The delightful bspencer at Lawyers, Guns & Money:
This is what happens when you have a tiger by the tail, but you made the tiger. And you made it out of poop-flinging piranhas. How do piranhas fling poop? I don’t know. I’m not the one who Dr. Frankenmcardled the piranhatiger. Please quit asking me stupid questions.
What I’m saying is that Megan McArdle gets the commentariat she deserves, the one she created.
… and the wonderful Thers at Whiskey Fire, with a more in depth mcarglebargling:
Megan McArdle —
Yeah, I know, it’s probably pointless, but what the hey.
Megan McArdle delivers herself of a 59,000-word blog post (give or take) wherein she McSplains that while sexism exists, nobody, especially girls, should ever ever ever call anyone a sexist, no matter how sexist their behavior, because that is like shooting them with a gun, a gun that might cause hurt feelings. (Literal guns of course are harmless and everyone should have like nine of them, to go with their artisinal Moroccan fig-basters and stainless steel Syosset heritage goose denipplers.)
I do love me some birthers – Ted Cruz birthers, that is.
What does that say about the list the authors put before you as “cleared for take off?” Both Jindal and Haley’s parents were Indian citizens and the Indian constitution makes their children citizens of India by BIRTH! See permanent residents are not required to renounce their former citizenship as naturalized citizens are, so the laws of India apply to the children of Indians born in the United States.
Cruz was born in Canada to an American mother and a Cuban father. Cruz is a great man, a true conservative but he is ineligible to be President, because the law of Canada made him a citizen of Canada by BIRTH. His citizenship comes from Title 8 of the United States Code.
Rubio has perhaps the best claim of them all to show that at the time of his birth he only had allegiance for the United States. The 1940 Cuban Constitution which was in effect at the time of his birth states, Those born in foreign territory, of Cuban father or mother, by the sole act of their becoming inhabitants of Cuba (become Cubans by Birth.) Here Rubio would need to perform a positive act to claim Cuban citizenship as he would need to migrate to Cuba and take up residence there. However, the Supreme Court has ruled that a natural born citizen is one born in the United States to citizen parents, and until that is changed by the Supreme Court of the United States Rubio will be on shaky legal ground.
All across the Nutweb they are springing up, like tiny phallic fungi, poking their heads up through the bullshit strewn around them. Watch now, as the slightly less insane representatives of the right, recognising (perhaps) that their party has fruited something unpleasant, poisonous and inconvenient, watch as they try to stomp the tiny little birther mushrooms into mush.
Eliana Johnson at the National Review Online. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Some question whether the Canada-born freshman senator is eligible for the presidency (hint: he is).
The homepage of the website Birthers.org is currently devoted to making the constitutional case against Cruz’s eligibility. He is lauded for representing his state “with a passion not seen in Texas since the Alamo” and cheered for being “one hell of a Senator,” but Birthers.org’s denizens emphatically conclude that he cannot be president “because the law of Canada made him a citizen of Canada by BIRTH.”
On ObamaReleaseYourRecords.com, alongside the latest news about the president’s fraudulent birth certificate and his close ties to Islam, anonymous authors blast the media for propagating the “myth” that the Constitution permits a Cruz presidency. “What complete madness to suggest someone born in another country is a ‘natural born Citizen’ of the United States and eligible to be POTUS,” one of them argues. “It is complete rubbish and they know it.”
Donald Trump, who in 2011 hounded President Obama to turn over his long-form birth certificate and kept the birther movement in the national news for months, has yet to look into Cruz’s eligibility. “I like him,” Trump tells National Review Online, but says he has “not studied his situation.”
“Obviously, I have everybody calling me wanting my support,” he claims. Nonetheless, he considers Cruz’s case “very different” from the president’s because Cruz “has been very candid and open about his place of birth and his background.”
The seemingly endless transition from one Mitt-free alternative to another, and the increasing perception that the great dealmaker can’t close this deal, must be causing some epic hissy fits and the odd bit of alcohol abuse at Romney HQ.
Anne Laurie linked to Ewick, Son of Ewick’s CPAC post, but didn’t quote my favorite bit.
Along the way a funny thing has happened. Romney supporters are starting to be openly critical of him. The business whiz has failed to restructure his own failing organization. His support is a mile wide and an inch deep.
And he has been replaced as front runner by the crowd. They are with Rick Santorum in heart, but also in money and votes. On the horizon looms a brokered convention.
Santorum is the new white. I expect the santorum slurping (which was already (if you will allow me to mix metaphors) bubbling away below the surface) will become unbearable, particularly now that everyone seems to want to talk about vaginas all the time. Every outlier poll which shows Santorum beating Romney or Obama will be touted throughout Wingnuttia.
Sadly, I suspect it will last about two weeks. Ricky will say something even more phenomenally stupid than his usual guff and everyone will finally get in line behind Mitt, the candidate that no one wanted.
I confess that Mitt scares me a little. He is just slick and rich and oily enough to fool the great unwashed into thinking him presidential.
Santorum, on the other hand (never a pleasant experience), is my dream candidate – a sanctimonious, unattractive and lumpish scold, with a face that cries out not only for a fist, but several carefully aimed feet.
See? Truly revolting.
