Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Huckabee. Playing Catch Up.
So what's this guy's story?
Uh let's see.. Huckabee. Mike Huckabee. Governor of Arkansas, lost a ton of weight recently, probably surgical. Running for the Republican nomination on a far right faith train. He had some luck pulling in the evangelical base, hell most of the true blue religious right likes what he has to say.
Which is what?
The usual. Abortion is bad, gays are bad, illegal hispanics are bad, science is bad. Oh wait, he also wants to repeal the IRS, so that's new.
What do you mean, "science is bad"?
Well, he doesn't believe in evolution. Like, at all. Which means he doesn't believe, or understand, much of anything involving biology or geology or well, basically science in general.
Wow.
Exactly. And aside from that, he's pretty much one note. Everyone who meets him likes him, apparently a very likable guy. But he doesn't seem to have an idea that didn't come from sunday school. Throw in a couple of delinquent grown sons with multiple arrests and-
Oh wait, that dog thing!
Yeah. His son was caught hanging a stray dog while he was at a boy scout camp. Huckabee waved his Governor's magic wand and made it go away.
That's very uplifting, gets me right here. Ok, I'm getting hungry. So what does all that mean for him? Where do we put him in the race? I need a starting point for the odds.
Meh. he's probably out already. But put 100 to 1 on him. If someone wants to throw their money away, I'm happy to take it.
Ok, 100 to 1 it is.
Monday, January 21, 2008
9iu11iani
The satirist tried again. He wrote a short piece, using reporters to ask questions about the pressing issues of the day. No matter the topic, Rudy would always respond with his experience with 9/11. At first he would start to answer the question, before slowly rotating his response to how he stood tall during 9/11. But eventually, he would drop all pretense. A reporter would ask Rudy to discuss his health care plan, and his response would simply be, "Well I think I would 9/11." Another question on the economy would return only, "Definitely 9/11. Absolutely." When quizzed about tax reform, just "9/11. 9/11. 9/11"
The satirist satisfied, finished his short story in this manner, and then retired to an early supper. While reading the newspaper, he stopped, devastated. On page 3 was an exchange between reporters and Rudy, nearly verbatim as the one he had just written. No matter the topic, no matter the question, Rudy unerringly pointed his answer to 9/11 and his brief moment of outstanding leadership. Every question.
The satirist gave up. After countless attempts, there was nowhere left for him to go. He couldn't use irony, had no place for biting sarcasm, if the real world continued to exceed his cynicism. He quietly folded his paper, and finished his supper. He then laid down on the floor, curled into a ball. If satire was dead, he realized, then so was he.
Monday, January 14, 2008
RHAGHHHmney. Don't Touch The Hair.
He didn't get it. Panic rose in his voice. He would have thrown all the papers from his desk, but he wasn't much of a reader. His campaign adviser fidgeted in her seat. He shouted at her, demanded to know what was happening. She tried to explain. The polls were revealing a deeper need for integrity and substance. He didn't get it. He did everything they told him to. She tried to explain. On the surface, voters want a candidate that shares their views. But as time goes on, as voters start to take a look at a person, they need to know that person has integrity. Changing positions is a sign of non-integrity, according to the polls.
He didn't get it. He was a handsome man, good public speaker, great hair. He was willing to reverse every position he ever held, if asked. He could be whatever they wanted. She tried to explain. That was the problem.
He didn't get it. She sighed.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Barack. Breaking Out
I'm not a very political person, and I usually just keep my opinions to myself [ahem]. but I'm going to break my normal rule of softspoken quiet, and just say "wow". This guy. This Barack Obama guy.
Good job in Iowa. Keep doing that, just like you're doing, and I think you might just have something there.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
2007. Happy he's not 2008.
He was happy, somehow. The beating he had taken, how could he be happy? When asked, he laughed, then coughed up some blood, thick and dark. "It could be worse," he spat. "How possibly," I demanded. I reminded him of the continuing conflict in Iraq, the deterioration of Afghanistan. Iran, North Korea. China's utter lack of product safety standards, especially when it comes to children's toys. The implosion of Pakistan. Record wildfires in the U.S., continuing over a decade of wildfire records. Record ice melt globally.
He still smiled. Possibly too punch drunk to understand, it didn't seem to phase him. I pressed on.
Kurt Vonnegut. Merv Griffin. Boris Yeltsin. Richard Jeni. Robert Goulet. Evel Knievel. Don Ho. Barbaro. Mr. Wizard. Mr. Fucking. Wizard. 899 American troops. 150,000+ Iraqi civilians.
"You forgot Jerry Falwell," he said. "And Anna Nicole Smith." I shot back, "Is that why you're smiling? Do you think they somehow balance against the wall of brutality heaped upon you in the last 365 days?" He shook more violently now, clinging to these last minutes. "No," he rasped. "That's not why I'm smiling."
"Then why," I pleaded. "How can you have suffered so many blows, so much injury, and not crumble?"
"Easy." He coughed, then leaned in close. "I ducked the O.J. trial. That's on the next poor bastard."
He laughed hard at that, gurgled up blood, bile. And then he expired, passing the days and their burdens on to the next year. He's right, I thought. The poor fucking bastard.
Sympathy Misplaced
"Wow, she's cute. Did you draw that?" she asked. "Yes," I said, marveling at how many people can see a person sitting in a bar with a pencil and sketchbook and sketching and still not put it all together. I could hear the bartender's eyes rolling. He slipped me a shot unasked, I guess he felt my pain. Ugh, I hate Jäger.
"Can you draw me?" she asked. "Not really," I replied. "I usually try to draw something interesting to me." Blank stare, went right over her bleached head. "So why her then," she asked.
"Well, she's sixteen years old, and was arrested for doing wrestling moves on her seven year old sister. She broke her arm, cracked her ribs, damaged her spine and eventually crushed her windpipe. When her sister wouldn't wake up, she put her in the bathtub, yelled at her, and then cracked a raw egg into her mouth to see if she was "messing with her". No longer breathing, the egg just slid down her sister's throat. After about thirty minutes of this, she finally called 911. But her little sister was already dead. I thought the dichotomy between the brutality of the act and the cuteness of the girl was interesting enough to explore."
Blank stare. Probably shouldn't have used "dichotomy". She gathered her rounds of touchdowns and didn't talk to me anymore after that. I downed the Jäger.
Attitude + Strength = Beauty
