BlameBush!

Liberal Larry's Blog of the Week

The Washington State initiative process began in 1907 as a means to protect the working poor from capitalist exploitation, and labor unions from unfair competition. But in recent years, a few unscrupulous con artists have perverted the system for their own selfish interests. Under the guise of “democracy”, right-wing demagogues such as Tim Eyman have used the initiative process as a tool to limit or reduce taxes, cruelly forcing our elected representatives to actually adhere to a strict budget. Weaving a constant web of deceipt, Eyman employs slick marketing campaigns and bright, sparkly objects to hypnotize innocent Washingtonians into believing they’d be happier if they were allowed to keep more of their income, when we all know that the exact opposite is true.

You see, the American people are basically children – naive, impressionable children. It’s up to us grown-ups to protect them from evil conservatives who want fill their tiny brains with a lot of crazy ideas, such as getting something in return for their tax money besides clever new ways to take even more of it. Training these spoiled brats to become contributing members of a "community" rather than selfish individualists is a tough job and we get little gratitude in return. We help ourselves to a few measly pennies out of their precious piggy banks and give them fantastic sports stadiums and magic choo-choo trains to nowhere in return, but they’ll still turn right around and stab us in the liver for a cheap tank of gas. Well, I’ve had enough! Do you hear me? ENOUGH!

A tip of the hat to the digital brownshirts at Orbusmax for unwittingly turning me on to the Northwest Progressive Institute, a nonpartisan, grassroots organization dedicated to fighting fascism by silencing all political opposition wherever they find it. Progressives like you and I are encouraged to report any conservatives gathering signatures or engaging in other suspicious activity, so that NPI can quickly form a response team to descend upon them like packs of screeching, gender dysphoric dogs. As a public service, their names and photographs will then be posted on the website as Enemies of the State.

For the sake of our democracy, I encourage all my readers to place the NPI Squeal Button on their own blogs, or simply staple it to their foreheads. If we're ever to win our civil liberties back from Bush’s fascist right-wing oligarchy, progressives must work together to put an end to the signature-gathering cromags who constantly seek to subvert our democracy by inviting people to vote on things.

The Full-Figured Womyn with the Thyroid Problem Ain't Singin' Yet!

They say that in the final moments of your life, you can see a bright tunnel of light. I can testify, however, that it's a warm, orange glow that welcomes you at journey's end, pouring into your restless soul and filling you with peace, love, and contentment. Death, I have discovered, isn’t so bad after all. And it smells just like burnt pizza.

Suddenly, I felt a burly hand grab my shoulder, yank me from the sweet arms of eternal bliss, and brutally toss me to the cold kitchen floor. A hunchbacked, ogreish creature grimaced down at me through a cloud of pungent smoke, her bulbous lips twitching like two smashed slugs on a skillet; the beads in her golden hair glistening like fresh dingleberries on a yak’s backside.

“Peaceblossom?”

But before my astonished eyes, her once beautifully pockmarked features and natty tumble of hair dissolved into a hideous, close-cropped visage with a pinched face, thick, horn-rimmed glasses, and a pointy, squidlike beak. Alas, it was not my former significant other who may or may not have been a member of the transgendered community that greeted me in the afterlife, but a demon borne straight from the very depths of hell.

“Myranda!" I wheezed. "What are you doing here?”

“I got your message at the video game store that you were going to ‘get baked’, so I rushed right over,” she chirped me. “I knocked and knocked but you didn't answer. Then I smelled burnt hair and patchouli coming from your condo, so I let myself in and found you here with your head in the oven, and.…”

Sudden realization crossed her face. “Oh my Goddess, Larry!” she gasped. “It’s Weblog Awards time again, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” I replied, stroking the charred remains of my goatee. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Dammit, Larry!” she snapped. “In case you weren't aware, Americans are finally turning against the Bush junta and this hopelessly unwinnable war! It’s your progressive blog and others like it that are cutting through the right-wing veil of optimism and turning the tide! You simply can’t give up now!”

“Give up?” I would have raised an eyebrow if I had one. “Who said anything about giving up? I have no intention of giving up, snookums! While my head was on preheat, it came to me like Ariana Huffington in a wet dream: For years, I’ve been pursuing a strategy of failure. The more I post and the harder I fight to win one of those stupid awards, the less chance I have of ever attaining peaceful coexistence with my competitors. So I devised a cunning plan that will insure my ultimate triumph in 2006. I call it the Howard Dean Strategic Withdrawal to Victory!”

Myranda winced at me. “Is that a slice of pepperoni stuck to your face?”

“The Howard Dean Strategic Withdrawal to Victory,” I continued, ignoring her remark, “is brilliant in its simplicity. To convince my enemies that I mean them no harm, I’ll start to slowly blog less frequently, until eventually I’m not posting any original content at all.”

