A cCheney endorsement is the equivalent of being “necklaced.”
Bush/Cheney must really hate this guy.
McCain must be spinning in his grave.
I wonder what Cheney does these days.
(None of those Randians come here to straighten us out any more. Perhaps they think we are intractable. I don’t agree. I find us incorrigible, to be sure, but also somewhat obtuse and most certainly counterrotated.)
Goldman paying out $14 billion in bonuses after borrowing $12 billion from Uncle Sam…
I dunno about you but I’m getting my pitchfork and torch ready…
I go to Tasmania to counter-rotate. Feels very good.
Back to topic… Can the McCain campaign get any dirtier? It seems that the closer this gets to 11/4, the nastier they get, and the more they turn off the electorate. McCain is burning a lot of bridges “across the aisle”. He’s not going to get diddly in the way of cooperation from any Democrats other than Lieberman who himself is a dead man walking in the political sense. Let’s hope the Dems strip Lieberman of any power whatsoever. Do you think he’ll come out of the closet and join the diminished Repubs? And Palin…how’s she faring in Alaska? Will she run for Stevens’ senate seat now?
Jon, you really don’t like this man. Wow. I hadn’t realized that.
What? What’s that?
Are you serious?
Either of them…
Happy All Saints, my brother…
You know what I like about Cheney? The guy doesn’t blink. No, literally, he does not blink.
Dave Letterman made the same observation.
Well, but old lovable Joe cannot blink.
Methinks it’s Botox.
And it goes nicely with his Strom Thurmond Memorial hair-plugs.
Gotta luv old Joe. What a Lover, that guy…
…and built for his Senate, too.
Barack was cruel to drag his Doppelganger out of the Senate beloved of the Later, the very Senate which made the man.
Cruel, I say. Cruel!
It is madness, but then all politix is madness…
Off topic Hugo, this a thread for Dick jokes.
& hallo, Rick, and ThomDowting: You’re a most efficient writer. I appreciate that, and reckon Rick does too…
O Jeebus, Ken. You’re Right…
Please excuse me.
& where, pray, is Rachel these daze?
I miss my Rachel…
Excuse me again: I’d meant, Our Rachel…
By the way, whensoever I do meet Satan at last (I mean THE beast, and not Satan my sister, Pride of Berkeley), I expect to do as Twain did and shake him by the tail, but in my case, whispering in his ear, that Mr. Vonnegut was wrong about the semicolon;
What a funny damn shaggy-dog string this one is.
How my Tennessee grandfather would have loved this…
Peace, Love & all right if I have to admit it, Bobby Sherman
Oh yes, and your little Dick Cheney, too…
Hi Hugo. Could you pass whatever it is you’re having right now?
Anything that conjures up reminiscences of Bobby Sherman has got to be very interesting. 😉
Yes, indeed. And I hope you appreciated the period-perfect punctuation. Goes w/ UR emoticon, about which more later…
Yes, it is, it was, as is my custom, but one wee dram of a decent Pinot. Any one from e.g. Columbia or esp. Humbolt will do the trick.
Every time, Rachel. Every time.
Hunter was wrong about the Whiskey and esp. the Mojo Wire. Vonnegut, as I keep telling my shifty friend Mr. Satan, was wrong about the semicolon.
But I never am wrong about the Pinot Noir. No, not never. At least they taught me THAT much before they would sheepskin me, many years ago, at Cal Davis. Do you know, my friend, that not a day passes, seemingly, without my thanking the Stars for one UCD thing or another; the veterinarians, the beautiful medical center, the chix, the earnest teachers and their henpecked nerds, the winemakers, and extra-specially the Yale Americanists who give life its very savour if you’ll just take close notes and listen listen listen?
May God continue richly to bless that skool, non?
Pinot, I tell you. Pinot, is all it is. And like that clever Englishman said, that is all ye know on Earth, and all ye need to know.
Say, do you happen to remember that funny thing that the Ancient Greeks knew about wine? If not, it’s OK. Besides, you get bonus points for remembering the profoundly funny (as ever) thing that the Hebrews knew and therefore the Patriarchs also…
Or the French Mods & their confounded posties, for that matter…
Now, about emoticons. That was a good gassing we all gave young Jonah with the emoticonnization of his Friendly Fascistic book :~=) . But, other than that, whatever would a semigentleman of a certain bobbysherman vintage ever know from a goddam emoticon? Emoticons belong to Generation Thumbpad, fair & sq.
