You got your Screaming Jollywood Satanic Jew (formerly Electrolux, and after that the Howling Hewbrew Hammer Of Hatred) who is paid to run a tickertape on this site (actually, I tend to believe he is nothing but a roomful of baboons frantically thumping away at keyboards, the result being fed into some kind of word processing unit). And you got your lunatic kristian (why do these people disgrace the good name of Christ?) rockyblabola, and his belief in the Book Of Revelations (a book written by madmen for madmen). And then you have all the blind apologists in between. Unrelenting in their hatred, arrogance, and well, rascism. Think about it. And you know, if you don't support them they'll do they very best to hurt you. Anyway, thanks for the good fight Glenn. But, in the long run, thre will never ever ever be any peace with people who do not know the word compromise . . .

"Cousin Sadie gave him work wiping bar and polishing glasses while his wrist healed." Dooooglas, as cousin Sadie called him (they mated, but spared us from by not having offspring), had a particular talent -- he had a Dudley Dooright kind of chin - he held the glass, and the (filthy) glass polishing rag betwixt the uninjured wrist and his chin. Eh! Viola! They both chain-smoked, enjoyed time in the kip, and really didn't give a rough-rodeo-phawk about anyone else's opinions or business. Both thrived until she turfed him for having one hand on the till, and t'other on her . . .

yep, mom, speak no evil of another, for every man has his own past to live down . . .

Spreyside?? Sheesh. Mom's bones rattled, she clouted me on the side of my balding head with a copy of The Scotsman, and hissed -- "SPEYSIDE, laddie, Speyside!!". Uncle Jimmy, a wee lad with brawny arms, once threw my best friend out through the screen door because the fool asked for some cola to add to the liquid nectar that Jimmy had drabbled into a wee cup for him. And if that wasn't bad enuff, he had the teams from Stranraer and Kilmarnock confused. Cousin Sadie gave him work wiping bar and polishing glasses while his wrist healed.

Did I say Mortimer? I meant Horace. Drat that Spreyside . . .

Mortimer was the author who invented him, John Mortimer. Horace was . . .

Well, Rumpole. Horace Rumpole. And headh55 (I.Q.?, Age?? DOB???) is still an asshat. And I continue to say that the media is not serving anyone well.

And She Who Must Be Obeyed tells me we need milk, a loaf of bread, and not to forget to take the cats for a walk. Aye, Spreyside.

http://www.thrillingdetective.com/eyes/rumpole.html

Both are luverly, although the peat-smoke is a bit off-setting to the better nine-tenths. And she holds the purse strings. As the great Mortimer said, "She who must be obeyed". A little like the Democratic power base, wot? Anywho. You figure "liberty" has taken a likkin' ("C'mon momma, quick, get out that likkin' stick") in America. And you figure times are tough in America.

NBOTB (New Boy On The Block -- "I means what I says, and I says whats I means, arrrrarrrhar") headh55 quips (amongst other things in his/her debut as a fly-by): "Do you have any proof that the US Govt is listening to yours or anyone elses domestic phone calls? A bit paranoid aren't we?". Yes, toodles, I do. I are. And if it hasn't been extemely hairy (gnarley to you younger fellers) enough around here recently, those danged cockroaches in Gaza and what's left of Palestine (a country that never existed, and they're just squatters on Gawds-promise-to-the-other-new-guys-on-the-block anyway) keeps getting more and more, squeezed off the front page: Read this, jiminey, it seems to be saying something. Meanwhile, Condi is power-shopping for new shoes, Dubya is packing up and thinkin' about . . . . whatever. Dick's in trouble, and I'm in misery. There used to be a great Zick-Zack kind of thing called, "Don't Do That". Anny leads on that?

http://www.counterpunch.org/loewenstein01012009.html

I wonder how long it takes before Ms. Loewenstein gets canned.

A fellow Salonista queries: "...but irony, especially broad irony like yours, often gets misunderstood. You came close, but you need to go way over the top so people get that it's satire. "What Liberties do we have if we are dead" is clasic, though, I give you that."

Besides the spelling misteaks, I (that would be, moi, totallyblase), would have to say: Satire is wasted on fools, parody on the target, irony is an inside joke, and nobody is the wiser. Wink. Shock. Awe. There may be a market there . . .

The current Pope is -- anti-gay, anti-muslim, and due to an indicretion is in his past, anti-aircraft: anywho. I'm about one third of the way through an excellent Kenbishi (isshou to the knowing):

"ondelette: "Full disclosure, I am an atheist and a Buddhist."

Most folks in Japan are 85% Buddhist / 85% Shinto.

Do the math. Kitt. No bad feelings. I think I actuaully 'dissed' you a while back. Sorry. Yes, my fingers are big, a bit slow, whatever. Age seems to be pat of the problem, that's why the doc recommends Kenbishi . . .

My post was re: Kevin Groenhagen / aka groanhag. Thanks for the update Mr. Greenwald. I am tugging that imaginary forelock that breeding and time has stolen . . .

You know, you're on your knees, sucking real hard and you say, "At time of war and turmoil, one needs more security and less liberty. While at time of peace; one needs more liberty and less liberty. That is the WAY."

Do you have, like, a little tattoo? Some hard stuff like, say, barbed wired around your upper arm?? A cute little, love-spot goatee? A sure-fire way to beat the bad dudes on your x-box, and then to lie about it to your buds? Pretty weak. Go out to the mall and get some new camos, dude.