Monthly Archives: November 2011

Malaka Of The Week: Machine Gun Santa


The “honor” actually goes to the Scottsdale Gun Club in Arizona. As you can see above, their idea of holiday spirit istaking pictures of heavily armed people with Santa.Holy Machine Gun Baby, Batman.

It’s 5 bucks for members and ten for anyone nutty enough to think this is appropriate holiday, as opposed to cannon, fodder. It’s a limited offer, so if you wanna look like an idiot, go to Scottsdale and head to the gun club on December 10th. We missed the November 26th date, alas. Hmm, I wonder if Santa did any turkey shootin’…

When I heard of this malakatude, I thought it was a sick joke or that it heralded a sequel toBad Santa, which was filmed in nearby Phoenix. If Billy Bob Thornton’s character had had this idea, Thurman Merman would have been an endangered species. But it’s not a joke, just tasteless malakatude whereasBad Santa is tasteless and hilarious:

Ignoring the 99 Percent is Not Enough

Now Obama has to walk up to them, slap them in the face with a glove, and declare AS ONE GENTLEMAN TO ANOTHER I CALL YOU A LIAR SIR.

And you know what? Probably plenty of sensible pundits will jump right on board with this, saying it will finally prove once and for all that the Democrats really aren’t crazy leftists if they just go ahead and kick their potential base just this one more fucking time. Just once more. We promise.

Surely the next time we’ll let them ignore their constituents like they really want to do, instead of demanding they actively attack people who are, like hippies usually, actually fucking right about everything. Surely this is the last time Republicans will put us to this test.

So Obama denounces these protesters, and … profit? I mean, then what? America finally realizes that we don’t have two extreme parties, we have a crazy bunch of nutters yelling at their TVs and a center-right party and then five people in Congress who actually give a fuck? How does that profit Newt in any way? I sincerely hope these are questions somebody asks before giving advice to his or her boss that Newt really has a good point and it might once and for all satisfy Chris Matthews’ racist uncle.


Deep Hoaxidate Thought

It’s official: the GOP nomination race is about Herman Cain’s penis. Is it just me or does Ginger White sound like a porn star name? She looks more like one of theReal Housewives of Atlanta, which could be her next move.

I think the GOP race should be about Newt’s ego and Mitt’s hair but that’s just me…

300,000 signatures in 12 Days

United Wisconsin announced that 300,000 signatures to recall Scott Walker have been collected in 12 days. Over atCognitive Dissonance, WI blogger capperdid some cyphering:

300,000 signatures in the first 12 days comes to:
•25,000 signatures per day
•1,042 signatures per hour
•17 signatures per minute
That comes to a signature about every 3.5 seconds.

Black Friday’s Instigators

I don’t do Black Friday. I’m hideously claustrophobic and large crowds often set off my I’M TRAPPED MUST GET OUT OMG STABBITY reflex, so pretty much from now until Christmas my shopping will be confined to stores in my ‘hood and online.

However, I have relatives who go out at the crack of dawn and take care of their whole list off those sales, who prep all week to line up at 10 p.m. and come home at 3 a.m. having had one hell of a good time. I don’t really have a cat in the Authenticity Olympics here, and I find the endless bitching about Black Friday almost as irritating as the ritual itself.

Every year someone behaves like a rampaging rhinoceros in a store, every year someone is injured or killed, and ever year we fill the airwaves with glib jokes about fat stupid Wal-mart people and Facebook cracks about how our society is doomed because somebody wanted a TV andcommentary about “those people” and how they don’t truly understand the meaning of Christmas like they should.

Here’s the thing. It’s easy to shame the nutjobs who behave badly, like the woman in the video who pepper-sprayed people, or the shoppers who kick or punch or trample, or those who just plain yell and shove like assholes. We can all shake our heads in disgust at people crowding in for $2 waffle irons and talking cartoon character dolls and whatever else; by and large the people in those videos are lower- to middle-class, not very attractive, and theyare actually behaving badly. Obligatory disclaimer: Please do not pepper-spray anyone in a store to get to a cheap toy because that is bad.