And I would be the Square. Don’t pick on me now, as I have Vince Gill and T Bone Burnett in my corner, and for that matter the lovelies Amy Grant and Alison Krauss. And that, Rachel, is what the Americanists permit me to call a Royal Damn Flush. So, no. Just say no.
Hey, are you perhaps Canadian, not you are?
Just a hunch.
Oh, and Rachel you wanna know something else cool about Davis, when I was there? (And this will date me worse than the Bobby Sherman.) It’s that we managed, with the help of our Central Valley/Central Coast winemaking moguls-in-training and their yahoo yippee cutting ponies to best Cornell every dang year at…Polo. Yes, polo. The polo.
I used to stick-and-ball with those guys, but as mere Groom I never did wear the jersey; however (and take THAT, Kurt), I must tell you that the mere sight of the sorry sadsacks in the stands, year after year, spilling their Crystal (yes, Crystal, I tell you, fercrissakes) upon their Libshitswear or whatever Sir Ralph’s surname really is, was ze priviledge that Ithacans live for.
All my best to you, Rachel,
That’s very funny, what you wrote, Mason Dixon. And hello to you also, first and foremost.
By the way are you Masonmost or Dixonmost? Me, I happen to favor Dixon, possibly because that is the name of the town lying athwart my beloved Davis, CA, but probably because I happen to sing baritone, and to admire the art and especially the poetry of one Mark Knopfler, and that of his friend also.
…you must excuse me now, my own personal MD, as I’m simply bound for Philly, to make an appt. w/ a certain Dr. Franklin.
He’s a wise olde bird who would kill me for my excessive “e”, you see. You’d love him. Wish you could be there, but Not This Time. The gouty skirtchaser is our Premier self-made millionaire. Also, he redefines what it means, in Mr. Webster’s America, to be a simple Gentleman. He publishes also, and is a supreme librarian, God Bless him.
I must lunch with him now, so as to discuss Professor Taplin’s theories regarding our power grid.
My best to you also, Sir,
yr. Obedent Serpent,
Off his meds…
Yes, but you know who’s on the ball?
The Obama team, that’s who. They had this gem turned round in no time flat.
Yes indeed, all three of you.
But yuwonnaknow who’s really on the ball this very instant? Old Barry the ‘Fro, from Oxy.
He’s talking serious damn turkey on the telly as we speak…
Whatever our Trojan Princetonia is up to in Santa Monica, it’s working…
and that would be “Princetonian”, not “Princetonia”. Bigod you’re right Rick, you clever Yankee Cruzan. It’s the meds after all.
Or the lack thereof.
And Rachel Dahlink (that’s Huff’ to you, not ze Gabor),
I forgot to advise you about CONTEXT, in answer to your earlier and most vital question, the one regarding Pinot Noir the indispensable.
It goes to what they drum into you until they are sure that you won’t break the waterboard, nor even the Hannifin surfboard. “CONTEXT, Context, context…first and always, MF!”
See, in the Intel Trade they got this thing they still can an “alphanumeric”. And though I wear, on occasion, the Whites, it comes from Intel USA — so go ahead and figure. But anyway, the gist is, you got the alpha on one gridded axis and the numeric on t’other. (See how sophisticated this Game is, Rachel, or are you already in The Game yourself, poor woman?)
And the one axis refers to the Quality of the source, the other to the Surety of your appreciation of that source. No worries. They won’t have to rip my G2 just for telling you this much…
But the really important thing is that, before making your report, your appreciation, you must always state the Context in which it is given. Therefore, and as for my Alphanumeric Pinot dispatch, I must tell you the receipt for proper context. It is, it should be, as follows.
“Taken preferably according to Turner’s Rule, to wit: ‘Before Truth, the right meds’. Second, With the Right Music on the juke.”
Personally I recommend “Twenty Twenty”, by the incomparable Texan T Bone Burnett. Specifically, Disc 2.
There. Now you have it. You have it entire. No, no, don’t thank me, Rachel, except to say that you and I, without really knowing it, have our new and thoroughly American toast:
Rick you are a punk, man. Jumping down my throat like that on THIS DAY? Are you kidding?
