Friday, October 28, 2005

Lies for Small-fries

Tonight I took a spin around the Truth For Youth website, minister Tim Todd's sad and depressing source of fundamentalist disinformation, ludicrous scare-mongering and bald-faced lies. Yeah, yeah, but what's new? This particular internet dry heave is in RADICAL CARTOON FORM! Why read the bible when you can get yer book learnin' from the purdy pictures - with a generous dose of propaganda on the side. Allow me to present my discoveries (and click the pics for some funny shit written by less lazy peoples):

Here's our boy Tim on EVILUTION!






You might criticise the man's style, but goshdarnit he gets results. Bear witness to this:

FUCK ME. With conversion skills like that, maybe it's worth listening to this beaming cockheap. How about it Tim? Tell the people what you're all about:

Yeah, that's a big surprise, alright.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Beating Off All Comers: Presenting Dick Pound

Dick Pound is the chairman of the World Anti-Doping Agency and former vice-president of the International Olympic Committee. In his role at the IOC, Dick Pound became known for both his business acumen and his outspoken anti-corruption stance. A former member of the Canadian Olympic swimming team, Dick Pound used his role to campaign for increased drug testing, and headed an inquiry into bidding scandals in the run up to the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympic Winter Games. Dick Pound left the IOC shortly after an unsuccessful attempt to run for president of the organisation in 2001.

In 1992, Dick Pound was made an Officer of the Order of Canada. In 1993, Dick Pound was made an Officer of the National Order of Quebec.

In addition to chairing the WADA, Dick Pound practises tax law in Montreal and edits his own tax law journal. Since 1999, Dick Pound has served as Chancellor of Montreal’s McGill University.

In 2004, Dick Pound wrote a book about his experiences with the International Olympic Committee. Here is the cover of Dick Pound’s book:

This, I’m sure you will agree, is the perfect way to honour an illustrious and dignified career such as Dick Pound’s.

The Department salutes you, Dick Pound!

Monday, October 17, 2005

What a Pack of Awful Arseholes

It seems this big dumb "elitism" arseholery, reported to the Department previously, refuses to fuck off and die. The Corner is still being rocked by shockwaves as the various rent-a-gobs dissect what it means to be "elite", presumably in order to deflect the accusation that they may be a little elite themselves. I honestly cannot fucking tell whether these guys are taking the piss or not. Jesus, I really hope so - although if it is a joke then the only thing they are lampooning is themselves and their ilk. Which is fair enough.

This time, they've come up with the soul-raping idea of compiling a list of "Elite Markers" - signs that you may be dealing with one of the chosen few. Ramesh Ponnuru gets things started, noting that "the proportion of our population that consumes either wine or brie, or both together [gasp!], has gone up", and that therefore the old cheese'n'crackers smackdown might not have the devastating power it once had. Sadly, the same goes for the charge of "drinking bottled water", and so Ramesh concludes that "we need some new put-downs". Then he makes this rather telling parenthetical statement:

(Confession: I like brie and wine, have occasionally had a latte, and buy bottled water for my family--but that last point reflects the high lead content in D.C. water rather than a preference on my part.)

Aha! The real reason for all this limpwristed brow-beating is revealed. So we can't use latte-drinking either (unless frequent), and bottled water should not be invoked unless the reasons for drinking it are some sort of elite reasons (like a "preference"), as opposed to a simple desire to avoid all those nasty additives in the tap water. To do so would be to tag Ramesh - this man-of-the-people - as elite, and hey, that's just ridiculous. In summary, elititude requires you to do something the Corner-ites do not. Because they are not elite, see? No sir.

Fat Jonah Goldberg leaps in with an enthusiastic endorsement, and prints a colon-load of reader suggestions, including speed bumps, one way systems and hybrid cars (the latter "definitely a good example" - Goldberg), ignorance of NASCAR and, gawdhelpus, foreign fucking travel and listening to jazz. Amazingly, not one reader suggests that being President of the USA and son of a former President of the USA might tend to make one somewhat select. Or maybe they did, and Jonah just dismissed it outright as being totally silly.

