premature ejaculation

yup, looks llke i was overeager and jumped the gun. im really not back into blogging. had a short run, a few fits and starts, and arrived too early. maybe ill jump back in later, but my comeback was short-lived. sorry if i left you all worked up and unsatisfied...

Adminstrative Assistants provoke bloodbath

I've enjoyed a few humorous gaffs by some students in a crazy class I've been taking this semester. These come from undergrads. Not to pick on them, and not to be too snobbish, but I find myself wondering in response to their comments, "How did you get in here?"

In one discussion, a girl kept referring to the Hegelian and Marxian "dialect". Now, one could assume that she was invoking some notion of jargon or terminology associated with these thinkers. One might speak in a "Marxian vein". But she was referring to a piece of reading we all had in front of us which was discussing, more appropriately, the Hegelian dialectic. But she kept calling it a dialect. So it got me brainstorming some cool title for an essay on "The Dialectics of Dialect" perhaps exploring, using postcolonial and linguistic analysis, the tensions in speech, phraseology and ideology encountered within the liminality of a colonizer/colonized binary and the disruptive modes of mimicry that might result. Or one could cogitate on the "The Dialect of Dialectic" and explore the multiple iterations of the usage of this conceptual tool.

A more humorous example took place in another session. A student was presenting on a topic that touched on "sectarian violence". Yet, she kept saying secretarian. Secretarian violence? Secretarian violence?! A problem to be dealt with, to be sure, but far less pressing. Invokes a riotous notion.

I went looking for some funny images or videos of secretarian violence, but instead came across a hilarous video of a simple office freak out.

Enjoy...

re- re- resentiment

Dammit. As so often is the case in scholarship, someone beat me to it. This book looks fantabulous, is right up my alley, and seems to represent what I've been preparing to articulate. Oh well. No doubt it will serve as a good conversation and perhaps sparring partner. I'll add my own weird twist to the discourse via theology.

I'm ordering this book right now.

Amazon page.

FOB-ulous

For the uninitiated, F.O.B. or fob is an affectionately pejorative term employed by immigrant communities. "Fresh off the boat" captures the naivete, awkwardness and disruptive dislocation embodied in more recent immigrants as they negotiate a new culture. Acculturated first generationers or 2nd and subsequent generationers use this label as they squirm with shame at the odd antics of their discordant brethren. It has a broad spectrum of application, from something as simple as strong accents, to dress, to norms for social interaction.

I take credit for coining the adjective "fobulous"; perhaps someone beat me to it, but I've never heard it employed by others. Using fobulous phraseology is a useful technique in times of social awkwardness, for a smattering of eccentric humor, or to invoke a whole imaginary of cross cultural clashes and the complex dynamics involved.

To express heartfelt affection, one might exclaim, in appropriate south asian accented inflection, "You are being awesome!" The subtle subversive nature of this Bhabhian mimicry is the gerundive addition to the predicative. The object of our affections here, the referent, need not be doing anything at the moment. The being is general. This term replaces the more efficient and less fobulous "You are awesome". Do you catch the slippage here?

There are too many instances and examples to invoke, but I've gotten a kick out of the disruptive interpretation of song lyrics I've encountered over the years. A few examples:

"Do you believe in la fuckin love?" Recognize this? Can you hear Cher crooning?

"It's the final nzazahhh!" A bit more abstract. I wouldn't expect immediate recognition. You'll have to reach back to Europe's glamrock proclamation of its imminent trip to Venus.

I must confess I have been guilty on several occasions of my own fobulous gaffs. One for which I received no small amount of recurrent ribbing involves a Tracy Chapman song:

"Love is hate, war is peace, no is yes, zero degrees".

Don't ask me where I came up with this or why I unreflectively continued to sing along with the song in this fashion. It makes sense to me in a vague apocalyptic way: zero degrees invokes a frozen, dead world, perhaps metaphorically related to ground zero, where the "missiles called peacekeepers" which were "aimed to kill" completed their mission. Who knows?