Hey, the truth is that I hate your guts as there you sit contrapodally in God’s Greenest Half-Acre whilst here I sit except when I run up to answer the phone onnacounta the very worst political krackerz that GA still can produce, and you, my personal Professor Moriarty, deign to rub it in.
I hate you, Turner. Hate, hate you…
…and now the erstwhile Governor Ridge is talking surprise-horsesense about John McCain at a rally in where-else-but Penn. The praying Guvnah abso-lutely must be returned to public service forthwith. He is the best thing, perhaps the only good thing, going for McC just now…
In fact I hate you so much, Turner, that I positively refuse to buy a second-hand uke from you.
Even if you could figure out how to make a Soprano dobro, as the House of Martin has done you durty bastid. Way too metallic for a Turner, to be sure…
There. Take THAT!
Hugh de Ste-Victoire
As my Jewish ex-wife would say, “Oy vey ismir!”
Well that quite right, Rick. Indeed should should’ve birthed a calf sooner than she married a flinty New Englander such as you.
Hey, do you know the Tasmanian record that our twelve-stringing (and Twelvestepping) friend made down there in Tasmania?
Do they still dig the guy in Port Arthur? If so then I’m there, man. I’m so there. Next Spring, with the iffy antipodal weather and everything. I don’t care. I shall have to meet the Peeps.
They surf, you know. And surfing, I mean…THERE? What a bunch of crazy yahoos…
Got to meet them, no matter wot U say. Randy, Lord Newman, of the Los Angeles Newmans, was right about them people: wouldn’t wanna hurt no kangaroo, and they got surfin’ too…
My goodness, Rick, a Jewess? How good for you. She is beautiful, is she not?
Hey Turner, do you happen to know Pat Simmons? If so, then tell him for me please that when at last I buy my Harley I shall buy it from him. Top Dollar, all the way. And no sweat. Except that to sweeten that deal he must buy me, in turn, some good SC CA BBQ…
…he’s Steamer Lane, you see, and I am the Breakdown…
No worries, Mate. No worries. All is good.
And Jon, I must tell you anon about my newfound appreciation for this thing they got on Fox called “Huckabee”. It restoreth my faith in our Fourth Estate, and in my nation also.
Wiley Mikey has figured a way to consolidate all his considerable gains, and to do so in good Yuma, AZ. If you see what I mean. What a blessed hat trick that one is.
His scam is to invite as many possible Democrats, whom he treats dimpled & sans comment all the way. Smart move right there. All he has to do, to earn a living while doing Good, is to display to the world how smug can be the members of Democratic Party, USA.
See how clever that is?
When my own Southern mama and her estimable classmates graduated from Maaarrrrrrrrlborough, a friendly teacher there advised them: “Please, Girls, Never be coy.”
And so I am saying now, “Please, my Democrats, Never be smug”…
All the best,
Rick Down Under,
I promised my dear C. Bird, a secret friend of this blog, that I would respond to her personal post by posting in turn on this site. And boy howdy, Sir, how I have exceeded my promise…
D’accord, Hugo. Never be coy and never be smug.
If Obama wins, it is a time for humility and gratitude.
In the meantime
Bless you, my very bad man!
Hugo, Pat’s got three of my guitars. And another ex of mine was the Doobie’s road manager for several tours…after she ran the office of Out of Town Tours for Sam Cutler who had road managed the ‘Stones and then the ‘Dead… OOTT booked the ‘Dead, the Band (Jon!), Ramblin’ Jack, the Sons of Champlin, the New Riders, etc., etc…. Rock’n’roll…
I figgered as much man. And let’s make it happen.
How deeply cool…
This is in reference to the ‘doesn’t blink’ comments: there was a play written many years ago called “No Exit” which portrayed people in Hell. After a certain amount of time in Hell, they lost the ability to blink. The playwright, Sartre, said, “Hell was other people.”
BTW, Mr. Cheney does not blink, but his body language gives away what he really thinks of John McCain.
Stewart made fun of that last night and did a pretty good job of it. But just watching the clip, you can’t escape the fact that Cheney always has that menacing snarl in his face. It’s some kind of bizarre facial tic that he developed and can’t let go of.
Man I sure will be glad never to have to see that again.
Assuming that, you know, he doesn’t declare martial law and appoint himself Legislative Branch Vice President in Chief for Life.
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