Bloody Bill Kristol is once again pissing away his investor's money with promises of digging up a Great White Hope for his Imaginary Conservative movement:
Translation: Having surveyed the rubble of the GOP across five states and taken the temperature of various Republican aldermen, county clerks and village animal control professionals, Mr. Kristol is pretty sure he could field a candidate virtually guaranteed to get hog-slaughtered right out of the gate in the 2020 GOP primaries. But just think of the ratings!My takeaway from meetings with a variety of local GOP influentials in IA, NH, CA, AZ and VA recently: There'd be enough support and infrastructure for a primary challenger to Trump to gain a foothold. He or she would obviously have an uphill struggle but wouldn't be alone.— Bill Kristol (@BillKristol) March 6, 2019
You might remember Mr. Kristol from such successful anti-Trump insurgent campaigns as...
Meet David French: the random dude off the street that Bill Kristol decided will save America from TrumpAll of which really tells us only one thing. Something that all of us have already known for decades. That there exists in this country virtually unlimited reserves of stupid money in the hands of wealthy simpletons who are so fucking terrified of paying one additional dime in taxes that they will "invest" in any Sensible Centeristy-sounding political scam no matter how sketchy the premise or how disreputable the proprietor.
Which bring us to the Paige Compositor.
From Opening Lines:
[Mark] Twain met Paige in 1880 and was convinced to invest large sums of money in this project… for more than a decade. By the time the compositor was finally completed in 1889, Twain had sunk the equivalent of $3 million in today’s currency. It wasn’t the first time he’d made a bad investment. Twain once threw money towards a project to create a hand grenade that could extinguish fires. But the compositor was much worse for Twain and nearly bankrupted him.From Wikipedia:
“Twain’s life became an endless cycle of more bills from Paige, more missed deadlines and more humiliating attempts to summon up some new investors,” according to a feature in the New Scientist.
However, the machine was not nearly as precise as it should have been and never turned a profit because of its complexity and continual need for adjustment based upon trial and error.So, will the Great Center-Right Scam, which has already wrecked the media beyond repair and bled various wealthy suckers and trust-fund goofs for billions of dollars, eventually be sold for scrap or end up on display at the Museum of Hoaxes?
...
Only two machines were built. One was donated by Cornell University for a scrap metal drive during World War II. The other machine survives and is displayed at the Mark Twain House in Hartford, Connecticut.
And if it ends up at the museum will they please, please, please let me voice the exhibit narration?
Behold, a Tip Jar!
6 comments:
He should get together with Howard Shultz...they have the same politics, after all...
@Bruce
...IIRC, Rick Wilson already beat him to it.
At this point any further mention of Bloody Worthless BK only prolongs the agony of his career as a hasbeen. He was only a valid influencer while he was a magazine editor. And only the oldest of the GOP machine even remember his daddy.
Kristol and many other Republican Brotherhood of NAZIS and KKK member for Gebus.
have been investing in marketing re branding.
Kristol and his new revamped misinformation Shit Hole.
The White Supremacists tainted Bloody Bill for not taking the the pledge and initiation of being probed anally by Trump.
When Bloody Bill refused to lay on that bed in Russia to have those Hookers Pee on him as he laid underneath them on the bed for MAGA man's pleasure.
Is when he had the final Charlie Sykes illness and needed to get some financial treatment.
The new and improved marketing is underway. The Mid term House wave initialed it. They need to find a way to get those Supremacists back to their sites from the Stormo Pooper. They need those click like a lobbyist requires deep pocket investors who want to by a piece of the government to mount on their wall with all the other hunting trophies.
As you might conclude, none of that will make a damn thing better.
I don't know words bad enough to express the strength of the ill will I curse on 'them' whose names I loathe. Suffice to say that in their deaths noone is going to speak good of them, only silence or torrid hates.
So die already you pox-brained lepers.
But let me say about Mark Twain (not his real name) and Paige (who knows?).
My expertise is only the script of the tour guide in the Twain House the 1999 December day I visited.
Purportedly:
◆ Twain was in London appraising used jewelry on-sale. In a necklace locket he opened, seeing a woman's photo, he said, "This is the woman I am going to marry. Who is she?"
◆ She was the daughter of the owner of the first oil well in America in Titusville, PA. She lived across the border in New York, if I recall correctly: Elmira, NY.