At any rate, I apparently qualify now as the recipient for hearty, congratulatory, and, again, south asian accent inflected "zero degrees, man!!"

Losing One's Head

Not to be morbid, but as I was walking along the sidewalk today I passed this, well, slightly morbid sight/site. It is indeed a disembodied bird's head. It was just sitting there, mysteriously, in silent protest.

I'm debating on writing either a short story or a poem about it. I'm still mulling that over and will add something more here in a few days. But here's the picture for you to consider.

Resurrection

Guess who's back, back again. Devin's back, tell a friend.

Yes, I think I'll start blogging again.

On the theme of resurrection and in shameless self promotion, here is the abstract from my recently published article in the Scottish Journal of Theology (Aug 2008) entitled "Resurrection as Surplus and Possibility: Moltmann and Ricoeur" :

Though Moltmann and Ricoeur have a history of interaction, little attention has
been paid to this relationship and its implications for their respective programmes.
These thinkers have much in common, however, and the Ricoeurian categories
of surplus and possibility elucidate critical aspects of a theology of hope,
serving to strengthen its contemporary implications. Nuance is provided for the
resurrection’s role in redemption, and an existential mode of hope is delineated.
Focusing on Moltmann’s interactions with Ricoeur concerning the resurrection
elevates these latent themes and demonstrates the fruitfulness of a continued
conversation between these two thinkers. Furthermore, examining Moltmann’s
thought in Ricoeurian perspective opens new directions for conceptualising
resurrection hope and praxis in a postmodern context.


I can't figure out a way to post the pdf of the article, but if you are interested, let me know and I'll send you a copy.

Hope to resume my inane rantings and uncritical critical reflections on the nonsense of life soon.

See you there. Or, here.

Re-Bombings

Absolutely hilarious and brilliant.

All the Rage

So I saw 28 Weeks Later the other night. Alone. I really needed an escape from reality, this was the most appealing thing showing, and I did want a glimpse into the action (never saw 28 Days).

The opening sequence alone makes the film worth seeing. There is something immensely satisfying about the combination of thrashing rock music with excellent distortion and images of someone running their ass off, running for their life, running across the rolling green hills of England, being pursued by a throng of sprinting, tireless, blood-spewing and -chewing, insanely-angry-ass motherfuckers.




My sense is this sequel lacked the depth, nuance and character of the first, but still picked up on interesting themes that I assume have been explored by others: rage as parable for modern angst, alienated existence in the midst of crowds, anxieties about populations, immigration, epidemiology, etc. To these this film (perhaps ungracefully) added layers of militarism, police states and panopticism, the ethics of settlers, and the paradox of state violence as a public good.

The film theorist Jean Epstein argued that one role of the camera is to make available aspects of reality that are unavailable to the eye but are no less real. Through slow motion, acceleration, and lighting effects, elements of presence of being, alive and active--even animistically present in creation-- can be momentarily highlighted and brought into perception. Arguably, the film as narrative, with its thematic orientation, does this as well. It highlights and brings into focus aspects of our existence we might ordinarily miss. Acceleration and hyperrealization are obvious techniques, and the "28" franchise capitalizes on this exceptionally well around the topic of anger. Simply put, it seems to ask, what the fuck is anger and why the fuck are we so mad?

"This time the bullet cold rocked ya
A yellow ribbon instead of a swastika
Nothin proper about ya propaganda
Fools follow rules when the set commands ya
Said it was blue
When ya blood was red
That's how ya got a bullet blasted through ya head

Blasted through ya head
Blasted through ya head"

Employing the trope of a "rage virus," the film risks externalizing the sin, in a semi-gnostic disassociation with the evil of our flesh. The darkness comes from without as an invader, rather than from within (Are we to clean the cup, or is it out of the heart that the unclean comes?). But, in fairness, such symbolism is often the best way to convey a message, with a narrative performance using mythical devices as hooks to draw the viewer in to the deeper implications of what is unfolding. Zeroing in on and enlarging this aspect of our existence to such proportions at least allows the possibility of putting this limit experience of rage under the microscope for further examination.

