A Batshit Loon, a Vile Buffoon, and a Multitude of Much Better People

Reverend Pat Robertson and his gasbag sidekick Rush Limbaugh are the sociopath's Abbott and Costello.  Or perhaps Huntley and Brinkley for the Sieg Heil aficionados.

Whenever I'm sure that I couldn't possibly think less of these these two wackos, they manage to blurt out something that lowers the bar.  Case in point: their responses to the devastation visited upon Haiti, Robertson citing yet more comeuppance for the Haitian "pact with the devil" and Limbaugh lambasting Obama for commenting on thousands dead and dying in Port-au-Prince faster than he did on the underwear bomb terrorist's failed attack.

I won't even dignify Robertson's comments with a response: he's clearly a Looney 'Toon who happens to have his own television network (no, it's not the Cartoon Network - it's not nearly so entertaining or real).  With the demeanor of a kindly grandfather channeling Hannibal Lecter.  Unfortunately,  Mr. Robertson's neighborhood is a more sizable community than you might think.  Sad commentary on our evolution as a species.  But certainly not the only or even nearly the saddest, which is itself profoundly sad.  We're got a ways to go.  But we're getting there.

A long way to go, indeed ... and thus Rush.  Rush ... ahh, pill-poppin', jack assin' Rush. Well, well, well.  He has an even bigger bully pulpit and a much larger following than Reverend Pat.  Sad becomes suicidal.  Christ, makes one wanna reach for the Oxycodone.  Unlike Pat, he claims no special kinship with the almighty; rather, he believes he is the almighty.  Maybe he's right, but if he is then sign me up for that Haitian unholy pact of yore Robertson was babbling about and fit me for my pitchfork cause clearly down is up.

Limbaugh suggests - fuck, he outright says - Obama is showing favoritism to "dark-skinned foreigners" to "placate his black constituency" rather than show "proper concern for Americans."

Now to be sure, the failed terrorist attack was disturbing on a couple of fronts, exposing the airport security holes we all strongly suspected but didn't want to admit were there, allowing a wingnut with explosive jockey shorts into the sky on a passenger aircraft that was a hair's breath and an alert passenger's action away from being blown to kingdom come, perhaps causing massive damage on the ground in Detroit to boot.

However, all that said, the attack did not succeed, no one was hurt and - much more important - time in the aftermath was not of the essence as it is with the Haiti situation, where tens of thousands more could die if a massive and well coordinated relief effort does not happen RIGHT NOW.  A no-brainer.

Visit the Red Cross or your favorite relief fund and donate what you can - I've done it and will do it again. It helps wash the bad taste out of my psyche after catching these dynamic dodos in action.  And watch some real patriots - patriotic toward humanity - diving into the shit storm that is Haiti in the earthquake's aftermath, helping to reunite families torn apart, provide water/food/shelter to the suddenly-homeless survivors, and find/treat the wounded or at least help bring some answers and closure to their loved ones. And of course get into place at least the minimum of infrastructure necessary to do all this in time for it to matter.

Gimme Shelter takes on a whole new meaning.

But I'm feeling a lot better about the human capacity for good: the heart of just one relief worker drowns out the screeching of a barrel full of Batshit Loons and Vile Buffoons.

Sister Morphine, meet my acquaintance Chalupa from down the block

I'm slightly less full of shit today. I caved and went for the all purpose Chalupa from Taco Bell, the straw that finally broke the camel's back (or, or accurately, sent this bowel camel running for the john). The massive gobs of fat and rancid secret recipe juices provided just the jolt my digestive system needed to wake it from its extended slumber. Drop The Chalupa, indeed. Gidget the Taco Bell Chihuahua died a few months back, but her beloved Chalupa is still bringing joy to millions (though God knows not in the taste buds - it was clearly designed for more medicinal uses).

To be fair, I got a lot of advice during my week long malady and it was likely the combined effects of these more 'traditional' (non Taco Bell-based) remedies that did the heavy lifting. I've never been the most regular person, despite my slavish devotion of all things Activia (damn you, Jamie Lee). But a week lost wandering in the desert is too long even for a crap camel like me; I'm glad it's over and I can re-join civilization again.

Several of you provided me with longer term dietetic and homeopathic strategies toward regulation and I plan on following them. I'll give it my best effort anyway, which admittedly doesn't count for a whole lot. Thanks much to all who passed on their wisdom.

The trick with "thinking outside the bun" is moderation. I don't run for the border that is Taco Bell all that often but when I do, I limit my selections to Meximelts and Chalupas (and no more than two each, taken orally with gallons of water).

I swear that place ought to require a doctor's prescription: it's powerful stuff that can really play havoc with your GI tract if you're not careful. Yet I see young people in there with no obvious ailments, pretending to "enjoy" the stuff cause the cool kids are doing it. It starts out with recreational "snacks" and the next thing ya know, you're strung out and locked for hours a day in the can.

Just say no. Drop the Chalupa. I heard they actually have Taco Bell locations in Mexico now. That's just so wrong. It should be a felony to operate a Taco Bell in the Southwestern US, let alone Mexico, without the appropriate DEA controls. It most certainly shouldn't be legal to sell it as food there (and what idiots would actually attempt to buy it as such when real Mexican cuisine is plentiful?) Treat it like medical marijuana.

But just as I wouldn't want the kids of our nation hooked on smack, I wouldn't want to deny somebody in agony in a hospital ICU access to morphine to dull the pain. And so it is with Taco Bell's medications.  One Chicken Chalupa with lactated ringers and D5W then transport to the restroom stat.

He was a Head of his Time

In his new book 'Frozen', author Larry Johnson alleges that employees of Alcor Life Extension Foundation regularly abused the frozen head of baseball great Ted Williams, even using it for batting practice, attempting to knock his noggin off the tuna fish cans (!) it was often mounted on. Icy decapitated humiliation for perhaps the greatest baseball player ever to strap on a pair of cleats.

That's just wrong on so many levels. Ty Cobb or Barry Bonds, yeah: knock yourself out, snowball fights all around. But not Ted Williams, for crying out loud. He was one of the good guys. Come 2195 when they thaw him out and slap a new body underfoot, his first glance in the mirror at the new Ted will be marred by a fucking Starkist tin jutting out of his frontal lobe!

Of course, there may be worries for The Splendid Splinter beyond simply a few dings in the membrane.  It seems the boys at Alcor lopped off Ted's head with something like a chain saw, the 'surgery' performed by a crew whose combined medical education consisted of high school biology 101 and a CPR correspondent's course. I imagine the procedure resembled that one scene in DePalma's 1983 Scarface remake (you know the one; if you don't, you don't want to).

Johnson was the Chief Operating Officer of Alcor for several years before turning tail to become a whistle-blower against his former colleagues. He claimed to fear for his safety after allegedly receiving threats of reprisal, penning the expose in hiding for the most part. He goes on to write that families of employees would come in regularly for photo opps with the batting champ.  They'd take Ted's head out of storage and toss it around while they took turns snapping pics, sometimes involving Williams' cranium in bazaar and 'unnatural' poses (as if there were 'natural' ones for such an occasion).

I'll certainly be picking the book up when it hits the stands this week.

Johnson's allegations are vehemently denied by Alcor, who attempted unsuccessfully to block publication of the book. I can't imagine why Johnson would fabricate such over-the-top outrages in the detail he did, for such a lengthy period of time, if there wasn't at least a kernel of truth there. Well, I can imagine why: the usual and obvious reasons of money and ego. But there has been more than enough corroboration since he first raised these concerns to tell me something's fishy in cryonics heaven.

Who really cares?  I mean really cares, beyond the ghoulish entertainment kind of caring that folks like me indulge in.  There are those cryonics believers, of course, and I would think Ted's family might have more than a passing interest.  But anyone else?

In the end, I find the whole thing supremely silly given everything else going on in the world. I'd find the whole thing supremely silly even if nothing else was going on in the world. It's a frozen hunk of inanimate matter that'll never be anything but again. Even if we have the technology to reanimate it at some distant future point in time, it's high likely by then we'll be able to transfer the thawed out neurons into a 'fresh' artificial head for him.

In the end, this is nothing more egregious than finding out people were desecrating Archie Bunker's Chair at the Smithsonian. Actually, I'd be far more disturbed to hear of chair abuse allegations (shuttering to think what some museum workers might be up to after hours when they get bored). That's real Americana you're messing with, punk! I'd be calling for congressional investigations and the whole nine yards.


