What they’re saying, and what I’m hearing

This is a letter from liberal House members to Pelosi:

We write in strong agreement with your unwavering defense of the Democratic programs that form the bedrock of America’s middle and working classes, and which are overwhelmingly popular. On July 7, you made very clear that “We are not going to balance the budget on the backs of America’s seniors, women and people with disabilities” and that “we do not support cuts in benefits” for vital safety-net programs. We agree completely.

Especially in these tough economic times, we should not be cutting Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid benefits that millions of our constituents paid into and depend on. Such benefit cuts should be off the table in current debt discussions.

Our Republican colleagues should be embarrassed by their insistence that unless Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid benefits are cut, the nation will default on its debts. Middle-class families have sacrificed enough, and a deal that pushes the American Dream further out of reach, in order to pay for extending tax breaks for the rich and corporations, is simply unacceptable.

We stand united with you in insisting that benefit cuts for working families, our seniors, children, and people with disabilities must be off the table, and we stand united with you in fighting for millions of Americans who need Democrats to be firmly on their side.

And here’s Ms. Nancy:

House Democratic leader Rep. Nancy Pelosi of California said, “I could never support any arrangement that reduced benefits for Medicare. Absolutely not,” she told CBS’ “Face The Nation,” emphasizing a position she and other Democrats had laid out at their own meeting with Obama.

I believe the liberal House members and Pelosi are drawing a clear distinction between cuts to beneficiaries and cuts to providers and others. Benefit cuts is what they oppose. That’s important because it’s being reported as House liberals opposing cuts to Medicare, and that isn’t what they’re saying.
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Bailin’ Palin (or Why Sarah Palin’s bus tour was cancelled)

Those of you who have been reading my little posts for a while will know that I do everything I can to avoid coming into direct contact with Sarah Palin ever since I was a judge on the Miss Alaska pageant all those years ago.

After that experience, and our little plane trip together, I trust Sarah about as much as I’d trust Roman Polanski around a particularly attractive twelve year old. However, I do like to keep tabs on her and, after reading about her little bus tour, I was determined to get someone on the inside.

My dear friend and fellow Shady Pines resident Sandra Frazer volunteered. In the end it only took one phone call. Sandra crapped on about how unfair the people at Wikipedia are and how she and Marge Albrechtson are both devoted followers of Sarah and, above all, both very rich and slightly senile, and before you could say “You’re so much prettier than that Bachmann woman”, they’d been issued a personal invitation to visit Sarah in New Hampshire.

Sandra and Marge were waiting outside the Yankee Fisherman’s Cooperative in Seabrook. Marge has been skipping her meds and, while she wasn’t in a violent mood, she did keep slapping at her herself to quieten down the squirrels she’d stashed in her knickers that morning before she left Shady Pines. There was a lot of squeaking and complaining going on, although I understand most of it was coming from the pack of journalists who were also waiting there.

They’re such filthy hairy little things, always pissing themselves and biting people for no reason – by which I mean the journalists of course, not Marge’s squirrels who are generally quite well behaved.

Sarah arrived first in her SUV, followed by Todd and Piper and the rest of the entourage in the Palinbus. Sarah was very polite, especially after she spotted that big ol’ diamond ring that Sandra was wearing – the one that Jimmy Carter gave her after he broke off their affair back in 1983. Sandra said it was like one of those cartoons where Daffy Duck’s eyeballs turn into dollar signs, and Todd even had to rush in to wipe the drool off Sarah’s bottom lip. Sarah wasn’t even fazed by the two pairs of beady rodent eyes peering at her from out of Marge’s purse.

Sandra told me that Sarah was looking quite good, although she appeared to be wearing something from Donatella Versace’s Piggly Wiggly collection. Even Todd had made an effort and had worn his best Megadeth t-shirt – the one without any obvious holes.

After Sandra managed, with some difficulty, to get her hand back from Sarah, Sarah fetched Trig out of his storage box at the front of the bus where they keep him when he’s not in use, and then wandered off with him to have some photographs taken next to some dead fish.

