The Beverly Hillbillies

I’ve been running a small meme offside with a few friends, we’ve been ragging on Obama with snippets set to the tune of The Beverly Hillbillies theme song. We’ve racked up some funny shit, if you’re half lit and into juvenile humor. This is one of my favorites.

Obama was a tall guy with a big old shiny head

Teeth so white, his smile would knock you dead

He said my granny’s white, but I’m just as black as yoooouuu

If it ain’t Bush’s fault, then blame the fucking Jews.

Gordon had an excellent one too, but I can’t locate it in the overflowing mess I call an inbox. Feel free to share any inspirational lyrics that come to mind (calling Lance De Boyle), here’s the tune if it’s not already embedded in your brain.

 

** update…Mark kicked it out of the box with this piece of fine wordsmithing…

Come and listen to my story ’bout a man named “O”,

An acorn organizer from the hills of Chicago.

He was speaking truth to power, and stickin’ it to the “man”,

When he came to the attention of a gal called San Fran Nan.

Pelosi that is, Botox gold, face like a snare drum.

Next thing you know Madam Speakers on the horn,

“I’ve seen the Prog messiah on this very morn”.

“He’s wet behind the ears and he doesn’t have a plan,

But he can read a teleprompter like a TV weatherman”.

Empty suit that is, deer in the headlights, just the ticket.

So come along and join the cult of personality,

We’re all in this together so long as you agree with me.

Conservatives, teabaggers, and the fascist GOP,

Your just a bunch of racists as I’m sure you’ll all soon see.

“I won” that is, internet restrictions, fairness doctrine.

House Porn

I want to buy this house. It’s $315,000 worth of exquisitely refurbished, 1920’s fabulous craftsmanship built on 11 acres an hour northeast of Dallas. I want this house so bad I can taste it. She’s situated on the soft crest of a hill with a beautiful rock wall defining her rolling perimeters, a classic old barn rests in the pasture and a nod towards modernity lives in the well wired office stacked above the new garage. A clear creek flows down through her sweet spot, fields of green and trees command the view and the town center lives a short mile down the road. I want her to be mine.

Chain Mail

I despise chain emails and I’m pretty damn close to despising the people who send these loads of virus infested fistfuls of inane crap my way.

I have one Mac down because of this doltish behavior and I’m ready to start taking scalps if I see another piece of this cloaked shittery sitting in my email.

Stop it.

Nobody want’s to read this crap. I do not care if I’m eventually plagued by locusts if I don’t (and I can promise you I that won’t) send it to ten other people. The political crap you’re sending me? I saw it three weeks ago. The stabs at saving my soul with hellfire damnation fodder aren’t making me feel real friendly or Christian and my charity rolls are full up, thank you very much.

Just fucking stop it before I hunt you down and put a serious hurting on your thick stupid skull.

**Here’s another gripe. The jerk that owns the closest Apple store lives in my neighborhood, his bratty kid shares a classroom with one of my sons and he dishes up some of the worst customer service at his place of business that I’ve ever encountered. He employs a squad of arrogant, unwashed rude pricks to do personal interface and it takes twenty plus rings for his douchy bastards to answer the phone. It’s Apple for crying out loud, can’t I just make a service appointment online? I am in a foul mood.

Boo

I love Halloween. No intricate meals to cook or gifts to buy, streams of small children skipping straight to my door, begging for candy behind masked disguise, under a blanket of stars twinkling bright in the sky.

Lousy poetry, a handful of tiny snickers and a tumbler of good bourbon. What more could you ask for on this fine afternoon? Of course, I’ll have to lock up my other shadow tonight. My friend of a dog is convinced that all trick or treaters are pure devil’s spawn, intent on attacking the castle and mauling his beloved mistress. The old boy would like to eat their sticky little faces off.

British Obscenity

This gruesome bedtime story has been making the rounds on British television.

Your nightly dose of flagrant child abuse courtesy of the progressive state, via Counting Cats.

 

 

Obama’s Drupalese

Laugh out loud brilliance from Dennis the Peasant.

Wilson states the White House using Drupal site management software is bad for the following reasons:

1. Drupal knows best (“It’s not that Drupal thinks you’re evil. It just thinks you’re ignorant.”),
2. Drupal is impenetrable,
3. Drupal hates change,
4. Drupal is disorganized, and…
5. Drupal is righteous.

It took me a moment, and then I understood exactly why the White House chose Drupal:

It’s the software that is Barack Obama!

Read the rest at his place.

