Buh-bye, Benny. It is true that in the meantime we are suffering deeply in spirit and incurring the horrors of a war and long oppressions of enormous public debt. If the game runs sometimes against us at home we must have patience till luck turns and then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are at stake. So Ben's resigned. What is the moral of the story? Ken Mehlman's statements about Russ Feingold wanting to surrender to terrorists are no longer part of your story.
The idea that the media is hiding the good news in Iraq is not a story. Do not appease the right-wing. Stop appeasing the right-wing. It's bad for you.
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And, ya know, for the rest of us. This, my friends, this story of the youngest Bush appointee ever, son a Bush appointee, co-founder of blog-cum RedState. The answer is: No more. Not one more bloody time. Before I continue, let me carefully note I am speaking of movement conservatives —those in either political or religious leadership positions who craft the message and lead the way from a position of unfettered access to power and funding, along with their shills in the media who disseminate the message uncritically, weathering the inevitable and accurate accusations of hypocrisy, avarice, and malfeasance that adherence to the message necessitates.
Not a single soul has to fall into yet another ethical quagmire of his or her own making to convince me that they are thoroughly contemptible, every last one. The sickening irony is that plagiarism is, perhaps, the least grievous of his transgressions. All of them—from their president to the screeching harpy Coulter to the least-trafficked of their blogosphere representatives—claims loud and wide to be a standard-bearer for moral values in America. They are devoutly religious, they tell us, and they cloak the most heinous, vicious intolerance in that Dali-drawn surrealist version of any religion found in the holy books they judiciously but selectively quote, while simultaneously hiding their aspirations of empire behind a flag over which they claim exclusive province.
Yet, time after time after time, they reveal themselves to be liars, cheats, thieves—execrable excuses for leaders of any sort, no less the moral leaders they have anointed themselves and repeatedly assert to be.
And those who have not been cast into the cushy conservative exile of a six-figure think tank job after a spiral from grace have vociferously defended each and every last one of them, unless and until their best efforts at casting liberals as overreacting and overreaching have failed, and their actions are, at last, indefensible. Defender one day; in need of defense the next.
Like dominoes, they fall, fall to their knees in shameful disgrace, willing victims of the greed, the corruption, the endemic lust for unlimited power that are all indelible marks of their movement. From the top to the bottom and back again, they are wholly irredeemable, and near-impossibly indistinguishable, at that.
The only difference between Ben Domenech and George Bush is the ability to retroactively classify anything that might be embarrassing, might reveal their crooked, sordid deeds to the rest of the world. Unlucky Ben—his dirty little secrets are put on display. Lucky George—his are buried in folders and files in the back cabinets of dark rooms, sealed away from public consumption with a stamp that reads: Classified.
They are a mob of unethical swine, who almost imperceptibly vary between those willing to commit crimes and those willing to defend the criminal behavior. So out with all of them. They have repeatedly discredited themselves, repeatedly shown themselves to be vile miscreants with absolutely nothing of value to offer America or the American people. Dump it, so we can finally, at long last, start moving toward the end of this abysmal chapter and get a little bit closer to happily ever after.
Bush's "march of freedom" is not the big story in the Muslim world, where Shiite Muslims suddenly have more power than they have had in 1, years; it is not the big story in Lebanon, where Iran is filling the vacuum left by Syria; it is not the story among Palestinians, who voted — in Western eyes — freely, and wrongly; it is not even the big story in Iraq, where the top three factions in the recent elections were all supported by decidedly undemocratic militias.
Aww, shucks : In the past 24 hours, we learned of allegations that Ben Domenech plagiarized material that appeared under his byline in various publications prior to washingtonpost. An investigation into these allegations was ongoing, and in the interim, Domenech has resigned, effective immediately. A little public disgrace never impedes the embrace of the conservative community.
Furious just before my 16th birthday; we had been in the same places at the same time since we were toddlers, attended the same elementary and middle schools, and always had a vague notion of who the other was. F as my confidant, conspirator, and comrade. My life is better for it. Some of these 16 years were spent as roommates, and, perhaps more importantly, they spanned the years during which we navigated the uneven path toward adulthood—a path along which I got raped, he came out, I got married and divorced young, he got kidney stones, and lots of other unfun stuff.