A conversation we’re not at all willing to have is who encourages them to show up at the crack of dawn, camp out, crowd around, and go bonkers when the doors open? Who runs the deals that create a frenzy, and who feeds that frenzy? Who knows damn well after how many years of this that if you offer people a break on something for their kids during the worst economy in the history of the world, more than, say, five decorous ladies in car coats gonna show up and take advantage?

We don’t see much discussion of whether Best Buy and Wal-mart and other big-box stores should treat the day after Thanksgiving like something other than tryouts for the Packers’ offensive line. Whether they should be kicking campers out of their parking lots, off their sidewalks, telling them to go home to their families. Whether they should let their own damn employees have a holiday for once, and not knock them awake at midnight to be there for the 2 a.m. rush. What responsibility they bear, for deliberately creating an unsafe situation and then acting very sad and disappointed in society when people show up and act in a less than safe manner.

It’s hard to have that talk, because it turns into one about valuing profits over safety, and that’s class warfare after all. Easier to blame the people buying all the cheap electronics and maybe hurting each other along the way, than the people pricing and selling the stuff in the first place.


x-posted at Firedoglake

Have You Ever Met a Human, Newt?


Under Gingrich’s plan, which he has articulated before, the federal government would establish a system of local boards to determine whether illegal immigrants could be permitted to remain in the United States based on their ties to the community.

“I propose that we take the World War II model of the selective service program,” Gingrich said. “In World War II, local community citizens judged who ought to be drafted and who shouldn’t . . . . It requires trusting citizens rather than bureaucrats. It’s a jury system for local communities.”

The draft being a system that wasnever, ever abused in any way to get rid of people we didn’t like.

Also, does Newt really want to makethe draftan issue in the campaign?

Tulane University, New Orleans. Newt gets a Ph.D. in history (1971) , although he prefers politics to academics. His thesis on education in the Belgian Congo is “nothing earth-shattering” and is never published. At Tulane, he indulges in mild counter-culture behavior, including a protest against the administration for banning “obscene” photos in the school paper. He becomes a fan of Alvin and Heidi Toffler and experiments with marijuana. Gets draft deferment because of school and children (flat feet and near-sightedness also probably would have kept him out).


We’ll miss you, Barney

One of my favorite members of Congress, Barney Frank, will be retiring after 16 terms. Barney is known for his quick wit and barbed tongue. He was also the first openly gay member of Congress, which made him a frequent target of the biblethumpers and wingnut wackadoodles.

Here’s my favorite Barney Frank moment wherein he smacks down a “deather” during a town hall meeting in his district:

UPDATE: Here’s a link to TPM’s coverage of Frank’s presser.

Today on Tommy T’s Obsession with the Freeperati – “It’s so good to be home for the Halalidays” edition

Yeah – I know this was supposed to be a “Putrid Potpourri” edition, but there’s been alarming real-time developments in Freeperville.

You know how every so often a little reality creeps into the eternal ragefest, when they catch themselves during the rage ramp-up and realize they’re being played? This was one of those times. However, the True Believers quickly regroup and counterattack. Suit up, gentle people, because the first offering is –Satanic Butterballs!

Happy Halal Thanksgiving (Boycott Butterball)
American Thinker ^ | November 21, 2011 | Pamela Geller

Posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 8:47:27 PM byMount Athos

Did you know that the turkey you’re going to enjoy on Thanksgiving Day this Thursday is probably halal? If it’s a Butterball turkey, then it certainly is.

I discovered that only two plants in the U.S. that perform halal slaughter keep the halal meat separated from the non-halal meat. At other meat-packing plants, animals are slaughtered following halal requirements, but then only a small bit of the meat is actually labeled halal.

Wendy Howze, a Butterball Consumer Response Representative, responded: “Our whole turkeys are certified halal.”

Halal slaughter involves cutting the trachea, the esophagus, and the jugular vein, and letting the blood drain out while saying “Bismillah allahu akbar” — in the name of Allah the greatest. Many people refuse to eat it on religious grounds.

Others object because of the cruelty to animals that halal slaughter necessitates.

Still others refuse to do so on principle: why should we be forced to conform to Islamic norms? It’s Islamic supremacism on the march, yet again.

