Ruptured Structure

OK, I’m trying a new polling plugin, and this post is only for the purpose of testing it. Please help me by choosing some answer:

This must be the work of a very disturbed individual. Hopefully someone who lives far away from me.

GAME

So I guess Chris Benoit forgot to kill the family pet.

Actually, this isn’t a ‘roid dog. It’s apparently a rare genetic disorder?

So rare that the Central Saanich dog recently graced the New York Times. She also had several of her photos shown on The Today Show, all because of a rare genetic mutation that has led to her being the Incredible Hulk of dogs.[TimesColonist]

A buddy of mine recently sent me this photo he shot at a Hillary Clinton rally. I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but he pointed out an interesting figure, just to Hillary’s left. This person appears to be reading, and preparing to photograph, a Disney book. Or possibly using the book to hide his clandestine efforts at photography. With a disposable camera. Amazon.com describes the book as a “Lift-the-Flap Surprise Story.” LMAO. What was going on here??

Also note the pudgy Travis Bickel type right behind him. Were there any Secret Service personnel here? I would think this would set off some alarm bells, but what do I know. Maybe these two were the SS detail.

In the first installment of what I expect to be at least a one-part series called “Get to Know an Asshole,” I’d like to talk about Tom Tancredo.

Tom Tancredo is a Republican Congressman from Colorado. He is now serving his fourth term, despite an early promise to constituents to only serve three. He is seeking the Republican nomination for Presidential candidate. He is a crazy person.

Why Tancredo? Well, today in the car I happened to catch about 10 minutes of one of his speeches. Shortly after I turned the radio on, I was struck by his complaints on what he calls America’s “Cult of Multiculturalism.” Yes, those are his words; he is trying to cast in a negative light a major component of what has always made America wonderful. Yes, he is rabidly anti-immigration. He believes our prisons are a reservoir for Mexicans who have evil designs on America, and that these people “need to be found before it is too late. They’re coming here to kill you, and you, and me, and my grandchildren.” Again, his actual words. Of course, he is a card-carrying hypocrite, and doesn’t mind if illegal immigrants are used to help remodel his home. He believes the Denver Public Library System should neither purchase Spanish Language materials, nor make space available for Spanish language classes.

Tancredo says his favorite food is tacos.

Last year he spoke to members of The League of the South, near a portrait of Robert E. Lee, and surrounded by Confederate battle flags. According to the Southern Poverty Law Center, the event ended with men dressed in Confederate military garb, singing Dixie.

He has referred to Miami as a Third World Country. In response to this, Jeb Bush actually called Tancredo a nut.

Tancredo is the son of (Italian) immigrants.

He supports abolition…..of the Congressional Black Caucus.

When Reagan appointed him the regional rep for the Dept. of Education, Tancredo worked to reduce the staff of the office by nearly 75%.

Tom Tancredo voted against renewal of the Voting Rights Act.

Not surprisingly, Tancredo is a religious nutbag, but seems to have no qualms about switching the particular mythological details of his subscription, having shifted easily from Roman Catholic to Evangelical. He does not believe in the theory of evolution. He believes that if Roe v. Wade were overturned it would be “the greatest day in this country’s history.”

As a student activist in the 60’s, Tancredo spoke in favor of the Vietnam war. When he graduated and was eligible for the draft, he claimed he had been treated for depression, and got a mental health deferment.

I could go on. Really, I could. There’s lots more. But I’ve gotta get back to work.

Tom Tancredo is an epic asshole, and that is all.

The few of you who read this blog will have noted a decline in my posting rate. This is in part because I am busy with other things, and in part because the newness of being able to put my own thoughts into cyberspace for the entire planet to ignore has simply worn off. As with many things in my life, my interest and active participation will wax and wane, and wax again.

Today, I just wanted to relate a brief quote that amused me, from The God Delusion, by Richard Dawkins. In it, Dawkins is speaking of James Watson, who, with Francis Crick, gained fame for his role in the elucidation of the structure of DNA.

In my interview with Watson at Clare, I put it to him that, unlike him and Crick, some people see no conflict between science and religion, because they claim science is about how things work and religion is about what it is all for. Watson retorted: ‘Well, I don’t think we’re for anything. We’re just products of evolution. You can say “Gee, your life must be pretty bleak if you don’t think there’s a purpose.” But I’m anticipating having a good lunch.’

And now, I am anticipating some espresso and a cookie.

Waffle House. When’s the last time you’ve been to Waffle House? Want a third world experience in your own backyard? Go to the House.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the former inmates flipping the bacon, the crusted material on the chipped coffee cups, the dubious matter in the grout of the tile and sludged into the corners beneath the pleather seats; I don’t even mind the 8 day old rags the color of grandma’s underwear used to swab down the tables that leave that stray dog smell. The food’s not even terrible, if you ignore the drawers from which they pull the bacon and sausage, sometimes stringing behind them indeterminate fatty material in cellophane covers. But the experience I just had with my 6 year old–it’s his birthday today, and rather than fly to Calcutta to watch some underfed guy squat with the runs in an alley, he chose to go to Waffle House for their famous waffles.

