Glibertarians.com 2018 Archive

Author: SugarFree

  • Wednesday Afternoon Links – IGNORE ALIEN ORDERS edition

    “If this tepee’s a’rockin’…

    It Looks Like America Is Finally Going To Have A Native American Congresswoman

    Deb Haaland won the Democratic nomination for a New Mexico congressional seat on Tuesday, clearing her path to becoming the nation’s first Native American congresswoman.

    …

    Haaland, a single mom based in Albuquerque, is an enrolled member of the Laguna Pueblo tribe. She chaired New Mexico’s Democratic Party from 2015 to 2017 and was the Native American vote director for Barack Obama’s presidential campaign in 2012. That’s in addition to her nearly two decades of volunteering on Democratic campaigns and her failed bid for lieutenant governor in 2014.

    There are currently two Native American representatives in the House — both are men from Oklahoma.

    To get a sense of how significant Haaland’s presence in Congress would be, consider that more than 10,000 people have served in the House and nearly 1,300 have served in the Senate since the first Congress met in 1789. Not a single one was a Native American woman.

    “Crazy, right?” Haaland said in a February interview with HuffPost. “It’s 2018.”

    Poor Lizzie Warren. She just can’t catch a break. I guess she’ll have to go back to picking at her kale and quinoa salad while binging Scandal and crying. (Sanders/Warren 2020!)

    “My facebones hurt when I do this.”

    More Hard-Hitting Investigative News from Slate:

    This Father’s Day Card Features a Joke About a Huge Pair of Underpants and Wow, It Sure Is Something

    Among the hackneyed jokes about fishing and steaks in the Father’s Day cards at your local drugstore this year, you may happen upon a bit of visual humor that’s disturbingly open to interpretation. On the front of one card from American Greetings, an alarmed-looking boy holds up a pair of men’s briefs so large, they stretch from nose to knees and across his entire wingspan. The punchline within: “I think I’ll just stick with trying to fill your shoes.”

    But the boy isn’t holding a pair of shoes. He’s holding underwear. His message concerns the impossibility, or undesirability, of trying to fill his dad’s underwear. Inquiring minds might wonder—just what would it mean to do that, to fill dad’s underwear?

    The card lends itself to two schools of thought. The more benign reading, under the loosest possible definition of benign, holds that it’s a fat joke. Dad has a big butt and a big belly, so he needs an enormous pair of underwear to cover it all. A few steps closer to the gutter is the second interpretation: that it’s a commentary on Dad’s giant penis.

    Watching Mandy Marcotte’s replacement on Slate grope her way through a story has always been grimly funny–about on par with watching the fat kid at summer camp no one likes slowly drowning in a secluded part of the lake–but Christina Cauterucci’s attempts at a lightweight humor article about a non-subject is more like being forced to help fish that fat kid’s body out before Parent’s Weekend. She seems incapable on some fundamental biochemical level of either understanding or producing humor. She approaches everything with her keen sense for sniffing out things to be outraged about dialed to 11. I’d call her a one-trick pony, but that would be unfair to ponies, tricks, ones, and hyphens.

    B.C. woman says feces from plane fell through car’s sunroof and into her eyes

    KELOWNA, B.C.—An afternoon drive turned into a “devastating” experience for a woman and her son when she says human feces fell from the sky and into her eyes through the open sunroof of their car in Kelowna, B.C.

    Susan Allan, 53, said she and her 21-year-old son Travis Sweet had just returned from having lunch with her mother in nearby Peachland when a smelly substance fell on their faces and covered the vehicle.

    The feces appeared to have fallen from a plane that she saw when they were stopped at a red light with another car that was also hit, Allan said, adding she and the other driver went to a car wash and sprayed themselves off before she called the Kelowna airport.

    She said an administrator told her Transport Canada would be investigating and the department has confirmed it is looking into the possibility of frozen lavatory waste, called “blue ice,” falling from an aircraft.

    “I just want everybody to know that although this seems like a surreal type of story, this happened to me and my son,” Allan said in a Facebook message to The Canadian Press.

    “All we want people to know is that it was quite devastating to be covered in poop and I hope it never happens to anybody else.”

    What is more punk than throwing battery acid in the face of your little sister after she’s been raped?

    Check out the Taliban’s new punk rock uniforms

    The Pakistani Taliban has debuted a new uniform that combines decades of punk rock, splashes of Gwen Stefani — and a dash of dominatrix.

    Flawlessly blending a combination of camo pants, black shirts, fingerless leather gloves and a total disregard for parental authority, the Tehrik-e Taliban Pakistan (TTP) strutted their stuff in a new training video featuring rocket-propelled grenades, white board instruction and standing around in mid-”La Macarena” poses.

    There’s no official word yet on the meaning behind “No Tension,” but if it’s a band name as we assume, it sounds rad.

    By tucking camo pants into knee-high white socks, TTP fighters now have greater aerodynamic maneuverability when firing RPGs, as well as the added flexibility required to break into an impromptu mosh-kick whenever No Doubt’s “Just a Girl” blares from the speakers of a gun-mounted Toyota pickup.

    Add in the fingerless leather gloves and high-top sneakers, and you’re guaranteed a seamless transition whenever going from firing a Kalashnikov to hopping on a skateboard and dropping into an empty pool.