" I give a shout out to the living dead
Who stood and watched as the feds cold centralized
So serene on the screen
You was mesmerized
Cellular phones soundin a death tone
Corporations cold
Turn ya to stone before ya realize"

This rage is not just an individual experience, but takes place collectively. There is an odd solidarity between the rage zombies. They don't seem to attack each other after they've been infected. But there is no logic to this. Why would rage discern? Why not tear the fuck out of whoever the hell is around, so what if they are enraged too? The madness of crowds is at play, so that the logic of mob violence works to direct these pissed off, radically isolated individuals in a choreography of destruction aimed at the "not-yet-angry".

"No escape from the mass mind rape
Play it again jack and then rewind the tape
And then play it again and again and again
Until ya mind is locked in
Believin all the lies that they're tellin ya
Buyin all the products that they're sellin ya
They say jump and ya say how high
Ya brain-dead
Ya gotta fuckin bullet in ya head"*

Finally, this sequel, as noted above, adds the possibility of conceiving rage institutionally. "Execute code red": the hackneyed, stock line, uttered by the steely military commander in an effort to contain the social distortion, sets in motion the manifestation of the state's own anger. The monopoly on the means of violence having been challenged, the codified and stored up pissed-ness of the law--politics as the continuation of war--unleashes itself in its own display of catastrophic rage. As the protest of the living dead unfolds on the streets, the arm of power sweeps like a tidal wave across the concrete plane of history so that "even the dead are not safe".

----
* Rage Against the Machine, "Bullet in the Head"

Musical Musings

Irreplaceable

"To the left, to the left."
What this country needs is some movement to the left. (Ok, I digress, already.)

Beyonce has got talent. She can sing, fo' sho'. This is a catchy song. Nice melody, gets in your head, especially since it is being played by every radio station every four songs.

And I can't wait to have the opportunity to say to someone: "You mus' not know 'bout me. You mus' not know 'bout me."That is awesome. It has so many applications. I like that it's slightly ominous: are you connected to the mob, perhaps? Is there a can of "whoop-ass" in your pocket?

This song can also be taken as empowering for women. She's got the money, she's the owner, she's got the stuff and his ass is out. As one commentator to a YouTube video exclaimed:

"I love this song like she just stading [sic] there doing her nails not faised [sic] at all GIRL POWER"

Girl power, indeed.

Yet, there is an anxiety that undergirds this song, and no doubt provides it with its erotic energy.

The first hints are obvious: "Everything you own in a box to the left." His identity and life have been summed up and wrapped up nicely. It boils down to a few items. These commodities are what he is about, the last remaining symbol of his presence. Once they are gone, not even a trace will remain.

The lines are drawn; there is no sharing: "In the closet, that's my stuff. Yes, if I bought it, please don't touch." Her own identity, being grounded in this set of commodities, needs boundary maintenance. No exchanges, for all exchanges are over. The swapping of lives, saliva, and CDs can no longer take place.

And for all that I appreciate Beyonce's vocal abilities, her songwriter(s) are another matter entirely. The lovely melody and soaring vocalics come crashing down when wedded to lyrics like:

"I could have another you in a minute / matter fact he'll be here in a minute."

I won't dwell on the offense to poetic sensibilities presented by these verses.

Yet in the cacophonous clang created during the crashing "minutes," the song's anxiety ratchets up a notch. There is more at stake here than the end of a relationship. This is not merely about asserting one's independence. Beyonce as prophetess of our time announces nothing less than the celebration of the commodification of the human. Like a cog in the wheel, or like a fitting rattled loose on the factory conveyer belt, this man can be replaced with another. This other is identical, fits neatly into place, and is available according to post-Fordist "just in time" manufacturing protocol. No lag time is necessary; production can continue as planned. It will just be a minute.

