When McCain’s ad people aren’t taking metaphorical dumps on the high profile daughters of top level campaign contributors, they apparently found the time to release this weird and almost humorous attack ad portraying Obama as messianic at best and self delusional at worst. This isn’t anything unexpected – it’s a desperate tactic taken directly from the Book of Republican Dirty Campaign Tricks. I, like a lot of people, may have misunderstood what was really going on. It appears that Time.com has an article on the true nature of this advertisement and it’s much more sinister than it appears after a quick viewing.
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Church of Hell
The sand in the swimtrunks of life.
McCain attacks Obama as the Antichrist?
August 11th, 2008
“Comment”
A few thoughts on Sarah Palin and her Neo-Con Overlords
September 2nd, 2008
A couple of thoughts here…
Who honestly believes that, as the press has been constantly stating, McCain actually hand selected Sarah Palin? You want me to seriously believe that this wasn’t a calculated decision by party leaders? She admits to meeting him once, maybe twice, and I can assure you he remembers her not at all. You honestly expect me to believe that he personally chose this nearly complete stranger over any one of his cronies? You think it isn’t obvious that his handlers handed him a slip of paper with her name on it and told him how to pronounce it moments before he was supposed to announce her as his running mate?
I’m beginning to believe that the reason McCain is so stiff is because his party has so many people who are so unforgivingly gullible and closed minded they don’t even need to use a particularly talented or experienced puppeteer for his public appearances.
The Real reason Sarah Palin is [temporarily] on the Repugnican Ticket
September 3rd, 2008
After a little thought and a little discussion, I had a revelation about McCain’s (handlers) Veep choice. It’s so obvious it’s almost embarrassing that I didn’t catch on sooner. Sarah Palin is what in is war, hunting and narcotics stings called a decoy. Give me a few minutes and I’ll explain why she’s nothing more than a patsy, ‘hand picked’ not as a viable candidate but merely as a way to give tired, old McCain a small vacation and a temporary reprieve from scrutiny.
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The Ugly, the Bad and the Good
November 5th, 2008
I’d like to say it’s all down to Daylight Savings Time. This morning is so bright and clear, with the red and yellow leaves on the trees that line these Ohio streets shockingly saturated against an almost cloudless, baby blue sky. Is this morning so marvelous merely because the sun is coming up earlier than I am accustomed to as I make my normal commute? I would like to believe that there is an emotionless and scientific reason that this morning seems so fresh and new, even after a night of too few hours of fitful sleep. It was an ugly night filled with bad dreams, dreams of a new President who is as corrupt and evil as the last, a nightmarish orchestra of vague and disturbing emotions, of fleeting images of the war and woe of the last 8 years but with a different face on its conductor. I realize now, in the light of this bright morning, that my already healthy cynicism, especially for things political, has been fed and fanned and stoked and drenched in the lighter fluid of apathy and distrust for decades, especially this last one, starting with that ridiculous witch hunt to destroy a decent leader out of spite only to replace him with a barely coherent and jabbering sock monkey who’s ground this great country into the dirt, spit on it and is stealing its wallet before leaving it to die. No, I said to myself, this morning is changed, not because of the early dawn; this morning is changed because the entire country has changed and for the first time in a very long time, there was a little chink in my cynical armor, and a little hope was oozing out. (more…)
I hate PT Cruisers
November 6th, 2009
Walking out to my car this morning, the brief screech of a vehicle making a too-fast turn caught my attention and I witnessed an all black PT Cruiser (sporting chromesque trim and dark tinted windows) taking the corner in front of my house on its way, perhaps, to drop the Team Captain of the Cobra Kai off at early soccer practice. I ask you: really? Who besides the Antichrist’s mother would buy a PT Cruiser in Hearse Black, get the windows tinted super dark and then speed around like they were in some kind of diazepam-sponsored urban rally?
I hate PT Cruisers, by the way.
I once sat in a PT Cruiser. It happened while I was out shopping for a late model whatever-the-hell-I-could-get-financed. I was at the local Kia dealer being circled by desperate, pin-striped vultures when I was attacked by a clipboard wielding salesman and forced into a small cubicle that smelled of Axe body spray and burnt coffee. I was handed a questionnaire which was so personal and in depth it should have immediately qualified me to be an OT Level III Scientologist, at the very least.
Waiting for my result was very much like waiting at the free clinic for VD results, sans the burning, itchy rash and rank, drippy emissions. Was he going to walk me over to a nice Kia? Would he shuffle me over to some of the used vehicles? Scream at me and tell me to get off the lot? No. He walked me, sadly shaking his mousse-y, hair-helmeted head, directly to a PT Cruiser. I do not kid even slightly when I tell you that my response to ‘What are you looking for’ was ‘A sedan if I can but not an SUV and most certainly not a PT Cruiser.’ I am not exaggerating this. I actually told him no PT Cruisers. I think I may have faked a shudder of contempt when I said it. So of course, after looking at my completely blank credit history, he walked me straight to one in the hopes of scaring me off the lot without having to subdue me with the one-two punch of a spray of Axe to the face and a skull shattering bouffant-butt.
So he walked me over to the poor man’s Prowler. The kind of car a guy buys when he can’t even afford a beat up, late 70s Mustang. The kind of vehicle that certain ‘Soccer Moms’ drive when they aren’t giving their mentally abused husbands fresh bruises. The kind of vehicle that screams douche louder than a Honda Civic covered in after-market stickers, a badly spot-welded roll bar and two exhaust pipes the size of coffee cans.
I didn’t like it.
The interior wasn’t too bad if you don’t mind feeling like you’re sitting on a booster seat in something designed by Ed ‘Big Daddy’ Roth and Ed ‘Little Mommy’ Wood after they shared a rag full of ether. The car as a whole, though, was definitely not what I wanted, especially since I vomited a little when I got in it and it took two days for my testicles to descend out of their safe little hidey-hole behind my pancreas after I got back out of it.
The PT is a novelty car. As for safety and crashes, it fails more tests than a tequila soaked frat boy. There’s the kind of problems with wobble you only get by reusing chopped Neon frames. The performance you would expect in something designed for form instead of function. It even gets crummy gas mileage. The only – and I mean the only – thing it has going for it is that it looks a little retro, but only in the way that wearing a long, plaid skirt makes you look a little bit Scottish. Plus, I always expect to see a group of angry clowns wearing tracksuits and too much makeup pouring out of them when I see them stop at a light.
I’m waiting for the day when I see the precursor to End Times, those Fluffers of the Apocalypse, driving down the road in their Mary Kay Pink vehicles: Vanity, in its gaudy PT Cruiser, applying mascara, text messaging, reading the paper and trimming It’s goatee; Greed, running down old women in a blinged up Hummer; Ignorance, tooling down the sidewalk in reverse in a fuscia Explorer, blinded by windows covered in Jesus fish and McCain/Palin bumper stickers; and Hypocrisy, in a pastel Prius, puffing a clove cigarette, listening to whale song and riding down the homeless to get a better spot near the Starbucks.