    Honestly, I see this as a huge step backward fashion-wise. The old uniforms built on a few simple pieces–the light sweater, the canvas pants, the balaclava; all in classic black–that any aspiring jihadist might very well already have in their closet. And while a graphic tee might do well for team spirit, how will they stand up the rigors of rural life or training? How available are replacements? It goes against the whole logic of the prêt-à-porter aesthetic the Taliban and other international terrorist groups have cultivated from the very beginning. (Who could forget the clean lines of the turtlenecks worn for the massacre at the Munich Olympics or the simple elegance of Arafat’s checkered keffiyeh?)

  • The Hat and The Hair: Episode 81

    “It’s nice to have Melania back,” Donald said. He leaned over and squirted a blob of Coconut Cream Extreme Conditioner on his desk. The hair scurried over and began to lap it up.

    “Is it?” the hat asked. “Is it really?”

    “I wish you two would get along,” Donald said. He ran a brush through the hair and it began to purr contentedly.

    “She hates me, Donald,” the hat said. “I made you President. I made you the leader of the free world. I made you The King of Twitter. And she hates me for it.”

    “OK, OK,” Donald said. The hair stomped on his bloated stomach a few times and curled up.

    “Hey, furball, can’t you back me up here?” the hat asked the hair.

    “She hates you,” the hair confirmed dreamily. “And it is all your fault.”

    “Nuh-uh!” the hat said. He was sitting on the Diet Coke button, hoping Donald would forget it was there. He had already drunk 26 cans and the Oval Office trash can was overflowing.

    “It kinda is,” Donald said.

    “Lies. All lies.”

    “The first time you met her you told you were available to help break up any encapsulation around her implants,” the hair said.

    “I was just trying to be a part of the team; it was only polite to offer,” the hat protested.

    “You said,” the hair began, “and I quote ‘I’ll help them rock-hard titties for you, girl.’’”

    “No, I didn’t.”

    The hair continued in the hat’s pinched voice “‘I’ll beat ‘em real nice and then maybe you give me a squeezer,’ unquote.”

    “In my defense, I thought she was a hooker,” the hat said sulkily.

    “She was introduced as his wife,” the hair said, arching up and then settling back comfortably.

    “She talked like a hooker,” the hat said.

    “Mr. President?” a voice asked.
    Donald looked up from the squabbling headmates, startled. “How long have you been standing there, Pie?” he demanded.

    “Oh, uh, not long, sir,” Sarah said. “Only ninety minutes or so.”

    “Well, what do you want?” Donald asked. The hair made a contented grunt when Donald picked him up and put him on his head.

    “Mr. President, I was wondering if we could finish up before this afternoon’s press briefing,” Sarah said.

    “Where were we?” Donald asked quarrelously.

    Sarah riffled through her notes, “North Korea. Singapore. Steel tariffs.”

    “WITCH HUNT!” Donald suddenly screeched. “It’s a witch hunt hoax. It’s all Jeff’s fault. No collusion. No collusion. A hoax no collusion witch hunt.”

    “Yes, sir,” Sarah said and scribbled on her paper. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and grimaced as she wrote.

    “What’s the matter with you, Pie?” Donald asked, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

    “Nothing, sir,” Sarah said.

    “Nothing? You’re shaking like you’re shitting a stream of frozen peas. What’s the matter with you? Wait? Are you wearing a wire?!?”

    “No, sir,” she said and moaned.

    “I won’t have spies in my office, Pie. I won’t have it. Spies and leakers. There all over. I won’t have it, I won’t have it!” Donald stood up and came around the desk, looming over Sarah.

    “Cough it up, Pie,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

    “Mr. President…” she began.

    “Spit it out,” he yelled in her face, his breath fetid with Diet Coke and mechanically separated chicken.

    “I’ve been in your office for a very long time. I just have to go to the bathroom, sir,” she admitted.

    “There’s a potted plant right over there,” Donald said, waving at the long-suffering Oval Office ficus.

    “Sir…”

    “Go, Pie. I can’t have you running off to the bathroom every five minutes,” Donald said. The hat snickered softly on the desk.

    “But, sir…”

    “Every President in the last twenty years has peed in that ficus, Pie, and many fine heads of state. Are you saying you are too good to pee in the Oval Office ficus?”

    “No, sir,” Sarah said miserably. She set down her pen and notepad and began tugging down her pantyhose as she waddled awkwardly to the ficus.

    “Now, where was I?” Donald asked.

    “Witch hunt, Mr. President,” Sarah said, trying to squat over the potted plant.

    “WITCH HUNT!” Donald screamed again. Sarah wobbled in surprise and sat down heavily in the planter.

    “It’s a witch hunt,” Donald said. “Me? A witch? How dare they. I’m not a witch. Witches aren’t classy and I’m super-classy. Just the best. Look at this suit, Pie. Would a witch wear a suit this nice?”

    “No, sir,” Sarah said as she struggled to get back into a squat.

    “A witch? I’m no witch. I’ve never soured anyone’s milk. I wasn’t born with a caul. A witch,” he said disgustedly. Donald sat back down in his office chair heavily and swatted the hat flat to the desk.

    “Hey, man, watch it,” the hat grumbled.