Yet there is no time to lament (or continue to celebrate) the human commodity, for the song's commentary spirals outside itself. It becomes a self-commentary, removing any grounds for the possibilities of analysis it provides, pulling the carpet out from under itself. It realizes this in performance, in the very act of its audio "display" before our ears. For, as we listen to it, it begins to dawn on us that nothing about this song makes it irreplaceable. There was one right before it (a minute ago) and there'll be another one "here in a minute." The song, like the man it sings, is a reified commodity, able to be freely discarded and replaced as the economy of our identity-construction marches on.

Unfortunately, this is not all. For, as the song sings the man, and sings itself, it sings the singer. Perhaps, then, the real anxiety driving this song is not just about the limitless possibilities of copulatory partners, freely replaceable, like a great line of the terra cotta soldiers fashioned for a king hoping for protection in the afterlife. Nor is it simply about the song, one among many of its kind, one pixel that becomes imperceptible as you step back to gaze at the sea of color and image. Perhaps this song drives forward, flailing, in the hopes that we will not at the end of things come to realize that, sadly, it is you, Beyonce, who are not irreplaceable.

The commodified man, as parable, opens up into the narrative itself, showing the commodified structure of the mode of communication itself. This, in turn, unravels further and implicates the enunciator as commodity. For we are well aware of the machine and its needs. Like Steinbeck's "Bank," always hungry, rapacious, devouring, this machine of which Beyonce is a part can only do one thing. It uses her on the factory floor like other mechanisms, and the erotic energy she exudes is amplified by the clinging by a thread, suppressing this reality, hoping to perform more effectively and efficiently than previous cogs, to shine so brightly so as maybe, maybe to convince the foreman that she, unlike all the others, is irreplaceable.

Toe Jam or Toe Cheese?

Is there a difference?
Discuss.

On Alien Amnesty

Interesting how things are heating up about this. I really can't believe this whole wall across Texas and New Mex and AZ. Where have we seen this before? That is so 1989.

Alien amnesty will happen for the simple reason that the forces of capitalism favor it, and I don't see special interest legislation overriding it. The free flow of goods in our global economy requires the free flow of its most important commodity: labor power. This is the key commodity and often only power we as workers have to offer in this exchange game. As the engines of capital continue to turn, the need for labor persists, even and especially with the rise of a service economy which provides the backbone for the much-touted information economy. The corollary to free trade is the free crossing of borders, one won't work long without the other. Our economies have always been global, so fears of "outsourcing" and the "loss" of jobs overseas are equally silly.*

It's interesting, though, the bipartisan ideological contradiction. Many conservatives advocate free trade (think NAFTA), seeing, often rightly, the possibility of continued US economic growth and dominance, the chance to exploit untapped markets, the change to keep developing nations in a chokehold of dependence. These same folk oppose alien amnesty, sometimes under economic guise ("they're taking our jobs") and often for racial and nationalistic reasons ("they're taking our jobs"). They thereby limit the free flow of our key commodity.

Liberals talk more of "fair trade" and the role of government regulation to ensure empowerment of developing nations. Sometimes this involves tariffs or subsidies (conservatives certainly use these means too when it serves their interests--but here I'm addressing their rhetoric), thereby lessening the freedom of the flow of goods. Yet such progressives often advocate for amnesty and--also along culturalist lines--the social and political inclusion of such migrant workers. Here they help grease the wheels of economy through the free flow of labor power.

It seems a bit ironic that both sides straddle and therefore gridlock the process. Perhaps one side needs to go whole hog and advocate an economically consistent position.




--
On a somewhat related note, it is funny to me what constitutes legality and illegality in this case. To be legal, one has to have submitted oneself to our bureaucracy. Their "crime" is failing to stand in line, fill out paperwork, and deal with government personnel who are guaranteed to be in the best of moods. Think of your last trip to the DMV-- fun stuff; it seems our quest for legality for our across the border brethren is making sure they too have experienced this joy of joys.

----
On a somewhat somewhat related note. There was some senator or congressman who proposed legislation to make it a capital offense --punishable by fines and jail time-- for anyone to offer aid to illegals. Anyone who aided and abetted them, like thru shelter or material goods or jobs or whatever, would be a major criminal. I kind of hope such legislation will get passed so I can have a clear guideline for what it means to be a Christian. As soon as that law goes into effect I'm hitting the street to find the first illegal immigrant and I'm going to help the hell out of them. It would only be a dim, dim echo of Le Chambon, but it would still give a nice signal for a clear cut way to live the gospel in a mad, mad world.