You get his kind at every church. They proclaim their rectitude and their good works to any who will listen, but would snaffle the last cupcake from under the nose of an nun and proclaim it to be for her own good. They let the whole congregation see how much they put on the collection plate, but the muffins they bring to the bake sale are always store-bought and usually two days old. The only thing they value more than idle gossip is the feeling of superiority and outrage they get to enjoy after hearing it. They are, in everything, driven by a pinched anxiety that everyone they meet is either more moral or more sinful than them.
Rick Santorum once came to Shady Pines for morning tea. For a while I managed to avoid him by moving strategically from room to room. Eventually he almost cornered me, so I slipped out onto the garden terrace and hid in the janitor’s closet, only to find I was sharing it with the bishop, two nuns and a disturbingly sticky altar boy, who had also taken refuge in there. We were trapped for fifteen minutes, although happily fortified by the contents of my hipflask (although I did think the bishop offering some of my best scotch to little Billy Fortenberry was unwise).
Afterwards I had Marge Albrectson put one of her pet squirrels up Rick’s coat, so the last I saw of him he was running down the drive and screaming a high, ululating screech of terror, while a rabid ball of fluff tried to eat its way into his brain through his back.
I hope Santorum stays in the race. I hope that his prissy mug is all over that Convention stage ranting about bumsex and rape babies and privileges and inalienable goods.
He is everything I would wish upon the Republicans.
Did I ever tell you, my dears, about the time that Ayn Rand lost her shirt to the mafia?
I suspect not. Now, let me see.
It was, I think, 1965. Times were hard for Ayn. Bitsy Trump had banned her from her home after the unfortunate Christmas party incident (you all remember that one, dears) and the time she came home to find Ayn hiding in her walk-in pantry with two hams and a kilo of beluga stuffed down her raggedy old knickers. As you know, once you were off Bitsy’s invitation list, you were about as popular as Sidney Poitier at a Klan debutante ball. Ayn was even reduced to buying her own food.
However, worse was to come.
Ayn had gotten herself involved with two legitimate New York businessmen, both members of the Inaffidabili family, and both young men on the make. The Inaffidabili had previously focused on such honorable trades as running queer bars and shaking down shopkeepers. However, a few months previously, an up-and-comer called Vito had become head of the family – the two prior incumbents having eaten something which rather disagreed with them (to wit, their own tongues). Thereupon, word had come down that new blood meant a new way of doing business, not least one in which the ability to breathe was considered a discretionary benefit.
Frankie and Gianni Inaffidabili were Vito’s nephews, and were at the forefront of the modernization and diversification of the family’s business holdings. Frankie was the brains, while Gianni was, to put it charitably, not. Gianni’s talent was more in the area of graphic ultraviolence, usually involving the aforementioned tongues.
Gianni loved amusement parks, and a few months before he had, to his joy, visited Disneyland. Frankie went along to make sure that Gianni behaved himself, after an unfortunate incident the year before when a naked Gianni had humped Donald Duck in the middle of the Macy’s parade.
Gianni had had a wonderful time throwing up on the teacup ride, loitering outside the performers’ change rooms throwing steamy glances at Chip and Dale, and almost capsizing the boat with excitement during the fifty-seventh rendition of “It’s a small world after all”.
Frankie, however, had spent his time more profitably. He eyed up the lines of sweaty square-staters with their wallets open, and the screaming children lugging around sticky, dusty stuffed mice. He tried the food and sidled up to a few of the more disreputable looking employees to check on their rates of pay.
Frankie recognized that he was witness to a scam beyond the wildest dreams of the Inaffidabili, and returned to New York full of ideas.
Ayn was, as everyone now knows, an inveterate, if ceaselessly unlucky, gambler. The woman would bet on two flies on a dog’s arse, and would invariably end up putting her money on the one with the dicky wing and no sense of direction. As a result, she usually owed her bookie big time. Even more usually, although she had scads of cash stashed away under the floorboards of that monstrosity she called an apartment, she didn’t pay up, on the basis that debt was something that happened to other people.
Other people, for example, like her bookie, who also owed money to his bookie, who in turn owed money to a rather ineffectual member of the Inaffidabili family called Donkey. (Due, I understand, to his laugh, which sounded like an ass on heat, and not to his ten inch cock. Just a coincidence, apparently.)
Anyway, as a result of what today would be called a “leveraged buyout” by Frankie – the “leverage” referring to the crowbar Gianni used to tip Donkey and his new concrete shoes off the boat and into the Hudson – all of the former Donkey’s debtors were called upon by Frankie and Gianni for a little chat about their ongoing ability to have little chats, and its unfortunate dependence upon prompt payment.
Ayn was, at least in the short term, lucky. Gianni was a devoted reader of her demented potboilers, having had only a copy of Atlas Shrugged to read while hiding out from the law a few years earlier. When he saw her he fell to his knees and kissed her lumpy fingers, all the while babbling to Frankie about what a genius she was and how she had thousands devoted followers “just like me”, and then babbling to her about how this was as good as, no, even better than Disneyland.
In an instant, Frankie had an idea, a moment of (if you will forgive the pomposity) afflatus, the plan appearing whole in his brain as if put there by the gods.
They would build “The Ayn Rand Experience”. Right here in Ayn’s apartment, her devotees could pay for the opportunity to live her life, to be, even for a few shining moments, their heroine. I must add that Frankie was not entirely convinced that there were, in fact, hordes of sweaty palmed, developmentally-delayed furry-fetishists* willing to fork out ready money to sniff Ayn’s bedsheets. Either way, it didn’t matter. Even if they didn’t come, it wouldn’t be Frankie’s cash that was on the line.
