If you follow politics, you know that Barack Obama last night effectively got down on his hands and knees behind Hillary Clinton, and a legion of African-American voters and college graduates pushed her over and everyone laughed at her for failing and pretending not to know she failed.
The news networks had round-the-clock coverage last night of the primaries in North Carolina and Indiana, during which time they hurled as many pundits of varying colors, ages, genders, and lack of stupidity, in addition to assaulting your neurons with as many graphs, exit polls, entrance polls, demographic breakdowns, county-by-county results, and other sundry facts than you can possibly handle. CNN was particularly adept at this, employing a touch screen map of Indiana where analysts could whirl around the state at breakneck speeds to show up-to-the-second vote tallies and make it all sorts of interesting colors.
The only problem is, nobody really knows what these numbers mean for the campaigns. Certainly, Obama exceeded expectations in North Carolina and Indiana, winning an obscene majority of African-American voters along the way, nearly winning both in the process, but how can we really get tapped into the nuts and bolts of each campaign at this point?
Look at the people the candidates want presented as their constitutents on national television. Yes, when Obama and Clinton both delivered their speeches before North Carolina and Indiana as the results trickled in, the campaigns each hand-selected members of the audiences in an attempt to craft a wide-ranging coalition to stand behind the candidate as he or she espoused about the greatness of this nation and their hopes to lead it. They made the greatest efforts to find people of varying races, genders, ages, and economic status, in order to show the nation and the world that people of all sorts support this candidate. Also, as the two went on and on and on in platitudes, you find your eyes drifting from the candidate, whose physical appearance we have had the opportunity to relentlessly critique and evaluated through innumerable photographs and video, onto the audience members, to see which parts of the speech they like the most. So I purport that we can look at these television-friendly attendees to gain some insight into the status of each campaign.
First, we start with last night’s winner, Senor Obama:
As you can see, his tireless staffers have managed to pull in young and old, white and black, male and female, handsome and above average. It looks like Helen Hunt’s no doubt nicer cousin has made an appearance in the lower right. An impressive effort of attractive and varied countenances.
Now onto Ms. Clinton:
Well, Chelsea looks nice. There appears to be an albino over her left shoulder, a chubby person next to him who is either a babyfaced young man or a lesbian. Then, two rows above him, there appears to be a biker transvestite who came to the rally with a woman who thinks it’s a fine idea to show support for a presidential candidate by placing a sticker square in the middle of your forehead like a kindergartener who got into his teacher’s prize drawer and covered himself in “Grape Job” stickers.
This is the best her campaign could come up with. It does not bode well, because no country was ever won on the backs of the homely.
Hillary Clinton was on my television this morning, telling me that, despite the fact that nobody anywhere likes her idea to give Americans a gas tax “holiday” this summer, complete with pina coladas and limbo, that we have a moral obligation to support her bad idea because we need to “take it to the big oil companies.” Also, all those eggheads that hate her failed idea are totally smart losers with all sorts of degrees, the types of guys you used to give wedgies and swirlies to, often at the same time! You gonna let them tell you what type of tax policy you support, huh, white ethnic middle-class undereducated American?
Anyways, since I always do what TV tells me, I took it to big oil companies today. I flicked off a gas station attendant on my way to the bus station. And, after work, I’m going to get a really contemptuous bumper sticker to put on my Prius.
And we’ll allow this post to serve as public shame until I get off my butt in order to plop my butt down in front of this thing to start getting my word out to the people. Or words. Probably several.
The subprime mortgage crisis that is creating a cottage industry for downward arrows for graphs and creating a red ink shortage the likes of which we have not seen since the 1970’s Toner Crisis has forced millions of Americans to actually read about major economic and business matters gripping this country. Normally, Joe and Samantha Q. Citizen have been able to blow right past the news of dollars and cents, shooting straight to the middle of the newspaper to catch up on Beetle Bailey or find out whether or not a gaseous ball of fire trillions of miles away thinks today could be a “day for keeping your cool.”