-----
* Let's not forget that the U.S. economy would be fundamentally different, indeed irretrievably irrecognizable, without the "outsourcing" of labor from Africa during its inception. We've always been global, baby.

Have a nice day??

I freely admit that, when in elementary school, I was totally into Bon Jovi. I can remember as a fifth or sixth grader rockin' out to "Shot through the heart" or "Living on a prayer". Even a bit later, "Blaze of Glory" and "Cowboy" still got me groovin'.

(On a side note, I do wonder what it means that grown men and women get all worked up over the same music that invigorated an eight-year old. I guess all it means is that I'm elitist. In fairness, I suppose those songs would still get me excited today. But they are forever grounded in my pre-teen existence.)

At any rate, I cannot make heads or tails of this new hit. Granted, Bon Jovi has come a long way down hill, with lame ass anthems like "Raise your hand" etc. But, "Have a nice day"? Pardon? The funniest thing about this song is the self-assured hardness and toughness of it. Jonny boy croons, "When the world gets in my face...I say, Have a nice dayayayayaya!" Wow, yeah man. That's what I was missing. That's what I frickin' needed. I'm gonna stick it to the man, to that whole bunch of lame asses gettin' me down. "Have a nice day...turkies..."

I dunno, maybe he got funding from Reading Rainbow or some other constructive public service announcement organization that encouraged him to write a non-confrontational, anger management song. "Mr. Bon Jovi, we're tired of those gangster rappers with their songs about AKs and doing their, um, ho's, and smoking their, um, blunts. Would you please write a song that will show kids these days that one can draw boundaries between oneself and those of ill-will in a more productive way? We will be sure to fund it so that it gets air time on all the stations, because on its own, we know it would flop." Well, if that's the case, then my hats off to Jonny. If people are out there rockin' out to this, visualizing in their head their bosses, their ex-boyfriends and girlfriends, that jerk who cut them off in traffic, etc, and if they are seeing themselves drawing a line in the sand and saying with pride "Have a nice day", and if they are seeing this instead of seeing themselves sockin' them in the eye, well, then, maybe Mr. Bon Jovi has done us a great service.

But in terms of music, this song is simply perfect...for me to poop on.

Rumors...demise...exaggerated

Shawshank:
Thank you for your conscription offers and for the stylish jumpsuits. I will try to re-enter society for a bit before exiting again.

Heart:
Those figure skater couples this last Olympics were badass. The russians who had to deal with that accident where he straight dropped that girl on the ice, concussing her head big time and concussing his confidence even bigger. The one china team with the cat with the torn achilles, back on the ice and skating just a few months after, and how he did fine and how his partner, enmeshed in the bonds of solidarity and empathy fell in his stead, so concerned for his landings rather than hers. And that other china team, where she fell slamming her knees and spread eagling all awkward across the ice to slam into the side, then to weep rightly for a bit, and then to come back, skate flawlessly, and take silver. Sheeet maaan. Badasses, all of em.

Blather:
What's the deal with Crash? Did no one see Higher Learning with Ice Cube, years ago, an equally simplistic, shallow caricature, with characters as ciphers wearing sandwich boards for their "positions"? Higher Learning sucked as well, but it has dibs because it got there first--not first really, lots of films have addressed these issues--but first in topic, form and presentation. It was just Crash with college kids. or rather, Crash was just Higher Learning with working folk.
I thought this review captured some of the problems. I don't like to "issue-ize" flicks, but since there is so much hype, just thought I'd toss in my minus two cents.

BREATHE!

Steady.... steady....