“You mean like that Frank J. dude?”

“AIEEEEEE!!!!!!” I shrieked, sticking my fingers into my ears. “DO NOT SPEAK THE NAME WHICH MUST NEVER BE SPOKEN!!!”

“But - ”

“LALALALALALALALALALALALALALAL!!!!”

“Larry - “

“EEEEEEEEEE AYEEEEEEEEE AYE OHHHHHHHH!!!’”

Myranda snatched up the hemp handbag I gave her last Earth Day and headed for the door. “I’m leaving,” she said with exasperation.

“Cutting and running, eh? Coward.”

“JERK!” she spat back at me.

I blinked. “’Jerk’? Ah, it always comes back to the politics of personal destruction, doesn’t it? Fine then,” I growled, pointing to the door. “Get out of my house, you flat-chested, horse-faced slut, and don’t come back unless you can have something nice to say. And an X-Box 360!”

Victorious, I strutted back to the kitchen, the sound of the door being slammed still ringing in my ears.

Jerk, she called me!

I cranked the oven up another couple hundred degrees.

The inciteful rhetoric from that woman is totally counterproductive. Whatever happened to polite civil discourse and reasonable discussion in this country, anyway?

Weblog Awards, Schmeblog Awards!

I hope everyone knows that I was just kidding yesterday. I am truly grateful for your readership and in no way blame you for my being snubbed by the fascist Weblog Awards. Undoubtedly, many of you are People of Color and were too frightened and intimidated to cast a vote. Or perhaps you’re homeless and you sold me out for a pack of smokes and a ride to the library. Whatever your excuses were for stabbing me in the back, there are no hard feelings. All these stupid blog award scams don't mean jack squat anyway. It doesn't bruise my ego one bit that I don’t even deserve to be counted amongst the “Best of the Bottom of the Barrell” in a glorified popularity contest. It's by the thousands of visits my site receives every day that I know you like me, you really, really like me.

What really busts my bong, however, is that whenever I actually do manage to get nominated for something, they never categorize me with the likes of such brilliant progressive minds as Iddybud, MoxieGrrrrl, and the less masculine (yet far prettier) Oliver Willis. Instead, they lump me into the “humor” section with a bunch of right-wing clowns. I consider my blog to be one of the premier news sources on the web, but I just can’t shake the feeling that conservatives are out there laughing at me.

Adding insult to injury, I’m constantly ass-whooped Shaolin-style by the same cacophony of blinking ads spackled together with poop.

But I’m not bitter. Nope. I'm perfectly happy knowing that if the Weblog Awards were the Oscars, I’d be Tony F***king Danza.

It's that time of the year again...

Wizbang's annual Weblog Awards are an opportunity for the little people of the blogosphere to express their gratitude and admiration for your work, a touching tribute to your talent from those whom your blog would be nothing without. It's truly an honor just to be nominated.

But since I wasn't, who needs any of you?

Blog for Me, Dahhhhhlink!

Arianna Huffington rolling around on a shag carpet in nothing but fishnet stockings. Some say it's what turned Michael Huffington gay. However, it's been a secret fantasy of mine for as long as I can remember - about twenty minutes, to be exact. That, and being asked to lend my talents to her delightfulwebsite.

With contributions from such esteemed progressive scholars as Harry Shearer, Alec Baldwin, and the guy who played B.J. Honeycutt on M*A*S*H, The Huffington Post is an island of liberal brainpower in a vast blogosphere of right-wing morons. Who can forget when civil rights leader Randall Robinson revealed that flesh-eating zombies had Fats Domino trapped inside a New Orleans shopping mall? Or when Huffington's astute readers observed that First Lieutenant Gregg Murphy of the 278th Regimental Combat Team resembles a penis (a fact that the mainstream media seems to have conveniently overlooked). You don't get those sort of startling revelations from Powergrab or Little Green Turdballs, folks.

I would love nothing more than to be counted as a member of such a leguminous gallery of liberal luminaries, but until my saucy Greek goddess sidles up and purrs an invitation into my ear with that incredibly sexy accent of hers, I'll just have to settle for a cheesy guest blogging stint at Wuzzadem.

And I'll tell you right now - these 8 x 10 glossies of John in fishnet stockings don't do him justice.

Guest Blogging at Wuzzadem

I was recently invited to guest blog over at Wuzzadem, so last night's post is over there. I typically don't whore myself out to right-wing extremist blogs, but I would be negligent in my progressive duties if I passed up such a wonderful opportunity to enlighten the uneducated trogs who frequent that little Île du Diable of intolerance.

Besides, the $12 million that Prince Mbeki Salingo at Wuzzadem is sending me will go a long way towards paying off my ginseng colonic tab.

It Wasn't Me

Just a quick heads-up to all the readers who have been emailing me with electronic high-fives over the recent post at Mike the Jarhead's blog.

