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Come back, McCain Girls! All is forgiven!

[ 22 ] October 9, 2016 |

If you were thinking that Jill Stein’s campaign could really use a boss white hippity hopper who supplies you with abundantly mad rhymes and ill beats on the Victrola, your burnt offerings and scattered poultry entrails have been answered by the sky gods. Behold the guy you want to see in a dick-punching contest with Martin Shkreli:

Matt Orflea — who looks like a guy who would hold up the beer pong tournament to explain how the 2016 Nevada Democratic Party caucuses were nothing but total fucking riggery — opens this four-minute saga by nodding in a mostly def fashion in front of the World War II and Franklin Roosevelt memorials, perhaps to remind us of a time when Democrats weren’t corporate whores. Then he reminds us that Jill Stein is the only candidate left who is not a “corporate whore,” all of which goes to prove that it’s still possible for some people to use the term “corporate whore” in earnest, and that it’s 1936 and Matt Orflea hasn’t yet received the Comintern memo declaring FDR the lesser evil. After vouching for Stein’s authenticity by noting that she’s “the only candidate who doesn’t use hair dye,” Orflea — who might like to speak with you about how you can run your car on a salt water battery — spends the next several minutes statue-molesting Roosevelt, invoking Optimus Prime and orcs, and figuring out that “legalize weed” and “TPP” sort of rhyme, bro. Your mileage may vary, but for me, the rhyme peaks like Mt. Rainier at the start of the second verse:

Her purpose is urgent, Jill’s the doctor to call
She’s more green and appealing than Kermit the frog!
No more corporate control, make healthcare universal
Jill’s green and radical like a ninja turtle….

This guy is so sick he ought to wear a surgical mask and take large doses of zinc.

Unfortunately, Orflea — who probably wonders if children are receiving too many vaccinations too soon in their lives — does not provide a trigger warning about the auto-tuning freeware app he used to record this epically dope shit. So at roughly one-minute intervals starting at 1:05, you’re going to want to mute the audio. The rest of it is just too good to describe.


Put another log on the dumpster fire

[ 77 ] October 6, 2016 |

trump-klanJamelle Bouie has an excellent piece in Slate about the historical echoes and contemporary roots of Trump’s effort to cast advance doubt on the results of next month’s election, one that he will in all likelihood lose.

By urging his supporters to be alert to devious activity in “certain areas” of Pennsylvania, for example, or by insisting that ever-unskewed polls deserve more legitimacy than the votes actually cast on (or before) November 8, Trump is doing more than simply undermining his supporters’ confidence in the election. A candidate who previously warned of “riots” if things didn’t go his way — and whose rallies have included transparent endorsements of intimidation and abuse toward protestors (many of whom have been persons of color) — is playing around with dangerous, and potentially lethal, hypotheticals.

As Bouie reminds us, Trump’s rhetoric is the unmongrelized progeny of the abhorrent political violence that afflicted freedpersons in the Reconstruction-era South, where seasonal body counts tallied in the hundreds over the course of at least a decade following the war. It’s worth adding that over time, the ongoing denial of black suffrage was linked to pieties about “reforming” the political system and purging elections of “corruption.” For Southern whites, “corruption” was almost inseparably associated from the charge that white political opportunists were using the black vote to secure advantages for themselves while undermining social stability. These arguments were not only used to condemn the work of carpetbagging Republicans in the 1860s and 1870s, but they were revived in subsequent decades by Southern Populists like Rebecca Latimer Felton, who accused the Democratic Party of plying black men with cash and whiskey that unwittingly fueled election day rape binges. To the degree that whites accused one another of manipulating the black franchise, arguments for cleansing the voter rolls could be framed as gestures on behalf of orderly government. It hardly needs to be pointed out that claims like these have barely been modified in the service of contemporary voter ID laws and condescending theories that the Democratic Party has merely exploited the false consciousness of black voters.

