fucking loons.  Being locked/trapped in a house/car/apartment/great outdoors open space with such a lunatic can be intimidating and frightening to the point of terror  enough to convince the strongest of humans that they are indeed helpless in the face of such uncontrollable, feature contorting, unprovoked rage, while prior and subsequent proclamations of love, and soul-bearing admissions of need can play upon the sympathies of even the most hard-hearted among us.   However, there must come a time when the “victim” becomes either survivor or statistic, when he/she says, “enough!  I deserve better.”   Yet, that time might never come if said manipulating abuser has the luxury of reinforcing the perception, and reality, of an inherent inferiority complex, resulting from her socially imposed second class citizen status, upon his victim.

Imagine if civilian cop Kimberly Munley had internalized that mindset instead of the “fuck with me, I’ll shoot your balls off” John Wayne-esque mentality she obviously has.  How many more people might have died at Fort Hood?  How many more lives might be saved in general, if instead of the current “a female black belt will never beat an equally certified male,” happy crappy message our daughters receive today (often at home, and continually reinforced in the media,) most of them were taught, “maybe not, but she’ll kick the shit out of the average titty-groper in a bar, and have a fighting chance against your garden-variety body-collecting serial rapist/murdering asshole”?

I know this post might seem disjointed, uncoordinated and a little scatter-brained, but, so are my thoughts, so I beg your indulgence here.  However the next seemingly unrelated point I want to make concerns PUMA and NOW.  Last summer, in a backlash against Obama-lovin’ Kim Gandy, PUMAs rallied ’round Terry O’Neill, and voted her, and her demographically nearly identical mirror-image board in.  The conventional wisdom was that by sucking up to the Obamessiah, Gandy, et al. had sold out women, therefore anyone she endorsed was a fatally flawed, tainted, poisoned arm of Obotia, unfit to be rewarded with even the tampon collection concession.  However, it needs to be said that the appointment of Sonia Sotomayor to the Supreme Court, potentially the most significant appointment in our lifetimes, happened on Gandy’s watch.  Conversely, despite promises of bra-burning activism from her replacement, the current attack on women’s rights has elicited only a rather tepid response from the new president.  What’s up with that?  Could it be that 15 or so lobbying teas with the Pseudo-Feminist-In-Chief were more effective than otherwise credited, and, maybe even realized by the new team to be the way to go, an effective, if not the only, way to handle these throwback guyz?  Is quietly cozying up to power always a sign, and unseemly display, of weakness, while writing sternly worded public letters is a muscle-flexing show of strength, if one gets your goal accomplished and the other…doesn’t?

I dunno, my head’s kinda spinnin’ off its axis of its own volition nowadays.  I try to corral my thoughts into some sort of cohesive order and then some new piece of information prompting outrage of a different sort from a different source emerges, and I’m off a-chasing errant mental images hellbent on doing their own disobedient thing.  I still say though, that if I were ever to launch a new Femocratic political party, Bachmann Palin Overdrive and their ilk would not be welcome or allowed.  Keep your TEA Parties and anti-abortion rights speeches with their Nazi flag waving nutjobs on your side of the aisle, in fact, it would be all right with me if you voluntarily withdrew from the game altogether.  But, since I don’t see that happening anytime soon, I’ll just say, as far as your “Phyllis Schlafly and Anita Bryant are my sheroes, let’s save some fetuses for systemic abuse after they’re born, rah, rah, rah” cheerleading in support of feminine suppression by patriarchal oppression in perpetuity on behalf of the Keepers of the Status Quo Powers That Be goes, stick it where the sun don’t shine and sing Yankee Doodle while you lay back and think of England on your own.

I deserve better than you.

And, while I support women’s rights, unless and until someone honestly confronts, with more than lip service, the “white woman on top, black/minority women in baby-raising, housekeeping service” natural pecking order subtext of the American Dream, I’ll never be a feminist.  Nor will I ever embrace the “help a brother out by declaring your independence to be his partner in the name of the Lord” definition of “womanist,” or the “sisterhood against your best interests” folderol of anti-feminism.  I don’t need Pelosi, Bachmann, Palin, O’Neill, Alice Walker, or FLOTUS’ permission, or example, to define myself as I see fit.  In fact, I’d happily tell them all to kiss my ass on Las Vegas Blvd in front of Caesar’s Palace at the stroke of midnight on New Years Eve, but I’m too much of a fucking lady to do that to women whose carriages are likely to turn into pumpkins at exactly that moment, probably squashing them all underneath, given their chosen, customary, scrub-side/undercarriage riding positions.