Non-Muslims in America and Europe don’t deserve to have halal turkey forced upon them in this way, without their knowledge or consent.

The same Islamic law that mandates that animals be cruelly slaughtered according to halal requirements also teaches hatred of and warfare against unbelievers, the oppression of women, the extinguishing of free speech, and much more that is inimical to our freedom. Don’t support it on this celebration of freedom. Join our Facebook group, ‘Boycott Butterball’.

Don’t buy a Butterball turkey for Thanksgiving.

1 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 8:47:29 PM byMount Athos
Cue the Freepers who are not convinced that this is ragegasm material:

To: Mount Athos

Too late. Can I make up for it by passing gas in the direction of Mecca?

2 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 8:50:10 PM byIngtar
To: Mount Athos

Gee, great idea to demand a Butterball Boycott when most people have already bought their birds. That’s like the TV News showing the wild drinking, drugs and sex binges of Spring break 2 weeks after break has taken place. Boycotts seldom work. And most people won’t care much of a drat where the throat was cut, just as long as the bird isn’t still flapping when being stuffed into the oven.

5 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 8:53:33 PM bytheDentist (fybo; qwerty ergo typo : i type, therefore i misspelll)
To: theDentist

If I boycotted every company that ticked me off I’d be living a subsistence life in a tiny little hut in Montana.

7 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 8:56:07 PM byMr Ramsbotham (Laws against sodomy are honored in the breech.)
You mean you’renot?
What about the always-imminent SHTF? Are the weapons buried? The gold stacked? The dry provisions catalogued(anyone besides myself ever wonder where the potable water to rehydrate their dried crap is gonna come from once the taps stop running?)?

To: Mount Athos

If you don’t believe in Allah, what difference does it make? Buy Butterball and don’t give away your power. By boycotting you admit it makes a difference.

9 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 8:57:23 PM byturbocat
To: Mount Athos

Good grief! Why shouldn’t companies provide food that ethnic customers are willing to purchase? Makes for increased sales and a better bottom line. Why punish a company simply because you don’t like the customer base to which it’s trying to expand?

12 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 9:01:02 PM bySuziQ
Ah – but the True Believers are mounting a counterattack!

To: SuziQ
This I don’t like.

while saying “Bismillah allahu akbar” — in the name of Allah the greatest.

This makes me lose my appetite.

18 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 9:06:59 PM byDManA


To: DManA
It has been an ancient custom to pray for the animal that’s been sacrificed for your meal. This is not at all peculiar to Moslems. Christian Arabs would traditionally use terminology very similar to that.

So, prayer makes you lose your appetite, or Arabic, or the self-identity of the guy making the prayer?

28 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 9:15:43 PM bymuawiyah
To: muawiyah

Prayer to a demon does.

29 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 9:17:54 PM byDManA

To: DManA

Isn’t that the same Mohammedan chant used when they behead Infidels?

51 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 9:46:48 PM bySERKIT (“Blazing Saddles” explains it all…)
To: Mount Athos

Another tidbit on Halal.All and I repeat all of Costco’s lamb is now halal and their Coleman organic chicken.So since we loved the lamb and the organic chicken this is our last year with Costco. We are looking into Sam’s or BJ’s.

It’s too late. You ate the Satanic lamb chops and your family is going to Hell, you baaa-aaaad man.

Most people just think that Halal is like Kosher. It is not. Kosher slaughter is just a way of processing so all of the blood gets out of the meat. Halal is actually a sacrifice. They point that lamb/turkey in the direction of the Black Rock of Mecca and sacrifice it to Allah. We are all Muslims now.

62 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 10:26:03 PM byGeorgia Girl 2 (The only purpose of a pistol is to fight your way back to the rifle you should never have dropped.)
“Get thee behind be, thou evil side-dish of Satan!”
Emo Phillips

To: Ruy Dias de Bivar

I absolutely agree with you.

Now that I know what they do with this meat I have a moral choice to make.

69 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 11:39:50 PM byDManA
To: MontaniSemperLiberi

Thank you. That means something to me. It is a matter of being a good steward of God’sgifts giblets.