Artisan Finery

A few years spent in anticipation of a much desired treasure can be a wonderful lesson in patience. The object of your fixation usually has some solid qualities worthy of fullsome appreciation if the shine hasn’t managed to rub off in the years following that first covetous glance. The deep sense of pleasure experienced when it finally becomes yours is incredibly satisfying.

I’ve had very few moments like this, it’s unusual for me to remain enamored of anything for more than a few months running. Either the desire palls when I go back for a closer look, it’s discarded as completely unattainable or I pounce with wicked abandon, prudence and commonsense be damned. Repenting at leisure has been a regular occupation of mine.

Not this time. I’ve spent the past several years lusting after Sippican’s case goods. The man handcrafts some fine pieces that own a timeless beauty. Simply put, I’ll never get tired of sharing my life with these classics. I wish I had an entire clapboard cottage, sporting lacquered black shutters, fronting some quiet southern bay, filled to the brim with his wonderful things standing alongside down filled sofas, slip covered in fine linen, enameled vases full of fresh-cut peonies and delicate lace curtains rippling at open windows.

I can’t wait ’til my stuff arrives. I feel like a kid at Christmas.

Matthew Hoh

I expect every columnist, pundit and backwater political blogger will be piling on Matthew Hoh with full vigor in the following weeks. The conservatives will probably crucify the man as a devious liberal degenerate, the liberals may very well follow suit, with a somewhat different slant on the ad hominem attacks, since Mr. Hoh doesn’t seem to be giving the administration any ringing vote of confidence.

I found this man’s public resignation and personal history quite compelling. He strikes me as an honest broker of relevant experience with ample qualifications to offer an educated opinion on our situation in Afghanistan. Why not give Matthew Hoh’s thoughts on this matter a full hearing without slinging bagfuls of hard partisan rhetoric straight for his skull?

I’ll admit my bias up front, he’s speaking aloud, with some authority, my simple layman’s opinion. I’ve spent the past year and a half trying to educate myself on this war, something I’m embarrassed to say that I failed to do previously, and I’ve come to the conclusion that this situation is not winnable under any of the current conditions or ambitions.

I don’t like to lose. I don’t like our government to be wrong and I detest being personally wrong. I hate walking away from anything I’ve wholeheartedly committed to, but this war and its long-term commitments need to be examined with some dispassion before we sink another two or three generations of American blood and treasure into this venture. Regarding the goals, I’d like to hear those carefully clarified, they seem a tad squishy and I’m not all that enthused with nation building in Islamic countries at this point.

Eight years down a long, bloody road, that apparently has no end in sight, the Matthew Hoh’s of the world should be given some honest consideration. I hope this bold man gets a few minutes of your time.

Dive In

Batter Up

I have vague memories of what people lacking small children do on Saturdays. Hazy visions of sleeping past eight, skipping breakfast and meandering through downtown festivals sounds about right.

None of that happens in my world.

We get up early, cook a big meal and head to the ball field three seasons out of the year. You see, we’ve been blessed with a boy who’s obsessed with baseball. My little guy loves everything about the game. He’ll play any position with gusto, thinks practice is fun, cuts up in the dugout when he’s benched for an inning and lives to attend the Round Rock Express games on Little League Night. Parading around that glorious stadium of minor league big men ranks near the sublime pinnacle of joy on his small boy calendar.

This Fall was his first season of kid pitch. God, those are some long games. Three slow innings are the gold standard in an excruciating ninety minutes of boring play. If you’re unfamiliar with the phases of little league, I’ll give you a short primer: for the previous four to six seasons these players are pitched to by one of their coaches, a nice man who’s throwing to make hitting as easy as possible. Prior to that, they’re hitting off a stationary T stand. Kid pitch is a whole new world. Accuracy and base theft are cornerstones for this new level of the game, thankfully most excel at the latter so the scoreboard isn’t a total heartbreak when the ump calls time.

Boys of eight can’t pitch with any sort of precision, the batters are busy ducking or swinging at air. Most kids get walked to first or painfully run for the base after getting beaned by the wild man standing the mound, then they steal the hell out of the remaining bases. Half of the scores are generated by some ballsy scrap of a kid racing for home after the catcher goes scrambling to recover a bad pitch.

Today was our last regular season game and my boy pitched a few innings. This child was in his glory, striking out half of his batters while walking the rest. Nobody got smacked, none of his throws went wild and the coach gave him a huge Atta Boy as he left the field. After a successful stint at first and third, the coveted Game Ball was stowed in his equipment bag for the ride home. Not a bad day at the ball field.

He’s busy carving a ten foot spear as I write.