Marge and little Piper set about making friends. The only squirrels Piper had even seen were either roadkill or food (and possibly both) and so she was quite impressed when Marge started producing them from her clothes like some slightly confused musician from Hamelin. Soon they were yammering away to each other and they both went off to talk to some lobsters in a tank out the back.

Sandra was left alone with Todd.

Now, Sandra may be 72, but she’s still a well preserved and handsome woman – the result of decades of facials made from pituitary glands untimely ripped from impoverished Cambodian orphans and a large amount of whalebone under the kind of stress that makes diamonds out of coal. She also likes her men big and dumb. Show her a Carhartt baseball cap, a farmer’s tan and an expression of amiable stupidity (cf. Jimmy Carter) and her ovaries start fizzing like Kathryn Jean Lopez in a seminary.

Todd was doing his usual thing of staring off into the distance and mumbling the lyrics of Whitesnake songs, so he didn’t notice Sandra’s quite obvious interest until she grabbed him by the front of his sweatpants, dragged him behind some convenient bushes and pounced on him like Oprah Winfrey on a baked ham.

Fifteen minutes of impassioned kissing later, Sarah arrived back at the bus with half a dozen lobsters under one arm and Trig under the other. Todd’s hair was a little askew and he was holding a clip-board carefully in front of the Little Dude, who pointedly refused to go down, but there was otherwise no sign of what had happened so far.

It was time to head off to the clambake, which was being held at the summer residence of Jeff and Elizabeth Davis, two of Sarah’s staffers, although it took a while to locate Piper, who had been playing hide and seek with Marge. She’d hidden herself in a pile of cod and no one could find her until one keen-eyed fisherman noticed that one of the cod seemed to have a bow in its hair.

Sarah and Piper and Trig and Marge all got into the SUV. They offered to give Sandra a ride too, but she begged off, saying that Todd had very kindly offered to show her his collection of velvet paintings of dogs playing poker, and so she was happy to ride with him in the bus.

Sarah was in her element, chatting to the press when she arrived at the clambake, schmoozing with such luminaries as John Sununu, and watching Piper and Marge playing Hide-the-Rodent with Trig. All was going well until halfway through the evening when Sarah realised that she hadn’t seen Todd since they left the co-op, and wandered off to find him, carrying a plate of food.

Sandra told me, with what I must say was only the merest hint of embarrassment, that when Sarah threw open the door of the bus, releasing a cloud of amyl nitrate and marijuana smoke that must have made Andrew Sullivan’s nose twitch six states away, Sandra was on top of Todd, stark naked, mid-orgasm and shouting “Ride me like Paul Revere!” at the top of her voice.

The words “wild, screaming, hair-tearing hissy fit” apparently do not begin to do justice to what then ensued.

Sarah lobbed clamshells at Todd, followed by the plate, and Sandra heard each of them hit his forehead with a pronounced thud. Sandra extracted Little Todd from her nether parts and made a break for the door, leaving behind her red Dior suit and some very new Jimmy Choos. She says that the last thing she saw before she managed to escape was Sarah advancing towards Todd brandishing a plastic spork and screaming that she was going to cut off his “fucking Levi Johnston”.

I won’t bore you with the sordid tale of how Sandra managed to convince John Sununu to lend her his limousine to get to the airport, or how in Sarah’s absence Marge cornered several journalists and started raving about squirrels and how they want to take over the country – You can expect that to be taken up as part of the Tea Party platform any day now.

In finishing, however, I will just note three things. First, that the news reports, while noting that Sarah and Todd’s motorcade managed to break several road rules after leaving that clambake, just before the Sarah Palin bus tour was “postponed” indefinitely, entirely failed to mention Todd’s amazing ability to drive a bus with one hand clamped to his crotch to staunch the bleeding.