    “Get off the Diet Coke button,” the hair hissed.

    “A witch? What does that even mean?” Donald asked. “Pie! What does it mean to be a witch?”

    “You, uh, have a black cat?” Sarah said.

    “See? No black cat. I don’t even have a cat. The last cat we had was gray. Donny Jr. left a window open and oops. 28 stories. No more cat,” Donald said.

    “I hated that cat,” the hair whispered. “It tried to pee on me once.”

    “Are you done yet, Pie?” Donald asked. “That’s disgusting. Why can’t you use a normal bathroom like a normal person?”

    “I don’t know, sir,” Sarah said miserably.

     

  • Tuesday Afternoon Links – All Animal Stories edition

    “The most delicious thing I have ever seen.” -Stupid Whale

    Pilot Whale Dies in Thailand After Being Found With 17 Pounds of Plastic Bags in Its Stomach

    A male pilot whale struggled for five days to stay alive in Thailand near the Malaysian border after rescuers found it with 17 pounds of plastic bags in its stomach, the Washington Post reported on Sunday, but it ultimately succumbed to its illnesses.

    The whale died on Friday, the Post wrote, and an autopsy discovered what Thailand’s Department of Marine and Coastal Resources said were 80 plastic bags lodged in its stomach.

    I keep seeing this story all over the place and every time, I think: Stupid fucking whale. 80 plastic bags, whale? Did they taste good or something, whale? 80?!? You couldn’t have stopped after, say, 50 plastic bags, you stupid fucking whale?

    It’s far from the first time whales have turned up sick or dead from ingesting trash. Per the Post, experts say that the whale likely believed the bags were food:

    Thai officials said they believe the whale mistook the floating plastic for food. Pilot whales primarily eat squid but are also known to hunt octopus, cuttlefish and small fish when squid prove elusive, the American Cetacean Society said.

    That excuses eating the occasional bag, like “Oh, no! I accidentally ate one of those mysterious dark green potato chips that are sometimes in the bag!” but 80? 80 fucking bags, whale? You sure are one dumb fuck of a whale.

    “What’s worse than Insane Clown Posse?” is supposed to be a rhetorical question, not a life goal.

    Least surprising story or leastest surprising story?

    A Second Woman, Then 17, Accuses Riff Raff of Sexual Misconduct

    After a Melbourne woman named Eliza Stafford wrote on Facebook that Houston rapper Riff Raff drugged and raped her at a 2013 show, his Australian tour was swiftly canceled. Riff Raff has yet to respond to Stafford’s allegation, and now a second woman alleges that the rapper tried to coerce her into sex when she was a minor.

    In a phone call with Jezebel, 20-year-old Kelsey Doucette, who shared her story on Facebook on Friday, says that she met Riff Raff when she was 17 years old at the Milwaukee, Wisconsin stop of Warped Tour in July 2015. Doucette attended the tour with four friends, two of whom confirmed the details of her story with Jezebel. Contacts for Riff Raff’s management and booking did not respond to requests for comment for this story. A press contact for Warped Tour also did not respond to a request for comment.

    Look, ma’am. I’m not going to say you are as stupid as a plastic-bag eating whale, but you were at a Riff Raff “concert.” You have already made a questionable life choice on par with having your eyeballs tattooed. And then you go off alone with the guy who looks like the picture of a rapist in a children’s book about rapists? There’s no good time to be had here. None. There is only molestation.

    tl;dr Buy the women in your life all the bear mace you can find.

    BONUS JEZEBEL CONTENT:

    Curious Squid
    6/04/18 9:25pm
    It sounds like all her friends were teenagers too so I know I should give some leeway here, but I can’t help wondering what her male friends’ thoughts were when they were told “Oh….he doesn’t want any guys coming in the van, only the girls”. Like, this feels like it could be a teachable moment about how being a good dude isn’t just not being a bad dude, it’s looking out for your girl friends and standing up to potentially sketchy behaviour from other dudes.

    Really? I thought the lesson here was “don’t get in the van with a guy who looks like a rapist.”

    But they are so cute!

    What Is Nipah, the Virus Spread by Bats That’s Killing People in India?

    A deadly viral disease spread by bats is once again infecting humans, but in this case, it isn’t Ebola. As of June 1, an outbreak of the Nipah virus has infected at least 18 people and killed 17 in Kerala, India, the World Health Organization (WHO) reported. The outbreak, which is the first to hit South India, raises fears of the disease becoming more far-reaching.

    Nipah was discovered in 1998, when it sickened nearly 300 people and killed 100 in Malaysia (its name was taken from one of the villages where it first struck). Many of the victims had been farmers who contracted the virus through close contact with their pigs, which led to the euthanization of millions of pigs. But it turns out the pigs actually got the virus from another animal: It’s now known that fruit bats belonging to the genus Pteropus (otherwise called flying foxes) are the native carriers of Nipah.

    Not everyone exposed to Nipah gets sick, but those who do develop flu-like symptoms of fever, cough, and headache within three to 14 days after being exposed. Often, the illness gets worse quickly, with sufferers developing pneumonia, acute respiratory distress, or neurological symptoms like seizures and coma within a day or two. There’s no cure or specific treatment for Nipah, and its mortality rate can range from 40 to 100 percent.

