Kick the Wall Turn the Street and Back Again

So I was talking to one of my cousins last night, who, despite his former status as a terrorist toddler with balled fists of fury aimed at my head, has managed to grow up into a reasonably well-adjusted adult and rather savvy analyst of all things economic/financial/political. After an hour or so of chit chat about the current situation, we decided that the next step in this debacle isn't necessarily:

But, rather:

Not. Good. Because, you know? No only do I not feel like rearranging my wardrobe for Le Dictatorship, black is a suck ass color for my particular skin tone. So hang tough, Party People.



P.S. I just finished listening to some talking head in the mortgage industry drone on and on about how the Fail Out is necessary because lending requirements have gotten so tight lately, that no one can get credit without an exemplary record. "The bailout would allow lenders to loosen their requirements for credit."

Sweet Christian Louboutin on a cracker. Isn't that what got us in this mess in the first place, LOOSE LENDING PRACTICES? And isn't the only way out a tightening? What ARE these idiots thinking? Have we become so sloppy in our thinking that we now believe everyone has a "right" to credit?

Dang, Now I Have to Get Serious

Because I'm so hopping mad about the gub'ment "bailout" of Freddie and Fannie. It screws all of us. So if you do nothing else today, read this:

http://www.lewrockwell.com/rockwell/imperative-sound-money.html

If you don’t have time to read the whole thing, here are some of the most important points:

What I also find striking is the way in which this move was announced. Let me read to you from the New York Times: "The Bush administration seized control of the nation’s two largest mortgage finance companies on Sunday…. It could become one of the most expensive financial bailouts in American history."

Even the most sophisticated observers of our present scene had to blink their eyes in reading such words. Without debate, without votes, without anything other than an executive fiat, the White House just decided, on its own, to seize the mortgage market. Actually, this is an action to excuse dictators the world over, past, present, and future.

This sort of thing makes a mockery of the Constitution and the very idea of freedom and the free market, to say nothing of the idea that we have a limited government. What's more, if we can believe press reports, President Bush had very little to do with the decision. It was the work of Henry Paulson, the secretary of the Treasury and former head of Goldman Sachs, working on behalf of the nation's most well-connected financial elites. Nobody elected this guy. Most Americans don't even know his name.

And look at how he throws around trillions of our money. The New York Times says that this is expensive. That's one way to put it. It makes the S&L bailout look like the warm-up. Freddie and Fannie carry about $5.3 trillion in mortgage commitments and another $2.4 trillion in financial exposure. The total cost of this operation is unknown; it could reach to $2 trillion, with untold amounts of future exposure. [TRILLIONS, Party People! Can you even imagine a number that big – let's pause while we all try, shall we? Whoa . . .]

These two New Deal institutions were founded to speed up the home ownership process for people that banks would otherwise consider unqualified. In time, under LBJ and Nixon, they were given legal permission to expand without limit, in the name of privatization, of all things. The motive was a classic bipartisan effort: universal home ownership. The left favored the redistribution. The right favored the supposed moral virtue associated with the nuclear family and its suburban abode.

Thus was born the greatest wealth transfer in American history outside Social Security and the warfare state. In a free market with sound money, borrowing is connected with the ability to pay. [sorry, folks, that's just the way it is – no one has a "right" to borrow money.] At first, this is only available to the rich. As prosperity spreads, so does credit worthiness. Any government intervention designed to inject steroids in this process is going to end in what Rothbard called a cluster of errors. It is completely disingenuous that so many people are today decrying the banking system's failure to discriminate between those who should and should not be carrying a mortgage. The banking system in a free market handles this just fine. Ferreting out the difference between those who can handle loans and those who cannot is a main job of the competitive system. The market precisely calibrates this. If one lender fails in its assessments of borrowers, another is there to correct the problem.

If you rush the process of prosperity, and insist that everyone who wants a loan should get one, you set up a situation in which there will be problems down the line. That is precisely what the regime has done. It created Freddie and Fannie to subsidize loans. It engaged in a phony privatization that secretly socialized losses. The legal status of these privately owned, publicly traded, and government-protected agencies was always unclear, but the markets had long assumed that they would be bailed out.