Second – the last time I saw Sarah Palin on the television she seemed to be wearing a very nice red Dior suit and some quite adorable Jimmy Choo slingbacks, which goes to show that beggars can’t be choosers.

Finally, that Sandra came home from her last appointment with the gynecologist – menopause having been staved off for years because of all those Cambodian hormones – with a little surprise. It won’t be easy raising a baby in a retirement home, but we’ll do our best.

We’re thinking of calling it Clam.

[H/t for the image to the gorgeous Rumproasters.]

[Cross posted at Sarah Proud and Tall.]








The Secret Blogger’s Birthday Ball

Well, kiddies, I’ve always tried to give you the unvarnished truth, and now I have to say that I cannot go along with the lies any more, despite the handsome retainer that John Cole pays me each month to maintain his massive deceptions.

I suspect that some of you may even have managed to read between the lines and discern the truth behind today’s posts by the lovely Mr Levenson and the even lovelier Ms ABL where they pretended that they weren’t aware of John’s birthday.

I don’t blame them for being so unconvincing. It’s hard to maintain a tissue of lies for so long.

I imagine it’s particularly difficult for John. After all, he spends so much time running down to that little house with the odd color scheme – posing Tunch and the dogs in the window and scattering around the pasta that his head chef made that morning, just so he can take photos of them all for his little blog – that I wonder he has time to enjoy the 42 room mansion he and his poor wife actually live in.

As such, it’s time for all of us to come clean about this evening.

The reality is that John has taken some of the millions he has made from running Ann Coulter promotions and those disturbing Pamela Anderson boob ads from last year, and has flown most of the US blogging community to West Virginia for his birthday bash.

And let me tell you, it’s going off.

I’m on some particularly good dutch e that DougJ smuggled back from Amsterdam in one of his very secret orifices. It’s finally kicking in after I managed to escape from Kay who bailed me up in the butler’s pantry and would not shut up about how she took all that money you nice people raised for her to go to Netroots Nation and blew the whole lot on a Louis Vuitton handbag.

Thankfully Anne Laurie managed to put her evening book chat on automatic schedule before she got too tanked on the 1982 Pol Roger. Mind you, Mistermix tried to give her a glass of the 1983 and she pegged it at his head, so she’s still sober enough to know the good stuff from the crap we let the servants steal.

ABL is up on the roof of the pool house for some reason, and none of us have been able to convince her to come down. However, she has both Lily and a bottle of John’s 50 year old Laphroaig for company, so she doesn’t seem too unhappy.

Dan Savage and his girlfriend are currently doing a very convincing imitation of FDR and Eleanor – I’ll leave it up to you to guess which one is which – after which Mr Levenson has promised us that he’s going to tell a very rude story involving Isaac Newtown and a watch with a dildo in it.

DougJ, Denis and Tim slipped David Brooks a Mickey Finn and when I last saw them they were taking him down to the summer house by the lake. They were each carrying baseball bats, so I hope that sweet Mr Brooks hasn’t been the victim of a revolutionary outrage.

No one has seen Andrew Sullivan since Ross Douthat arrived and there are suspicious cries of passion coming from the master bedroom. After all, Ross does have that sexy beard – but that may just be my filthy mind working overtime.

Rosie also seems to have disappeared, but I’m sure the fact that Jonah Goldberg has passed out in the bathtub in the third bathroom and that there are muffled squeaks coming from under him is just a coincidence.

John and Jane Hamsher are in the kitchen and while I wasn’t able to listen in from behind the refrigerator for too long, I’m sure all Jane’s talk about setting fire to the pool house was just in fun.

Finally, I’m sure you will all be pleased to know that Tunch is well. He’s ensconced in his bedroom and everyone is taking him regular offerings of whole barbecued lambs. After all we wouldn’t want him getting annoyed or half the bloggers in America might get eaten, and then how would you all know what to think?

Anyhow, my dears, that’s the real and unvarnished truth.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to piss on Jonah Goldberg’s head again before he wakes up.