In short, Frankie saw here an opportunity to combine interests both new (theme parks) and old (taking avaricious arseholes to the cleaners) in one tasty package.
With a few soft words that spoke of worship and profits and the difficulty of typing novels with no fingers, Frankie reeled her in. Within a few short minutes, Ayn was the non-silent partner in a new and glorious enterprise, and found herself forking over several hundred thousand rather dusty dollars untimely ripped from below her floor.
Within a few short days, Ayn’s apartment had been transformed. Outside, on the street, there was a neon sign that flashed, and a little canvas booth from which tickets could be purchased. The punter, having forked over a disgusting amount of money, would be escorted to the lift (now renamed the “Taggart Comet”) by a man dressed as a train conductor, who would make choo-choo noises as the lift … sorry, Comet flew them to their destination on tracks made of the finest Rearden Metal.
Stepping off the “train”, our brave adventurer would find himself facing an enormous cut-out head of Ayn Rand, which had been affixed around the door to Ayn’s apartment, with the door inside her gaping mouth. More than one laborer felt a frisson of terror when they were installing that, let me tell you. It was like coming face to face with a baleen whale with a grudge.
Inside, if one dared enter, there was a cavalcade of delights – Ayn’s office, where the discerning reader could see hundreds of signed first editions of her books; the toilet with a little bronze plaque commemorating the place where Ayn first had the inspiration for Atlas Shrugged; and even the typewriter room, where Ayn kept the monkeys chained up while they churned out her next opus horrendum.
The main bathroom was turned over to educational entertainments for the children (on the assumption that even devotees of Ayn Rand must reproduce every now and then by simple blind luck). Outside the door there was a cutout of Howard Roark with his hand about three feet off the ground and a little sign that said, “If you are not this tall, you are a failure and may not ride.”
Those who were worthy to enter were able to sit in a plastic tub in Ayn’s bath and float around while a score of identical little animatronic children in business suits sang a jaunty tune called “Existence is Identity, Consciousness is Identification”. A dozen repetitions of that ringing in their heads and most children were ready to believe anything. Afterwards they could see the holy relics of St Ayn – the little collection of yellow toenail clippings she kept in an eggcup on the shelf and the plug of manky hair in the sink.
In the spare bedroom, automata (made by the same manufacturer as those in Disney’s Hall of Presidents) endlessly acted out the rape scene from, well, it wasn’t quite clear which of Ayn’s books it was from, but frankly it could be any of them, amirite?
In the main bedroom, one was free to roll around in Ayn’s bed, although for maximum of ten minutes and one’s pants had to stay on. For an extra ten bucks, an actor dressed as Ayn would roll around with you in simulated coitus, making hooting noises and weeping just like the real thing.
At Gianni’s insistence, there was even an animal mascot called Dagny the Dog – some poor schmo being paid a buck an hour for the privilege of wearing an animal suit, prancing around the foyer and fending off the increasingly lusty advances of Gianni.
Sadly for Ayn, the whole thing was not a success.
There were few visitors at that time willing to fork out a three days’ pay in order to live the Ayn Rand experience. Gianni went through about seventeen times, but as he didn’t have to pay that really didn’t help the profit figures.
Gloria Vanderbilt and I visited on the second day it was open, just so we could say we had experienced the full horror. It was a fine, crisp Saturday day and yet, besides the two of us, the paying public consisted entirely of a young couple from Idaho who had gotten awfully lost on their way to Coney Island, and Alan Greenspan, who spent his entire visit in the bedroom moistly fapping away in the corner.
The rest of the world showed its indifference. I think Truman rather caught the vox of the populi when he said, “Sarey dear, if I wanted to feel like a talentless freak who everyone laughs at, I’d go home to visit mother.” **
Within days, the Experience was closed down, Gianni stripped Ayn’s apartment of anything of actual worth to “recoup Frankie’s expenses”, and most of the apartment had been transformed into a cocaine refining facility. Ayn was allowed to keep her bedroom, but only because the chemists who worked there said that the room gave them the heebie-jeebies after about ten minutes.
I visited her at home once after that, but that sad little room, with its bed made out of remaindered novels and the single candle guttering on the cold radiator, along with Ayn’s sad bitter eyes, was just too depressing. I hustled her out of there and took her shopping at Tiffany.
After I’d bought myself a nice new necklace, we went to Central Park, where I bought her an ice-cream and then, when she was distracted, kneed her in the groin and pushed her into the duck pond.
Shortly after that, Ayn decided that the only way to make some money was to hold a charity auction. However, that’s another story…
* Please note that I am not suggesting that all furries are sweaty palmed devotees of Ayn Rand. I know that most of you are perfectly normal and charming people, if a little too fond of polyester. However, I am sure you will admit that the addition of mindless devotion to Ayn Rand turns an otherwise quite sweet little fetish into something entirely repulsive.
** I asked him what the Truman Capote Experience would be like and he said that no one was going to pay fifty bucks to be insulted and roughly sodomised in the back of a truck, when they could have the same thing for free all weekend in the meatpacking district.
Those of you who have been reading my little posts for a while will know that I do everything I can to avoid coming into direct contact with Sarah Palin ever since I was a judge on the Miss Alaska pageant all those years ago.