68 posted on Monday, November 21, 2011 11:37:23 PM byDManA
So much more after the Islamic order to “Continue Reading, Infidel!”…

Continue reading

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Coco Robicheaux, RIP

Coco Robicheaux was a genuine NOLA character as well as a talented and deeply eccentric musician. The rest of the country got to know him via his appearances onTreme; especially when he did the chicken sacrifice thing. Coco collapsed at his favorite watering hole the other day and died at the age of 64.

I ran into Coco from time to time over the years but didn’t know him very well. My friend Sam Jasper, however, did her share of drinking and hanging out with Coco so here’s alink to her beautifully written tribute.

Here’s a sample of that hoodoo that Coco did so well:

Headline of the day

It comes from the Telegraph in the UK:

‘Harry Potter and yoga are evil’ says Catholic Church exorcist

I wonder what Tom Wilkinson and Max Von Sydow would say about this story…

The Rural vs. Urban Divide

It’s not what you think, in Wisconsin:

Three hunters turned their truck and trailer around and pulled up to where I stood on the sidewalk. I explained that I was with the Recall Walker campaign. “It’s why we turned around,” the driver said. He had already signed, but his father wanted the chance. First, he checked to see that I had a campaign volunteer badge. “Some people pretending to be with the campaign are destroying petitions,” he said.

While his father signed, I told him about the woman losing $200 a month. He held up four fingers. “For me, it’s four hundred a month.” He’s a prison guard, and the cut in health care and retirement benefits is hitting his paycheck hard.

I believe that the Recall Walker campaign leaders significantly underestimated discontent in rural areas. When the Iowa County office opened up to train volunteers several days ago, over 100 people showed up. And in five days, they have gathered well over 50 percent of the total signatures they expected to gather in that county in the entire two months of the process.

Walker’s pals like to talk about Milwaukee, Madison and then the rest of the state, because “Madison” is code for college kids and homosexual communists and “Milwaukee” means black people, but the rural areas of the state are more liberal than the suburbs of the largest cities.

It may make those who oppose the recall feel better to think there are all these quietly stoic farmers and manly hunters out there who silently support them, but the truth is, the range of opinion is not, entirely, based on location.

Mr. A and I were traveling all around for the holidays and saw the Thanksgiving weekend signature gatherers on corners and outside stores. Heroes, one and all.


Sunday Morning Video: Origami time with Martha and Ludacris

This week’s video was inspired by this comment by Athenae on theMartha-Snoop Dogg vid, “My favorite Martha video is still the one where she teaches Ludacris how to do origami, and it turns out he already knew how and was better than her at it.”

Yeah you right, A:

Weekend Question Thread

It’s been a while since we’ve had a big fight, so here’s one: Do you have a cell phone? What kind?

I got an Android phone this year and it’s my friend, though I’ve noticed it’s made me much more twitchy in terms of the games you can play on it and the e-mail you can answer and the stuff you can do and it’s not ADD if it looks like work, right? It has made texting easier; I can’t type with the number keys, my thumbs don’t work that fast.


Little Big Man

You can keep your Black Friday specials, your retail madness and your “Holy shit, I weigh HOW much? It’s time for a diet,” post-Thanksgiving madness. For me, the day after Thanksgiving will always be tied to the moment I learned to believe that the little guy could come up big.

In planning their post-Thanksgiving football games, CBS spent the early part of the summer of 1984 looking at games they believed would be “bullet-proof.” The night game they chose matched an up-and-coming Boston College program against the defending national champions, The Miami Hurricanes.

The Hurricanes title defense was off to a rocky start that year. They lost the third game of the year to Michigan and had gotten bludgeoned 38-3 at home by Florida State. Leading up to the clash with BC, the team had built a 30-point lead against Maryland at home only to have Frank Reich lead one of the biggest come from behind wins in college history.

After starting the season 4-2, BC wouldn’t lose another game leading up to the Miami game. After a 7-point loss to Penn State, the Eagles knocked out Army and Syracuse by solid margins. The bigger story, however, was if BC quarterback Doug Flutie would become the first major college quarterback to throw for 10,000 yards in a season.

Boxing’s Ferdie Pacheco once noted that contrasting styles made for great heavyweight fights. In the world of football, the same was true.