I’ll leave you with this highly inappropriate video after the jump. NSFW if your work doesn’t like male gogo dancers in their underwear and phallic innuendo. I don’t like the song much, but I find the rotating buttocks oddly soothing, and it will help you visualize what the first half of the party has been like.

Oh, and Happy Birthday, Mr Cole!

Cheers! This is your Open Thread.
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When Massive Sockpuppets Collide

On the internets, nobody knows you’re a dawg… until you get caught humping a fantasy:

A second supposedly leading lesbian blogger was exposed as a man masquerading as a gay woman, a day after the Gay Girl in Damascus blog was revealed to be the fictional creation of a married male student from Edinburgh.
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Paula Brooks, who claimed to be the executive editor of a US-based lesbian site LezGetReal.com, told the Washington Post that “she”, too, was a man – in this case, a 58-year-old retired construction worker from Ohio called Bill Graber…
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Challenged on Monday by the Washington Post, Graber said he had started the blog after witnessing the mistreatment of close lesbian friends.
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“I didn’t start this with my name because … I thought people wouldn’t take it seriously, me being a straight man,” he said. He said his interaction with Amina was purely coincidental, “a major sock-puppet hoax crash[ing] into a major sock-puppet hoax.”
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Amina often “flirted” with Brooks, the paper said – with neither man apparently realising that the other was also a man pretending to be a lesbian.

Apparently some people are not aware of all internet traditions… or at least they prefer to ignore them when looking online for ‘inspiration’.

To give Graber his due, at least his “Brooks” fiction didn’t put well-meaning actual people living under the real-world control of the Syrian government at risk of exposure, imprisonment, and/or torture:

Sami Hamwi, the pseudonym for the Damascus editor of GayMiddleEast.com, wrote: “To Mr MacMaster, I say shame on you!!! There are bloggers in Syria who are trying as hard as they can to report news and stories from the country. We have to deal with too many difficulties than you can imagine. What you have done has harmed many, put us all in danger, and made us worry about our LGBT activism. Add to that, that it might have caused doubts about the authenticity of our blogs, stories, and us.
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“Your apology is not accepted, since I have myself started to investigate Amina’s arrest. I could have put myself in a grave danger inquiring about a fictitious figure. Really … Shame on you!!!”
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“What a waste of time when we are trying so hard to get news out of Syria,” another Damascus activist told the Guardian.

Exposing new forms of liberal Orientalism“, my pale flabby arse; white male (Mac)Masters of the Universe granting themselves permission to speak for oppressed women of ‘exotic’ cultures (since the poor dears obviously aren’t competent to do so for themselves) was stale when Burton channeled Sheherazade.

(h/t commentor Scav)








The Spokane Horror, Part 2 or, Whatever Happened to Huck and Ann?

It seemed to follow the symmetries of some cosmic geometry unknown to earth or the solar system...

Well, my dears. It has been a busy week and, although I promised you I would finish my little story about Pastor Huckabee and the Convent Fair last night, other circumstances intervened and I have only now had a chance to sit down and write it out.

If you haven’t already read the first half, then you may wish to bugger off now and catch up with your reading. However, let me repeat my warning – this is a long, dark and convoluted tale which contains scenes of a most distressing kind and, as such, should not be braved by those of a sensitive or suggestible nature.

Are you sitting comfortably?

I seem to recall that when I left you I’d just clonked that terrible Huckabee man on the bonce with a candlestick, and I can tell you it made a most satisfying crunching noise.

By the time Huckabee’s eyes flicked open, the screams of distress from Chris Christie had blended now into a single wail of despair. The air shimmered now and crackled with electricity. Huckabee thrashed as he realized that he was bound hand and foot by silver shackles which had been screwed into each corner of the black stone tablet that marked Brigham Howard’s grave. I could tell from the way he squirmed that the stone was ice cold beneath his naked buttocks. He may not be a small man, but he has those unfortunate concave buttocks that many older men have, so there wasn’t much padding between him and the stone. Read more