There was a moral hazard at the heart of this policy. But the real point is that the free market judgment about who should get what was being over-ridden. Surely, that is not a problem when it comes to promoting the alleged American dream! In fact, we are paying for this mistake a half century after the policy became a national priority. As the evangelical ministers like to say, the wheels of justice grind slowly, but they grind mighty fine.

We're All Stars Now in the Dope Show

It's a ding dang good thing I'll be spending the next three days working 24 hours around the clock, fueled by caffeine, imaginary nicotine, and just enough low grade panic to melt a couple extra pounds off my happy ass or I would have something pretty darn deep and tragic to say about the Demochromatic National Convention. But if I play my cards right, I can la, la, la, la, la myself right on through without having to listen to all that blah, blah, blah. Well, except I will peek to see what Michelle La Belle is wearing.

I do so hope her handlers put her in something Oscar de la Renta-ey.

And I think she could totally pull off this Marni get up, too.

Aw, heck, while I'm hallucinating, let's go all out and imagine her in some Alexander McQueen.

See now, Hillary? That's a pantsuit.

The only thing preventing me from indulging in my own form of retail therapy is that I'm not allowed to leave the house until 9:00 a.m. Friday morning. But when I do, I think I'll have to make these mine, all mine. I know. I swore I'd never, never, never, never, never do the bootie thing. But, look, I figure if I smack myself silly beforehand and blame it all on my stress induced twilight zone, I'll be okay.

Searching the Sky for Mankind's Friend

Oh dear. The presidential elections are only a few months off and I have done little campaigning. To plug myself. What with McCain flapping his mouth all over the airwaves calling us "my friends" every 5.67 seconds and Obama stumbling and bumbling like some codependent mother assuring us that no, we're not in fact lazy ass crybabies who should work harder and quit spending what we don't have, but victims, victims of a terrible mishandling of the big bad economy by the big bad Republitards, well. A girl just doesn't know how to dress for that shit. Much less open her mouth to once again, le sigh, tell them both they have it all wrong.

But, I have come up with a campaign theme song! Okay, so it's very Nineties Lite, but it was either Cracker or something by Ministry.



I know the posts these days are as thin as glaze on a Bundt cake, but I ain't got no gooberment loan and no one sends a check from home so guess what? I gotta work. My you-know-what off. I promise longer, more pithy observations on fascists and fall shoe fashions by the end of next week when my book's in the bag.

P.S. What the world also needs now is another folk singer like I need a hole in my head. But that's another song.

I Did Not Have Sex With That . . .Wait. What?

I knew it.

I mean, look at him.

Man's got cheating hair.

It's not so much that he looks like a human Ken doll. It's that he looks like a male Barbie. Glossy and kinda dumb. But, mitigated with enough aw shucks Southern Fried charm to save him from being a complete dolt. I blame much of it on the accent. As someone who was snagged by one herself, I'll tell ya, a couple of whiskey slurred vowels and dropped consonants and things can get out of focus real quick.

Still, this makes me wonder: why do the Demochromatics get all the sex pots? Huh? Where are the equivalent Republitards? If you know of any, let me know. In fact, I'm going to put y'all to the test: which current denizen(s) of the Republican party would make you chuck all common sense and go tripping through the tulips?

And don't say Andrew Sullivan.

Yes, he's a hunka, hunka burnin' hawtness.
But he's not actually IN politics.
And he pitches for the other team.

Throwing Your Two Bit Cares Down the Drain

Despite the fact that my poleetical leanings tilt decidedly towards the libertarian end of the spectrum with some slight slouching towards anarcho-capitalism (only wearing a really good outfit and heels), it is indeed a fact, Jack, that most of the people in my life are Demochromatics. And I love them anyway. Because, like Jules Winnfield in Pulp Fiction, I'm trying real hard to be the shepherd.

But my friends also know that I can't pass up a good opportunity to point out the essential idiocy of ANY politician and that the Demochromatics are, well, up next.