But now that the economy has gone and thrown it all to hell, the front pages are filled with very precise, detail-laden stories about all sorts of boring business crud, to the point that you feel like you need to be wearing a designer suit and boning your mistress just to find out what page the got durn TV guide is on. Is Price Is Right new, that’s all I wanna know, newspaper, stop making me feel like I fed my dog a homework assignment and will have to beat an impending letter from the principal home by cutting through Old Lady Cramberfield’s rose garden.
I know it’s tough to admit, but the cold, hard grip of business news on the front pages of America’s newspapers is here to stay, at least for a while. So it would probably be in your best interest to try and understand some of it, so when your colleagues gather around the water cooler or other corporate-approved fluid socializing device, you can contribute more to the conversation than just scratching and making motorboat noises.
I’m not asking you to suddenly develop an overwhelming knowledge of the U.S. Economy, with brainpower at such an absurd level you’re forced to moonlight as some sort of Ben Steinian Superhero, let’s just get the basics down. I want to explain to you subprime mortgages.
Subprime mortgages are like giving guns to 3-year olds. For purposes of this analogy, we will assume the toddler has bulletproof skin, to ensure the follow commentary can maintain an appropriately sufficient level of cheekiness.
They are items that say, “Hello, friend, please enjoy this thing that you for a variety of factually and common sense based reasons you probably should not enjoy.”
Guns certainly have their place in society, as do mortgages. Also, some people (perhaps not me) would contend that possessing both is part of the American Dream and what makes this country great and not at all like France.
Now, we can’t really blame the three-year old for having a gun; they can be very shiny and toddlers can be very grabby. No, instead, somewhere along the gun-giving process, somebody with more knowledge and expertise to such scenarios should have stepped in and said, “You know, I don’t think handing a deadly weapon to a person who is still struggling to coax their own bladder into submission is the most prudent plan of action at this point.” If you tell a toddler he can have a gun, he will have a gun, and disaster will strike.
At the same time, we cannot weep for the toddler that cries when righter heads prevail and his gun is taken away from him. Certainly the 3-year old will weep for the loss of his gun, as he had grown attached to it and had even let it sit and drive his Tonka truck, but the key thing to remember is that a 3-year old should never have a gun in the first place. Its removal is simply a much-needed adjustment to make things as they should be in the universe. And to ensure you don’t get shot in the shins.
To summarize, because people who should have known better thought it was a good idea to hand out Glocks to small children, the country is not struggling with roving gangs of sticky-faced toddlers armed to the teeth, weaving a swath of hyperactive destruction across the countryside and leaving nothing but expended shells and Hot Wheels in their wake.
If you discover that your future son-in-law has an ex-girlfriend who is pregnant with his child, don’t get a convict you formerly employed to hire an ex-con to kidnap her, because she’ll have a hemorrhage and die shortly after giving birth to that child, and you’ll be arrested seconds before end credits.
New Kids on the Block is getting back together. That is, the New Kids who don’t have a whole lot else going on. Mark Wahlberg, you’re making movies and generally contributing to society, so you’re excused.
BOSTON, Massachusetts (AP) — They may be pushing 40, but the New Kids are returning to the block.
Donnie Wahlberg, who has forever confirmed his status as the Lesser Wahlberg, is 38 years old. Just imagine, soon you’ll be able to see a man old enough to be elected President doing this in front of dozens, perhaps hundreds of excessively ironic young adults.
CORRECTION: It has been correctly indicated to me that Mark Wahlberg was, in fact, not a member of NKOTB. He made his own thoroughly mediocre music as a member of the Funky Bunch. Majorly English regrets the error.
When you hail from a small town like I do, any bit of exposure from sources outside of said municipality results in a good bit of excitement from the townsfolk. But when your hometown earns itself an entire article in the New York Times, one of the world’s most popular and most influential newspapers, you might as well strap on your overalls and warm up the jug, because you done made it to the big time.