This is all dangerous stuff, and it further puts the lie to Trump’s transparently disingenuous appeals for black support, to say nothing of his promise last week to accept the November 8 verdict (one he will accept only if he wins). No matter what happens, we’ll be faced with an avalanche of new bigoted conspiracy theories that will require you to unfriend your shithead uncle on Facebook. Beyond that, I’m more than a little concerned that thousands of white people — the same ones who yowl madly when others protest cops who murder black folks — will freak the fuck out when their Racist Corn Dog Emperor ungraciously loses to a woman.

Chastised for dickishness, Trump buoyed by invisible black friends in Flint

[ 57 ] September 15, 2016 |

fat-albert-the-junkyard-gang-stock1388It’s often not easy for black folks at a Trump event, though he occasionally spots a friendly face in the crowd and wonders for a moment if he might, in fact, actually own him somehow.

Yesterday, the racist corn dog currently angling for the White House dropped by a black church in Flint, where he cracked wise about Mexican water and got his knuckles rapped by the female pastor for being such an unbearably self-absorbed tool. This morning, nimble-witted as George Constanza, Trump finally came up with his best jerk store comeback and simply made up a bunch of shit that didn’t happen. (NPR, observing the Trump Rule, merely noted that he “misstated” the facts, which is more or less like claiming that someone “mispronounced” a word that does not actually exist.)

In any event, his appearance on Fox News this morning was revelatory. Aside from describing Rev. Faith Green Timmons as “nervous” when she plainly was not, Trump hinted strongly that wherever he goes, he is apparently joined by a crew of imaginary black people who cheer him on. Via TPM:

“It doesn’t bother me. I’ll tell you what really made me feel good, the audience was saying, ‘Let him speak, let him speak.’ The audience was so great and these are mostly African-American people, phenomenal people and they want to see change.”

Of course, video of the gathering disproves everything about Trump’s version of events. Indeed, NPR notes that several audience members, far from being hungry for Trump’s word, began questioning him about his treatment of black tenants during the 1970s. Regardless, we need to take very seriously the possibility that Trump has been accompanied throughout the campaign by invisible friends who just happen to be phenomenal African-American people with terrible jobs and nothing to lose, chuckling about his fucked up tweets, reminiscing about that time he went lynch mob on some kids, and shaking their heads over the goofballs at Stormfront who love him so. No wonder he’s going to earn 95 percent of their vote.

Hot takes on Clinton’s health

[ 214 ] September 11, 2016 |

(1) It’s now obvious that a Clinton presidency will almost certainly resemble the final, ghastly days of Konstantin Chernenko’s brief reign. Although I was prepared to vote for Clinton, the fact that she’s not completely immune to viruses and/or bacteria reminds me that true progressives always have the option of casting their ballots for the crazy lady who thinks Wi-Fi causes brain cancer.

(2) Broadly speaking, human beings are fucking gross and should only touch one another for as little time as needed to maintain the demographic vigor of the species. As a veteran of sorts, Donald Trump possesses sound judgment on this issue, and while we can barely predict what he’ll do or say from one moment to the next, we can be sure that his personal aversion to normal-sized human hands will protect him from pneumonia, noroviruses, or enteric fever.

(3) This entire episode raises important questions, including “Do I really know what pneumonia actually is?” and “How long until the alien incubating in Clinton’s lungs destroys New York like the monster in ‘Cloverfield?'” The answers, of course, are “no” and “soon.”

(4) OMFG, this actually existed for real before I started writing a lame joke about it.

Trump in Roanoke

[ 103 ] July 26, 2016 |

Donald Trump, racist whoopie cushion, appeared this afternoon in my hometown of Roanoke, Virginia, where I’ve relocated my insomnia for the past few weeks. Because I’m pathologically incapable of avoiding cheap and writable discomfort, I stood in line for several unwhiskeyed hours in 100-degree heat to experience the least-amusing civic joke in recent American history. At this point, one could assemble a pretty decent anthology of “I Went to a Trump Rally” narratives, so there’s nothing particularly special about the experience or about anything I might offer here. But today’s event was goddamn predictable and boring in a way that I actually found somewhat horrifying. There’s no question that the Trump campaign remains an ambling shitshow, and his “speech” reminded me of a somewhat less-cranked Spud from Trainspotting, but the normalization of Trump’s weirdness strikes me as more deeply troubling than what we all witnessed earlier in the year, when he was simply tugging his dick and yodeling while career patrons of the local Kum & Go punched hippies and black people. Adding to what Erik observed earlier, conditions like these underscore the horror of recognizing that Trump might actually win.