After that experience, and our little plane trip together, I trust Sarah about as much as I’d trust Roman Polanski around a particularly attractive twelve year old. However, I do like to keep tabs on her and, after reading about her little bus tour, I was determined to get someone on the inside.
My dear friend and fellow Shady Pines resident Sandra Frazer volunteered. In the end it only took one phone call. Sandra crapped on about how unfair the people at Wikipedia are and how she and Marge Albrechtson are both devoted followers of Sarah and, above all, both very rich and slightly senile, and before you could say “You’re so much prettier than that Bachmann woman”, they’d been issued a personal invitation to visit Sarah in New Hampshire.
Sandra and Marge were waiting outside the Yankee Fisherman’s Cooperative in Seabrook. Marge has been skipping her meds and, while she wasn’t in a violent mood, she did keep slapping at her herself to quieten down the squirrels she’d stashed in her knickers that morning before she left Shady Pines. There was a lot of squeaking and complaining going on, although I understand most of it was coming from the pack of journalists who were also waiting there.
They’re such filthy hairy little things, always pissing themselves and biting people for no reason – by which I mean the journalists of course, not Marge’s squirrels who are generally quite well behaved.
Sarah arrived first in her SUV, followed by Todd and Piper and the rest of the entourage in the Palinbus. Sarah was very polite, especially after she spotted that big ol’ diamond ring that Sandra was wearing – the one that Jimmy Carter gave her after he broke off their affair back in 1983. Sandra said it was like one of those cartoons where Daffy Duck’s eyeballs turn into dollar signs, and Todd even had to rush in to wipe the drool off Sarah’s bottom lip. Sarah wasn’t even fazed by the two pairs of beady rodent eyes peering at her from out of Marge’s purse.
Sandra told me that Sarah was looking quite good, although she appeared to be wearing something from Donatella Versace’s Piggly Wiggly collection. Even Todd had made an effort and had worn his best Megadeth t-shirt – the one without any obvious holes.
After Sandra managed, with some difficulty, to get her hand back from Sarah, Sarah fetched Trig out of his storage box at the front of the bus where they keep him when he’s not in use, and then wandered off with him to have some photographs taken next to some dead fish.
Marge and little Piper set about making friends. The only squirrels Piper had even seen were either roadkill or food (and possibly both) and so she was quite impressed when Marge started producing them from her clothes like some slightly confused musician from Hamelin. Soon they were yammering away to each other and they both went off to talk to some lobsters in a tank out the back.
Sandra was left alone with Todd.
Now, Sandra may be 72, but she’s still a well preserved and handsome woman – the result of decades of facials made from pituitary glands untimely ripped from impoverished Cambodian orphans and a large amount of whalebone under the kind of stress that makes diamonds out of coal. She also likes her men big and dumb. Show her a Carhartt baseball cap, a farmer’s tan and an expression of amiable stupidity (cf. Jimmy Carter) and her ovaries start fizzing like Kathryn Jean Lopez in a seminary.
Todd was doing his usual thing of staring off into the distance and mumbling the lyrics of Whitesnake songs, so he didn’t notice Sandra’s quite obvious interest until she grabbed him by the front of his sweatpants, dragged him behind some convenient bushes and pounced on him like Oprah Winfrey on a baked ham.
Fifteen minutes of impassioned kissing later, Sarah arrived back at the bus with half a dozen lobsters under one arm and Trig under the other. Todd’s hair was a little askew and he was holding a clip-board carefully in front of the Little Dude, who pointedly refused to go down, but there was otherwise no sign of what had happened so far.
It was time to head off to the clambake, which was being held at the summer residence of Jeff and Elizabeth Davis, two of Sarah’s staffers, although it took a while to locate Piper, who had been playing hide and seek with Marge. She’d hidden herself in a pile of cod and no one could find her until one keen-eyed fisherman noticed that one of the cod seemed to have a bow in its hair.
Sarah and Piper and Trig and Marge all got into the SUV. They offered to give Sandra a ride too, but she begged off, saying that Todd had very kindly offered to show her his collection of velvet paintings of dogs playing poker, and so she was happy to ride with him in the bus.
Sarah was in her element, chatting to the press when she arrived at the clambake, schmoozing with such luminaries as John Sununu, and watching Piper and Marge playing Hide-the-Rodent with Trig. All was going well until halfway through the evening when Sarah realised that she hadn’t seen Todd since they left the co-op, and wandered off to find him, carrying a plate of food.
Sandra told me, with what I must say was only the merest hint of embarrassment, that when Sarah threw open the door of the bus, releasing a cloud of amyl nitrate and marijuana smoke that must have made Andrew Sullivan’s nose twitch six states away, Sandra was on top of Todd, stark naked, mid-orgasm and shouting “Ride me like Paul Revere!” at the top of her voice.
The words “wild, screaming, hair-tearing hissy fit” apparently do not begin to do justice to what then ensued.
Sarah lobbed clamshells at Todd, followed by the plate, and Sandra heard each of them hit his forehead with a pronounced thud. Sandra extracted Little Todd from her nether parts and made a break for the door, leaving behind her red Dior suit and some very new Jimmy Choos. She says that the last thing she saw before she managed to escape was Sarah advancing towards Todd brandishing a plastic spork and screaming that she was going to cut off his “fucking Levi Johnston”.