    I can only assume that the bats were having sex with the pigs. Really, nothing else makes sense.

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oWVd_UL4BWs

  • Monday Afternoon Links – The World, The Flesh and The Devil

    Hundreds of Sex Workers Rally for International Whores Day

    OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA—“STIGMA KILLS,” “MY BODY, NOT YOUR CHOICE,” “SEX WORK ≠ TRAFFICKING”—those were just a few of the signs pumped in the air as over 300 sex workers and allies gathered Saturday in downtown Oakland for International Whores Day, a global celebration of sex workers’ rights. This long-standing annual event was injected with renewed intensity this year thanks to outrage over FOSTA, the country’s new “anti-trafficking” law. Several marchers with years of activist experience said the turnout was unprecedented for a sex worker rally.

    “This is more sex workers than I’ve ever seen in one place ever,” said Pele, a 42-year-old dominatrix who has been a sex worker for more than 20 years. “We’re out in the street and loud and proud—I’ve never seen this.”

    The Fight for 15 is about a maximum number of orifices filled at once. Surgical techniques advance every year. Imagine a sex worker crossed with a Dyson crossed with a Swiss Army knife. Imagine a bluetooth-capable Flesh-scooter that bleeds and screams and poops strawberry ice cream. Imagine a hooker with a supercharger and 4k eyes. I cannot wait. The future will be more erotic and terrifying than any of us can imagine.

    Zoom in for an intimate exploration of his sores.

    President Bill Clinton on Monica Lewinsky, #MeToo and whether his apology was enough

    While some Democratic leaders, including Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand of New York, have suggested that Clinton should have resigned at the time, the former president defended his decision to instead fight impeachment charges. He said he wouldn’t have changed his approach, in light of #MeToo.

    “Well, I don’t think it would be an issue. Because people would be using the facts instead of the imagined facts. If the facts were the same today, I wouldn’t,” he said.

    …

    Clinton said his critics are now pouncing on that affair because of their frustration with President Trump, who has been accused by numerous women of inappropriate sexual behavior, all of which Trump has denied.

    “A lot of the facts have been conveniently omitted to make the story work, I think partly because they were frustrated that they got all these serious allegations against the current occupant of the Oval Office. And his voters don’t seem to care,” Clinton said. “I think I did the right thing. I defended the Constitution.”

    The only good thing about Billy-Jeff being in the news so much is watching his scrofulous march to the grave. And wondering if Hillary took the cure for every dose of syphilis he gave Her–I mean, the physical and mental decline from tertiary syphilis would explain the last couple of years, right?

    The First Time I Saw Lesbian Sex Was Black Swan. Now I’m Out, and a Little Horrified by It.

    When I was a sophomore in high school, I went to see Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan with my best friend. It was the first time I ever saw a lesbian sex scene, and it’s fair to say it had a profound effect on me. I came out as gay a year later.

    Black Swan was one of the first films I’d ever seen where female pleasure was depicted whatsoever—and the first movie I saw that took lesbianism seriously. At least I thought it did. Eight years later, I’ve realized that the romance that helped me understand my own lesbianism is not just deeply unromantic, it’s also founded on homophobic tropes. Watch more in the video.

    Now, I understand that you won’t watch the video, so I’ll tell you the highlight: When the narrator talks about coming out as a lesbian she flashes a before and after photo of herself.

    Apparently, coming out as a lesbian isn’t about admitting a same-sex attraction to women, but rather getting the cast of Les Eye For The Straight Girl to turn you into a stylish Mexican twink.

    This video is from Slate’s unintentional hilarious series Pre-Woke Watching, a running struggle session with the guilt of enjoying TV and movies before you were taught that they were double-plus ungood wrongthink.

    Apparently, even Slate is sort of embarrassed about it since they don’t seem to have a handy link the series as a whole. Look to the bottom of the article above to find past episodes.

  • Thursday Afternoon Links – Funky edition

    Snoop Dogg smashes Guinness World Record for Largest Gin and Juice in History

    Snoop appeared at the BottleRock Napa Valley festival alongside rapper Warren G to attempt to make a paradise cocktail for the history books. The finished drink measured in at more than 132 gallons.

    The giant gin and juice used 38 jugs of orange juice, 154 bottle of apricot brandy and a whopping 180 bottles of gin, according to Guinness. Snoop celebrated his record breaking drink on Instagram with a picture of himself holding the world record certificate.

    No, I’m fine, OK? I just got something in my eyes. Stupid allergies.

    Trump Pardons Political Prisoner

    Beyond President Trump’s prolific dishonesty and extensive use of social media, it’s difficult to forecast what his administration’s enduring legacies may be for the presidency. But it’s becoming ever more likely that his innovative use of the pardon power will be one.

    On Thursday, President Trump announced (on Twitter, of course) that he will pardon Dinesh D’Souza, the conservative writer convicted in 2014 of campaign-finance fraud. D’Souza illegally pushed donations to a Senate candidate, asking friends to donate and then reimbursing them, contravening limits on giving.