Incarcerate me, please

To:
The Wardens of Jale, The Hard Yard, and Windy City Lockdown

From:
Yours truly

Re:
Doin' Time

Dear Sir or Madam:

I write with the utmost sincerity to express my desire to find a place among your latest shipment of inmates. I seek the flogging, torture, and purging that your esteemed houses of suffering are known to offer. I long to lose years of my life, to expend the productive days of my youth, in your dark halls and musty cells. The prospects of gainful employment and active participation in "normal" society pale in comparison to the promise of fruitless toil, abuse, and self-doubt afforded by your illustrious chain gangs. I look forward to meeting your guards, notorious for their inflated egos, and to receive the discipline they offer, to submit to their ways and solve my "failure to commun'cate". Solitary confinement? I shall relish it. Watery porridge, occasionaly trembling with maggots? Please sir, may I have some more? The fear of dishonorable deeds done to me by fellow inmates while showering? This too, I shall weather.

I wait with anxious anticipation for my conscription, my cell block number, and my striped or orange jumpsuit, whichever style you prefer.

Thank you for your consideration.

The Battle Rageth On...

My dear mother, ever the active learner and incessant student, has been taking classes at her local seminary in the Washington, D.C. area. We've had many conversations about the scarily fundamentalist nature of the school and the questionable things it is teaching. As we've talked I've found myself consistently at odds with the things she's learning in class. She often just laughs at the exceptions I take, chalking it up to the various theological differences that make up our diverse global church. But now it's starting to hit closer to home for her. Here is an excerpt of an email response she received after trying to sign up for a preaching class at her school:

"The sermon preparation and delivery courses are virtually the only courses not open to women in the Seminary. The reason is that sermons are normally given by the senior spiritual leadership in a local church, which is a role assigned to men in Scripture. If the Seminary were to admit women into the two courses it would be indirectly endorsing having women as elders and senior spiritual leaders over churches. Your desire to use the kind of techniques presented in the course as a Bible teacher of women and young people is understandable. At this point the only option remaining would be to address the issue to Dr. ___'s attention. Be assured that the Seminary is attempting to follow the Biblical mandate for gender roles in the church. It is not trying to place unnecessary restrictions on opportunities available to women. "

Mind you, she had never said anything about only planning to teach women and kids; this was simply assumed by the respondent.
It all makes my blood boil. Ah the blinders! Ah the excuses! Ah the fallacies!

Fantastic!

Newsroom > WWF Press Release

Mysterious Animal Photographed in Borneo
For Release: 12/06/2005

My Own Private Indiana

So it's Sunday afternoon, and I'm on the place back from DC to Chicago. US Airways flight 3335. About 30 minutes outside of Chicago, the pilot gets on and says,
"Sorry ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately we're gonna have to divert our plane to Indianapolis. We have a low reading on one of our hydraulic systems and we need to land as soon as possible. Too much air traffic in Chicago means that we'll be circling for a while and we don't want to take that risk."
Great. You gotta be kidding. So freaking close to home.
So the flight attendants get on the com and start telling everyone remove all items from the seat pocket in front of you. They stress especially any large or hard items. I think to myself,
"Shit, their gonna ask us to assume crash position."
The pilot gets on again to explain,
"Ladies and gentlemen, the situation is that our front wheel may not respond and we may not be able to steer. So, as a precaution, there will be fire trucks on the runway. No need to be alarmed about this."
Several passengers chuckle. One makes wise cracks. The woman in front of me looks out her window nervously. She's not amused.
So, we come in for landing. No instructions to assume crash position. I guess it's no that bad. I look out and see at least ten bright yellow fire trucks, lights flashing, lining various parts of the runway. We come in and land and it's the softest, most gentle landing I can remember. People sigh. The fire trucks mobilize and follow us at a distance on both sides, a bright gauntlet of welcome.
So, we deplane at the gate and wait for further instructions.
"It's Thanksgiving weekend, the busiest travel time. Please be patient as we figure out what to do with you."
Thirty minutes later the announcement comes out,
"Ladies and gentlemen, your plane is being taken to a hangar for repairs. Unfortunately, there are no spare planes available. We have no flights out until tomorrow (Monday) evening. We are happy to put you up in a hotel."
What? You gotta be kidding. I'm not staying a night here. I gotta be at work. I gotta be at O'Hare in a few hours to pick up MarianEvans from her inbound flight. I gotta move on with my life.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we are exploring the possibility of a bus to Chicago. Please put your name on a sign-up list. Also, you are welcome to rent a car. We can't pay for this up front, but we recommend you rent one and send a letter to customer relations and hopefully they will reimburse you."
Hopefully? Crap, it's a risk I gotta take. So I go to the Enterprise counter and explain the situation and that I need to rent a car. No problem, plenty of cars available. Whew. Only $55 a day. Great. "What, you are driving one way to Chicago and won't be returning the car here?" "Um, hello, yes, that's the idea." "We'll since it's interstate and one way, we'll need to charge you a drop fee, since we'll need to drive the car back ourselves. The fee is... let's see here... $400." Fantastic. Couldn't be better. Sure, I'll take it. (US Airways, you better cover my ass here!)
So I rent the car, totally smooth process with peachy keen smiley Enterprise lady, ex sorority girl who partied too hard in college. (Why are ALL enterprise salespeople ex frat boys or sorority girls? I have major issues with the enterprise "type" they recruit.)
So I get on 465, then 65 and drive my ass the 3.5 hours from Indianapolis to Chicago, amidst light rain and thanksgiving traffic, all the while hacking up a lung with this cough that won't go away, and out $400 and hoping I don't get stiffed by this piece of crap airline, having just had my first emergency landing experience, and really wanting to be home, warm and in bed.
Fuck.