Sophomore Bernie Kosar led a Miami attack that had defeated the Nebraska Cornhuskers in the 1984 national championship game that January. A 6-foot-5 pocket passer, Kosar had the look of a pro-style quarterback. He led a program built by Howard Schnellenberger and honed by first-year coach Jimmy Johnson. It featured Alonzo Highsmith, Melvin Bratton and dozens of other kids from “The State of Miami,” an inner-city recruiting area filled with amazing prospects.

At 5-foot-9, Doug Flutie started his freshman year fifth on the depth chart at Boston College, the only Division I school to actively recruit him.

By his senior season, he had led the Eagles to back-to-back bowl games, landing BC in the Tangerine Bowl after the 1982 season and the Liberty Bowl after the 1983 season.

Under an increasingly persistent misting rain, the teams took to the grass field at the Orange Bowl on Nov. 23, 1984. The weather put a chill on the fans in the stadium, but not on either team’s offense.

Boston College struck first and charged out to a 14-0 lead. Kosar responded with 11 straight pass completions on his way to setting a Miami single-game passing record.

“They could do anything they wanted,” Flutie recalled years later. “They could run it for 8 to 10 yards at a chunk or throw it for 15 to 20. We had to try to manufacture our offense.”

BC coach Jack Bicknell had seen games like this before. Both teams could score, neither team could defend. Late in the game, he found his team clinging to a three-point lead, but he knew that his leaking defense wasn’t likely to hold.

Flutie had reached a similar conclusion.

“I was telling Jack, ‘Let them score. They’re going to score anyway. Get me the ball back with some time.'”

When Miami’s Bratton scored his fourth touchdown of the day, Miami had recaptured the lead, 45-41.

Flutie found himself down four points down, 80 yards from the end zone with 28 seconds left.

The living room in our old house had this scratchy yellow shag carpeting that made it impossible to drive Matchbox cars on the floor. Every three inches, a wheel would get caught on a loop and you’d have to stop and try to free it. The couches had this odd velour on them that left patterns on your face when you slept on them. In the far left was an old Admiral TV. It’s giant wooden box with ornately carved columns held a 20-inch tube that took about 18 hours to warm up. The set had three knobs: On/off/volume, VHF tuning and UHF tuning. It was hooked to a giant antenna on our roof that years later would break free from its brackets and come crashing through my parents’ bedroom window during a blizzard.

With our bellies crammed full of turkey and Mom’s famous bread stuffing, Dad and I had parked ourselves on the couch to watch the end of this game Dad had been talking about all day.

Mom had finished the dishes and the grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins had all left after a massive meal, leaving us to our own devices.

At the age of 10, I was one of the smallest kids in my class. The boys would often measure me against the girls in the class to make the point that no only was a dwarf by male standards, but that the “weaker sex” had even exceeded my diminutive height.

Dad had always made the point that height wasn’t the most important thing, but he wasn’t the one who once got stuffed in a trash can.

“Watch this Flutie guy,” Dad explained. “He’s really small, but he can really play.”

Of course, shortly after he said this, Bratton scored, putting the game seemingly out of reach.

“Well, that’s the end of that,” Dad said as Flutie had maneuvered BC from the 20 to the Miami 48 with six seconds left. He arose to head to the kitchen for a beer.

“But there’s six seconds left,” I protested.

Dad picked me up and plunked me down on the floor right in front of the TV.

“Here,” he said. “You watch this and maybe you’ll learn a little something about reality.”

Reality I knew, but faith I had and there’s something about being a boy, being told you’re too small and being shown someone who was too small as well and hoping against hope he’ll succeed once again.

So I sat. And I watched.

The play was called “Flood Tip.” Three men to the right side of the formation, one to the left. They’d streak down the field as fast as possible while Flutie tossed one last desperation heave. The field had been chewed up under the relentless pounding the two teams had put upon it. The damp had crept into every inch of the players on the field.

Flutie took the snap and dropped straight back, bouncing on the soles of his feet as his receivers raced toward the end zone. Miami rushed three and dropped eight to defend against the Hail Mary. Even with only a small rush, a Miami defender broke through the offensive line and chased Flutie out to his right. An offensive lineman impeded the rush just enough to give Flutie a chance to escape.

