Sunday Morning Comin’ Down…

A light day…but with music.

I kick myself for missing the one thing I wanted to see -- The Very Good Doctor -- on the teevee today (many thanks to Atrios for reprising the center-cut of it here) and there was little else to see on at the Mouse Circus today other than…

…Mrs. Alan Greenspan “hosting” the Rilly Big Pun’kinhead Shew (In the “parasitic disease” sense of that word) and doing her very best hooded-cobra imitation when it came to the subject of Cindy Sheehan. She of the dry, dead, glittery eyes kept flicking her tongue, casting around for the scent of bias. And by “bias”, we mean anyone saying anything critical enough of the Administration to break the skin.

… Byron York, New Republic’s foppish-but-least-camera-hostile water-carrier making bad badinage Mrs. Alan Greenspan about Mrs. Sheehan. He listened in on the blogger conference call and heard Outrageous Things being said about the Mainstream Media being somehow Complicit in this Administration’s rush towards fascism. That this sort of talk just goes to show you how she is being used by “fringe groups”. Flicking her little, viper tongue excitedly, Mrs. Alan Greenspan concurred. “It’s just politicsssss. All politicsssss.”

Heavens!

Whatever will we tell the Young Pioneers?


…E.J. Dionne -- who apparently still hasn’t gotten over having his underpants hoisted up the flagpole in fifth grade -- shows that he doesn’t know a fucking thing about counterpunching.

…On a different Bat-Channel, shut up Biden. Your diagnoses are often accurate, but your prescription is absurd. Troops aren’t hair-plugs, pal; they can’t be surgically transplanted from your ass to your scalp to give the illusion of amber waves of follicular grain. Calling for any solution that hinges on moremoremore ignores that fact that there are no more, and the Freepers who begged for this disaster are dug in like Lyme Disease ticks in their Mommy’s Basements and they ain’t coming out.

…The Chris Matthews’ Muppet Tap and Tumbling Variety Half-Hour was amusing in the same way as watching a refrigerator box full of lightly-armed Roomba Robot Vacuums after their Operating Systems have simultaneously failed is amusing. Spinning aimlessly around, whanging off each other, unable or unwilling to call the rotting, 4,000 pound corpus moldering away right in their laps by it’s correct, Rumpelstiltskin name. Unable to even look at it.

…The Matthews Muppets did agree that one of the biggest problems in the Feculent Hurricane that Iraq has become is…wait for it…the Democrats! Yay! The party that controls NOTHING and that was beaten by a few thousand votes by a 100 million dollar hate-slime-sleaze-and-lie campaign by a syndicate of liars and traitors and fools and Dominionists…They’re A Problem.

Brief Aside ---

Earth To BoBo: You Won! Now Live With It!

President Everything’s-Super-Ooper-Duper was inaugurated a scant seven months ago. Hell, I still remember his stirring Address:

“Something something ‘Murrica, Freedom, something, March, something Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11, something something ‘Murrica, something ‘Murrica. FreeFreeFree Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11 Iraq/9-11.

I’m goin’ to DisneyWorld!”

Seven Months ago. Seven. Not a million hours or a hundred years or ten generation.

Seven Fucking Months.

I have naughty underwear in I bought myself for Christmas still in the package and some Chipotle salsa in the ‘fridge I haven’t thrown out that are both older than the Second Bush Administration, and you all are flopping and flinching around like gerbils with DT’s puling about the fucking Democrats?

Listen carefully.

We told you not to give Drunk Guy the keys to the car. But you did. We were in Hot Pursuit of Osama Bin Laden and no questioning of Drunk Guy’s Infinite Wisdom was to be tolerated.

We told you not to let Drunk Guy drive the car. But you did.

Then Osama took the turnoff to Pakistan, and Drunk Guy took a sharp right towards Baghdad.

Drunk Guy apparently knew a short cut…through Iran, Syria, Lebanon, skipping lightly over his Uncle Saud's Petro Plantation, and then on to Palestine...across the Atlantic, through New York, Boston, Philly, Chicago, Terrorist Central Command in Hollywood...across the Pacific to North Korea, sprinting on past Communist Red China (image of angry Chinese Banker chasing Drunk Guy down the block, waving a fistful of that “worthless paper” that backs our currency, screaming, “Where’s my fucking money, cocksuckah!”), a quick trip through Russia to look into Putin’s Soul again and see how that’s going, and then – VERY QUIETLY -- Drunk Guy’ll sneak through a buncha them little “Stan” countries and come up on Bin Laden…

…From Behind!

Genius!

That was right about the time we told you to take the steering wheel away from Drunk Guy as he headed for the cliff. You told us to shut up, that we were “weak” and all pre-9/11-y and that you knew what you were doing.

A guy named Joe Wilson tried to stop Drunk Guy from launching the car into oblivion. For his trouble you kneecapped his wife.

As Drunk Guy took us over the cliff, you told us, “What cliff?”

As the car slammed into the rocks, you told everything was fine. Going right according to plan. 5-by-5.

“Cakewalk” I believe were your exact words. And “Slam dunk.” And “Mushroom cloud” “Greeted as liberators.” “Self-funded. Cost MAYBE a billion.”

As we smelled gasoline leaking from the fuel tank, you told us that was the aroma of Sweet, Marchin’ Freedom spreading all over the Middle East.

And the gentle perfume of “Last throes”.

Pinned in the wreck, gas spraying everywhere, that’s when Drunk Guy started striking flares. Light one up, toss it out the window. Lighting up another, flipping it into the back seat where the United States Military is pinned under the wreckage.

And high above the carnage, looking down from the edge of the cliff over which Drunk Guy has driven us all, Osama Bin Laden laughs and laughs and laughs, and send his most sincere “Thank’s Dude!” for delivering thousands and thousands of freshly radicalized recruits unto him on a silver fucking platter.

And to punish Drunk Guy for all the irreparable harm and horror he has unnecessarily inflict on all of us, you RE-ELECTED HIM, and swore him back in as your Designated Driver for the next Four Years.

And now, seven short months later, you all have the colossal nerve to whinge on about the Democrats not having a plan.

Well I have a plan.

BoBo, Chris, Andrea, Billy Kristol, BoBo and all the rest…pool your money; bust the kid’s Piggy Bank and drain the 401K if you have to.

Go down to the Home Depot and buy as many tools as you can afford. Plumbing, carpentry, roofing, farming…doesn’t matter as long as they’re big and pointy.

And then go fuck yourselves back into the Eighth Dimension with each and every one of them.

-- End of Brief Aside

… Julia Reed of Vogue Magazine (who always looks and sounds and opines as if the poison sacs in her cheeks haven’t been properly milked in far too long) was reliably bilious, but David Brooks – longtime fan of this blog – now also looks startlingly as if he has spent way too much time in the Kissing Booth with a Portuguese Man-o-War (And, really, who could blame him? A jellyfish? That’s both Mannish AND Warrish!? Mama warned Little BoBo about cousin luvin’, but the heart wants what it wants, dude.)

… But this sudden mouth-weirdness among Wingnut Press Stooges (coupled with Novak’s Senior Chernobyl Moment on-air) makes me think that Cheney is so afraid of disloyalty in the ranks he has finally outfitted all of this thralls with Uvula Bombs programmed to detonate if any of Pharoah’s Press Flaks utter a single, discouraging word about Dear Leader.


Alright, there was a little more to the Mouse Circus than “nothing”, but not much.

So why not head over here, to The Poor Man, for a musical interlude that I guarantee will make you laugh.