Friday, April 13, 2007

Friday, bloody Friday

I'm going to need a minute, because the dog turds at Google screwed me over again. New password, new email, new bla bla, waste of time, accept new terms of crap, more wasted time, why doesn't somebody just collect every Google employee and use them in nerve gas experiments?

Thank you.

Well, I was wondering who had the worst week. John McCain is still the butt of jokes, as he should be, for his farcical Baghdad shopping spree; only the doltish Lindsey Graham came off looking worse, and he's not running for president. A hundred troops and three helicopters which could have been better employed elsewhere -- not to mention twenty dead Iraqi merchants -- well, it works out to a lot more than five bucks for five rugs. Senator Maverick looks good in Kevlar, doesn't he? He should wear it to the convention. Fred "I'm Not a DA But I Play One Badly" Thompson announced that he has lymphoma, which looked like climbing on the cancer bandwagon. At least he won't be leaving for Iraq.

Perhaps it was Simon Cowell. He put his whole heart into giving us a show that celebrates incompetence, cruelty and desperation, and the Americans turn around and ruin it with their dark dark sense of humor, repeatedly voting for the worst of the worst. We don't deserve Simon Cowell. We really don't. Really.

Paul Wolfowitz had an unpleasant week at the World Bank, where employees object to his Michael Brown-like managerial skills and his Rudolph Giuliani-like penchant for hiring his mistress. Unless he dislikes bad publicity, however, the cheerleader for the Iraq debacle should survive unscathed.

Don't tell me it was Don Imus. This germ barely registered with me (I have better things to do in the morning than watch a radio show, like sleep) until his paralytic features and slurred inanities were suddenly everywhere. Like Bush, he should probably go back to staying drunk all the time, and now he has the chance. Luckily for CBS radio and MSNBC, the term "nappy-headed ho's" does not appear on the list of words that will get you a jaw-dropping fine from the FCC. (For the record, they are fuck, shit, piss, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker and tits.) That's because we're more comfortable with racism and misogyny than we are with sex and bodily functions. Imus will publish a book about his PC victimization and metastasize at some other station, still in that stupid hat; and no-hope candidates like McCain and Joe Biden will grin and fawn at his microphone like hungry mutts. In the deepest irony of the week, Governor Jon Corzine was rushing to referee a meeting between the I-Wad and the young women he had trashed when he was nearly killed in a car accident. Our winner?

No, because Kurt Vonnegut died this week. He is so much a part of our consciousness that it was impossible to find a blog entry or obituary which didn't sound like Vonnegut, with "So it goes" and "Poteeweet" cropping up everywhere. We all owe him so much, not least the concept of the granfalloon, a wholly artificial construct, like a nation, which is nothing more than an agreed-upon fiction. "If you want to examine a granfalloon, Just remove the skin from a toy balloon," sang Bokonon in Cat's Cradle, and I do it every day.

We had the worst week of all.


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