But a dead baseball player's head? What can you say? Chin up, Ted!

Who let the dog in? Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof

Michael Vick re-signs with Nike, eh?  They're obviously convinced he's rehabilitated. And they would certainly know. Because they're fair minded people.  Sure, they want to make a buck; however, they'd never compromise their core principles in that pursuit.  I believe that.  The problem, of course, is their core principles. It would be refreshing for them to compromise them for once, let a little good old fashion dignity in there. Or maybe just a little tact.  "But gosh, Steve," you say. "Michael made a mistake, America's all about second chances!"

A mistake?  Okay, sure.

Oops! Didn't mean to hold that dog's head underwater so long! Or the one before that and then there were those others - see the pile of rotting mistake carcasses up against the garage? 

Darn! The electrodes slipped!  I didn't mean to place them around Laddie's gonads with live current runing through them! Sorry, Rover. Excuse me, Rex.  Apologies, Rin Tin Tin.  Man, did you see those sparks?!?  Sniff. Sniff.  What's that odor?  Is somebody barbecuing?!?  Throw another dog on the grill for me!  Extra ketchup!

Perhaps Nike is branching out yet again.  I mean they make everything from golf equipment to clothing to watches.  Maybe they're coming out with a whole new line of Nike branded merchandise:

• The 'After Party' Canine Corpse Handling Gloves ("keeps the blood - off your duds")
  
• Loser Doggy Drowning Tubs, with attached swoosh emblazoned leather head brace!
  
• High voltage Maimed Mutt Electrode Testicle Teasers! 
  

"Need to put a few Rovers down?  Have fun as they fry or a blast as they drown!   Shoooossshhh!"

A mistake?  There are certainly more than enough of those to go around.  Were his crimes that heinous in the grand scheme of things? Perhaps the effect was fairly low on the totem pole of atrocities.  But the intent was right up there with the worst of them.  And in the end, in my book, that's what counts. 

Hey, PETA, time to dust off those Nike signs of yore ...

Okay, I'm done with ragging on Vick.  You can only beat a dead horse so long, so-to-speak.  But a dead dog?  Well, just ask Mike ...

[Postscript: Vick, it turns out, didn't re-sign with Nike.  Nike simply gave him free clothes and equipment for the honor of having him use and wear the stuff, cause God knows you want your brand associated with sadism. Which changes nothing, since it means the same from an ethical point of view (it simply means they not only have no morals, they have no spine either).]

Sarah in the Sky with Rougeness

Our lady of the midnight spotlight on Russia has already finished her memoirs!  Four hundred pages written faster than she can read.  Going Rogue: An American Life (actual title!) will be on the book shelves in mid-November and I'll be among the first in line to snatch up a copy.

Perhaps she should have coordinated the release with one by Richard "Rogue Warrier" Marcinko for some good old fashion synergy (he didn't know when to quit, she didn't know when not to; they have so much in common besides being all rogue).  I smell the 2012 Republican dream ticket cooking here (I'll leave it to The Architect to work out the details; however, Karl, credit where credit's due, eh?).

If her tweets are any indication of the content - perhaps they *are* the content - this book'll be a page-turner unlike anything since William Burroughs was perfecting the art of the "cut-up" style in the early 1960s.  Perhaps she can convince Shatner to do the reading for the audio book (he's already adept at the interpretation of her work, after all).

Shatner Recites Palin Farewell Speech:


Shatner Recites Palin Tweets:

It was perhaps poetic that the real life inspiration for Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds died today.  A sign to our Star Spangled Lady of the Great White Northern Hope to look to Shatner as Her One True Voice. Her Metatron, the wings to lift her linguistic flights of scribbled down maverickosity (maverickness? gooseness? icemanesque?) so all can behold.

After all, Shatner's reading of Lucy stands as the definitive version of the song, far surpassing the pedestrian effort Lennon and the boys put forward on Sgt. Pepper.  And I really mean this.  With Lennon and the mop tops, you felt they were always at least half kidding with the psychedelic window dressing. Shatner was stone serious, though; his rendition dug down into your spine.  You felt as though you had been dosed with three sheets of the best blotter acid just listening to the guy.

"Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes and she's Gooooooonnnnneeeeeee!!!!"

Food for thought, Sista Sarah ...

'No future for you' - J. Lydon, 1977

Mad Men marathon! Ah, but it's just the 3rd season stuff.  Dr. G marathon! It's Sunday - what's new?  I'm torn between watching these and the Eagles game (the latter only in anticipation of someone taking a cheap shot at Michael Vick and rooting on Kansas City - thus far it's not working in my favor).  
The thought of these choices is depressing on a level I didn't think possible.

Miserable rain, a goddamn cold - I already had the flu over the summer for crying out loud - and here comes another fucking Charles Schwab commercial to further rattle my brain. Why didn't 'Chuck' go under with the financial industry collapse? A clear sign there is no God; if there is, he's surely a sadist. 

I think it's time to get it over with: pass me the Plum Smart flavored Activia, cover me with a Snuggie and hand me the number of a good nursing home (time to check myself in).  That or hit me upside the head with a wet sock full of dogshit. Whichever is easier.  Is there some irony in the fact that I have the TV sound off and the Sex Pistols on the stereo?  Probably not irony, just a bit of pathetic sadness. Meanwhile, somewhere in the world, John Lydon's prostate is acting up and the self proclaimed anti-christ is cleaning his dentures in a glass while watching a Madlock marathon.  Or maybe he's enjoying Dr. G like me.

Back in the real world, apparently our long national nightmare may finally be over as I see the crafty Swiss have snared international super villain Roman Polanski in a 'career retrospective film festival' sting.  He fell for that old chestnut?  I recall it failing miserably when the CIA tried it with Bin Laden a couple years back:
"The Tora Bora Terrorism Follies featuring the works of Osama and the Not-Ready-for-72-Virgins Players" was quite an embarrassment to the boys in Langley when only Momar, Oliver Stone and then-Senator Obama bothered to show up, though Bin Laden did send Glenn Beck to accept the lifetime achievement award on his behalf. (Who would have thunk that last one? I would have.)

BTW, the CIA really shouldn't have advertised a 'Saturday mini-retrospective on Kenyan Terrorist Romantic Comedies' for this 'festival' if they wanted to keep the audience clear of American officials for a clean bust (they had to have known of Barack's Muslim Socialist Fascist Kenyan inclinations).  However, that Obama not only attended but kept breaking out into Arsenio Hall "Woof Woof" gestures during the Kenyan flicks should have at least raised a red flag with regard to the nefarious intentions of our future dear leader. That'll teach the CIA: now they have to translate the daily presidential briefings into Swahili and soon all agents not otherwise in the field will have to attend the four week government-grade medical school and do double duty as federal healthcare physicians.

Tonight is a busy evening for tube watching, what with 60 Minutes, Dexter and Californication kicking off new seasons + Curb and Mad Men.  Thank god for DVRs.

Now I need to stop typing garbage into this infernal blog and start studying (the alarm went off a month or so ago on what seems to be a recurring every-two-years new job itch and I'm in serious talks with a couple doctors who can treat this outbreak for me but only if I prepare).

[Postscript: The Sex Pistols gave way to Groovelily on the stereo and Dr. G/Mad Men/Football gave way to the Wizard of Oz (all the other shows will just have to cool their heels in my DVR until I finish this journey down the yellow brick road).  I haven't taken this trip for a long, long time.  It was my very favorite movie as a young boy and perhaps the most anticipated television day of the year for me when they replayed it annually on ... well, whichever one of the three networks that had the rights - I could google it if I wasn't so lazy.  Oz was, to me as a kid, a world apart from the shitty one I was living in.  

Little did I know Judy Garland's life was hell and she had already long since undertaken a daily regiment of booze, pills and tobacco that would have put Janis Joplin and Billy Holiday to shame by the time she filmed Oz at age 17.  Still, that knowledge doesn't hurt the movie one lick; in fact, it adds some poignancy to the mix.]

Momar, Mackenzie and those !#*@! Charles Schwab Ads

I had several folks asking me for further comment on Momar's adventures in New York this week but I'm not sure there's more to say. Gadflydafi's actions speak for themselves, whether he's pitching his usual traveling tent at Trump's place in West Chester or giving a reading of Allen Ginsberg's Howl at the UN Wednesday (at least that's what I think he was doing; there's some question as to the fidelity of his interpretation).