I won’t bore you with the sordid tale of how Sandra managed to convince John Sununu to lend her his limousine to get to the airport, or how in Sarah’s absence Marge cornered several journalists and started raving about squirrels and how they want to take over the country – You can expect that to be taken up as part of the Tea Party platform any day now.
In finishing, however, I will just note three things. First, that the news reports, while noting that Sarah and Todd’s motorcade managed to break several road rules after leaving that clambake, just before the Sarah Palin bus tour was “postponed” indefinitely, entirely failed to mention Todd’s amazing ability to drive a bus with one hand clamped to his crotch to staunch the bleeding.
Second – the last time I saw Sarah Palin on the television she seemed to be wearing a very nice red Dior suit and some quite adorable Jimmy Choo slingbacks, which goes to show that beggars can’t be choosers.
Finally, that Sandra came home from her last appointment with the gynecologist – menopause having been staved off for years because of all those Cambodian hormones – with a little surprise. It won’t be easy raising a baby in a retirement home, but we’ll do our best.
We’re thinking of calling it Clam.
[H/t for the image to the gorgeous Rumproasters.]
[Cross posted at Balloon Juice.]
Well, my dears. It has been a busy week and, although I promised you I would finish my little story about Pastor Huckabee and the Convent Fair last night, other circumstances intervened and I have only now had a chance to sit down and write it out.
If you haven’t already read the first half, then you may wish to bugger off now and catch up with your reading. However, let me repeat my warning – this is a long, dark and convoluted tale which contains scenes of a most distressing kind and, as such, should not be braved by those of a sensitive or suggestible nature.
Are you sitting comfortably?
I seem to recall that when I left you I’d just clonked that terrible Huckabee man on the bonce with a candlestick, and I can tell you it made a most satisfying crunching noise.
By the time Huckabee’s eyes flicked open, the screams of distress from Chris Christie had blended now into a single wail of despair. The air shimmered now and crackled with electricity. Huckabee thrashed as he realized that he was bound hand and foot by silver shackles which had been screwed into each corner of the black stone tablet that marked Brigham Howard’s grave. I could tell from the way he squirmed that the stone was ice cold beneath his naked buttocks. He may not be a small man, but he has those unfortunate concave buttocks that many older men have, so there wasn’t much padding between him and the stone.
The cold had, of course, lead to some shrinkage issues and the Little Governor was now, as I seem to recall Carrie Fisher remarking about the same appendage of Dan Quayle, a freezing cold acorn, screaming, screaming for cover. However, I had Ann Coulter stomp on him with her high heels for a while and that little problem soon went away.
When he had finished wailing and squirming, I stood over him until I could see myself reflected in his eyes. I was dressed to the nines in bespoke Dior, and on my head was a tiara of opulent and phantastic design, made of gold, although with a weird lustrousness which hinted at some strange alloy. One could spend hours studying the drippingly marine curves chased and moulded into its surface, and in fact I often have.
Tiffany, of course – from their Eldritch Armageddon collection. I understand that nice Mrs Gingrich is quite a fan.
“You!” Huckabee said, as he recognized me. “Release me, you hell harridan.”
All I did was laugh at his struggles. I clicked my fingers and first Condoleeza and then Ann Coulter in her turn threw themselves down, their naked forms writhing upon him like spawning salmon as they coupled with him, one and then the other, again and again.
Void of clothing, all of the Sisters were now braying and bellowing and writhing in a monstrous ring around us, all naked now and chanting those wonderful words “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn”. Their arms flapped as they circled, first on two legs and then on four, a limitless stream of flopping and croaking half-humanity with dead, bulging eyes and palpitating gills, all moaning words of power.
It was quite like the Republican Party convention, although without the placards and the repressed homosexuality.
Then, as Ann perpetuated some indescribable obscenity upon Huckabee’s recumbent form, as Huckabee begged “No more! No more!”, came a voice that was not a voice; a sense only of words spoken without a tongue:
At that moment there was a knocking on the other side of the obsidian stone that covered Brigham Howard, that stone baptized with the fluids of Huckabee’s stolen lust. The knocking grew louder and with each knock the stone block shuddered. Huckabee began to screech in fear, his noises harmonizing with the wordless howl still coming from outside the chapel and with the bestial grunts of Coulter, still humping her fishy form upon him.
The knocking stopped and Huckabee caught his breath in fear, and then the dark rock began to lift up all around, as if it were being pushed from behind by some hideous hand. It lifted and, in a moment, it was clear of the marble floor all around its glittering sides.
How can I describe the horror that spilled out from beneath? It seethed there in the dark below – a shivering mass of piebald-skinned tentacles that clutched at themselves, that grasped and seemed almost to chew the air with their red sucking mouths, a clump of coarse black fur that itched and heaved, and here and there a horn or a hoof or a quivering sphincter that sprayed forth mucus upon the cavorting hordes, all surmounted by Uncle Brigham’s shock of bright-blond hair and his shit-eating grin.
I stepped back a little. That dress was hand sewn by Christian Fucking Dior himself, and there was no way I was getting ectoplasm on it, end of the world or no.
One of the larger limbs snaked out, its skin the lipid color of drowned men’s thighs, its suckers clenching as it grabbed Condoleeza and dragged her down into that terrible pit, snuffing out her wail of happiness at being the first to feed the Great God.
The God would rise and we would all be crunched between his terrible teeth.
