Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Judicial Quackery Afoot

Each new day brings an absence of writing from my august fellows at the SAGE Journal, and, alas, another bout of discrimination in the form of judicial quackery, such as this.

I regret the latter almost as much as the former.

I am someone who has fought that low form of bigotry called heightism my entire life. I fight it each day, whether at The Law School, at my favorite wine bar, or yes, even while at my local Hummer dealer. Where are the judges who would stand up for the P.D. "Bo" Steeds of this world? Who will be the next Oliver Wendell Holmes in the fight against those shorter of stature? Why is heightism the only politically acceptable form of discrimination left in society?

I, for one, am tired of riding in the back of the bus. Perhaps History has called upon me to be the next Rosa Parks.

If not now, when?

If not P.D. "Bo" Steed, then who?

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

What Fresh New Hell Is This?

To: My Dear Colleagues

From: X

Subject: The Matter Directly Preceding This Post

Is this what we are to become; A society formed to debate the limited merits of an English Poof and a Canadian Blowhard?! Please spare me and our legions of readers if you will.

Sullivan is most certainly one of the web's greatest fools. At some point in his career, the man apparently established a reputation for serious thought, but all evidence of whatever skill he once demonstrated seems to have escaped his command. Reading his blog one almost develops a sense of pity. Almost.

Oh! The poor fool, so blinded by his passion for gay marriage and what appears to me to be a projected hatred of aging father figures, he simply cannot see past the many false demons he has created and named as the enemies of conservatism! Of course this fable, constructed from a now years long series of lunatic rants, has a hero and his name is....... Andrew! But of course!

Yes we are blessed! The great and wonderful Andrew! The Beneficent Andrew! Our hero! And this is no ordinary hero either. No sireee bub Sir Andrew, much like a greater man he once idolized and listened to on the wireless dontcha know, Alistair Cooke, our Andy is steeped in a deep understanding of all things Americana. Just ask him! All things that happen to reside between Washington D.C. and the gay walks of P-town, that is. Oh yes, Andy does love the heartland, and he visits quite frequently; whenever a local state funded institution of higher learning decides it might be best to allow its students a moment to reoxygenate their beer sodden brains.

As for Steyn the best that can be said is that the man does maintain at least a minimum level of reasoning, and can still wield the pen with a certain lethality. Still, he's a friggin' Canuck and we all know that that stain simply will not wash off.

To hell with both of them I say! Let them burn their unsold books for warmth, and if desperation requires (and Steyn's morals prove sufficiently "flexible") they can cuddle when the wasted paper runs out!

Yours in Gentility,


Monday, November 13, 2006

Steyn v. Sullivan, Or: Fact v. Opinion

A most interesting review of the most recent books by Mark Steyn and Andrew Sullivan can be found here.

I have prattled on quite alot about our unfortunate postmodern world in recent posts, and will spare my fellows at SAGE and our substantial audience another charge up that particular hill. It would seem, however, that demographics would be, by definition, a matter of fact, and not opinion.

If this is true, can anybody detect the most significant problem with our intrepid reviewer's remarks?

Put another way, can aspirations displace facts?

Thursday, November 09, 2006

A Toast to the New Irregulars

Consider the defeat of faux cowboy George Allen by ex-Marine/novelist Jim Webb, who might plausibly have gone a few rounds with Papa, both in Sloppy Joe’s and in a hastily constructed makeshift boxing ring, after which they would smoke cigars and discuss novels. Not so Macaca. Or the victory of John Tester, a rugged farmer like myself; I would think it good policy to require that all members of Congress have at least one missing digit. And even Claire McCaskill, springing from midwestern hillbilly stock, seems comfortable in her own comfortable shoes, eschewing Hillary Clinton's hybridized style of New York Bitch and Overmade Hollywood Trollop as well as the unsettling, TBN-via-Victorian-era wardrobe of Elizabeth Dole.

Are we witnessing the end of the paradigms that have defined our politics for the last decades of the 20th century? How eagerly would I bid farewell to both the tender city slickers who have defined the Democrats and the ersatz gasconaders who have defined the Republicans. Even my good friend Gov. Schwarzenegger is conducting himself more like a statesman and less like the Incredible Hulk. The former Democratic archetype, my good friend Sen. Kerry, suffered his own demise in 2004 and again just weeks ago. The tide does not bode well for fellow cufflink lover and serial cat murderer Sen. Frist.

A new era! And thank God. There are better models than those visited upon us since the 1970s. Bring on the Hemingway Democrats and Rough Rider Republicans.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Election Post-Mortem

"What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet." (Woody Allen)

Everybody can now take a deep breath and relax.

It should be no surprise that an incrementally more Collectivist Congress will now rule the roost for (most likely) two short years.

The steady drift of America over the past 50 years is akin to the wandering eye of Jean Paul Sarte pictured above: lazy, out of focus, ever tilted Leftward. The Republicans did nothing to stall this drift during the past 12 years and thus got what they deserved. Our Republic will now get what it deserves, and the one-way ratchet away from personal responsibility thus continues, unabated.