I mean, check out this bit of nonsense.

First of all, of course the shindig is being held in Denver. So apropos. Once a bastion of laissez faire Old West spirit, Denver in the past 50 years has devolved into what I can only describe as one of our country's most starched-stiff fascist city states and that's with whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry on top. It may slum like it's all ultra 21st century P.C. cool, but behind the scenes, it will slap you silly for one misstep outside the status quo.

Irony much?

Gah, how I would LOVE to be there to witness all those buttoned up Chamber of Commerce wags get jiggy with their hippified teen spirits. Ah, I love the smell of warmed over patchouli in a crowd. NOT.

But you know what really horrifies Moi? The SWAG. Organic cotton fanny packs? Are you kidding me? Really? That's, like, so 1995. Besides, not everyone there is going to be outfitted like they just got out of yoga class. Arianna Huffington, bless her liberal ass heart, at least knows how to dress. I simply can't imagine The Fraulein deigning to wear one of those things.

Psst . . . Arianna, dahlink . . . come on over to Moi's side. I'll give you candy. Gift certificates to Sephora. Andrew Sullivan, Camile Paglia, and P.J. O'Rourke at your table. Duck confit, shot that morning by Troll's cousin Boo and prepared by I Am Not. Lots and lots of champagne and tequila. Cakes by EmmaK. Moi's Weapons of Mass Distraction flitting about in flirty skirts and high heels making all the big boys blush. Live performances by Bjork and Beck, Primus and White Stripes. And Justin Timberlake. Dancing on tables. Coat room antics. General all around, good natured, no-worries-about-our-carbon-foot-prints-and-whether-
the-noise-will-impact-the-mating-habits-of-the-spotted-owl debauched fun.

Pistol Grip Pump On My Lap At All Times

You can be messin' with someone else's Second Amendment, but don't be messin' with mine.

WHOO HOOOOOOOOO!

Scalia, funster that he his, noted that handguns are Americans' preferred weapon of self-defense in part because "[they] can be pointed at a burglar with one hand while the other hand dials the police."

Bwwwahhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaa!

Sex Sells

You know, I think Michelle Obama just sealed my vote for Barack. Not because I agree with her (or her husband's) blithering Marxist Lite claptrap, but because, well, let's face it Party People. The gal can dress.


What?

Neither of the candidates have presented me with a more pressing reason for punching the ticket in their favor. So why not the fact that Michelle has almost overnight raised the stock price for Black House/White Market with her decision to wear one of their $149 frocks for her appearance on The View the other day?

eBay's already all abuzz. There's one up for auction right now, a size 6 petite, that's up to $76 and climbing. Marxist, Schmarxist, capitalism will always win so long as The eBay exists. And Michelle – or, for that matter, Barack – isn't going to be anywhere near Congress, so lighten up.

If Michelle does nothing but serve as an example for millions of American women around the country that you can break out of schlumpy without paying an arm and a leg to do so, well, heck. That's a good thing. Besides, who else was going to do it? Hilary? Sweet Jeebus, that woman set fashion back eons with her dogged polyester pant-suiting. You mean to tell me all that money makes such a succulent sound but it can't buy a decent Chanel?

And, despite the fact that Cindy McCain is an awesomely gorgeous woman, well, let's face it. John did not age well. Sorry to say this, but the man looks like a frog. I mean, could you imagine the two of them posing for a photo like this?



I think not.

Which brings me to this additional point of enlightenment. Maybe, after eight gazillion years of buttoned up Bushes, it isn't change the American people want. It's sex appeal.

Rockin' Republic

There’s a lyric from a Faith No More song, “Falling to Pieces,” that perfectly describes how I feel about certain of life’s most pertinent issues. The current crop of spring shoe fashions. Running. Crunchy Cheetos versus Puffy. And, of course, politics. It goes like this: “I’m somewhere in between my love and my agony.”