All of this relentless arsepiss is effortlessly trumped by the Corner's Warren Bell, who neatly encapsulates the ball-aching stupidity of the whole endeavour with this risible entry:

Early ownership of a hybrid seems very on-target to me. I would also suggest the new style of hip eyeglasses that are like little rectangles. I don't agree with the NASCAR thing because I personally am not a fan, and I am not an elite, which I can prove because I frequently wear shorts to work. So there's a question -- what are the markers for non-elites? Here I would put love of WWE (which I quite like) and maybe even NASCAR, as it does seem to be a good non-elite marker, if not quite the other way round. Use of the word "divine" in anything other than a religious context would seem to be an elite marker (cf. Wolcott, James). Use of the word "freakin'" as an amplifier would seem to mark non-elites.

Of course, this may all be a big hilarious joke on veteran sitcom writer Warren's part - I'd certainly like to think so, if only to stop me from breaking out in tears of despair at my desk. He oughta be careful with this sort of thing though - it sounds a lot like irony, and as everybody knows, that's how them darned elitists get their yucks.

Meanwhile, of course, Fat Jonah continues to impress his readers by name-dropping Bertolt Brecht and Herbert Spencer, favourites of those for whom Dale Earnhardt was a hero...

UPDATE: Roy Edroso has the last word on Jonah G.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

The Very Elitist In Fashion

In a typically erudite and skilfully typed analysis of the Harriet Miers fiasco, our good buddy Scott "Slant Point" Sala of conjures up once more the foul spectre of "the elite towers of the Northeast Ivy League universities" and, for a fleeting moment, teeters on the brink of an amazing breakthrough:

"George Bush was Ivy League..."

I swear, when I read this I thought I was about to witness something truly remarkable. I was practically fucking cheering him on, all the way over on this side of the pond. Come on man, I said, you can do it! Connect them dots! The Elite is to Ivy League is to George Bush is to ... oh, bring it on home, Slanty! Say it!

Alas, I guess that's when the GOP-Chip kicked in, performing a partial birth abortion on the hapless Scotty's nascent epiphany:

“...and in many ways Bush despises the Ivy League”

Goddamn. So close, so very close.

What is this fucking arsewind about "The Elite" all about anyway? It's all over the place - particularly these days, what with all this Miers business – even the smug, tedious pisswhips over at NRO's Corner of Inconsequence are feeling the heat of the Elitism jibe for having the nerve to complain about her nomination to the Supreme Court of the US of motherfucking A, on the outrageous and unreasonable grounds that she is NOT EVEN A FUCKING JUDGE. Gosh, how very elitist of them to expect such a thing! True, non-elite conservatives – like Scotty, for example, and the more high profile shills spotted here – don’t require such high-falutin' qualifications of their justices, and have a million mind- and Bush-blowing arguments for why not, too.

But what the fuck? What the hell kind of definition of "elite" are we using here? Are you "elite" if you expect that those appointed to be judges in the highest court in the land might, y'know, have done a little judging here and there beforehand? Are you "elite" if you eat brie, or speak French? Christ, does this dread word "Elite" that so vexes these cats mean, simply, "smart people"?

Or perhaps – and I know it's a long shot, but bear with me - a person might be considered just a wee bit "elite" if he happens to be a Connecticut-born, Ivy League educated member of a immensely rich and powerful political dynasty, currently sitting at the controls of the entire fucking free world?

Nah. That's crazy - listen to his goofy accent, he cain't be no elitist. Yeah, it’s gotta be the cheese. That Ward Churchill, man, he’s so damn elite. I bet he’s putting Roquefort on a fucking cracker as we speak.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Political Correctness Gone Mad

Late last night, on the way to a friend's new house, I found myself a bit lost. Not terribly lost – I knew where I was, but was fucking fairly clueless about where I was going. Standing in the light of some kind of swankyarse abortion of a modern vegan fusion restaurant in Stoke Newington Church Street, I consulted my trusty pocket A to Z. Despite this mild confusion, I was feeling pretty good. And I wasn't even drunk.

A tiny voice interrupted my sensitively lit cartographical studies.