He paused for a brief moment at his own 37-yard line and launched a pass toward the heavens.

Brent Musburger had the call as the pass sailed through the air. It covered 63 yards in the air, starting its descent around the 30-yard line. It coasted through the arms of three defenders and hit Gerard Phelan, Flutie’s roommate and good friend in the hands. Phelan cradled the ball and fell into the end zone.

“I rolled over and saw colored letters and I knew I was in the end zone,” Phelan would recall years later.

I remember leaping up and down in the living room, crashing to the ground and rolling around like a dog scratching its back on that crappy yellow rug.

Dad came storming back in, beer in hand, demanding, “What happened? What happened?”

Musburger had hollered, “CAUGHT BY BOSTON COLLEGE, I DON’T BELIEVE IT!” failing to mention the name of the receiver because his spotter had gone nuts with excitement and failed to identify Phelan right away.

Flutie was jumping in and out of the frame on that Admiral set as the enormity of the event settled in on my father.


In the years that followed, I followed Flutie and Kosar as they went their separate ways. Flutie had trouble gaining traction as a QB in the NFL before he headed north. Kosar went back to Ohio and led his hometown Browns to the AFC championship game, but never the Super Bowl. He eventually got his ring as a back up with the Dallas Cowboys.

Flutie spent much of his prime in the Canadian Football League, becoming the league’s most exciting player. He earned multiple most valuable player awards and led several teams to Grey Cup championships.

When he returned to the NFL in 1998 with Buffalo, I became a Bills fan. When he headed west, I followed the Chargers. When he finished up with New England Patriots, I grudgingly liked Bill Belichick’s teams.

Flutie’s last scoring play was another quirky moment in a quirky careers: the first successful drop kick since 1941, tacking on an extra point after a Patriot touchdown.

From time to time, I’ll catch him on a college football show or the clip of him making that miraculous heave will show up on ESPN and I’ll go back to that moment with him, marveling at how a big a little man had become.

And how he inspired a generation of others to do the same.

Friday Ferretblogging: Nursing Edition

So Matilda decided to make her entrance into the family dramatic. Last Saturday Mr. A and I came home from a day out to find her curled up and refusing to eat. She yacked up everything I tried spooning into her, was getting dehydrated and wouldn’t play. When a baby ferret doesn’t want to play, it is time to sound the nucelar sirens because something is Very Wrong.

I called our long-suffering shelter director, picked up some stomach medication and shelter food (figuring that what she’d been eating before might have been easier on her system) and spent the next two days giving her this unbelievably disgusting gushy mush every two hours, bit by bit. She would only eat a bite or two at a time, and only from my fingers. When I went to bed, Mr. A took over, coaxing her to drink from a water dish and checking on her to make sure she was still breathing.

Monday she was a little perkier, and then yesterday when I got home from the shelter she was flopped on the cage floor, head down in the food dish, noshing away. The more she eats, the more she plays, the hungrier she gets. I’m not ordinarily such a ball of nerves about the pets; when the boys get sick it’s like eh, they’ll eat when they’re hungry again. But Miss Teeny Tiny Featherweight Pet has so little meat on her to begin with, the loss of even a gram or two is worrisome:


It’s likely she was just stressed out from moving around so much (her owner to animal control to the shelter to us in the space of five days) and pigged out too much on new food in her starved state. The others have been incredibly gentle with her. Even Bucky has done nothing to her but curl up beside her to keep her warm. I don’t think we’re entirely out of the woods yet, but she’s slowly putting the pudge back on, and in a couple of weeks I hope to see her filled out and full of energy.


Friday Catblogging: Quilty as charged

A friend of Dr. A’s recently finished a quilt made out of some of our old t-shirts. It’s very cool and obviously Oscar and Della approve.


Campus Cops do the Darndest Things


Well, I hope everyone has a Happy Thanksgiving, except for maybeOfficer Pike, Chancellor Katehi, and everyone else who took on the role of vicious goon at UC Davis, and other OWS demonstrationsaround the country.