First, there is the absolute, passionate love I have for the good ol’ U.S. of A., which, to steal from Craig Ferguson, is the single greatest idea anyone’s ever had for a country, ever, in the history of the universe. Amen.

Then there’s my agony. Being, of course, the fact that 99.987 percent of the assholes running the gub’ment and the idiots who put them in office have forgotten this important fact.

So as much as I’d like to la, la, la, la, la myself into believing that we’re all big enough boys and girls to live under what I consider to be the El Perfecto, Ne Plus Ultra of poleetical systems (anarcho-capitalism), I realize that, unfortunately, we are not. Big enough. Responsible enough. Non-ADD enough.

Ergo, gub’ment. A necessary evil.

At the very least, then, I can participate by positing what it would look like if Moi were in charge.

Here ya go:

Moi's Running Mate: the Ivanator. He’s got enough pit bull in him to stand firm on the issues, enough Shar-pei to use his facial wrinkles to disguise the fact that he’s snoozing away in session when things get downright yawn-inducing.



Moi's Weapons of Mass Distraction: Ms R, EmmaK, Cake, Luka, Kiki. Not only do these gals have better abs, boobs, and behinds than our enemies, they’re smarter, too. I realize Ms R will have to take time off from her own dictatorship (and will hopefully give me time off from my duties as Minister of Fashion), but it shouldn’t require much effort on anyone’s part. North Korea starts acting all grumpy, I suspect all it will take to shut ‘em up is a little T&A and some kitchen wizardry. In return, all Moi’s Weapons get a lifetime’s supply of Louboutins and revolving credit at Agent Provacateur.

Moi’s Muscle: Da Pirate. She tough. She eats mileage like some people eat bon-bons. And she looks good while doing it, which is über importante in Moi’s administration. Not only will she serve as tough and stylish personal protection por Moi, she’ll whip the rest of this flabby-assed country into shape, too. You know how Mao had all the Chinese under this thumb wake up with mandatory Tai Chi? Well, here’s a hint: buy running shoes. And quit yer cryin’. In exchange, Moi’s gub’ment will pay for a lifetime of triathlon entry fees for her, her family, and sixty five of her closest friends.

Moi's Karl Rove/Official State Photographer/Musical Arranger: I Am Not. He is in charge of always, always, always making sure each and every one of us gals looks gorgemous in all photos and of ensuring that proper background music accompanies us wherever we go. Disco is good. So is Iggy Pop. And he can have all the female interns he needs to assist him with his tasks. In exchange, he gets, well, access to female interns.

Moi's Second Photographer in Charge: Meghan. The only reason you're not first is that you work hard enough as it is, and dang, girlfriend, with two rock stars to raise, I figure you don't need the stress. So just feel free to wander the White House grounds at your leisure and take photos of whatever you want and nap in between. Husband and children in tow, of course. 'cept hubby will have to leave the Crocs at home.

Moi's Ambassadorships: I don’t really want a cabinet, per se. I mean, yawn, that’s, like, waaaaay too much trouble. So I’m just gonna send a bunch of people out into the universe and let ‘em do their thing, as follows:

Da Troll: Ambassador to both Denmark (so he can score good beer for us, hot chicks for himself) and Russia (so he can make for damn sure the commies never rear their poorly dressed heads ever again). Troll is also Minister of All Things Food and Wine-y, which means he most likely gets to confer with the Weapons on occasion.

She: Ambassador to Iceland. Where she will spend her days learning the fine art of Viking toughness, eating smoked fish, drinking bathtub vodka, and creating unique performance art pieces with Björk. Plus, Trout will get to run around free as a big brown dog should because Iceland’s an island and what’s Trout gonna do, swim back to Georgia?

Anonymous Boxer: Ambassador to Switzerland. You know, I’ve never quite trusted Switzerland and if there’s anyone who can keep tabs on this tricky lil’ country, it’s AB. All lovely and luminous and even-tempered on the one hand, possessed of a dangerous-ass left hook on the other. Plus, she's got all them Chihuahuas. Sting like a bee, girlfriend. And bring back chocolate and blingy timepieces.