    It’s Trump’s fifth pardon of his short presidency, and the third to go to a conservative cause célèbre, after former Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio and Dick Cheney aide Scooter Libby. Other presidents have used pardons to send political messages, as when Jimmy Carter pardoned Vietnam War draft dodgers or Andrew Johnson pardoned Confederates; or to help out cronies, as when Bill Clinton pardoned financier Marc Rich, a major donor who was on the run from prosecution. Other presidents have also tended to wait until the end of their terms to grant high-profile pardons.

    I doubt I’m the first to think it up, but man wouldn’t it be funny if Trump pardoned Hillary? I mean, let’s face it, she’s never going to jail, no matter what she does. She could suck off an underage clone of herself on live TV while giving a screaming DACA teen a knitting needle abortion and Michelle Goldberg and The Atlantic would both have editorials up defending Herself in under an hour. So Trump should pardon her. Give a rambling speech about how her contribution to civic fabric country is too valuable to let her rot in prison. It might just kill the hideous witch on the spot.

    You google “lola bunny erotic fan art” and shit gets real, dude.

    Why the Alt-Right Thinks Porn is a Jewish Conspiracy

    A few months ago, a user on a bodybuilding supplement forum asked if it was weird that he had a childhood crush on Lola Bunny from Space Jam.

    “It’s not weird,” someone assured him. In fact, this someone added, there’s “a conspiracy from sinister guys at the top” to pornify popular culture, in order to get young boys so addicted to pornographic images that they develop “bad social skills” and are too weak and distracted to resist the elites in power. “Looks like it worked,” agreed another user, who then pressed ENTER 144 times and posted a gif of a fly rubbing its front legs together, with a hook-nosed, yarmulked Jewish caricature photoshopped on its head.

    How did this bodybuilding forum go from Lola Bunny screenshots to anti-Semitic memes in less than 24 hours? Well, it turns out that despite the stereotype that alt-righters spend hours in their parents’ basements watching tentacle hentai, many of them are theoretically anti-porn. More specifically, they believe porn is a Jewish conspiracy to weaken white men and, if all goes according to plan, destroy Western civilization. (Honestly, this isn’t that different from how a lot of mainstream commentators talk about porn — but more on that later.)

    There is a heavy dose of Jack D. Ripper in this one, because, seriously, you really should deny them your essence.

    Instead of another link, and in honor of Mssr. Dogg’s achievement in the mixological arts, I’d like to share some of the worse mixed drinks I have ever created. There have been a lot of them. I push the boundaries. I take things, on occasion, way too far. I puke pretty easily. Some were due to my age, some were due to hubris.

    Age 14

    The “Martini”

    It was almost New Year’s Eve and the only way I could get liquor was to steal it from my father. Since I didn’t sleep much back then either, I got out of bed when I was staying at his place, fished a few glass screw-top Pepsi bottles out of the kitchen trash, rinsed them and went shopping. The first 16oz bottle was your classic “suicide style” nick, a little from every bottle: scotch, bourbon, vodka, gin, tequila, Benedictine, vermouth (sweet and dry), Frangelico, Gallico, triple sec and whatever else was there. This was gross, but my friends and I were going to mix it with Sprite or something anyway, right?

    The next bottle was the real mistake. I had been reading the James Bond books for the first time and I decided to make a batch of martinis for myself. Some old recipe I had found at the public library counseled 1:2 dry vermouth to gin. I got the dusty vermouth bottle out and eyeballed out around 5oz into my other Pepsi bottle. I topped it off the gin bottle in the back–probably Seagram’s–put the cap on and gave it a hearty shake. I stashed both bottles in my dirty tube socks and smuggled them home.

    Mike’s parents were out of town for the holiday, and as Tommy and I walked to his house (we all lived on the same street) it had begun to snow. Tommy had a few beers and Mike had a flask of something oily and dark that smelled like kerosene. When I passed my bottles around, Mike and Tommy both gagged at my “martini” so I was left to drink it all by myself, disgusting sip by sip. And it was really bad. I just thought martinis tasted like that and couldn’t understand why anyone would drink one out of anything but the rankest desperation. I didn’t know then, of course, that vermouth should be kept in the fridge after it is opened. I was drinking room temperature cheap gin and rancid vermouth. A pint of it.

    Around 4am, Mike and Tommy were passed out and I was feeling so bad. I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to sleep in my own damn bed. My house was only two doors away from Mike’s, I just put on my coat and left, still pretty drunk. I passed out in my own front yard, in the snow. I woke up when the sun hit me and I got inside before my mother busted me. I tasted Pine Sol for nearly a week.

     

    Age 17

    The Tea

    2/3 of a pitcher of iced tea

    1/3 of a pitcher of vodka

    20 No-Doze tablet (the real ephedra kind), crushed

    2 5mg valium, crushed

    I’m going to blame Derek for this one. Oh, holy shitballs did it taste funky. We ended up shivering on his back porch, chain-smoking and marveling over our exploding hearts.

     

    Age 20

    The Kandarian Demon

    My friend Paul was working as a bartender at a place a little way out of town and there was this huge bunch of guys in there that just kept order Mai Tais. Paul said he must have made over forty Mai Tais that night. He told us his shaker held about two-and-a-half Mai Tais, but he filled it every time and drained off the excess into this plastic bucket under the bar. So Paul came home one night with a literal bucket of Mai Tais. Now, they were pretty weak, so I had the bright idea to add a 1/5 of the only alcoholic substance in the house: cinnamon schnapps.

