Parody of “Riding Dirty” with the lyrics “White and Nerdy.”
Fred Phelps insults Colbert and Stewart. This can only end in disaster and hilarity.
Author: Aaron Weber
Save the ponies! Won’t you think of the ponies?
House of Reps opposed to killing horses for food.
I don’t see why killing and eating horses is any different from killing and eating cows, chickens, goats, llamas, or buffalo.
““They’re as close to human as any animal you can get,” said Rep. John Spratt, D-S.C.”
No, that’d be chimps, dumbass.
“Added Rep. Christopher Shays, R-Conn.: “The way a society treats its animals, particularly horses, speaks to the core values and morals of its citizens.”
I agree that treating animals well speaks well of a society, but we kill and eat a lot of animals in this country. We also have secret prisons, export people to be tortured, and execute our retarded criminals.
And unlike the oil bills and agricultural bills so forth, I don’t even understand what possible constituents reps could be pandering to. How many six-to-twelve-year-old female voters could there possibly be?
I Vant to Suck Your … Data?
Francis Ford Coppola presents Bacula, the data backup tool.
Why do I find this hilarious?
It’s even better than rum, the software updater.
You’re Dead to Me
My grandmother’s eldest sister took up with goyim. Married a Catholic or something. Grandma remembers being not very old when she came by one day and Poppa wouldn’t let her in the door. He said, “You’re dead to me. Never come back.” He came to regret it later, but that’s another story.
Say it once or twice: “you’re dead to me.” It’s an odd phrase. It almost makes you feel dead.
[Photo: Flickr, DashingYankee]
Are you dead to anyone? I know I am, but I’m not entirely sure to whom. When you’re dead to someone, you don’t always get a formal statement, a doorway confrontation, a goodbye ceremony with bell, book and candle. I’d say, rarely. You just stop calling and they stop calling and nobody picks up the friendship and it dies.
No bedside vigil. No funeral. No sobbing relatives, no memorial service. Just… gone.
The past is a night train to unknown trashscapes
Been reading a book of Joan Didion essays from the late 60s:
“Our favorite people and our favorite stories become so not by any inherent virtue, but because they illustrate something deep in the grain, something unadmitted. Shoeless Joe Jackson, Warren Gamaliel harding, The Titanic: how the mighty have fallen. Charles Lindbergh, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Marilyn Monroe: the beautiful and damned. And Howard Hughes. That we have made a hero of Howard Hughes tells us something interesting about ourselves, something only dimly remembered, tells us that the secret point of money and power in America is neither the things that money can buy nor power for power’s sake… but absolute personal freedom, mobility, privacy. It is the instinct which drove America to the Pacific, all through the nineteenth century, the desire to be able to find a restaurant open in case you want a sandwich, to be a free agent, live by one’s own rules.”
Breakfast
SEX CANNIBALS!
Happy labor day
And remember to keep your bung clean.
Bricolage
Bricolage is the way to do it these days. And for serious mixtures of things that you’d never imagine together, for something that creates an incredible whole out of disparate samples, listen to Girl Talk’s new album Night Ripper. I think I just heard him fade a Nirvana bassline into an Elton John sample which he then overlaid with Biz Markee.
Pimping
Starting the day with rosé sparkling wine (you know I’d love to say Champagne or Cava, but I’m just too strict about the international WTO naming rules for DOC products to do that) at Gloria Ferrer.
Secretly Ironic 