Twain found her and courted her, proposing marriage 22 times in 2 years before she said, "yes, with conditions." Condition being he must attend church with her every Sunday for at least two years. He did the least; the church is in West Hartford, a few blocks from the House, with brass plaques today on Mr.& Mrs. Clemens pew seats. During the sermons Twain would 'talk back' to the preacher in the pulpit, e.g., "well, I'm not so sure about this 'fire & brimstone' business, Preacher." I really liked that anecdote ... but who knows.
◆ The Twains lived in the house from its construction, 1875 (iIrc), for 17 years. The day they moved in the Hartford Courant published an editorial declaring the house "an ugly eyesore deserving demolition. And get your southern ass out of yankee country." Also, an emissary from the neighbors came to the door and offered to buy the house for whatever price Twain set and he must relocate. He sicced dogs on the delegation.
◆ Mrs. Twain inherited much wealth (read: Pennzoil). She financed Paige the years he lived in the House basement 'inventing' his 'compositer.' I saw it. It looks like a typewriter keyboard with a four feet-long platen, the whole of it as massive as a metal desk. As the tour described its function I recognized it as the first text editor or word processor, (software nomenclature we spoke in Early Computerdom. In 1972, I programed computer systems installed at publishers (mainly, newspapers), to replace Linotype and Mergenthaler machinery, (see photos somewhere: massive machines), and end the venerable Typesetters Union -- the best spellcheckers, also grammarian police.) No wonder Paige couldn't fulfill the dream of every writer who ever thought of Backspace Delete, Cursor Select, or Cut & Paste. My experience programing typeset perhaps glossed my view of Paige's Compositor in the basement of Mark Twain House, which, probably, is too big to move out of there, or, you'll need a crane that can lift a car.
◆ Where my mind went, revealingly, thinking Mrs. Twain sponsored Paige living in the basement doing 'odd jobs' for, like, ten years, (think: Thomas Edison, 1895, Menlo Park, inventions manufactured to suit), {wink, wink} I blinked. The tour ended at the billiard table upstairs on the third floor where Mr. Twain drafted his manuscripts, for years, writing standing and pacing pensive late late into the night...as everyone else in the House was in bed, perchance asleep, and dreaming.
Revealingly vulgar Victorians.
◆ Tour gathered on the porte cochere and started through front door opening into the Great Room, stone fireplace the right wall, straight ahead archway to formal dining room, to your left immediately a telephone booth!, (telephone # 3 in W. Hartford), under the staircase and farther, there the stairs landing.
◆ We disband Tour-of-Eight in the 'study' looking at the green felt pool table where Twain bent with paper, pen and ink. After five hours, sun westering already on a winter's day out the balcony window, Guide said, "you're dismissed, scatter beans scatter, free to go your way."
A wall shelf above the pool table held a mangled bent large typewriter, among the first that Underwood or anyone ever made, which cussed new-fangledness so frustrated Twain, it is told, he threw it off that balcony; there it was retrieved.
The most frequent companion of Twain at billiard and snooker was the Church's clothed preacher, and "they drank scotch, smoked cigars on the balcony and argued politics and religion long after midnight," so said.
◆ I reversed to the second floor and thence toward stairs down to the Great Room. I descended past halfway, with my right hand rubbing the banister, a slow step and, slowing, another as I faced right (another step...) gazing across piled pillows at the sooted fireplace, (another step...) and I imagined Twain holding stage polishing his stand-up humorist one-liners ... a noth er step ... for rapt adoring family of 5, or 6, lounged around the wide hearth and zzaaap a most incredible amperage ran through my body from my toes at exact locations stepped to my head in exact angle gazing and from my hand precisely on the banister and Clemens' soul suffused me alive idetic transcendent across Time. For a second shock, shook, looking down as my next step moved to touch to the corner landing, and the spell cast away. I can hardly express it believe it or not. (At the time, my writing had used pen name Meremark tribute for more than ten years. Maybe he was scalding me. I wish he had left something of his talent residual in me after his visit carnate.) There was a moment. And I use the word, 'moment,' for its quantum physics denotation, as, the 'fundamental unit' or 'cell' of Time dimension, (tixel?), bounded by Past and Future, Last and Next.
https://marktwainhouse.org/about/the-house/virtual-tour/
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