******************

In other newsbits I’ve collected, Michael Steele threatens his own guys, this guy says Steele’s guys love Obama, this guy proves Riverdaughter’s point about the Right trying to force the Left more to their side of Center, some more Wall Street guys got busted, unemployment’s at 10+ to damned near 20 percent, depending on who you believe, which makes me wonder how these folks are gonna pay for government mandated healthcare.  Also, this guy accidentally on purpose ejected his own fool self from an airplane, a digitized photo of Lee Harvey Oswald with a rifle and a Marxist newspaper “proves” he acted alone, there are lots of Muslims in the military, and the FOX News hating Pretendident likes having lunches with “journalists” he approves of, right before he brushes off one of his “now is the time” campaign-era speeches to rally House support for any old kind of healthcare reform.

In more femi-centric news, this “lady” quits her Planned Parenthood job after watching an abortion on ultrasound, wannabe virgins again can buy a fool ‘em kit, a woman gave her infant to her babysitter  to hide in a box under the bed, and babies cry with an accent.

Lastly, Sesame Street turned forty this week, which still makes it younger than I am.

*NOTE: I found the photo/portrait at the top at this site.

There’s a saying that any Grand Jury in the country worth its salt could indict a ham sandwich.  The theory is that grand juries are tools of the District Attorney, designed to do his/her bidding and rubber stamp whatever they want, just for formality’s sake.  Whether that is true or not, that’s the perception.  In the 2008 pretendidential election, Barack Obama benefited from a similar perception; that the Democratic party could have elected a ham sandwich.

And, they did.

Unquestionably, Obie is now the Democrats’ stale lunch, stinking up the whole place after smoldering in their lunchbox for a whole year, not counting the previous months they spent rejecting the obviously more nutritious meat and potatoes in front of them in favor of the McHam Sandwich they gleefully and greedily invented with intent to market.  Now that they’re being forced by Fate-as-a-cruel-parent to eat the spoiled porky lunch they had a fit to have, they’re smacking their own fool foreheads, crying and whining and moaning and dreaming about the V-8 they coulda had, and how they coulda been contend-uhs, like a bunch of washed-up, three-year old Marlon Brandos reduced to reprising his glory days in a cheesy vegetable juice commercial.  No better for ‘em; they did it to themselves.

Sadly, the bigger problem is they did it to the rest of us, too, with the majority of their party members playing rubber-stamp grand jury to their D.A.  Even sadder is that the way they did it was so fucking obvious and simple.

First, play up on the “any Democrat beats Bush” inevitability thing, then, establish Hillary Clinton as the inevitable Democrat, before exploiting the already publicly accepted right-wing meme of Hillary as Dragon Lady.  Rile up the country’s latent misogyny and present your guy as not only “not her,” but, a guy to boot.   Throw in a little, “I’m black, so voting for me will make you feel good,” and Bob’s your uncle.  Voila!  You’ve just nominated a ham sandwich, and set him up to win big.

It was really that simple.

But, it was equally inevitable that after trying to ram their processed lunchmeat on a bun creation down the public’s throat, they’d start to gag on it, especially once they realized that since it wasn’t exactly what they thought it promised to be from looking at glossy pictures of it, it didn’t taste very good.   That’s the way it always is with fast food.  Even when it does taste as good as the picture looks, that’s not really saying much, so, it’s not very satisfying, and you always feel guilty for having eaten it all in the first place.

So, now that McObie’s got a year’s worth of flies and shit buzzing around his head, people are starting to upchuck the portion they’ve already consumed and refusing to buy any more sandwiches like him.  From that place.  Unfortunately, the only choice they’ve got left is another cheesy ham sandwich just like him from the only other joint in town.

*UPDATE: I’ve found the recipe for the perfect McHama, a  ham ‘n’ cheese on a Obama waffle sandwich.