The "king of kings", as he was referred to by one of his lackeys yesterday in introducing him to the assembly, was acting predictably loony but not so much that there's any comic value in mocking him further (he does that just fine on his own).

He was accompanied as per usual by his all-female 'Robert Palmer/addicted-to-love' style female bodyguards, but that isn't news.

'Nough said.

There are more important things going on in the world.

For instance, Julie Cooper's alter-ego Mackenzie Phillips was apparently screwing her father, or so she says in her just-published tell-all (and, naturally, on Oprah). Also, he introduced her to shooting coke and presumably other such typical father-daughter rites of passage. Papa John, it seems, wasn't the most adept at working the syringe for Mac, missing the vein and numbing her whole arm. I could see Mike Brady attempting to 'fix' Marsha in this manner. Hilarity ensues. Meanwhile, nobody was gettin' fat 'cept Mama Cass (coke does that to ya).

Speaking of dope, what sort of Cristal and Eight Ball bender resulted in the conception and approval of that obnoxious yuppie whiner Charles Schwab ad campaign? Shooting live action celebrities and then animating them in grotesque and unnatural ways ('rotoscope") makes each one all the more jarringly pompous.

It's like someone raking their fingernails down the chalkboard of my psyche whenever one of these abortions flash onto the TV screen, causing a Pavlovian reflex to kick into to the nerves in my right thumb, compelling it to press down hard on the channel changer of the remote. I'd just as soon use my money for toilet paper than give it to the Schwab shit-for-brains. I wouldn't want my cash associating with theirs.

At least some folks have the good sense to bust on this cheapjack shit.

Charles Schwab Rotoscope commercial Parody

Momar and Mahmoud rock Manhattan - A Blitzkrieg Bop through the Big Apple, featuring Hasselhoff and Winehouse

My eyes rested on two items today that Google News decided to categorize together for me.

One was David Hasselhoff's continuing struggle with the bottle. David claims this latest ride to the emergency room for alcohol poisoning was an 'ear infection' affecting his equilibrium. Sure, 'Michael' - tell it to K.I.T.T. It was his fifth such trip (emphasis on the fifth).

The other item was Mahmoud ImADickYaHeard's reaffirmation of (and pride in) his frequent remarks labeling the Holocaust a fabrication concocted by the Jews to steal his land. Well, not exactly - to steal the land of his friends. Er, not quite. (After all, I don't see him offering to drive the Palestinian people to the airport or help to paint their spare bedroom over the weekend.) Alright, to steal the land of people he despises a little less than the Jews. Or maybe just another grab at the spotlight and to look righteous and defiant (scoring points with the hardliners).

These are two ginormous goof balls whose ridiculous antics affect the world in different ways, to be sure. 'Mitch Buchannon' is mainly screwing up his immediate family and perhaps 'fans' who should know better. Maybe producers who should know better. ImADickYaHeard, on the other hand, is attempting to play on the pain and suffering of the disenfranchised, perpetrating a meta-lie (lying about people lying). Now to be clear, I'm no Israel apologist - they don't have a monopoly on right (or wrong). Ultimately, for any sort of real solution, the Israelis and Palestinians will both need to compromise. Sadly, that day may never come and it's dicks like ImADickYaHeard that'll help ensure it won't.

What do drunkard and dickweed have in common (besides being jack asses of greater or lesser magnitude)? Seemingly not much (though I hear through the grapevine that ImADickYaHeard is a closet Baywatch fan).

They do have a vaguely German connection in that Hasselhoff's 'music' is inexplicably popular in that country and ImADickYaHeard's worldview would have been favorably viewed by that country's leaders back in the 30s (though his race would most certainly not have been). But that's an unfair (and nonsensical) comparison based on a stereotype of the kind Iran's head bonehead would no doubt approve.

So it goes back to them both being goof balls. Fodder for the rest of us to have a bit of fun.

For instance, perhaps The Knight Rider could team up with Amy Winehouse, record a duet album of boozy classics (Tiny Bubbles, Tubthumping, One Bourbon One Scotch One Beer, Too Drunk To Fuck, Gin and Juice). Maybe go on tour? I think the New York Booze Cruise people are calling!