Pride goeth before the fall, of course. In my joy and righteous terror at the moment we had hoped for for so long, I had not been watching Huckabee, did not see him close his eyes and begin to pray, did not see him murmuring his prayers to his God.
If I had seen, I may have been able to stop him, to stop his mouth, to stop the words of worship which came to him so easily in his fear. If I had only seen ….
But I did not see until it was too late, until his prayers were said, until his God was there in the midst of us. His God, the great YOG-SOTHOTH of limitless being and self, she who the crab creatures of Yuggoth worship as the Beyond-One, she who the vaporous brains of the spiral nebulae know by an untranslatable word that sounds a little like someone being sick.
She was terrifying, more terrifying than anything I have ever seen, and I’ve seen Peggy Noonan with her dentures out.
Too late to do anything but hide as her feet crashed down upon the stone, crushing the Great God back down into the earth, sweeping aside the circling Sisters with her taloned hands.
Too late to do anything but cower and listen in fear as she strode around the chapel chanting words in a hideous sing-song voice that grated at the ears and made the stomach lurch. Such words, such indescribable words whose meaning lies beyond the ken of a simple woman like me:
“Old Gods. All of ’em, any of ’em that have been in front of me over all these years, they misunderestimated me. As Cthulhu rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, the America I know and love, it is not one in which the hockey moms or my parents or my baby with Down Syndrome will have to stand in front of a death panel and then be eaten because of a blood libel that serves only to incite the very hatred and violence they purport to condemn with their warning shots and bells that say we are going to be sure and we are going to be free. Also. Too.”
And with that, she was gone and all was quiet.
It will be another hundred years before the dark moon Yuggoth is in the proper alignment again, until our palaeogean magic can attempt to wake dead Cthulhu in his house at R’lyeh. A long time, an impossible time for someone of my advanced years. But while I may not live to see him rise, time is something of which we have an inexhaustible supply. We can wait, for we are patient and we always come back. No matter how long it takes, no matter how viscerally the world rejects the Old Gods, we always come back, for the memories of the world are short and the cycle of the earth is long.
We’re like cockroaches, or perhaps Republicans. Our time will come.
Of course, after the disappointment of the end of the world being called off, the afternoon tea that followed was a little subdued. Everyone had trouble meeting everyone else’s gaze and Pastor Huckabee didn’t seem to have much of an appetite, even though I had made my special strawberry shortcake
However, we did have the ceremonial stoning of the adulteresses in the car park of the 7-Eleven next door, which cheered us all up. I must note that no-one actually died at the stoning, although that strumpet Sarah Thompson from across the road certainly felt the cleansing fire of a few well aimed pebbles on the back of her head.
And Chris Christie was so overwhelmed by his little ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl that he vomited on Ann Coulter’s head.
Which was a small consolation for the disappointments of the day.
It’s not called Christchurch for nothing…
Auckland Catholic Church spokeswoman Lyndsay Freer told NZPA church attendance had not increased at all since Camping’s warnings.
She described his prediction as ”scaremongering nonsense”, that had nothing to do with scripture.
”We’re not superstitious here.”
There was no indication in the Bible for when the Apocalypse would strike, she said.
H/t: PPOG Penguin at Balloon Juice.
This is a dreadfully rude and unpleasant story, kiddies, for which I sincerely apologize.
Sometimes real life is like that.
It must have been Christmas 2003. Nancy had invited me to stay at the St Cloud Road house for a few weeks.
We had a lovely time together catching up, although it did take a while to get used to Nancy’s little habit of getting her secret service agents to position Ronnie in random places around the house in order to scare the maids. The new cook resigned on the first day I was there, soon after she walked into the pantry to find him hanging by his feet from the top shelf singing “I’m the Batman”. I’d been sitting on the toilet for 30 minutes one morning, and only realized that Ronnie was propped up in the shower stall wearing a sombrero when he called me “Mommy”. I got over my little constipation problem faster than you can say “Rush Limbaugh is a big fat pedophile.”
Please don’t think that Nancy was being mean. I think she was just bored all alone in that big house, and she said it gave him something to do with his time.There wasn’t much of Ronnie left, and what there was was basically a sweet four year old boy, so it was hard to dislike him, even if he did enjoy playing tricks.
Nancy and I had first met back during her Hollywood career, although of course it wasn’t so much an acting career as an early version of “The Bachelorette” – just Nancy hanging around on set and swilling champagne in the hot tub until someone asked her to marry them.
We used to write each other every month, although our friendship waned a little during the “Just say NO” years, when Nancy used to call Gloria V. and me and rant about us being “drug-addled hell-bitches” every time we got our photo in Vanity Fair.
Anyway, come Christmas time, Nancy decided to invite the Bushes (both 41 and 43) and the Cheneys and Karl Fucking Rove to fly in for a barbecue. I suggested this was like inviting all of the characters in “Whatever happened to Baby Jane?” into your living room, but she said that she liked to keep an eye on the latest tenants in her old house.
Of course, once they arrived, I realized I had gotten the reference wrong. Lynne Cheney might look and behave like Bette Davis coming down from a three week whisky-and-blow bender, but the rest of them resemble nothing so much as the cast of the Tim Burton version of “Gilligan’s Island”. Nancy and I would have to fight over who gets to be Ginger, and Ronnie could give a special guest appearance as the SS Minnow – thick as a plank and leaking at the seams.