Aunty: Ambassador to the U.N. That’ll learn those pansy asses. All I’m saying is, they have NO idea just how effective a weapon a Bottega Veneta bag, backed up with a Blahnik stiletto heel and a Southern will, can be against Pakistani stupidity.

Wicked Thistle and Doris Rose: Ambassadors to Belize. I was gonna have them be Moi’s administration’s official scribes, but I know, just know, they’ll put off the assignment to the very last minute and then they’ll panic and nothing at all will get written. Besides, they’re most excellent at conveying a certain kind of Gallic-shrugged, cigarette-butt-flipped nonchalance that this administration needs in times of crisis. In other words: “Oh, Belgium is threatening to leave the E.U. and so no chocolates for Christmas ? Meh . . . let ‘em eat Hershey’s.”

NYD: Ambassador to Japan. Because he already lives there and can therefore provide Moi’s administration with the bestest sushi evah.

Czar: Ambassador to South of France: (Note I write South. The ONLY part of France Moi tolerates.) Because it just seems to me you spend most of your life copy editing what he's copy-edited (I mean, airline schedules, that's hardcore), you deserve to spend the rest of your life on a beach eating fois gras.

Oops, almost forgot the most important post of all. I need someone in charge of all things girly-girl (day spas, beauty salons, luncheon spots, shopping sprees) so that when we're done with all this guverning, we can relax and pig out on champagne and sushi and candy. While getting our nails done. I think Ms Thursday Next, no stranger to self-pampering, would most likely be Our Gal Friday for that.

So that should do it. If I left anyone out, let me know what you want to do and I’m sure I can wiggle you in somewhere. The rest of you all, you can just relax and enjoy the fruits of our labors.

Oh, and one last thing. You may have asked yourself: “What about your beloved S.B.? What’s he gonna do?”

You kidding me?

Man’s been waiting fifty gazillion years for me to finally snag the presidency so he can retire and spend the rest of his days hitting golf balls on the White House lawn in preparation for his eventual status as PGA star. Troll, I’m going to rely on your to send your cousin on over to assist in the task. In fact, I’m going to rely on the only three dudes in Moi’s administration to make sure S.B. is entertained at all times. Otherwise, he’ll start in with the home improvement projects and I'll get grumpy. If you have to use beer and female interns to get the job done, well, la, la, la, la, la, just make sure I don’t hear about it.

Plotting

Although I truly, truly believe that there isn't a government in existence anywhere in this entire universe that can actually do anyone any ding dang good in any way and for any reason whatsoever, and that I can count on three fingers, one-two-three, the only justifiable functions of government in our lives at all, I am nonetheless, in between actual bouts of work, day dreaming about what, exactly, I'd do if I were in fact elected president of these here United States.

Outlaw run on sentences for one.

I know. Sorry.

But other than that, what would I do? Who would be my running mate(s)? Who would sit in my cabinet and advise me on when to go to war and when to say home and lunch it out? Who would furtively fill me in at the last minute on the rebel goings-on in Yetanotherbananarepublicstan or the state of trade affairs with some rising Pacific Rim nation because I'm way too ding dang tired from having partied hearty with Denmark's entire diplomatic corps the night before?

I am giving it serious thought.

It Belongs to Moi. Give it Back.

Mute Monday: Todo Sobre, Moi

Oh, and:

When They Kick Out Your Front Door, How You Gonna Come?

In a recent post, The Troll said:

The United State's Supreme Court is poised to make their most important ruling on Second Amendment issues in several decades. The basic issue is whether the Second Amendment will be considered an individual right or a collective right granted to the States to maintain militias.

Huh. Well. I for one find it incredibly difficult to believe that the framers of our government would have placed the right to bear arms second only to the right to religion, free speech, a free press, peaceable assembly, and petition of the government for a redress of grievances if they didn't in fact believe it an individual right.

But some of us don't think so. Some of us think guns are dangerous. Some of us think only those who know "best" should control them. Because if they don't, then our society will quickly devolve into a bunch of mullet-headed morons gleefully toting guns into every shopping mall, school yard, and barroom.