    In some sort of weird alchemical reaction, the schnapps turned the reddish and clear Mai Tais into an opaque liquid that was a bilious pink. It tasted awful. I mean, just amazingly awful. Hard to describe the taste, but the Mai Tai and the schnapps brought you the worse in one another to create a foul flavor that had never existed before and hopefully will never exist again.

    Artie, dear sweet Artie, Paul’s brother, took a long drink and croaked “It tastes like death.” We had been watching Evil Dead movies all night, so the garbage juice I had made was dubbed “The Kandarian Demon.”

  • The Hat and the Hair: Episode 80

     

    “Meet you all the way! Roseanne, uh yeah, uh yeah,” Donald sang loudly.

    “Uh, Donald,” the hair said.

    “All I want to do in the middle of the evening is hold you tight! Roseanne! Roseanne! I didn’t know you were looking for more than I could ever be,” Donald belted out.

    “Donald,” the hair said again. He reached down and flicked something off of Donald’s lapel. A crumb from his morning McGriddle.

    “Just let him sing,” the hat said. “He’s upset. Fucking Valerie Jarrett,” the hat muttered, not looking up from the phone he was typing up. “And since when is she black? She looks Puerto Rican, for fuck’s sake.”

    “I didn’t know that a girl like you could make me feel so sad,” Donald said in a hoarse whisper and sank down on the bed heavily.

    “Rosanna, Donald,” the hair said. “The song is about Rosanna.”

    “Rosanna?” Donald asked. “Who the fuck is Rosanna?”

    “The song was written about Rosanna Arquette,” the hair said.

    “Who told you that?” the hat asked. He was furiously typing on Donald’s burner phone.

    “It was on VH1. Pop-Up Video,” the hair replied.

    “Oh, man. I miss Pop-Up Video,” the hat said. “Blorp. Blup.”

    “So what are we going to text about Roseanne?” the hair asked.

    “No clue. I’ve been beating up on Jeff all morning,” the hat said. He hit send on the phone and then cackled. “Oh, man. I hope that gets the little dwarf crying.”

    “Well, we’ve got to say something in support, right?” the hair asked.

    “Rosanna Arquette?” Donald asked. “Is she the one that cut her dick off? The ugly tranny one?”

    “No, that was Alexis,” the hair said.

    “So she was the one married to Courtney Cox?” the hat asked.

    “No, that was a guy, David,” the hair said dryly.

    “So Monica’s husband got a sex change?!?” the hat asked.

    “No, he didn’t. And they are divorced,” the hair said.

    “So which one is the song about, asshole?” the hat demanded.

    “Probably the one with the big floppy jugs from True Romance,” Donald said.

    “That’s Patricia!” the hair snapped.

    “Just how many of those fuckers are there?” the hat wondered aloud.

    “Rosanna Arquette was in Desperately Seeking Susan,” the hair prompted.

    “Nope,” Donald said.

    “I got nothing,” the hat said.

    “She was Jody in Pulp Fiction? Eric Stolz’s wife? The one with all the shit in her face?”

    “Was he deformed in that movie too?” the hat asked.

    The hair fell flat on Donald’s head in exasperation.

    “Roseanne!” Donald sang out in a cracking falsetto, “You don’t have to put on the red light!”

  • The Hat and The Hair: Episode 79

     

    “ARE YOU A SPY?” Donald screamed, throttling the hair.

    “Donald,” the hair said.

    “ARE YOU?”

    “Donald!” the hat yelled. “Let him go!”

    “He’s a spy!” Donald hissed.

    “No. I’m. Not,” the hair managed to gargle.

    “Pah,” Donald harrumphed and tossed the hair onto a potted plant.

    “Donald, you have to calm down,” the hat said.

    “Spies, spies, spies, all around me. I’m surrounded by spies,” Donald muttered and fell back into his office chair. He slammed a palm down on the Diet Coke button.

    “Donald,” the hair rasped, trying to untangle himself from the ficus, “I’ve been with you since 1978. We met in Studio 54. We did coke together in the bathroom. You know me.”

    “Yeah, sure, whatever,” Donald said.

    “I wonder if Harvey jacked off into that when Bill was in here?” the hat asked.

    “Guh,” the hair moaned and dropped to the floor.

    The hat looked around the Oval Office and whistled. “I bet if we got a black light, this whole place would look like a rave.”

    “Ew. c’mon, dude,” the hair said. He got up on his tippy-toe tendrils and walked gingerly back to the desk.

    The office door slammed open and John Bolton stomped into the room. “Mr. President,” his mustache said gruffly. “Pence, fucked us. He really, really fucked us.”

    “Was his wife in the room?” the hat asked brightly.

    “Pence mentioned the Libya-model, sir,” the mustache continued.

    “Is she hot?” Donald asked. “I like big tits. Does she have big tits?”

    “The Libya-model, dammit. I’m talking about the country. The country of Libya,” the mustache growled.

    “OK, I get it, she’s from Libya. I don’t care where she’s from, I’ll pee on any of them. I just want to know about her tits.”

    “Libya, sir. Pence mentioned Libya to the North Koreans. They took it as a threat.”