Nancy and Ronnie and I were seated at the table in the garden when the guests arrived en masse – W wide eyed and giggling a little when he said hello to Ronnie, Lynne eyeing off the cutlery, and Dick gurgling as usual when he walked as the bile and shit and other viscous fluids redistributed themselves within his carapace. Barb and Nancy managed to shake hands without biting each other, which was a nice change.
I had the butler hand out the special drinks which I had prepared – bright-green vodka gimlets with Grammy’s special garnishes. The cheap vodka, of course – I was scarcely going to waste Nancy’s good stuff on that lot. I was going to slip some Valium into Laura’s glass, but she had pre-anesthetized herself, so it hardly seemed worth the bother. Not much was getting past her pink haze, although she still flinched, just a tiny bit, whenever W spoke. We sat her at our end of the table and gave her a spoon to look at and she seemed quite happy.
The Ipecac and Dulcolax Slings I’d made for Lynne and Barb took them out of the equation pretty damn quickly. W and Dick and Rove were all seated around Ronnie and were laughing about the invasion of Iraq and how they were going to find the WMDs any day now. The butler had only just put the shrimp cocktails on the table when suddenly Lynne made a face like a cow having a special visit from the vet, leapt from her chair and ran off in the wrong direction. Barb was standing up and laughing like a drain until, in mid guffaw, she vomited so hard it came out her nose. She headed off across the garden too, crashed into Lynne and then they both fell into the pool, spurting all the while from every orifice.
The secret service boys fished them out eventually and that was the last we heard of either of them for the rest of the day. No one else seemed particularly concerned. Nancy said something about hoping that the shrimp were ok, nodded at me happily and went on chatting to Bush Senior.
We finished our shrimp. W and Rove were talking about finally finishing the job in Iraq, which got them a nasty look from 41. I could see from our end of the table that Cheney had gotten bored and was entertaining himself by seeing how far he could poke his fork into Ronnie’s leg before Ronnie complained. Ronnie was rolling his eyes and fidgeting, so after I had summoned some more drinks I wandered down to pat his hand and reassured him that it was all going to be ok. By the time I got back to my seat, Ronnie was fast asleep and W and Rove had both chugged their new drinks. Cheney sipped his more carefully, looking at it suspiciously every now and then, but it all went down eventually.
A few minutes later when the entrees arrived, the speed in Rove and W’s drinks had kicked in and they were both sweating like Bill Donohue at a gay sauna. Rove said something about waterboarding and they both laughed and punched each other on the shoulders. Cheney poked at his steak with the point of his fork, then watched it carefully for a while, as if he might catch it breathing. 1000µg of lysergic acid diethylamide all in one go can tend to make one a tad paranoid.
At that point Nancy, bless her soul, started telling a long story about her last visit to her new psychic, Helmut. Helmut was a strange German man with an eyepatch and a squint of whom Nancy was very fond. Instead of reading tea leaves, he charged Nancy a thousand bucks a week to read the grains of salt in the bottom of her afternoon margaritas. On her last visit he had warned her that the dead spirits of those who had hated her in life could follow her around and do her mischief.
At the time, Nancy had laughed and said that she should be fine as long as Barb Bush and Rosie Carter hadn’t yet shuffled off the mortal coil.
However, now she made a big thing of how her psychic had told her that the spirits could seek their bloody revenge, which she described both in great detail and with that particular relish that Nancy always brings to descriptions of suffering.
Cheney was staring at her. His eyes were glassy and wide, and he twitched occasionally. As she went on, he started looking from side to side over his shoulders and mumbling about it all being Condoleeza Rice’s fault. His nervousness started to get to W and Rove and they started giggling nervously and asking Cheney what was wrong. He kept telling them to be quiet because he couldn’t “hear them coming with you fuckers talking”. Eventually, they had all worked themselves into such a state that when the butler brought round the chocolate mousse they all almost jumped out of their chairs.
In the middle of dessert, Ronnie coughed and woke up. W let out a little squeak like a startled prairie dog and, I suspect, also a little bit of wee.
Ronnie’s eyes slowly swam into focus. He blinked twice, and peered across the table. His hand came up off the table and every eye in the room was fixed on it as it pointed, quite deliberately, first at Rove, second at Cheney and finally at W.
They all leaned forward, swaying and sweating and vibrating, yet eager for the words from the lips of the Great Liberator to banish their terrors and absolve their sins.
Ronnie raised his head just a little, carefully licked his lips and, looking again at each of the three in turn, just as deliberately said, “Asshole … Criminal … Gilligan.”
Ronnie smiled, farted and then promptly went back to sleep.
Just then Nancy’s Mexican gardener José wandered through from the pool. Cheney took one look at him and dived under the table screaming that the dead Iraqi hordes had come to get him with their terrible trowels of vengeance. W fainted and toppled backwards, while Rove crapped himself with a thunderous noise like Chris Christie’s girdle coming undone. Cheney pulled W in under the table and sheltered under him, making that screeching noise that pigs make when they are being slaughtered.
Soon afterwards we shepherded them all off the property, looking for all the world like the unsuccessful gold ticket holders at the end of a particularly sadistic version of “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”.
41 stayed behind and we all went and had some more gimlets – made with the good vodka, of course. I quite like 41 – he can almost out-drink me and he does a hilarious impersonation of Newt Gingrich that involves two forks and a salt shaker.