Well, let me assure you: Those of us who believe the Second Amendment is indeed about the right to bear arms as an individual also believe it is NOT a sanction of vigilantism.

No, really. I, and millions of gun owners just like myself, are perfectly happy to concede to our local, state, and federal government their right to establish a police force, system of courts, and military to ensure our safety from the criminal actions of both our fellow citizens and from attack and invasion from foreign entities. It is one of the very few justifiable reasons, IMHO, for the existence of government, and I will gladly pay my taxes to support this system.

The Second Amendment is not about that kind of defense.

What the Second Amendment is about, is the right of each of us as individual citizens to protect ourselves against abuse by the government itself. That militia it talks about? That's you and Moi. Each and every one of us is a member of this militia because we the people are ultimately the only ones who can guarantee our freedoms. Therefore I believe it is the duty of each and every adult in this country to own a firearm as a symbolic warning to governments with tyranny on their minds: YOU cannot forcefully and without justification take away my right to my life, my liberty, and my pursuit of happiness.

STUPOR TUESDAY

How utterly ironic that a woman who supports gun control has absolutely no problem shoving the barrel of a great big fat one in the smalls of our backs to force us to do something against our will.

Pop a Fresca, grab a bag of Cheetos, and see if you can stomach all eight minutes of this horseshit. Or, scroll over to time stamp 4:23, where she says it clear as day.



If you're really ADD, basically:

Democrat Hillary Rodham Clinton said Sunday she might be willing to garnish the wages of workers who refuse to buy health insurance to achieve coverage for all Americans.

The New York senator has criticized presidential rival Barack Obama for pushing a health plan that would not require universal coverage. Clinton has not always specified the enforcement measures she would embrace, but when pressed on ABC's "This Week," she said: "I think there are a number of mechanisms" that are possible, including "going after people's wages, automatic enrollment."

Bitch even has the balls to say that the means, no matter how uncomfortable, forceful, or downright unethical, are not as important as achieving and end - one unproven to do any ding dang good at that. Hmmm . . . can you think of any other regimes that regularly use the ol' End Justifies the Means argument?

Smells like Brave New World to Moi.

And I simply do NOT have an outfit for that.

Irony Much?

HOW DOES ONE GO FROM THIS:

TO THIS?

I dunno, but the Eric Cartman in Moi hasn't giggled this maniacally in ages.

There is No Other Pill to Take?

Because I simply refuse to swallow the same ol' one that makes me ill.

For instance:

Same pill, different Armani suit. The woman is beholden, beholden, beholden.


Same pill, only meaner. I don't care that the man is a lapsed Catholic and cheats on his wife. I care that he's a jack-booted fascist pinhead who delights in dreaming up ever more clever ways to whip us into blind obedience.



Kinda the same pill, only much, much cuter. But we all know what happens when we elect cute guys to office, right? They're either assassinated or their names are forever stained by naughty sexual misconductivities. Or both. Barak, honey, go save the world some other way. But stay cute, 'kay?

Gah, then there's THIS guy:

Forget the fact that he's a moron, er, Mormon. I simply refuse to vote for anyone who spends more time on his hair than I do.

But, wait . . . what's this?


Huh. What do you know? Okay, give Moi a glass of Pinot to go with that pill and yeah, I'll swallow it.

Friday Funnies

Because I'm on a short leash today regarding time.

Mmmmm . . . tastes like chicken: http://www.miamiherald.com/466/story/236592.html

A species known for its extreme docility, the nurse shark was, apparently and in this instance, pushed way over the edge: "I've had it with these mother flippin' kids on this mother flippin' plane – uh, beach!" It was heard to say after being beaten silly into submission by a paramedic.

Maybe he should spend his time indoors, like this kid: Sure, he's lip-syncing to a Will Ferrell sketch, but it's still the funniest thing I've heard/seen in a while.



Thanks, Doris Rose!

And thanks for coming over yesterday and ministering to Moi's messed up knee. It's feeling much bett-ah and I think I can safely say, in the words of da Pirate, "Meh."