This, my friends, is the only lesson worth talking about from yesterday's election. You heard it first from P.D. "Bo" Steed.

Ironically, one of the biggest "losers" in the wake of the election may not be Bush or the late Donald Rumsfeld, but instead the so-called "Truthers," i.e., that motley collection of unfortunate kooks and misfits who seem to think that on September 11, 2001 the Bush Administration was able to orchestrate mass murder on a truly historic scale--without detection and with the aid of dozens of Muslim Lee Harvey Oswalds perfectly willing to play the role of patsies--but apparently lacks the tummy to drum up a few thousand phantom votes in Virginia or Montana. The Truthers' myriad and contradictory claims about the selective omnipotence of the Bush Administration are enough to make Hans ("forgive the missing umlaut") Kung proud, but don't count on them to now shut their pious and paranoid pieholes. The famous wag once said a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds, but he didn't contemplate the smallness of the minds among the Truthers Movement, R.I.P.

And speaking of small minds: were he still alive to gaze upon the world he helped create and we have now inherited, our friend Jean-Paul Sarte would likely look Leftward, sneer for a moment, and assert, with all due irony, that "It is good."

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

The Blonde IV: A Crash on MD 70

For Those of you just joining, here are Parts I, II and III

“You better get us the hell out of this X!” she yelled.

I said nothing. My mind was filled with rage, but my training kept me in complete control. “No worries Annie” was all I said. I checked my weapon and opened the sun roof, ready for action.

Looking back I saw a late model Dodge Van in hot pursuit; two men of Middle Eastern descent hanging out of each side firing at us.

“Always the f**king Arabs”, I said to no one in particular.

“Just keep us in front of that van, and make us as small of a target as possible!” I yelled.

Annie was brilliant. As I stood up and began to return fire through the sun roof, she weaved in and out of traffic making it very difficult for the gunmen to get a bead on us. Not wanting to unnecessarily endanger any other civilians I was judicious in my shot selection, but did manage to take out the van’s windshield and, I think, wing the driver. Still, they remained in hot pursuit and in the heavy traffic the Beemer’s superior handling was only a marginal advantage……or so I thought.

Leveling my weapon I took a bead on the van’s driver and squeezed off a pair of shots just at the very same second as Annie swerved the Beemer across two lanes of traffic and powered us through an opening in the far right line.

“Dammit Annie! I had the f**ker dead to rites!” I yelled.

“What the hell do you want X?! You said get us out of here and that’s what I’m doing!”

I looked back and saw that while we had managed to gain a good half mile on the killers, all traffic behind us except for our pursuers had stopped; I guess the sight of a crazed gunman shooting at a van load of swarthy Middle Eastern types in the middle of the night will have that affect on people! The Arabs, while they now had nothing but road between their van and my car, really had no hope of catching us.

“You did it!” I yelled looking down at The Long Tall One. “Hell of a move Annie, hell of a move!”

“And yet I find myself oddly unfulfilled”, she yelled back. “We can’t let those bastards get away with this X! Hang On!”

The next thing I knew, Annie had thrown the Beemer into a wicked 180 degree turn. The lights of DC went a blur and having little to hang on to, I was nearly sent aloft through the roof of the car. Then, just as quickly as the car went into the skid, I felt the Beemer’s 19 inch Michelin Pilots grip the asphalt as Annie downshifted engaging the full potential of the V12 to propel us back towards the enemy.

To stunned to fully comprehend what The Long Tall One had just done I stood starring out of the top of the Beemer in awe of this woman. It was only Annie’s voice that brought me back to the task at hand.

“Here, take mine. You’re down to two shots by my count” I heard Annie yell.

Looking down at my stunning companion I said a silent prayer of thanks. Annie, with one hand on the wheel and another in her purse was removing a Glock 30; 9 in the mag and 1 in the chamber!

“I’ll get you the shot X, the rest is up to you!” she yelled.

I was captivated. In a situation where any other woman….hell, any other man, would have been happy to drive off to certain safety after a close brush with these killers, this woman…..this amazing woman was committed to exacting our share of justice on the turbaned fiends.

Oh and was she was a site! Her long blonde hair was blowing in the wind, the black, cocktail dress had worked itself midway up her slender thighs, and those eyes; those deep blue eyes revealed that here was a woman of conviction!

“Yes” I thought “Together, we will go to war.”

“Keep the car steady, drive straight at the bastards! Stay focused…it’s these cowards who are gonna blink…..wait until I pop the driver and then make your move to the right!” I ordered.

“Roger that!” What a gal.

I returned my focus to the van which was now 100 feet away and closing. I could see the driver on one side murderously steering the van towards my beautiful companion and me. There was also bearded man hanging out of the passenger side widow firing what looked like an HK MP5K; impressive fire power – we were lucky to have made it this far.

As I leveled the Glock I saw fire blaze out of the HK’s muzzle and felt the heat of a round that flew past my head. I was trained for moments like these and my attention could not be shaken. Everything around me seemed to be of another world. It was just me, my Glock and two men in a van who had come an awfully long way to die. Somewhere in the distance I heard the Beemer’s windshield shatter as it was hit by several rounds.