Now, Ronald Reagan may not have been a very nice man. My nephew Kevin tells me that Ronnie was a monstrous and genocidal maniac who really only found out how wrong he was when he arrived in Hell and was assigned fifteen specially-created demons, each with the face of Anita Bryant, whose job was to gnaw out Ronnie’s entrails every day for the rest of eternity.
I think that’s a little cruel. I’m sure they let the demons have a day off every now and then.
I’m not sure why Kevin hates Ronnie so much, though I have no real reason to disagree with his assessment.
However, even at his most dribblingly senile, even once his once-average brain had crumbled to a level slightly below that of Bonzo the fucking chimp, even then Ronald Reagan knew what amoral, cowardly, evil bastards looked like when he saw them.
[Picture: Adolphe Jourdan (1825-1889) – A Summer’s Picnic]
[Cross posted at Balloon Juice.]
Oh, and this:
As some of you may be aware, I recently posted my maiden post on Balloon Juice, in which I described my quick visit to see that nice Mr Cole and his lovely pets while I was on my way to New York on Gloria Vanderbilt’s private plane. I’m not going to go into that in detail here as well, so if you are interested you may wish to wander over there and read that post before proceeding any further.
When I got to New York, Gloria’s driver, Fred, met me at the airport in the town car, handed me a martini and whisked me off to Gloria’s little apartment on the Upper East Side before I’d even managed to finish it.
Dear Gloria was very well and looking more fabulous than ever. After we had caught up, we were driven to East 86th street to see “Atlas Shrugged”. Now, it might seem odd, on my first night back in the big city, to go see a film which we all know stinks more than Rush Limbaugh’s feet after he’s eaten a cheeseburger. However, given the amount of whining Ayn subjected her friends to in life, it’s only fitting we attend to witness her final humiliation now she’s dead.
Fred went and bought the tickets for us and then took the car home. Takings were obviously pretty grim, so the movie had been shunted to the smallest cinema they had. We had to walk through the foyer, out the back, past the toilet, down an alleyway where some rats were dancing in a circle chanting “Kill the pig. Spill his blood,” in Spanish, and round two more corners, until we reached a dingy screening room somewhere in Queens that had all of six seats in it.
We sat at the back, but we were still so close to the screen that every time that bloody train went through a tunnel I felt like I was back watching a porno at one of those old cinemas on Times Square.
We were the only ones in the cinema, except for a fat young man with green sweaty skin, who was staring fervently at the screen and clutching at his bag of cheetos like they were the bones of St. Therese of Avila. When the titles began, both of us cackled and Gloria hooted like a monkey, to the young man’s evident dismay. He kept turning around to ask us to stop, his yellow-flecked lips quivering at the injustice.
Now, I have to admit that we didn’t really throw subsidized cancer medication at the screen. That would have been in the nature of a joke, Joyce. However, we had both stocked up on several pounds of peanut M&Ms and whenever Dagny’s cheap blond bob appeared on screen, we’d subject her to a fusillade of chocolate that made it sound like there was a hailstorm.
Slowly, the young man’s protests decreased and he slumped down in his seat, as it became more and more apparent that we were in the presence of true mediocrity.
Making a movie from the rancid scribblings of that vile and termagant shrew – a woman who never met a circumlocution she didn’t like and whose idea of character development was to have someone rape someone else – was never going to be a great idea.
However, to make this kind of complete stinker, it takes both true ideological single-mindedness and the kind of directorial genius that thinks that mise-en-scène is something to do with having rodents on set. Let’s just say that Paul Johansson thinks it is acceptable to put Grant Bowler on screen for 97 minutes without once making him take his shirt off, and as such is obviously truly artistically bereft.
The movie is cheap, amateurish and seems to have been stitched together from offcuts from “Weekend at Bernie’s” and the final season of “The Colbys”. The production values hit a height of awfulness that is exceeded only by the poverty of the script. No one ever shuts up. They just talk and rant and declaim, often simultaneously. This might be ok if the actors playing the “good” characters weren’t engaging in the most wooden acting since William Wyler cast Charlton Heston as a piece of petrified timber in Ben Hur, and the actors playing the “bad” characters weren’t chewing more scenery than Bette Davis and Joan Crawford on crack.
Ayn Rand may have been an evil old ferret with a heart of frozen poison and the morals of a tapeworm – in person, she may have made your palms itch with the urge to strike her and keep on striking her until she fell down – but at least she wasn’t boring.
This movie, on the other hand, is the only experience I have ever had which is more tedious than actually reading Atlas Shrugged. I haven’t been that bored since Andy Warhol asked Joe Dellasandro to hock up a loogie on the ground, filmed it for three hours and then made all of us at the Factory watch it in slow motion.
I’ve been to funerals that had a better script, livelier action and a happier ending.
Finally it was too much for both of us to bear any more, so we decided to leave. The young man was snoring, so as we walked out, Gloria shook him by the shoulder. He grunted awake and staggered after us.
When we were on the footpath, I turned to him and said, “Old Ayn used to say that evil requires the sanction of the victim. And you, sir, just got screwed royally by a dead bitch and her no-talent followers.”
Then I handed him fifty bucks and told him to use it to get a haircut.
And in doing so, I managed to do more good in five minutes than Ayn Fucking Rand did in her entire miserable fucking life.
Then we went and got very very drunk.
[Cross posted at Balloon Juice.]