The two-hour wait outside the Hotel Roanoke was for the most part innocuous. It was hot and humid as Lucifer’s taint this morning, which might explain why no one in line near me was particularly chatty. My companion and I spent most of our time getting to know “Austin,” a 20-year-old future alimony delinquent from a nearby town who — if his odyssey was to be believed — had worked a 16-hour shift at a tire factory before driving several hours to spend time in the same room with Donald Trump, a humanoid pimento cheese tub. We talked about his family for a while before detouring into an extended review of his achievements on Call of Duty, interrupted by his occasional hoots of “TRUMP!” and “BLUE LIVES MATTER” when the local constabulary generously rolled by with another cooler of bottled water. When I asked if his parents shared his enthusiasm for politics, he ruefully shook his head, paused for a moment as if to relive an angry moment with Pop over the burn barrel, and explained that his folks preferred Ted Cruz. During a lull in the conversation, he showed me a recent match he’d earned on Badoo; “Scarlett,” as it turned out, was transgender, a deal-breaker for the young rake Austin.

While everyone waited for the hotel doors to open, journeymen plied their trade along the line. Every single one of them was a person of color, engaged in a secondary grift layered atop the primary grift that had drawn people like Austin to Roanoke in the first place. For $20, vendors offered shirts emblazoned with Elizabethan insults like “If you don’t bleed red, white & blue take your bitch ass home” or “If you build it, they won’t come” (featuring Trump waving through the fissure in a nearly-finished brick wall — an image that incongruously puts the shirt’s observer on the other side of the wall from Trump, implicating all of us as Mexican rapists and drug dealers.) In any event, I didn’t know what to make of the fact that literally the only black people in sight were fleecing white folks and selling them new church clothes; it’s difficult to cheer the continued circulation of dumb Lewinsky blowjob jokes (e.g., “Hillary sucks, but not like Monica”), but at least the proceeds were flowing away from the Trump campaign.


After gaining entry at long last to the air-conditioned hotel ballroom, we lingered for another two hours before the event began. During the last half-hour, the listless Trumpkins distinguished themselves mostly by failing to sustain any of the predictable chants — “USA,” “Build the Wall,” and “Lock Her Up” — for longer than about ten seconds. It’s been years since I spent much time in Roanoke, and while it may be somewhat less amped than the irate cornholes that seem to populate the campaign’s itinerary, I was mildly surprised that the self-assigned pep-squad deputies scattered around the room were unable to whip up some stiffer peaks of fury before the arrival of TrumpPence. Alas.

While the millennials in front of me Tweeted and Snapchatted and swiped left and right, the Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” played unironically in the background. The song reminded me of The Big Chill, which reminded me of how much I hate The Big Chill, before I remembered that the song plays during the opening scene the first part of The Big Chill, which involves the dressing of a a funeral for corpse who had filleted his goddamn wrists so his friends could come smoke dope and fuck each other for a few days. It’s not the first tune that would come to mind if I were assembling a “Make America Great Again” playlist, but no one asked me.

Finally, the Indiana tube sock known as “Mike Pence” emerged to introduce Trump, who apparently developed his “big heart” toward and “understanding” of Americans by building things with them — “skyscrapers and skylines,” Pence explained, which Trump completed by “standing shoulder to shoulder” with the people he employed. No, really. After some armpit fart noises about how Trump would get better trade deals from other countries and how we need a president “who digs coal,” Pence welcomed the man that the better-liberals-than-you in your Facebook feed regard as a threat no more worrisome than Hillary Clinton. It took Trump all of about five seconds to mention all the beautiful property he owns in Virginia and how he signs lots of paychecks in the commonwealth, before he proceeded into a distracted, 45-minute vortex that consisted mostly of scattered commentary on the sectarian drama unfolding within the Democratic Party. He cracked wise about Debbie Wasserman-Schultz, made fun of Tim Kaine for being a “weird little guy,” invoked BENGHAZI! and Pocahontas, and accused Clinton of being a “low-energy” candidate who needs to take lots of naps. I wasn’t aware that this was a thing with Clinton, but evidently Trump believes napping is detrimental to national security, a point he ought to take up with Ronald Reagan someday. The entire speech was an incoherent mess, as if Donald Trump’s brain were a Firefox window, and he sits at his desk every day shuttling between various Breitbart sites, YouTube, and Craigslist Casual Encounters, never bothering to wonder how he managed to wind up with 75 open tabs.

