☃☃☃ By CHRIS PACKHAM ☃☃☃
I have a healthy fear of the American moviegoing public: I'm no political campaign manager.
I'm just a simple man with a toned set of lateral oblique muscles that would make a sports doctor weep with admiration. So nobody's looking to me for advice about how to get an old battle-scarred war hero elected to the nation's highest office. But I do have this observation: On the one hand, it's unlikely, or at least unconventional, for a political adviser to say, in televised public, exactly which punches a candidate is going to throw at a debate. And on the stupider, more assy-smelling hand, John McCain's campaign advisers are like eighth-grade boys who just stole a back-hoe and are now smashing through a parking lot, crunching cars and flattening traffic signs. In the preceding simile, the back-hoe is John McCain's presidential campaign.So, yes, when Tucker Bounds from the McCain campaign actually comes out and says that McCain is likely to get all up in Barack Obama's terrorist grill about William Ayers at Wednesday's debate, it's actually plausible that they will do exactly that. If I were a Democratic senator from the great state of Illinois in the midst of debate prep, I'd totally be ready for that curveball.
While you, the great unwashed masses of Beverly Hills Chihuahua-loving Americans, haven't fallen for any of this borderline-racist "terror" bullshit so far during this election season, you have documentably made Beverly Hills Chihuahua the top-grossing film for two weeks running. Which is why the signs I've posted in my yard w/r/t my alarm system, terrifying watch dog and shotgun are all 100 percent true. KEEP THE FUCK OUT, you guys. Here is a picture of the watch dog:
When she's full-grown, she is going to be a terror. I fully expect her current practice of nose-licking to advance to the trachea-ripping stage within a few weeks. After the jump, some discussion of war puppies and a tale of adventure on the high seas. Click here, or on your favorite movie:
Charlie don't fetch: Sgt. Gwen Beberg of Minneapolis, currently deployed in Iraq, has been FORCIBLY SEPARATED from her puppy, Ratchet, by the U.S. Army, which decided to transfer her and the puppy to different posts. Now they want to send Beberg home to the United States, but they've extended Pvt. Ratchet's tour of duty in the Anbar province, where he'll serve as a military trainer with the 7th Iraqi Division in the Five Kilo District of Tammim. That's a little joke, because the puppy isn't American and is therefore probably some kind of Islamic insurgent, and besides, what can the Iraqi army learn from a puppy, anyway? Besides how to be much, much cuter? Anyway, 10,000 people signed an online petition to guilt-trip the Army into redeploying Private Ratchet to the United States.
Call me Ishmael: Now that the United States is buying equity stakes in nine banks, can we please quit calling Democrats Socialists, now, okay? Because, irony, hello.
In the small fishing village where I was raised, we didn't have much. In those days, an indoor toilet was a luxury, and ice cubes were also a luxury. Good water pressure and general HVAC infrastructure were also very luxurious. A Ford Explorer woody conversion with sweet rims and thumpers was a whole checklist of enviable luxuries. I'd now like to revise my original statement to read, "In the small fishing village where I was raised, we actually had quite a lot of luxuries."
Our upper-middle-class income was mostly due to the fact that the dolphins my dad caught in his tuna fishing nets could be sold to aquatic parks for thousands of dollars, or, if they died, to the same tuna companies that bought the rest of the catch. We usually had a couple splashing around in the swimming pool in the back yard, waiting for Seaworld purchase orders to come spooling out of the fax machine. The pool water was filthy and brown with the chum we fed to the delightful sea mammals, but that was really the only sacrifice we had to make to what was, in retrospect, a disgustingly opulent lifestyle.
Also, the North Atlantic right whale? Almost hunted to extinction by my dad. If the fucking U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service hadn't stepped in with their Schindler's List of Endangered Species, dad would have achieved his lifelong goal of owning an island off the Maine coast, bought and developed on the blood of an entire ocean species. He came this close. Now he lives in a breathtakingly expensive Florida retirement community, where he sits on a deck in his wheelchair, shaded from the sun by a beach umbrella, staring bitterly out at the ocean and cursing U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Director H. Dale Hall. He's already told me and my sister that what remains of his fishing fortune will be donated to the John Birch Society and the Clare Booth Luce Policy Institute, and that we should build our own fortunes on the backs of whatever species we can find to exploit, because he for damn sure wouldn't be providing any post- or pre-mortem handouts.
Uh, all of this was supposed to loop back around to my original observation that the Republican Party's decrying of socialist domestic policies was a bit ironic given the state of the U.S. financial system, but I've completely forgotten whatever connective thought I was going to use to get back there. Your business is important to us, so please accept this snowman as an apology for our lapse in customer service:
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Any you out there know the Muffin Man?
I'm trying to get a 10-9 on the Muffin Man.
Over.
Last QTH was in the vicinity of Drury Lane.
This here's the Snowman trying to get a 10-9 on the afterlife. Any immortal souls out there got your ears on?
(Actually, it's Wumble again. Duh.)
Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of Texarkana, I shall fear no bear-in-the-air.
Mr. Briefs, life will make a lot more sense to you if you stop expecting that Republicans might one day develop the ability to recognize (much less reconcile) a contradiction.
As for your ascii art or whatever lately, you need to remember that we recently lost the one and only Snowman himself, Mr. Jerry Reed. Somewhere right now the angels are enjoying Coors distributed illegally across state lines.
really?
someone made a movie about a chihuahua?
that idea is just soooooooo cute! it's such a delightful thought that i would pet it, if only i could get my hands out of O.J.'s gloves.
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