Out of the Mouths of Southern Babes

S.B. has a couple of long-time good friends with whom he's kept contact since his early twenties. They live in South Louisiana and through the course of my and S.B.'s relationship, I've become friendly with the wife half of the couple. I like her husband, too, but it's with her that I have the kind of 2-3 hour bi-monthly phone fests that have you waking up the next day with aching ab muscles because you laughed so hard.

In fact, I'm willing to bet this gal is one of the funniest people on the planet. Here are some for instances:

She goes to Scotland on vacation and I request she send post cards, lots of post cards. She agrees. I wait in anticipation of at least a couple photos of crumbling castles under brooding skies and lush, endless rolling green hills.

Instead, I get this:







Also come to find out last night during our phone call that while there she gave Haggis a try – twice ("Everyone kept assuring me it was better at this other place, and I guess they were right. It was less disgustin'.").

She also got thrown out of two bars, excuse me, pubs, for promoting public indecency. Apparently, she had brought with her a set of pornographic playing cards that she and her other traveling companions amiably whipped out one night in a drunken but well-meaning attempt to further improve Scottish/American relations. And promptly got shown the door.

Her response? "Hell, you'd think if anyone could appreciate some good photos of people butt-fucking it would be the Scots."

And not only is this gal hilarious, she's also extremely smart, with loads of common sense. Which she's gamely earned through plenty of life experiences, including a hell-raising youth, followed by an adulthood spent raising two children and keeping a twenty-plus year marriage not only alive but also kicking. So you bring up anything pop cultural or political and you can bet her cut to the chase is deeper than most.

Which is why I wish she could be in Reno in about 65 minutes to whisper drolly in George Bush's ear: "Where in the hell did we get this idea that any of us deserve anything. Nah, nah, we have to earn it."

Sucking at the Teat of the Nanny State

You know why the 4" high, stack-heeled black leather pumps currently residing in my closet, where they are patiently waiting for Fall 2007 and yet another year of fun-colored textured hosiery, were made by Antonio Melani and hence retail for $89, and are NOT the $700 Christian Louboutin black patent leather Very Prive Pumps over which I have been lusting for ages?

Because I cannot afford the Christian Louboutins.

Of course, I want them. In the worst, worst way. And I could indulge that lust and put them on a credit card and take 1.5 bazillion years to pay them off at 25 bazillion percent interest.

Sure. I could.


But I won't. Because that would be fiscally irresponsible. After all, lusting after something and wishing you possessed it, does not equal the right to have it.

So why are we bailing out the idiots who took that same pie-in-the-sky privileged attitude with their homes?

This, Party People, is unacceptable.

And we're going to pay until the cows come home.

Which will be never.

R.I.P. United States Constitution

Which is the greatest danger facing the United States today?

A. The threat of an outside terrorist attack
B. The threat of an internal terrorist attack

If you said A., well, it must be nice, living down there with your head in all that sand.

If you said B., you hit the nail on the head. Because we don't need to worry 'bout no yippy skippy jihadists undermining our way of life. Dubya is doing a mighty fine job of it all by himself. His recent Executive Order: Blocking Property of Certain Persons Who Threaten Stabilization Efforts in Iraq can only be interpreted, Party People, as no less than an all out attack against the United States Constitution, specifically the Fifth Amendment. If you don't know what I'm talking about in either case, go on, Google 'em. I'll wait.

. . .


. . .


. . .

Done?

Okay, now for a short, sharp history lesson, courtesy Moi:

The absolute stunning beauty of the United States Constitution, the reason why it is without precedent in the entire history of politics, is that it was NOT created to protect the government from the whims of the people; it was created to protect We the People FROM the whims – often dangerous – of the government. How awesome is that?

But with the above decree, Dubya is circumventing the Constitution and everything it stands for and protects us against. What he is saying is this: "Trust ME not your country's laws."

You know what you call a government leader that requires total faith in their irrefutable knowledge and absolute power? A tyrant.