But the audience today didn’t care. In his own distracted way, Trump is a genius who understands that his supporters are simply bundles of dopamine receptors. All he needs to do is invoke BENGHAZI!, or the Second Amendment, or the importance of repealing the Johnson amendment, and he earns a room full of ecstatic eyerolls and jazz hands. During the “town hall” portion of the event — which consisted of three questions and a prayer — someone asked if Trump would promise to support Israel “100 percent” (whatever that means). Trump simply nodded and said “yes,” and the entire room went fucking bazonkers. He barely even needed to mention The Wall, except to promise that it would keep heroin out of New Hampshire and that it would be “as good looking as possible.” His biggest applause line, in fact, came when he griped about the fact that an enclosed hotel ballroom packed with 1200 bodies might get a little warm after two hours. Because he evidently doesn’t understand physics, Trump blamed the hotel itself for being inept — blurting out that he didn’t even know its name — before announcing that the owners “should be ashamed of themselves” and that if he were staying there, he’d skip out on the bill. That’s right: A man who aspires to live in the White House is now trying to earn Bad-Ass Points with his supporters by fantasizing about something equivalent to a dine-and-dash. And at the moment, this is a man who stands a 40 percent chance of winning in November.

Twitter person finds silver lining in the looming heat death of the universe

[ 66 ] June 4, 2016 |

A day rarely passes in which I don’t congratulate myself for abstaining from Twitter, but fuck me with a roasted gerbil, today offers a special reminder that whatever time I might devote to that everlasting dumpster fire remains better spent gazing hopelessly into the middle distance, sipping Early Times from a half-pint mason jar, and weeping softly as I rank my faults. Rania Khalek — an independent journalist who apparently can’t count and was recently spotted repeating the conspicuously stupid argument that Clinton is “clearly to the right of Trump” on trade issues — now supplies us with the ingenious observation that Trump’s candidacy has actually worked out well for immigrant rights.

To her credit, Khalek is at least consistent in her understanding that heightened contradictions always end up well. While ignoring my children’s pleas for affection and food this afternoon, I spent some time combing through her past “tweets,” as I believe they are known. Here are some of my favorites:

A friend who works on Cherokee rights told me Jackson’s election has been a boon for anti-removal fight. National Repubs will galvanize.

— Rania Khalek (@RaniaKhalek) December 2, 1828

Opponent of war with Mexico told me Polk’s all bluster. Liberty Party will teach the Whigs a lesson! #NeverClay #BirneyOrBust!

— Rania Khalek (@RaniaKhalek) October 7, 1844

Lincoln assassination, though tragic, will be a boon to freedpeople, Radical Repubs. On treason issues, AJohnson way to the left of Abe!

— Rania Khalek (@RaniaKhalek) April 15, 1865

A friend who works on civil rights told me Wallace’s teaching liberal warmonger establishment stooges a lesson. I truly fear Humph > Nixon.

— Rania Khalek (@RaniaKhalek) October 22, 1968

So disappointed Nader only got 685,000 votes. Clintons, neoliberals everywhere rejoice, no lessons this year. *Eyeroll*

— Rania Khalek (@RaniaKhalek) November 6, 1996

2.9 m for Nader/LaDuke! Might have thrown Florida to Bush, but friend who hates neolibs tells me W will be weak prez. No fear!

— Rania Khalek (@RaniaKhalek) November 8, 2000

I you aren’t following her already on the Twitter machine, now’s your chance!