Navigating it together made it infinitely easier, because Mr. F is the kind of friend that everyone should be fortunate enough to have. He has seen me at my absolute worst—embarrassing, shameful stuff; he has known me to be stubborn, hurtful, uncompromising, inconsiderate, irrational. He has known me to lie. Some of it was directed at him. Some of it caused huge fights. And he has, graciously, forgiven me every time, because he made our friendship worth earning his forgiveness.
He has also seen me at my best, which, in the weird way of the criminally shy, is sometimes even harder for me to fully share than my worst. The kind of fun that leaves one collapsed in a heap of gut-wrenching giggles, gasping for air and swearing one shall never recover. F graduated and I managed to finagle him a job at the same place, so we were commuting together. On this morning, the spider had spun a huge web, stretching from the mirror to the angled side of the windshield, and as we drove down Lake Shore Drive, Mr.
F sped up, trying to take out the web with sheer velocity. It bounced and blew, but did not fall. The spider rode safe in the mirror cavity he called home.
F swore and screamed at the web as we hit 60mph. A lot. When we pulled into the parking lot, the web was still intact, and the spider had come out to stretch in the sunshine. F ran around to side of the car, determined to kill this thing once and for all. Just as the beast was nearly within his reach, it scurried away again behind the mirror. F exclaimed. I burst out laughing. He went to work flailing his arms, destroying the web like a demonic windmill.
Tears began to roll from my eyes. And then the yelling began. I started to drool as I gasped for air.
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And when I cast my mind backwards over 16 years in search of fond memories, I most remember the times we have laughed until we cried. I am quick to laugh, and I have a loud laugh that carries and causes me to blush in restaurants when I realize its made people stare. In my fourth year and his third, I was facing a sociological theory course which not only sounded tedious, but was taught by a single professor, who had a hideous reputation. I convinced Mr. F to take it with me, as one of his electives, to his chagrin and my relief, as Dr.
Dandruff turned out to be worse than I had ever imagined, having the unique capacity to be both mind-numbingly boring and detestably irritating at the same time, a loathsome demeanor made further unfortunate by his near-total lack of personal hygiene.
zxcvbn/atalquone.tk at master · dropbox/zxcvbn · GitHub
Suffice it to say, Mr. F and I were not fond of this class. During a particularly dreadful session one day, Mr. F nudged me with his elbow.
I shook off my stupor and looked down at his notebook, which he was holding out for me to see. He had drawn a picture of Dr. But in the perfect stillness of the classroom, broken only so slightly by the monotonous drone of Dr. I looked away, squeezing my eyes shut, tensing my lips, trying, in effect, to turn my face into a clenched fist to hold in the laugh trying so desperately to escape. I could feel my face burning red. F nudged me. I ignored him. He nudged me again.
I looked. And then it happened—the laugh I was trying so urgently to withhold began to make its getaway. F silently began to shake. The other students started to look around, to see from whence the strange noise came, focusing on the two red-faced gits in the back, their eyes bursting with tears.
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Dandruff asked. And then it came. The entire class stared at us in slack-jawed wonder as we screamed, pounding the desks with our fists and collapsing against each other weakly. And on and on we laughed until the bell finally rang. Gee, what a fun exhibit. Yeah—people are inspired by her pregnant beauty. Zack notes: The question is, would this be more or less disturbing if the artist was more open about his fetishes? I'm thinking less, really. I mean, if somebody's going to visualize a brain-dead popstar delivering her child like a Playboy model for her December centerfold, it would probably be a small comfort if it could just be about the sex.
Making it a symbol for a movement is just- good lord. Adoption Institute Supports Gay Parents That sound you hear is freepers shrieking all across the country. Bolds mine NEW YORK - As debate over the issue flares in several states, a major adoption institute says in a new report that it strongly supports the rights of gays and lesbians to adopt, and urges that remaining obstacles be removed. Donaldson Adoption Institute says in the report to be issued Friday.