So a couple days ago, our CO got a little “love note” from someone back home… a love note that I am privy to by virtue of my job. Seems that someone with an internet browser (and more than likely a Democratic Underground account) thought it would be fun to look up our unit’s official mailing address – which, by the way, starts with the words “Commanding Officer” and THEN the unit name and PO Box – and launch into a tirade about the war and oil and Israel and God only knows what else. Who knows how many units he sent his little missive to…

I know what you're thinking. A brilliant progressive. Seattle. Bad spelling. But I assure you I am not responsible. I, nor any other liberal would ever refer to Bush as a "Puppet of the Jews". That bigoted phrase is the calling card of foaming-at-the-mouth, reichpublican anti-semites like Marie Osmond. Tolerant progressives such as myself prefer to use the phrase "right-wing Zionist cabal" when referring to those pesky Jews and their devious plans for world domination.

I just wanted to clear up any misconceptions before Ariel Sharon sends his yarmulka stormtroopers over to kick down my door and beat me senseless. And Mike, since I live in the Seattle area, I'd be more than happy to track down the scumbag responsible for the insidious hate mail and give him a piece of my mind, but Congressman McDermott is in his flotation tank for the week and won't be disturbed.

Attack of the Memes

I despise memes. Everyone gets them, everyone hates them, but no one has the guts to break the chain. Two notorious neocons thought it would be cute to curse me with a meme, and unless I pass them on I will probably get dragged off to Abu Ghraib with the Dixie Chicks and Bill Maher.

The first comes from KJ at No Government Cheese, who was tagged by our old friend Pile On and decided to share the misery. Thanks a bunch, Kim.

The concept is simple enough. You start with the phrase "Turd in a punchbowl", add a clever phrase of your own, followed by "Turd in a Punchbowl" again, and then conclude with a line that rhymes with your first. The end result should sound something like a cross between a Bukowski poem and a Mad Lib. You must complete two whole stanzas and pass it on to three other suckers before the curse is lifted. Here's what I came up with:

Turd in a punchbowl,
Bush stole the election,
Turd in a punchbowl,
pee-Resident by SE-lection.

Turd in a punchbowl,
laid by Halliburton,
Turd in a punchbowl,
Our democracy is hurtin'.

Moving right along...I'm passing the turd to three beautiful ladies whom I love and adore...Arianna Huffington, Goosesteppin' Dana, and Oliver Willis.

The second annoying meme comes from...why, if it isn't Goosesteppin' Dana over at Note-It posts!

Yup, Goosesteppin' Dana stuck me with the second meme a couple of weeks ago. I had hoped that through carefully calculated procrastination, I could put it off long enough to be hit by a bus and spared having to respond. Unfortunately, I'm still here, and Dana is threatening me with legal action unless I complete the chain.

The object is to take the list of statements, conclude at least five of them, and then pass them on to three other unsuspecting saps.

For instance, one of Dana's entries was:

"If I could be a lawyer…I’d sue the pants off of whiny, liberal, Wal-Mart obstructionists. Then cackle in glee as they all fled into the store to buy new pants."

She's a right-wing fascist, but she's as cute as a button.

So here's the list with my answers:

If I could be a scientist…I find some way to convince Bush that unless he ratifies Kyoto immediately, Marshall, Will, and Holly will be sucked through a time vortex to a mysterious land ruled by an advanced race of reptilian Starbucks baristas.
If I could be a farmer…the narcs would probably burn my crop of glaucoma medicine again.
If I could be a musician…I'd be ashamed that George Bush was from Texas.
If I could be a doctor…I'd provide inexpensive pharmaceuticals to the needy. I mean, more so than I do now.
If I could be a painter…there'd be neither black nor white paint on my palette. Just several inoffensive shades of gray.
If I could be a gardener...I'd move my crop of glaucoma medicine into the basement where the narcs couldn't find it.
If I could be a missionary…I'd give small pox to the indigenous peoples, just to stay in character.
If I could be a chef, I'd drop to my knees and beg forgiveness for 2000 years of white chef hegemony.
If I could be an architect…and you were my lady, would you marry me anyway? Would you have my baby?
If I could be a linguist…I'd write a series of pamphlets on the evils of capitalism and sell them on amazon.com for twenty bucks a pop.
If I could be a psychologist...I'd stop wasting my time on the families of 9/11 victims and devote my life to healing the emotional wounds of former Abu Ghraib prisoners.
If I could be a librarian…I'd remove all the books from the shelves so the homeless would have a place to put their empty malt liquor bottles while they are napping.
If I could be an athlete…I'd break my neck jumping through hoops to free Mumia.
If I could be a lawyer…I'd sue the hoop manufacturer.
If I could be an innkeeper...I'd make the evangelical religious nuts sleep in the garage.
If I could be a professor…I'd draw Binky off the back of a matchbook and get tenure at the University of Colorado.
If I could be a writer…I'd write a book about a girl and her pet goat, so Bush has something to read the next time Karl Rove flies planes into our buildings.
If I could be a llama-rider, some sunuva bitch would die.
If I could be a bonnie pirate…I'd find a more gender-neutral profession.
If I could be an astronaut…I'd concentrate more on the problems we have right here at home, rather than waste time and money exploring the cold, vacuum of outer space where there's no property to tax nor rich people to bleed.

