for the week ending 12/16/06:
Helen Sinclair: No, no, don't speak. Don't speak. Please don't speak. Please don't speak.
- "Bullets Over Broadway"
Well, it would be a rare week indeed during the Bush administration that didn't find me in front of the television screaming "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR F**KING MIND?" at least once. And this week was no exception. With their poll numbers dropping faster than Britney Spears' panties, the Bushes and their "friends" have been in top form, highlighting their mental disconnect from reality with a rococo flourish. In an interview with People Magazine this week, the Bushes revealed far more about themselves than I think even they might have intended.
Laura Bush, in fine Tupperware party fashion, managed to cut off her husband's other wife at the knees:
The President also said there is no doubt in his mind that a woman candidate could be president, and the First Lady agreed. Mrs. Bush referenced Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and noted that while she would be a "really good candidate", Rice is not interested in the job.
"Probably because she is single, her parents are no longer living, she's an only child. You need a very supportive family and supportive friends to have this job," the First Lady said.
Oh, hiss-meow, Laura. You really have been listening to your mother-in-law, haven't you. Setting the women's rights movement back about fifty years, speaking for others who are, at last check, capable of speaking for themselves, disapproving and condescending while trying to appear concerned, and failing to come across as anything other than small-minded, parochial, provincial.
Meanwhile, your husband, who can't quite get it through his cement skull that the American people don't have a hard slog trying to understand things ("the America people gotta understand…"), doesn't have enough sense to Just. Stop. Talking.
I think most Americans fully understand the importance of success; they're wondering whether we have a plan to succeed. It's my job to listen to a lot of opinions and come up with a strategy that says we have a plan. [Emphasis mine]
EXCUSE ME? Are you telling us that you really don't have a plan for Iraq, just a marketing campaign? But wait, there's more. When asked if he has trouble sleeping, Dorquemada responds:
Generally not. But occasionally when I travel, I'm expected to get on an airplane and fly eight hours and pop out and be fresh and diplomatic and on message. If I'm having trouble sleeping, I'll take a sleep aid. But I must tell you, I'm sleeping a lot better than people would assume. [Emphasis mine]
Nice. You've sent how many American soldiers to their deaths for no legitimate reason and you can sleep easy at night? Speaks volumes, methinks. Almost as much as this instant classic:
"I thank these men who wear our uniform for a very candid and fruitful discussion about how to secure this country and how to win a war that we now find ourselves in."
Oy gevalt. And then there's Unka Dick Cheney who, as we all know, prefers speaking power to truth. Unka Dick stood at the podium during the Donald Rumsfeld Parade of Failures on Friday and uttered these words: “Don Rumsfeld is the finest Secretary of Defense this nation has ever had.” You're joking, right? RIGHT?
All of this makes me yearn for the days of "it depends on what the meaning of 'is' is." If I weren't nursing a hangover, I'd scream at the television some more. As it stands, I'm just going to lie here on the couch and whimper at all the stupidity.
The Rude Pundit takes on President Schiavo:
The President of the United States, through his spokesdouche, Tony Snow, is having to proclaim that he gives a shit what his own generals and advisers have to say: "[T]raveling to State and traveling to the Pentagon obviously are making the point that the President is listening to key people in this administration." Then, oh, fuck, then, the press is actually forced into asking questions like, "[I]s he going to be listening to them?" and "What role is the Vice President playing this week in the listening?" One might think the proper answer to that question is, "The Vice President will be roughly sucking out the viscous goo inside each expert's head through their eye sockets before skull-fucking them because, you know, that's just what he does." But, no, Snow spurted, "Well, he's listening and asking some questions and he's participating in the conversations." Everyone's just got their big ears on now, at last, nearly four crazed years in.
No More Mister Nice Blog's Steve M. connects the dots between the sociopaths, and Upyernoz at Rubber Hose notes that reviving the "enemy body count" policy at this juncture might be a tad . . . impolitic.
And what was with all the Senators making tracks to Syria and Iraq this week against the Chimperor's wishes?
Roy Edroso at alicublog wryly notes the historical revisionism marking the passing of that man about town, Agusto Pinochet. Hammer of the Blogs' Heywood J. beseeches the heavens to enlighten the Doughy Pantload about the differences between Pinochet and Castro. Well, either that or one well-placed bolt of lightning…
I hereby disavow any allegiance to France and offer myself as a handmaid to Jesus' General. A brilliant review of Michael Crichton's latest piece of shit.
Math is hard! But as Richie McWhite at Little Green Fascists notes, Condi works it, girl.
And you people rolled your eyes whenever I made fun of the red Pradas. Pam at Pam's House Blend adds fuel to the fire about Pope Ratzi's penchant for fine Italian footwear.
Zuzu over at Feministe has no patience for hypocrisy. And can you blame her? And speaking of hypocrisy, Multi Medium's Eli asks a fair question about the Republicans' vulture-like hovering over Senator Johnson's hospital bed.
TBogg calls for another bloggers star chamb. . . I mean, ethics panel. Jules Crittenden must be dealt with.
Mustang Bobby at Bark Bark Woof Woof notes the commencement of Obama demonization exercises. Dude, the guy's middle name is HUSSEIN!!!!
Now here's something you don't see every day, courtesy of Corn Dog at Rubber Corn Dog. I don't even want to know how much it costs.
And not that there's any connection, but I like to leave on a happy note: a rousing belated HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Grandmaster M.C. Snark, James Wolcott!