Too little, too late

Current war protesters annoy me.

When I heard about that huge march on washington a few months back, I just rolled my eyes.
When I heard all the hoopla about what's her face down there camped in front of our turkey-in-chief's house, I just shook my head.
When an upstanding, republican acquaintance of mine said his confidence in Mr Pres was eroding, I just smiled while inside I boiled.

Look, all you newbies, this is as much sense as I can make of your newfound outrage:
1) Perhaps your quota of death has now been reached. "A few soldiers dying, well, that's ok. It's for a good cause, the cause of liberty, democracy, freeeeedom. But now, gosh darn it, just too many have died. It's too much, bring em home. Lets just stop whatever the hell it is we're doin and pull out. "
2) Maybe your attention span has reached its limits. "Damn, this here war's taking too long. We shoulda been done n gone b'now. I can't sustain this kind of focus, let's put an end to it. "
3) Similarly, has your patience run its course? "Now, i was behind you when this thing got going, but, dog gonnit, it's taking too long. Too long. Just finish up already."
4) Are yours financial concerns? "These here tax dollars should be going to other things. What about schools, healthcare, Katrina relief?"
5) Did you suffer personal loss? "I was 100% behind the war, waving those flags. But now that my boy has died over in Fallujah, well, now, all of a sudden, I'm against this war. Shame on you mr Pres, shame on you. Now that you took away my kid, now my principles have changed."


I dont mean to sound self-righteous (Im as apathetic as the next chump) but arent you turkey's a bit late and getting on board for all the wrong reasons? Shouldnt you have been against the war because it was unjust, because it was a farce, because it was so obviously started for reasons we weren't being told, because it went against the international community, shunned diplomacy, and broke with consensus war theory (ie preemptive)? No, you jackasses were right up front waving the red, white and blue and egging on the warmongers in the name of God and country. You were behind "God's man in the whitehouse" 100%.

But now, oh now, things have changed. Should the war boys have cleaned up their shit quicker? Should they have waged injustice at less cost and casualty? Should you not now have to fork over the change to fund your adventures in bullshit? Or now, because you personally had to pay a price and lose someone close to you, has your view suddenly changed? Are you all of a sudden ready to shout down this war that you helped start since you had to pay the ultimate price? Dont be a fair weather friend to our cowboy in chief. Stick by your man. You supported him, you rode with him into the streets of Baghdad in the name of capitalism. Don't abandon him now.

Down the Rabbit Hole

This is hilarious and disturbing...

The Meatrix