Meditations on reading the transcript of Donald John Trump’s meeting with the Washington Post

[ 59 ] March 23, 2016 |

Donald Trump is that kid who shows up in your basement and wants to play your electric guitar even though he doesn’t know a single chord. He insists that he’s awesome and can totally rock out better than anyone ever, “better than Jimmy Hendrix, even” — and when he says the name you know he’s thinking “Jimmy” and not “Jimi,” because that’s how goddamn dumb he is. But he won’t shut up about your guitar — seriously, he goes on about it for, like, two hours.

Finally, you roll your eyes and placate the mulleted intruder, because he’s eating all your cereal right out of the box with his gross little hands, and you have no idea where they’ve been (but really you do, you just can’t think about it anymore), and you realize it’s only a matter of time before he gets bored and tries to fuck your sister again or your mom or something worse. So you give him the guitar, show him a couple of power chords, and tell him to “take it easy” as you plug him into the amp.

He ignores you, of course, and attacks the guitar like it owes him $20 and a handjob. The breakfast sausages that pass for fingers bend the strings unreasonably, and he’s got that white guy Blues Face going on, and his hair is bobbing like a worn 7-11 mop, and you can’t even look because you’re suddenly embarrassed for the entire human race. Meanwhile, your amp is spitting out black clots of noise that sound like what self-loathing would sound like, or like the audio track to a crush fetish video. You don’t know it yet, but upstairs, your dog is shitting on the kitchen floor.

Trump, the stupid dicknose, actually does a windmill and totally misses the strings, and the pick goes flying across the room, but he’s like, “Nah, fuck it, I meant to do that,” so he drops down to his knees and shoves his fist in the air and screams “Yeah!” like he’s that guy from Metallica and not the absolute worst person in the world at that moment and most moments bracketing either end of that moment. The feedback scrapes the basement walls for another ten seconds or so, and upstairs, another dog turd drops.

Trump stands up as you’re reaching for the bleach bottle, swoops his pig knuckles through his hair, and grunts, “Heh. Fucking awesome, I’ve gotta get one of these,” as you drop the cap and take your first swig.

Salchicha oaxaqueña.png

By Nsaum75 at English Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0,

Ah, memories.

[ 16 ] May 31, 2014 |

I started blogging on a lark back in March 2005, mostly out of an interest in doing some non-professional (or unprofessional, if you prefer) writing; within a few weeks, more people—and by that I mean “a few dozen”—had read my blog than had, or ever would, likely read all of my academic publications combined. Everything was horrible and stupid in the spring of 2005. The war in Iraq was a gruesome stew of death and fuckery, Pope John Paul II was weeks away from realizing that God does not in fact exist, and wingnuts aplenty were camped behind the Kum & Go, huffing sacks of glue over Terri Schiavo’s dissolving brain. At some point that month, James Wolcott offered some approving words for a blog called “Lawyers, Guns and Money,” and—lacking all three—I decided to drop by and see what the big deal was.

Within a few weeks, this blog was probably at the top of my daily reading list; the authors and readers were meditating on important questions, including “who is America’s Worst Blogger?” and when would the Mariners call up Felix Hernandez? (Note: Rob was off by three weeks, but accurately predicted four wins. Though I have no data to back this up, I’m reasonably sure that no one at LGM has ever since predicted anything quite so accurately.) Over the next year, I commented regularly and unctuously linked to LGM at my own blog, doing so at a pace that ought to have raised stalker warnings. Charitably, Rob, Scott and DJW would from time to time link to something I’d written; most touchingly, Rob linked to a series of rather gloomy “This Day in History” posts I wrote in anticipation of my first child. In part because of those posts (and some later, related writing I did at my own place), the OG asked me to join this blog later that summer. I was beyond honored. I have always admired the quality of the writing here by everyone who’s ever participated, and though I don’t quite know what the straight line is that connects me to the vastly superior brains who keep this operation afloat, I don’t exaggerate when I sad that the existence of this blog has been an important part of my intellectual life for the past decade.

