Louzing my Religion

Lou Dobbs is pulling up stakes from his perch at CNN, answering the cries of the great unwashed as he presumably prepares to run for some sort of public office. Help us, Obi-Wan Kenobe, you're our only hope. Superman in a suit and tie (if Superman happened to be a megalomaniac gas bag).

Lou's got some brains, though: he's a leg up on the Palins and Becks and O'Reillys of the world. I lump him into the same bucket as Keith Olbermann on the left (a fellow megalomaniac gas bag who could surely challenge Lou to a round-the-world-in-80-days balloon race). Olbermann's at least got a better sense of humor than Lou (or, to be more accurate, he has a sense of humor); Dobbs is utterly barren in that department, or at least in what he has chosen to share with the general public.

Do I smell a Dobbs/Palin 2012 ticket choo-chooing up the tracks? Dobbs/Beck? Dobbs/Trump? Our protector of the middle class, the only thing that scares him more than its demise is the idea of becoming a member of its ranks. Do the middle class have shoe shine attendants at the ready in their bathrooms at home? Probably just in the downstairs shitters. Poor bastards. How can they live like that?

Or perhaps Lou will do a 180 and run for President of Mexico. What better way to stem the tide of illegal immigration into the country from south of the border?

Now, Louie happened to be a local Seattle News anchor once upon a time in the swinging 70s and some members of my family were close with those close to Lou. So I heard things. If Mr. Dobbs is indeed jonesing for a legislative seat (or, god forbid, something more executive), he might be advised to pony up some duckets to have that massive graveyard of skeletons rattling around his closet cremated, or at least buried extra deep.

Suffice to say that when Lou christened his old financial news show "Moneyline", he reached back into his Disco Days for the concept surrounding the original logo: a big ol' nose with a rolled up $100.00 vacuuming up a long, fat white line across a mirror balanced on top of the Wall Street Opening Bell, with all the Fortune 100 Stock Symbols reflecting back up through it. The producers rightly vetoed the idea, even as Lou was gathering the "props" needed for its photo shoot.

Lou: "I'll be the model - and bring the supplies! It's a powerful metaphor for the lure and danger of uninformed gambling in the complex world of securities!"

Exec: "It's suicide, Lou - you'd be drummed off the air before you'd even started! Wait -- your eyes - your eyes are all pupil! You skin is Chiquita yellow! Are you sick?"

Lou: "I'm fine - whatta mean, whatta mean, I'm fine, fine - whatta mean? God damn you! I've got a degree in economics from Harvard!"

Maybe Lou has a sense of humor after all ...

Okay, perhaps I'm merely making an educated guess as to the goings on in the nascent days of yore at Turner News, back when Wolf was merely an obnoxious pup and Larry King's odometer hadn't yet rolled back over to zeros for the third time (well, maybe not quite as far back as that ... that was the hipster fuck-da-man 60s/70s Larry, as he is seen here posing mug shot style)

You've been freed from your shackles now, Lou; your muzzle at last loosened, 'cause god knows you've restrained yourself from expressing an opinion while on the Atlanta payroll ... You've now been called to a higher purpose, your loyal public breathless in anticipation of your leadership to come.

Perhaps Lou isn't running for public office.

Perhaps he's headed overseas.

Yes, of course. A trip to Kenya to dig up that rat bastard Fascist Communist radical Muslum Socialist Obama's real birth certificate. A Safari! Dr. Louvingston, I presume!

Ahh, but enough of Lou - time to drift the evening away with a guilty pleasure showing on the Retro channel tonight, 1982's Creep Show. This movie's a George Romero adaption of several Stephen King short stories, light on horror and heavy on ham and cheese. My throat is raw and the familiar tickle that is cold and flu season is starting to hammer home its message through my mucus membranes and into my frontal lobe, so perhaps my love for Creep Show is tainted by the claustrophobic veneer of sickness. Perhaps.

It's Father's Day - Where's my Cake!?!?!





It's Father's Day and I've got my Cake - Happy Father's Day!




Brilliant.