"Trick or treat!"

Somewhat startled, I looked up and found myself staring at a miniature Satan standing in the dark street, complete with trident. It was a bit fucking alarming.

"Oh shit!" I exclaimed.

"Oh shit?" repeated the kid, a well-spoken girl of about seven years old.

Uh oh. Over her shoulder, I could see her mother approaching, merely a few steps out of earshot of the new word I'd inadvertently taught her daughter. No, no, no, my eyes implored the girl, for fuck's sake, shhhh!

"What's 'oh shit'?" she said, again.

There was only one thing for it. I immediately hotfooted to somewhere else, treating her only to a few compliments on her deeply freaky costume, hastily called out from over my shoulder.

At this point in my life, it is unlikely that I will stop swearing. I fucking love swearing, as a matter of fact – it's part of my heritage, my culture, and I think I'm pretty good at it. I'm not one of the greats (do a find-on-this-page search for "roaring purple vagina") but I feel I foul up my language certain amount of flair. So what's to be done about this? How can I avoid accidentally exposing innocent young minds to dirty words like this?

Well, don't fuckin look at me. It's the parents you need to be talking to, if you want my opinion. I mean, what the hell? How can this child not know "shit"? When I was her age I was honing my skills with the likes of Pishflaps, Cuntarse and Felchspoon, for the love of christ - and those were just my friends. "Shit" was a word for the little kids.

I honestly don't know what this country is coming to, when a person can't turn the air blue in the street without risk of making some precious little fucking bubble boy burst into tears, his outraged parents clamping their mitts over his unsullied little virgin ears. Fuck that! Parents, do your goddamn jobs! Clearly these kids aren't getting the education they need in the nation's playgrounds anymore, a sorry indictment of the modern era if ever there was one.

Please, I beseech you. The future depends on you, you sanctimonious fucks! Don’t go cleaning it up. Start your home schooling here.

Friday, October 07, 2005

I Kick Arse for the LORD!

And from the Lord there did cometh the words of upright vigor and sow in the ears, those heroic incubators of compassionate businessism, of the prodigal son with seeds of the Holy Spirit, harbingers of times that layeth forth like doves from the mighty Ark, germinating from the ashes of youthful decay and rising like the phoenix with fervor and strength greater than the holy spirit on thine breath.

But LO, there were dark times, and the father and the son and the Holy Spirit, they did wait, as peace reigned and dresses were stained, seeping into the land, while the ungodly reaped what they could not sow.

YEA, but from the anus of the land slid the son to salt and seal the wounds, the Lord’s message he will delivereth, of weaponed peace of the Islamiac, of a land locked under the moral clarity of the Lord’s magnifying glassy eye.

LO, seeketh thine indulgences, enter thy womb, now thy holiest of temples, for thou temple of womb hath been united by the votes of none and locked for all time, and now we must prayeth. Prayeth with hearts bigger than the deserts of Iraq for thy safety and thy soul, for though the Lord giveth and taketh away, the son only taketh.

Take heed the burning bush, take heed, take heed.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

On the Treasure of Our Tongue

Snotty: You know what phrase I really hate? "All that jazz". Fucking shit thing to say.

Hugs: Yeah, and jazz implies saxophones, which are really gay. I hate saxophones. I think the one I hate most though is "at the end of the day".

Snotty: Aw yeah, sure. "At the end of the day" is a stone cold classic. But it seems like a some kind of almost unconscious affectation to me, or at least it's seen as no more than a handy stock phrase. What makes "all that jazz" worse is that the perps appear to know only too well that they are saying it, and what's more they think it's fucking charming and witty. People who say "all that jazz" are the novelty tie wearers of the verbal world. And possibly the actual world, too. They're the sort of people who do that faux-sarcastic thing where if you say you spent the whole day at work reading some deathly boring bullshit they'll chuckle and say "oh, fantastic" in an ironic tone of voice even though it is quite clear that they fucking GENUINELY DO THINK that it is fucking fantastic. Fuck those people in the ear. They are nerds. They are pissheaps, hosers, cocklumps and assclamps.

Hugs: And all that jazz.