Speaking of duets, I think ImADickYaHeard should team up with Momar "Crazy Legs" GitOffMe. Mahmoud and Momar are both in New York toward the end of this week to catch some of the fall runway shows (and perhaps swing by the UN, if there's time). Two wild and (literally) crazy guys. Momar could give the hirsuted one some fashion tips ahead of their arrival.

Swinging batshit loony dictators out and about, doing the town! (Whatcha mean CBGB closed down!?! Momar, you promised! The Ramones! Blitzkrieg Bop! Johnny and Joey are dead? Next thing you'll tell me the Dictators have broken up! Well, there's always Scores!)

Or - and I'm just trying to tie this post up here somehow - we could book them on the Hasselhoff/Winehouse New York Booze Cruise.

We're talking wine(house and the liquid variety), women (Momar's Famed Female Body Guards) and song (David and Amy live!).

And after all the fun and games, we'll arrange for a nice long rest for them off the side of the boat into the East River (you too, Hasselhoff - let's see Mr. Baywatch swim with an anchor locked tight around your leg).

Sleep tight, boys.

Super Colon Blow

Ah, the joys of middle age and bad genes! 

There are many sign posts on the road of life and as we continue to tick off those forty-something mile markers, many of us begin the ritual of the colonoscopy.  Some of the luckier among us were plagued with gastrointestinal tract problems early in life and thus are introduced to the pleasures of this procedure well before the AARP brochures start arriving in the mail and Discovery Health channel displaces ESPN as our channel surfing Wiamea Bay.

But eventually, if we're smart and closing in on (or pulling away from) fifty, we all should probably be taking the plunge every five to ten years.

It starts with the preparation.  And really, it's this, and not the actual procedure itself, that's at the heart of it all.  You'd think nothing would 'top' having a cold metal scope snaked up your ass flapping in the breeze out of that goofy gown, you lying bent over in the fetal position on a gurney under bright lights surrounded by a group of old ugly doctors and young pretty nurses (or worse, old ugly nurses and pretty young doctors - usually some mix therein).  To be sure, that's a highlight. Hey, baby - you and I should grab a drink sometime.  How about it, sugar?  You think my ass is sweet, you should see the rest of me! Wink, wink. Wince, wince.  But that isn't the main course, at least not for me.

It starts with the preparation, the night before.  You gotta scrub those bowels shiny clean prior to the big event.  You don't get to eat anything .  But you do get to drink.  Primarily, Phospho soda.  Some of the foulest shit you'll ever choke down, like drinking a shaker of liquid salt.  They usually try and 'flavor' this poison with lemon-lime or something similar, making it all the worse.  Once you make it past this hurdle, you'll be spending the rest of the evening tethered to a porcelain throne.

Gather up plenty of reading material, though be sure it's something light because your concentration for weightier material will be wrecked by the freight train roaring through your bowels into the bowl.  And God (and Depends) help you should you stray very far from the john that evening.  Ever eat some wickedly spicy Mexican food or five-alarm hot wings and then have a nasty case of the runs?  That will have given you a taste of the fun in store for you here.

Why lead you through this?  Education, of course.  I'm sure many of you are on the young side of 45 and haven't taken this particular Pepsi challenge yet and I wanted you to be aware of what will soon be a regular part of preventive care for you as you drift into your golden years.  And I wanted to be sure you're going into it with your eyes open.  Of course, I hope for your sake not literally open - ask your doctor about the anesthesia and if he replies with "local" you fire back: "No, no, no - I wanna be in la la land, doc."  I've done it both ways and strongly favor the knock out drops to singing Moon River.  Sometimes there are medical reasons why you need to be awake ("Does it hurt when I do this?  How about this here?"); however, that's not the norm.  But to each his own. 

I went through the procedure this morning and wanted to get this out there while the memories were fresh.  As you've no doubt surmised, this wasn't my first: I am one of those lucky few GI tract dysfunction trust fund babies who inherited my misfortune from dear old Dad and had my first colonoscopy at 23 years of age.  My doctor has me go through this misery every five years or so, depending on my symptoms.

A colleague recommended I watch Sublime, but only after the my procedure was over.  Alas, I'd already caught the flick - a parable of the process gone horribly wrong (well, not exactly - the protagonist goes in for a colonoscopy but ends up on the receiving end of another procedure altogether, plunging him into a medical nightmare).  An interesting film.  But his advice was sound: watch it only afterward.