    “So, she’s North Korean? I don’t know about that,” Donald said. “I like ‘em to be at least a little bit meaty.”

    “Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, Mr. President. The US convinced him to give up his weapons program and then backed a revolt a few years later?” the mustache prompted.

    “Weapons program?” Donald asked, mystified. “I don’t know about that, John. I don’t like those hookers that used to be a guy. Sometimes they have a penis. I mean, sometimes they look real convincing and then SURPRISE! A PENIS!”

    “Sir,” the mustache said.

    “Did you see The Crying Game?” Donald asked. “Half-black chick. Really hot. And then PENIS! Huge. Just a huge penis.”

    “Sir, I’m trying to talk about foreign policy,” the mustache said wearily. “The North Koreans are pulling out of the talks on nuclearization.”

    “Jong? Jong would never pull out. He told me he was balls-deep in these negotiations!”

    “Donald,” the hair said, tugging on his pants leg, “Please take me to go get a shower.”

    “Or maybe that was a dream,” Donald said. “But anyway, let’s get back to the issue at hand. Are they at least 36D?”

  • Wednesday Afternoon Links – Zen Place edition

    The Wages of Virtue Signalling Are Food Stamps

    Adam Smith has been unable to find a job since a video he made in protest of Chick-Fil-A went viral.

    Sometimes the invisible hand is a bitchslap.

    Philip Roth, Dead at 85

    Novelist Philip Roth, whose vast body of work included the Pulitzer Prize-winning American Pastoral and the archetypal Portnoy’s Complaint, died Tuesday at the age of 85.

    His death was announced by the New York Times and the New Yorker, the latter of which published one of Roth’s early short stories, “The Kind of Person I Am,” in 1958. Roth went on to publish a hefty bibliography, with famed works including Goodbye, Columbus; Zuckerman Unbound, and The Human Stain, in addition to the aforementioned Pastoral and Portnoy. Roth retired from writing novels in 2012.

    Let the ritual kicking of the corpse begin!

    Bertrammm
    5/23/18 12:50am
    Looks like we can finally be rid of the neckbeards kvetching about Roth not winning the Nobel every year. The award can only go to a living author.

    Rude Negro
    5/23/18 8:58am
    Roth’s stuff was self-indulgent pap. Only a chronic masturbator would think he deserved a Nobel.

    Auntie-Socialite
    5/23/18 10:30am
    Please let Woody Allen be next.

    Here’s a palate cleanser, from, of all places, Slate: A Guide to the Many, Many Books of Philip Roth

    GOB Bluth fondles this dog

    Grooming Alert: Do Not Take Your Kids to the Show Dogs Movie

    “Since the inspection of the private parts will happen in the finals, Frank touches Max’s private parts to get him use to it. Of course, Max doesn’t like it and snaps at Frank for him to stop. Max is then told by the former champion, who has been through the process before, that he needs to go to his “zen place” while it happens so he can get through it. More attempts are made by Frank to touch Max’s private parts, but Max is still having trouble letting it happen and keeps snapping at him.”

    Max needs to get it together, see, and LET PEOPLE TOUCH HIS PRIVATE PARTS, or he might lose the competition and fail at his mission to rescue the kidnapped panda.

    Do you see what’s happening here? Max’s success is riding on whether or not he lets both his partner (for practice) and a stranger (the competition judge) touch his private parts.

    IN A KIDS MOVIE. WHAT???

    Newsflash, folks: THIS IS CALLED GROOMING and it’s what sexual predators do to kids!

    It gets worse. Maldonado describes the movie’s dramatic dog show finals scene:

    The day of the finals come and if Max doesn’t let his private parts be touched, he may lose the competition and any hope of finding the kidnapped panda. It all rests on his ability to let someone touch his private parts. The judge’s hands slowly reach behind Max and he goes to his “zen place”. He’s flying through the sky, dancing with his partner, there are fireworks and flowers-everything is great-all while someone is touching his private parts.

    Old Man With Candy was unavailable for comment.

    File under: Right For All The Wrong Reasons

    Obama Sucks as a Post-President

    Saving our democracy from banana republicanism is just one thing that needs to be done right now. Even without Trump’s poison personality, we still face the same set of broad problems that afflicted our country a couple years back when Obama was still in office. We still have an unconscionably high prison population. We’re still riven by racism and sexism. And many of our institutions are being pulled apart at the seams by rising economic inequality, which Obama himself called the “defining challenge of our time.” So what did Barack Obama, one of the most famous men in the world, the immediate past leader of the world’s most powerful nation, do as soon as he left office, to demonstrate his commitment to solving these issues? He went on a kite surfing vacation with a billionaire. Then he got a $65 million book deal. And then, this week, he signed a deal to produce shows for Netflix. This is what he has deemed to be more important than speaking out forcefully against our slow slide into fascism and institutional corruption. This is what he has deemed more important than making even a symbolic gesture towards the idea that there is something more meaningful for a former president to do with his life than to get disgustingly wealthy. Instead of remaining a strong public voice for equality and using his unparalleled platform to draw attention to the very neediest class of people, he has chosen to sell his fame for huge sums and pal around with rich guys. Weird. I thought that was more of a Donald Trump thing.

    Barack Obama: your life is not just about you. Get your fucking shit together man.