Thanks to a prolonged, near tortuous Democratic primary, my hometown, Johnstown, PA, home of America’s worst ever natural disaster, got itself an article in the Grey Lady it could call its very own. Some reporters scoured the town to obtain a rich flavor of the area and what the people stand for as we struggle to decide which Democratic candidate we hate the least and want to present to oppose the Republican candidate that is already only somewhat hated.
What did Johnstown make of its newfound worldwide publicity?
Peter Contacos, 42, the fourth generation of his family to own and operate Coney Island Lunch, a downtown Johnstown business that survived two floods and the loss of thousands of regular customers when Bethlehem Steel eliminated 15,000 jobs in the 1970s and ’80s, will not vote for Senator Barack Obama, “because his name is Barack Hussein Obama — case closed.” Mr. Contacos, an avid hunter who proudly displays pictures of himself with a magnificently maned lion he killed in Botswana, said he considered Mr. Obama “a terrorist.”
Because his middle name is Hussein. Like the evildoer. They have the same name, meaning they must share similar characteristics. The same reason why no matter what Billy Bush tells me, I’m convinced Jeff Goldblum has a refrigerator full of faces and knees.
Nicely done, J-Town, you’ve opted for the role of the obese Star Trek fan who auditions for American Idol and presents a homemade papier mache bust of Paula Abdul that looks more like Paula Jones before butchering an Avril Lavigne tune. You know, the ones Fox shows us just to remind us that no matter what, we’re not them.
However, it should be noted that the businessowner quoted runs a diner most known for its hot dogs, and said hot dogs are most known because as part of their preparation, they are lined up along the cook’s arm, all the way up to the armpit. Presumably for efficiency, certainly not for health codes. Some claim that the armpit dog is the best one, but I have my doubts, considering it is closely associated with a stranger’s armpit.
A rich flavor of leftover beef parts, with a hint of Secret brand deodorant. Delicious enough for a man, but made for a woman. Her armpits, specifically.
Love was in the air yesterday for Washington, D.C.’s panda power couple, Tian Tian and Mei Xing. And by “love,” I mean “the narrow window where properly conducted copulation stands a chance of resulting in the implantation of an embryo and hopefully, months down the line, the live birth of a panda cub.”
Yep, it was that special time, which comes about as frequently as a lunar eclipse, when panda bears can potentially get pregnant. Of course, since we’re talking about panda bears, which are a failed experiment that only continues exist because we think they’re too darn cute to let them not mate themselves into oblivion, they failed to do so, forcing mankind to take up the dirty work.
Scientists at the National Zoo said they artificially inseminated the giant panda Mei Xiang yesterday after she and her partner, Tian Tian, unsuccessfully tried to mate Tuesday.
Well, at least the National zookeepers can know that the panda’s appreciate our hardworking men and women going elbow deep in giant bear vaginas to keep them from disappearing off the face of the planet. What’s that? We can’t? They aren’t appreciative?
The 170-pound giant-panda cub at the National Zoo grabbed a worker while trying to play, sending her to the hospital with a small leg laceration, zoo officials said Wednesday.
Uh-oh. Sounds like Tai Shan doesn’t want a baby brother or sister, and he’s taking his ire straight to the scientifically-enhanced source.
Hey, remember six years ago when we took that Film 100 class during my first semester freshman year? Remember how you came into class with the same trench coat you wore every day, listening to some music on your portable CD player, back before we all had iPods?
Remember how the class started, and the professor asked you to take off your headphones, and remember how you told him you would, but “Let me finish up this song first”? That didn’t go that well, huh? Amazing that the professor wouldn’t want to delay the class an entire minute and a half so you could complete your enjoyment of a song from some band I’m sure we’ve never heard of, but are really big in Bulgaria/Portland, Oregon.
Anyways, just wanted to let you know that I thought of that event on my way to work today, and if anything, your behavior has only gotten more ridiculous as those six years have passed. What an unbelievably moronic move. FYI.