Indeed.

Remember, it'll behoove ya to care for your uvula.  Er, sorry - wrong  public service announcement.  "You'll keep rollin' with a scoped out colon!"  There, that's it.

Point of parliamentary procedure!

Why is everybody so up-in-arms over Joe Wilson's "You Lie!" outburst during Obama's health care speech to congress the other night? I'm a hemorrhaging heart liberal and unabashed Obama supporter from way back, but I found the shout out rather refreshing. I didn't agree with the content, of course (he and I likely couldn't agree on today's date) but wasn't perturbed by the conduct. Besides, his remark only helped reinforce the president's point regarding the seeming lack of civility in the health care debate. Of course, at some level, that's exactly what I like about the health care discussion. Not as a concerned citizen, mind you, but as someone looking for a little extra comic relief out of the daily news cycle.

We're way too polite and regal in this country when it comes to official government traditions and ceremony. You wouldn't think that would be the case given our country's genesis, borne from the tyranny of the British crown. Ironically it's the Brits that it it all over us now when it comes to dispensing of civility and ceremony (well, at least when it comes to their civility - they still dress like royal dorks).

Perhaps Wilson's faux pas might be our start down that boisterous road toward British 'parliamentary procedure'? I hope so. We need more Animal House and Jerry Springer in the hallowed halls of congress and less pomp(ous) and circumstance. Enough yielding of the floor to "the Gentleman from the Great State of Yada Yada" ( I didn't realize the floor was moving such that it needed to yield, or is it just that they're all so regularly drunk it just appears to be?)

I'd like to hear just once, 'The chair recognizes Joseph Wilson, the gentleman needle dick from South Carolina, the shit hole state best known for slavery, rebel-yell Nazism, incest, pedophilia and pestilence. Herr Wilson, you represent her well in that regard, you fascist pea brain." As an example.

And what's with the ridiculous rituals for a presidential address to congress? The endless announcements of the major players by the master-at-arms, as though this was the NBA finals. And their glad-handing on the way down!  Enough, already. Finally, enough with the 55 applause cycles before the man even starts his speech. Come on! Give 'em a hand - one round of polite applause. Either that or go whole hog Beatlemania on him with swooning, screaming and whatnot. Enough of this middle-of-the-road shit.

Can't we just have Johnny Olson tell them all to "Come on Down, you're the next speaker on the Address To Congress"? After all, Joe Biden kinda looks like Bob Barker and Nancy Pelosi is surely the spitting image of at least one of the 70s Price Is Right prize models today (one who lived life hard through the 80s and 90s but then was reborn through an addiction to plastic surgeries). Maybe she even was a Price Is Right model for all I know.

I say all this only somewhat tongue-in-cheek and mainly as a reaction to the over-reaction by my fellow travelers on the left. Let Wilson's impulsive act stand on its own demerits - sort of like (and apropos to)  Dr. Strangelove's impulsive 'Sig Heil'ing and 'Mein Führer'ing at the end of that movie.  The incessant whining about it is turning this guy into a martyr for the nutso right wing rabble-rousers. That is, to people just like Joe Wilson.  More specifically, to people whose ideology appears to run just to the left of Adolf Hitler (or maybe it's just to the right - that's a tough call). There are a lot of his ilk out there in our land of milk and military industrial honey.

Let's do what we can to marginalize these wackos, not popularize them. Christ, if we had just left the wolf huntress of the Yukon alone and not called her on her illiteracy and schizophrenia at every turn, she might have faded back into the governor's igloo without haunting us further. Neither is necessarily a barrier to becoming Vice President, after all. I read the constitution and it doesn't mention either literacy or schizophrenia even once (well, maybe there's something about 'sound mind' in there, but it's debatable what that implies).

Look, Grandpa Munster didn't stand a chance at president once he picked her, she did all the work of ensuring that and certainly didn't need any help from the left wing attack dogs (yes, we have 'em too - they're just not nearly as polished as our counterparts growling over there on the other side of the plane).

Joe The Plumber Beck Limbaugh O'Reilly Cheney.  These scary monsters thrive on attention and all subscribe to that age old adage "the only bad publicity is no publicity."

Leave 'em be, don't make them martyrs.