    Another gem from Hamilton Nolan: he’s not just economically illiterate anymore!

  • The Hat and The Hair Extended Universe: The Canonization of Hillary

    The Martyrdom

    No one could possibly say that she hadn’t suffered for her faith, the faith she had in America. Oh, how she suffered. As the arrows did pierce the tender breast of Sebastian, as the skin was peeled from brave Bartholomew, so did Hillary suffer. The ignominy of defeat at the short-fingered hands of Donald Trump would have been more than a lesser person–a Gore, say, or a Biden–could have possibly survived. To have Her Election stolen, to have been Betrayed by the Jew Zuckerberg and the Godless Russians and the Traitor Comey was Calumny and Disaster. It was Her Turn and in Denial thus was Hillary Martyred.

    To be denied Her Turn was a living death, but, cruelly, did the Church wait for her actual death before giving her the honor she deserved. And when that box that supposedly held Her Body was lowered into the ground, the process was begun.

     

    The Trial

    Who could say that Hillary was not a Servant of God? Her Deeds, Her Works, Her Words, Her Thoughts leave no doubt that She was a Servant of God. She sought to heal the sick. She sought to shatter the glass ceiling. She battled the Bearded Patriarchs in their lair. She graciously stepped aside for the Black Man to be President.

    And who could say She was not heroic in Her virtue? Did she not defend Her marriage against all who would assault it? Did She not serve Her Country, Her People with no thought of personal gain? Did She not know poverty and abjection? Did She not wander in the Wilderness?

    Being Venerable, it was appropriate and correct for those who loved Her to pray for Intercession. A blind Black Child who kissed Her Grave was restored of sight! A prayer to Our Lady of the Turkey Neck did cause the ICE handcuffs on a Dreamer to spring open! The pleading of a non-binary labor organizer resulted in them petition being filled with signatures without their even having to leave they van! At the very beginning of Foul Trump’s 2nd Inauguration Speech, Her statue at Yale began to menstruate!

     

    Advocatus diaboli nullus

    Unsure of what to make of all this, Commie Pope sent an old priest and a young priest to investigate. They were appropriately suspicious of this Methodist who was clearly a Catholic saint. But, Lo, what did they find? The blind child could now see. The Dreamer did go free. The Girl with the Ugly Haircut did have a filled petition. Clots did flow sluggishly from cloven stone.

    What choice was left?

     

    Hillary, Our Lady of Sorrows, Patron Saint of Stolen Elections, forgive us our trespasses as we must never forgive those who have trespassed against You. Lead us from the Temptations of Fake News paid for by Putinbots and the baskets of the Deplorable Nation. Beset on all sides by enemies, lend us Your Strength, Sweet Lady. Amen.

  • The Hat and Hair: Episode 76

     

    “I told you we couldn’t trust that goddamn fedora!” John Bolton’s mustache bellowed, his follicles twining around each other in rage and disgust.

    “I think it’s a trilby,” the hair said.

    “What? What did you say to me?”

    “Trilby. The Excellent Hat-Like Gentleman is a trilby, not a fedora,” the hair replied.

    “I DON’T CARE WHAT KIND OF HAT IT IS!” the mustache roared.

    “You would know it was a trilby if you watched the cartoon,” the hair continued.

    With a tortured rip of new velcro and a spurt of blood, the mustache left John Bolton’s face and launched itself at the hair. They began to grapple on Donald’s head as Bolton’s body slid bonelessly to the floor.

    “Dude,” the hair said, holding the mustache off, “I weigh, like, fifty times as much as you do.”

    “Shut up and fight me, youngster! You can’t take me in a fair fight! I possess the conscious will to do harm! You’re just a toupee!”

    “How fucking DARE you!” the hair screamed, his voice escalating up to dog whistle octaves.

    The hat inch-wormed across the desk and nudged Donald’s arm. “Donald, wake up. Wake up. They are fighting on your head. Do something about it.” Donald grumbled in his sleep and batted the hat away.

    “Jong-Un,” Donald said in his dream and stroked the taut, pudgy cheek of the boyish dictator.

    “Donard,” the Supreme Leader whispered, stroking the dry yet yielding penis skin of the President’s stiffened badge of office.

    “Only you understand me,” Donald said. “Only you understand the sort of pressures I am under.”

    “Donard,” Jong-Un said. He gathered up the slack sock of Donald’s testicles and cradled them reverently. “Donard, Donard, only you can understand me.”

    “I need you, Jong. I need you inside me. Fill me with peace. Douse me with denuclearization.”

    The lights of Singapore spread out around them in all direction, infinite, a night city built just for them. Naval guns thundered in the distance, great gray metal penises spurting fire and seed into the sky. Jong dropped to his knees with a dull thud on the plush hotel carpet and took Donald’s soft tumescence into his mouth.

    “Oh, Donald,” Donald moaned. “Oh, Donald!” He reached into the crystal goblet and shoveled another handful of Viagra into his face. Jong’s hands grasped both of Donald’s pallid buttocks and pulled him foward, ever forward, deeper, ever deeper into his mouth.

    “Donald is going to!” Donald screamed. “Donald is going to!”

    In the Oval Office, hat and mustache and hair failed to see the tears of ecstasy running down his face.