We walk in and sit down. So far so good. I ignore the quarter straw wrapper cemented with egg to the menu, and make my choice from the other side. My son gets his waffle. I butter and cut up his waffle and commence to eating my too-runny eggs, trying to steel my stomach for possible E. coli outbreaks. But then, Eric asks to use the bathroom. He has that look in his eye, the faraway gaze of a dog on a mission, and I know that I’ll have to take him. I’d send him alone, but I know what the Waffle House bathroom experience can be like. We take the slow walk back, past the overfed and underdressed women sitting at the linebar, past the table of high school students on break on their way to the beach, past the badass mofo in the hairnet taking a break by leaning near the john door. On the brink of entering he has an ominous and hazy memory and says, almost out of context, Mom says the bathrooms here can make your poop dirty. When we enter the room, it’s like stepping into an 80 degree meat-locker, only not so lovely. There’s shit on the floor. Not “shit” on the floor, there’s shit on the floor. Don’t ask me how I know. So we walk with purpose, two soldiers on a mission, avoiding the bigger mines for the lesser ones. It’s no suprise that there’s shit also in the toilet, and around and on the toilet. It’s a wonder men bother at all with the niceties of modern plumbing anymore. So I steel myself to use the handle and flush. There’s a fuss made by the pipes, a dramatic show of business, but the three fat and squirrelly sausages merely make a game of ring around the posy, occasionally holding each other’s hands for effect. I’m disturbed, but, hey, I’m 41 years old. I’ve been to music festivals and I’ve lived in a dorm. My 6 year old, on the other hand, turns feeble. It’s more than his constitution–which I think is fairly tough–can handle, and he begins to gag. I say, Close your eyes, little fellow, and aim in the general direction of the bowl. He says, I’m going to be sick and he begins that loud barking, belching wretching thing. I say–because though I’ve never been to war, I’ve seen in movies where the field commander grabs the green soldier by the lapels and screams in his face, Own the Pain, Own the Pain, and think I can make this work–so I say, Don’t Puke. He’s a good little guy, he really is. He tries to comply. He puts his hand over his mouth. But the urge is overwhelming, he lets go a Diet Coke and Mentos heave, compressed by his hand over his mouth, and what comes out from the cracks of his fingers is a destructive shrapnel of waffle and orange juice. On me on him on the floor. I should say at this point, the overall effect to the bathroom is minimal. I hand him some toilet paper–good luck finding a paper towel–and turn on the sink. Of course, there’s no soap. Yeah, there’s a soap dispenser, so you can put your hand all over the fecal-encrusted device, there’s just no soap. The fact that the dispenser is hanging under a sign that says Employees Must Wash Their Hands gives me only a slight pause. We pat dry with toilet paper our shoes and clothes and my little trooper says, gleefully and without irony or guile, Let’s go eat. He’s worked up an appetite, apparently. Hell, why not. My adrenaline is going, I feel like I just survived an attack from the enemy and this may be my last meal on earth. So we return to our table and eat with that kind of conspiratorial silence men on the run have. And then, settling in, my little guy says, That was really gross. The shock is wearing off and he starts to gag again. I put down the fork, pay the bill (11.41, without tip, not bad: dinner and a show) and off we go. “Mom is right,” he says, “I don’t think we should eat at Waffle House anymore.” Happy Birthday, you sweet, smart little fucker.

Now I know that most of the above is a result of us and not the “restaurant.” But I have a feeling that it’s not an unusual scenario. Something to think about next time you hear, Welcome to Waffle House.

–The Central Scrutinizer

Rudy put personal financial gain ahead of politics and national security.[Slate]

If you don’t read Newsday, you might not know (I didn’t until this week) that Rudy Giuliani was an original member of the Iraq Study Group—the blue-ribbon commission co-chaired by James Baker and Lee Hamilton—but he was forced out after failing to show up for any of the panel’s meetings.

Giuliani missed most of the ISG meetings, and during the time the group met, collected $1.7 million for speaking engagements.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I doubt that I would have forgone six figures of easy income for the privilege of yakking about Iraq with a roomful of graybeards all day long. Then again, I wasn’t about to run for president—the highest office of public service—on a résumé bereft of a single foreign-policy credential.

Considering the image platform this guy is running on, this strikes me as an immense hypocrisy, and a great example of why I hate Rudy.  James Baker eventually booted him from the group for his non-participation.

Strong bitch, weak scrotum, I guess. But damn…she tried to EAT it.

Amanda Monti, 24, flew into a rage when Geoffrey Jones, 37, rejected her advances at the end of a house party, Liverpool Crown Court heard.

She pulled off his left testicle and tried to swallow it, before spitting it out. A friend handed it back to Mr Jones saying: “That’s yours.”[BBC]

Amazingly, the guy’s friend grabbed it and gave it back?? I’ll apologize in advance to my buds here, but if a psycho chick rips your nut out with her bare hands, not only am I NOT TOUCHING your disembodied testicular, I’m also getting the FUCK out of there. I know you’d do the same.

So, Diane sent me this. Should I be worried?

Also, no pics. Sorry.

EDIT:  I just realized this story is really old.  Anyone have any updates on Mr. One-nut or the crazy ball-eater?

A funny parody of their commercial: