Friday, September 10, 2004

Cheney: Let them Eat Cake

Mr. "Big Time" tells people without jobs to stop whining: They can always sell their belongings on eBay to raise some money.

Thursday, September 09, 2004

Privileged Son

Newly-discovered memos portray a rich kid with political connections working the system.

Wednesday, September 08, 2004

War President

More on his National Guard service, or lack thereof.

Change the Lead

From Talking Points Memo:

"Coincidences are the strangest things ...

AP: 'U.S. death toll in Iraq passes 1,000 mark' ... 4:27 PM, Sept.
7th, 2004

AP: 'Ridge: Terrorists hope to disrupt election' ... 4:40 PM, Sept.
7th, 2004"

Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Will Hunting Called It

"Say I'm working at N.S.A. Somebody puts a code on my desk, something
nobody else can break. So I take a shot at it and maybe I break it. And
I'm real happy with myself, 'cause I did my job well. But maybe that
code was the location of some rebel army in North Africa or the Middle
East. Once they have that location, they bomb the village where the
rebels were hiding and fifteen hundred people I never had a problem
with get killed. Now the politicians are sayin' "send in the Marines to
secure the area" 'cause they don't give a shit. It won't be their kid
over there, gettin' shot. Just like it wasn't them when their number
got called, 'cause they were pullin' a tour in the National Guard.
It'll be some guy from Southie takin' shrapnel in the ass. And he comes
home to find that the plant he used to work at got exported to the
country he just got back from. And the guy who put the shrapnel in his
ass got his old job, 'cause he'll work for fifteen cents a day and no
bathroom breaks. Meanwhile my buddy from Southie realizes the only
reason he was over there was so we could install a government that
would sell us oil at a good price. And of course the oil companies used
the skirmish to scare up oil prices so they could turn a quick buck. A
cute, little ancillary benefit for them but it ain't helping my buddy
at two-fifty a gallon. And naturally they're takin' their sweet time
bringin' the oil back and maybe even took the liberty of hiring an
alcoholic skipper who likes to drink seven and sevens and play slalom
with the icebergs and it ain't too long 'til he hits one, spills the
oil, and kills all the sea-life in the North Atlantic. So my buddy's
out of work and he can't afford to drive so he's got to walk to the job
interviews which sucks 'cause the shrapnel in his ass is givin' him
chronic hemorrhoids. And meanwhile he's starvin' 'cause every time he
tries to get a bite to eat the only blue-plate special they're servin'
is North Atlantic scrod with Quaker State. So what'd I think? I'm
holdin' out for somethin' better. I figure I'll eliminate the middle
man. Why not just shoot my buddy, take his job and give it to his sworn
enemy, hike up gas prices, bomb a village, club a baby seal, hit the
hash pipe and join the National Guard? Christ, I could be elected

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