Since 9 October 2006, I’ve made some rather eccentric contributions to LGM. I provided us with arguably our most important feline mascot; I wrote a shitload of happy birthday posts to horrible people (especially this monster); there was the Althouse tiny prick fiasco; and of course the internet traditions, about all of which you are doubtlessly aware. Over the years, my writing here has conspicuously tailed off. The challenges of parenthood, combined with a series of unforced personal and professional errors, combined with the fact that I am an agonizingly slow writer prone to fits of undermedicated and over-whiskeyed self-loathing, have from time to time conspired to fuck my life up flatter than hammered shit. I remain grateful, however, to everyone here—co-bloggers and especially commenters with long memories—for indulging my long absences and to return from time to time like a plague of locusts to pester and annoy.

At some point, I will (I hope) return to a more regular schedule of contributions. One idea I’m toying with is a series called “The 25 Percent True Erotic History of the American Presidency,” which would detail the assorted preferences and perversions of the nation’s chief executives. If you’re curious about the famous necrophiliac Millard Fillmore, who hauled his dead wife around in a wheelbarrow for six months after pneumonia took her life in 1853, this series will not disappoint.

Also: There were many reasons George Washington hated wearing dentures. What you learn will shock you!

Also: Though Woodrow Wilson tried to remain neutral on the issue of war in Europe, he was never in doubt about butt plugs.

But, like, don’t hold your breath or anything.

The gluten-free diet has shat its pants

[ 97 ] May 16, 2014 |

The latest and among the more annoying nutritionist fads–the gluten-free diet–is taking a bit of a hit this week, as folks are beginning to look at a study published last August in Gastroenterology demonstrating that eliminating gluten produced no demonstrable effects in a test subjects who rotated between several highly-structured diets over the course of 7-8 weeks.

37 subjects took part, all with self-reported gluten sensitivity who were confirmed to not have celiac’s disease. They were first fed a diet low in FODMAPs for two weeks, then were given one of three diets for a week with either 16 grams per day of added gluten (high-gluten), 2 grams of gluten and 14 grams of whey protein isolate (low-gluten), or 16 grams of whey protein isolate (placebo). Each subject shuffled through every single diet so that they could serve as their own controls, and none ever knew what specific diet he or she was eating. After the main experiment, a second was conducted to ensure that the whey protein placebo was suitable. In this one, 22 of the original subjects shuffled through three different diets — 16 grams of added gluten, 16 grams of added whey protein isolate, or the baseline diet — for three days each.

The authors found that everyone reported improved gastrointestinal symptoms during the two-week low-gluten diet–a baseline diet they seem to have been aware of (at least as I read the abstract)–but then experienced worsening symptoms to identical degrees when they switched to the three rotating diets, one of which was the same as the baseline.

This study–a follow-up to a 2011 paper by the same authors that suggested that “gluten sensitivity” might possibly be a thing–provides the best available evidence that in all likelihood, absent a diagnosis of CD, your gluten-eschewing friends and family may be exhibiting nothing more than nocebo effects, voluntarily eating shitty food in the name of warding off the flatulence, lethargy, and ennui that are, alas, merely the individualized symptoms of a civilization teetering on the brink of an unfathomably nightmarish death.

Obviously, there is a small portion of the population–about one percent–for whom gluten consumption is indeed dangerous. Celiac disease is horrific but symptomatically protean, so it can be easily confused with other medical problems; though it’s relatively easy to diagnose with a blood test, biopsy, and change in diet, individuals with CD endure an average of 11 years between initial symptoms and diagnosis. Those folks should stay the fuck away from gluten, and people exhibiting symptoms of CD ought to see a fucking doctor before adopting trendy and possibly unnecessary dietary restrictions. Everyone else should just shut up and eat your fucking pasta already, or there will be no goddamn dessert for you.

What’s funny about all this, I suppose, is that the gluten-free craze–while luring millions of suckers into a diet of crumbly food–has in the very least made food options more tolerable for the one percent of folks who actually need to avoid gluten. So there’s that, at least.