Ah, what fun.

I'll be passing this one off to three swell guys: Dean04Prez (in the name of all things decent and holy, give the man some traffic, folks!), Bubblehead, and Rosie O'Donnell.

Now that I have purged the last vestiges of memes from my draft folder, I say unto thee: Don't send me any more!

Liberal Larry's Great Big Link Dump

Now before you accuse me of going all mainstream on you, please, hear me out.

I had hoped that by hitching my star to internet diva Iddybud, a veritible tsunami of visitors would flood into my blog, and my name would spread across the blogosphere like syphillis through a Bangkok cathouse. But aside from affording me the opportunity to use the Bangkok Cathouse simile again, honoring her as Liberal Larry's Blog of the Week has turned out to be an exercise in futility. I got one measly hit from zenmaster Hunter S. Warbucks and that was it. So I've shamefully had to whore myself out to Blog Carnivals like a side-show geek. Little did I know that I'm supposed to offer a reciprocal link back to their blog in return. Tit for tat, Clarice. They give something of value, and then they selfishly expect something of value back. It defies every fundamental precept of socialist theory!

I guess I could simply skip out my "responsibilities" the way Bush did in the Texas Air National Guard, but liberals aren't allowed the same luxury as the sons of wealthy Republican congressmen. I don't want the jackbooted Blog Nazis dragging me out from under my sink in the dead of night like they did with the Dixie Chicks. Besides, a "Link Dump" will be a perfect excuse for not posting anything substantive today.

So, for your surfing enjoyment, I present Liberal Larry's Great Big Link Dump:

Goddess help me, my recent post on cat hunting made it into the latest Carnival of the Cats, and I have no one to blame but myself.

My Crazy Freak Fetus article made it into the Best of Me Symphony. If you haven't read it, be sure to go there and click the link, which will lead you back here. What will these internet wizards think of next?

Reader "Mike B." sent a link to an article on a progressive idea whose time has come: Free Poopin' Babies. In order to prevent the planet from being buried under a mountain of dirty Pampers, environmental experts are requesting that we stop putting diapers on our infants and try parenting for a change. If we can tell when the dog needs to "take a walk", we should surely be able to discern when our own children hear the call of nature, and quickly dangle them over a wood-chipper or something to do their duty. Perhaps one day, in a more enlightened age, parents will follow their butt-naked children around the park with pooper scoopers.

And finally -

I don't have a very high opinion of satirists. Satire is merely a way for unintelligent, emotionally unstable people to make themselves look clever. A perfect example is The Therapist, who thinks he's funny, but only comes off being very mean and spiteful. I read it daily, if only to see how low he will sink.

That does it for my first, and hopefully last Link Dump. Believe me, this has hurt me more than it hurt you, and I promise that in the future should I not have anything worthy to post, I'll do us all a favor and not post anything at all.

Liberal Larry's Blog of the Week

"Love Sees No Color, No Race, No Religion"

Straight off a Care Bears lunch pail comes the wisdom of Iddybud, "a constant and nagging reminder of the existence of universal love."

The special-needs brainchild of Jude Nagurnsey Cromwell, Iddybud seeks out the stories that the mainstream media blows off as the demented paranoid fantasies of undermedicated schizophrenics, crossbreeds them with DNC talking points, and thus provides them the legitimacy they'd never have on a more rational weblog. A divine amalgamate of pretentious pap, breathtaking graphics, and the occasional money shot of her breasts, Iddybud could be MoxieGrrl's creepy kid sister.

However, I must confess that Jude and I sort of have a "history". We actually met and fell in love on a political bulletin board a few years ago, way back before she got the boobs done. As two lonely blue state intellectuals divided by thousands of miles of ignorant red states, we found romance mewling together over a plethora of important issues, from human rights to peace in the Middle East.

"I think the Palestinians are more like the original Americans," she once told me. "England had the money and machinery, and we had the spirit of freedom."

Though she may seem dimmer than Terry Schiavo after 17 bong hits, make no mistake: Jude is an award winning journalist, with nineteen feet of accolades pasted into her sidebar. Avery Walker of AveryWalker.com raves: "I love oxblog, wonkette, iddybud and American Amnesia as much as the next guy". Ruddy Gore gushes: "She has one of the more aesthetically pleasing blogs out there." With credentials like those, Jude is bound for internet stardom.