“F**kers!” I heard a voice yell, and felt the car accelerate. “She’s ok!” I thought.

Oblivious to everything but my target, I squeezed the trigger as the gap between our vehicles narrowed to no more than 40 feet. I didn’t have to see the driver’s head erupt in a crimson explosion – I knew I had him sited – but it felt sure felt good. As instructed, Annie deftly pulled the car to the right, we went around the van and I got a good look at the passenger’s “Oh Sh*t” face as we flew by! “See ya, Ali Babba” I thought.

“Get us outta here now Annie!” I yelled.

The Long Tall One, who didn’t need to be told twice, spotted an exit ramp, threw the car into a perfect drift, downshifted and in a feat of driving that I didn’t think was possible got us onto the ramp in a perfectly executed 130 degree turn! As we went down the ramp, I looked up the highway just in time to see my Middle Eastern buddies’ van plow into a concrete embankment and explode into flames.

“I wonder if they get virgins when their mission fails” I found myself asking nobody in particular.

I hadn’t realized that I was still standing in the sun roof and felt Annie’s’ hand on my belt as she pulled me back down into the car. She was laughing.

“Virgins?!” She laughed. “I don’t know about that, but I do know that our side always rewards its boys for a job well done!”

As I fell into my side of the car, Annie gave me a smile and I felt the Beemer’s acceleration press me into my seat. Her focus on the road ahead, Annie drove me to a destiny that I couldn’t have imagined a mere 8 hours earlier.

Next: Love and Rockets


Monday, November 06, 2006

Election's Eve

I am alive, comrades, friends, and foes; but only just.

On the eve of such an historic election as this, I am rather tempted to set all self-reference aside, and, in an altruistic spirit of civic betterment, to offer my humblest commentary regarding the pitiable state of this once-great Nation. In lament of the unappetizing choice betwixt rival cocktails of fusty populisms foisted so insultingly upon the sallow table-settings of our ailing Republic, am I not, as a public intellectual, entitled—nay, obliged—to raise my voice?

Alas—I fear my words would go unheeded. Go on, then, and read the Drudge Report. Read Malkin, read Kos, you untrustworthy stewards of liberty; you shall find no Insta-bolus here. Republicans, you profligate cowards, shall find no weary platitudes and Rovian catch-phrases in this refuge of sagacity. Nor shall Democrats, you sniveling dealers in victimhood, find the shrill, partisan polemic you doubtless seek.

Go on, you pseudonymous lackeys, back to your blogospheric patrons. Wriggle back into your pajamas and settle back into your easy-chairs. Scuttle back to Eschaton or Atlas Shrugs, and root, root, root for the home team! More importantly, fling spoor in the general direction of your opponents, for if they don’t lose it’s a shame. Call them liars and traitors. Call them boot-lickers, baby-killers, death-worshippers, dunces, daemons, Nazis, Stalinists, parasites, sodomites, racists, rapists, tyrants, terrorists, anti-Christs, anti-Semites—have at it! For there is no slur too vile that it cannot be issued from where you loll ensconced, there behind the soft glow of your smudgy laptop screens.

Go on, fools! Have at it! There is hardly more damage to be done.


I meant, if you’ll believe it, to provide some explanation for my absence these last several weeks. I have digressed. But in time I intend to explain the circumstances of my absence, as they make for a remarkable story indeed.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Please Donate


Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Assman, Squirt, and The Age of Apology

The last 48 hours have created some of the most pathetic political theatre in my storied lifetime.

First, we have Assman, a/k/a John Kerry, sticking his foot in his mouth once again, and then, inevitably, waffling about what to do about it. It is obvious to any reasonable person that Assman did not technically mean to insult the troops, but it is equally obvious that he would do so in a heartbeat if doing so would raise his poll ratings a notch. Assman, ever a sad tree of a man, always comes off as a sap (And why, incidentally, must it be left to P.D. "Bo" Steed to give the man this most deserved nickname?). Not content with his initial transgression, we then are subjected to Assman apologizing after having vowed to not apologize, thus cementing his status as a caricature of his caricature.

I suppose we should thank the Lord that Assman did none of this whilst in spandex.

Next, just as morning follows night, we have a calvacade of faux outrage about Assman's remarks, most notably from Squirt himself, that raunchy Sean Hannity and his phalanx of "conservative" talk show sidekicks, each of whom surely knows better. None of these so-called defenders of freedom seem to care one whit that they are ceding the fundamental premise of postmodern orthodoxy in their efforts to protect a Senate seat or two, i.e., that if you are a "victim" you have an inalienable right to an "apology." Does anybody doubt that this particular chicken has not yet come home to roost, or that when it finally does it will defecate on everybody's boots? Chickenshit behavior indeed.

We live in a world in which any given day might bring a dirty bomb, a suicide attack, or some other life altering event, and the best these boobs can do is to pretend the world slipped from its axis because of some inarticulate musings of a has-been windsurfer.

Welcome to 2006, The Age of Apology. Brought to you by Assman and Squirt.

de Toqueville was right: in a democracy, you get what you deserve.