Christ, I hate Blackboard

[ 245 ] January 24, 2014 |

Hundreds of years from now, after disease and fire and famine have thinned the human herd to a shrunken patchwork of sagging, skeletal bands of jagged, half-mad wraiths — when the parched soil chokes forth desiccated roots and the air is a toxic brume slumping down on the arched, knotted backs of the still-barely-living — a remote spur of humanity will somehow recover the capacity to speak, an ability long since abandoned by their ancestors, who were mute-struck with the unfathomable despair of those cursed to watch everything they love die. After generations of dry-throated croaking and lung-starched wheezing, their tongues swollen with thirst and punctured with abscesses that never heal, these distant people will bring forth a new language to survey the boundaries of their pain.

At first, their speech will flow together in single, blasphemous strands of adjectival protest; they will speak without subjects, no proper names or pronouns to jolt them into the kind of self-recognition that could only serve as a spur to mass, urgent suicide. In time, their words will be hacked into tinier fragments of salivated fury, as their lips and tongues and few-remaining-teeth jostle ruthlessly to disgorge themselves into the foul space that separates one antagonist from another. With arm-sized splinters of trees that were fortunate enough to perish centuries before, they will jab massive holes into their upper palates to accommodate the new sounds needed to register their misfortune and threaten each other with gross physical harm. Inbred mutants with hideous nasocranial deformities will gain selective advantage in the linguistic struggle for existence. They will use this new language to enslave one another, to plot out gristly sprees that might be called murder if there were anything near to law restraining them, like a weak sphincter, from unleashing their worst. There will be decades of forced labor, violent spasms of resistance and recrimination carried out with grossly disproportionate injury to bystanders who are, alas, never as innocent as they seem.

On the outskirts of this new language, lurking on its crimsoned frontier, will lie words that will themselves have been cast into exile – foul offgassings within a lexicon that itself stands as a towering monument to the boundlessly obscene, words that will curve backward and devour themselves, each one an afflicted universe in the process of total collapse, words that exist for microseconds before streaking, unremembered and unmourned, into the void.

These are the words, if I could shit them into being, that I would use to catalogue the depth of my loathing for Blackboard. When I die, I want my whiskey-pickled body larded into a cryonic chamber, then buried deep in the earth. A thousand years from now, I want these loping, crookspined human gargoyles to dig me up and reanimate me. I will learn their language; I will amble to the profane horizon of their blood-gorged vernacular; I will force them at spear-point to build me a time machine; then I will murder them all with my bare hands. I will return to all of you then to bear witness, in a rapturous tornado of filth, to my contempt for that unholy system of course mismanagement software.

“There will be a lot of rats”

[ 142 ] January 23, 2014 |

This story is fantastic in every possible way:

A ghost ship carrying nothing but disease-ridden rats could be about to make land on Britain’s shore, experts have warned. 

The Lyubov Orlova cruise liner has been drifting across the north Atlantic for the better part of a year, and salvage hunters say there is a strong chance it is heading this way….

Experts say the ship, which is likely to still contain hundreds of rats that have been eating each other to survive, must still be out there somewhere because not all of its lifeboat emergency beacons have been set off.

Two signals were picked up on the 12 and 23 March last year, presumably from lifeboats which fell away and hit the water, showing the vessel had made it two-thirds of the way across the Atlantic and was heading east.

A week later, an unidentified object of about the right size was spotted on radar just off the coast of Scotland – but search planes never verified the find.

Pim de Rhoodes, a Belgian salvage hunter who is among a number looking for the Lyubov Orlova off the UK coastline, told The Sun: “She is floating around out there somewhere.”

If this doesn’t end in some sort of horrific tornado of cannibalistic zombie-rats overwhelming Great Britain–erm, sorry, Brockington–would someone please develop a film in which it does?

DB: According to the local paper down here, if I play my cards right I could land a walk on part in the film. I’ll keep you posted. Could be the best thing to happen to this town since the blitz.

And by the way, for all you kids watching at home, ancient sea creatures just were white.

[ 52 ] January 9, 2014 |

The menace of political correctness continues in the Age of Obama. Apparently, Microraptor and and Archaeopteryx were also black, or partly black.

This is some bullshit. Fucking Microraptor didn’t even exist when I was a kid. Liberal paleontologists are just making stuff up now. Time to burn some of my kids’ books.

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