Archive for August, 2013
Liberals were quite cranky about a rodeo clown in Missouri.
A Texas rodeo planned to have an Obama rodeo clown, because they don’t care what the left thinks.
Well, that day has come and gone, and I’m not able to discover a single news story about it.
I suspect the lesson here is that when you refuse to apologize after doing nothing wrong, your insane accusers crawl back into the degenerate rat holes from whence they came.
During a speech in Montana, Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia said the courts shouldn’t “invent new minorities that get special protections”.
Or, with Obamacare, majorities that get no protection.
How can anyone think we have too many liberties?
Oh, I know. They think that because they believe in the myth of the “superior man” who will take care of them. The man on the white horse who knows better than everyone, and who can run everything so that no one is ever afraid or poor or sick or marginalized.
In other words, they dream of the ideal childhood.
The rest of us know that never in the history of the world, not even the calmest, has there been a time when a leader could guarantee safety, health and contentment to everyone. There will always be poor, unloved, suffering people. You can’t help that.
You behave in a way you help those around you and you try not to be a burden, but even then at times that will fail.
Those of us who are religious believe a time will come when we will live like that, in perfect harmony and contentment with a superior being watching over us.
But last time I looked, neither king, premier, president, emperor or satrap had the power to look into the hearts and minds and judge everyone perfectly. And no, the NSA spying ain’t it. And none of the above were the creators of the universe.
They are all, in fact, fallible men, usually fallible men attracted to power over others, who want to run you not for your own good but for their own internal satisfaction. And since people who crave this sort of power tend to be more broken than writers, their internal satisfaction might be something that even they don’t understand.
There is no man on a white horse. There is, always, an old trickster, coming to town and promising eternal peace. If you look carefully, you can see the horse is a mule that has been painted white. And the man is just using the same old promises the human brain is wired to crave, but what he wants is quite different. And even if he truly believes what he says, he can’t deliver. He’s just a man. He can’t know what each individual wants and needs. Only each of you can know what he wants and needs. And sometimes not even that.
[YouTube direct link] (Viewer #55,613)
In Illinois, a baby girl was born in a parking lot – 33 years after her father was born in a parking lot.
Of course, under Obamacare, that’ll only happen if you have the Cadillac Plan.
[Think you have a link that’s IMAO-worthy? Send it to email@example.com. If I use your link, you will receive High Praise! (assuming you remember to put your name in the email)]
So does Slate think rich women shouldn't abort babies that could go to public schools?
— Jonah Goldberg (@JonahNRO) August 29, 2013
That toddler on a leash at the mall might be an unstoppable killing machine. You really don't know.
— Jason Miller (@longwall26) August 29, 2013
Getting naked is part of @LenaDunham's contribution to society. Her other, far more important contribution is getting dressed.
— Jim Treacher (@jtLOL) August 29, 2013
Weird how society just accepted people using the word "Baby" as a romantic way to address someone you're having sex with.
— Gavin Speiller (@gavinspeiller) August 29, 2013
I once knew a guy who *wanted* to be called T-Bone. So we called him Koko instead.
— Sonny Bunch (@SonnyBunch) August 29, 2013
I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty *rolls up Oreo sleeves*
— michael (@michaeljhudson) August 29, 2013
In Minnesota, pro-Obamacare ads are being run that feature Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.
Seems appropriate. Obamacare is creating about the same size mess as Babe.
That’s the promise of America – the idea that we are responsible for ourselves, but that we also rise or fall as one nation; the fundamental belief that I am my brother’s keeper; I am my sister’s keeper.
BARACK OBAMA, DNC speech, Aug. 28, 2008
“Just to clarify, brothers and sisters – *I’m* the keeper, and there’s no escape.”
So you’re a bad person if you don’t send your kids to the failing public school system. And since my wife and I plan to home school, I guess we’re basically Hitler.
I find people either care for the individual and have little regard for this collective we call “humanity,” or you care for humanity and have little regard for the individual. I think it’s pretty easy to see what side Allison Benedikt is on with her arguing how you shouldn’t worry about your kids being in a mediocre school since it will help fictional children generations from now. Thus, is Allison Benedikt a soulless, fascist monster? Basically. But we’re used to living around such people; we just need to make sure they’re powerless — writing an article for Slate every now and then for public ridicule and nothing more. To have someone like her have any power over your children (and you know she’d make public schools mandatory if she could) would be unthinkable.
And if you want to help the collective good, punch a stupid hippie. Actually, I’m getting near finishing my new book focused on punching hippies; when that comes out, it will be my contribution to the collective good.
Anonymiss of Nuking Politics picked her favorite punchlines to “To Keep Overtaxed Hollywood Filmmakers from Fleeing California, Democrat Governor Jerry Brown…”
Click here to see if you made the cut.
If you did, you should probably email Keln about becoming a guest blogger there.
If you didn’t, Anonymiss has got another straight line for you to practice on.
Keep trying. No one likes a quitter.
Works like this: I feed you Moon Nukers a straight line, and you hit me with a punch line in the comments.
Samsung is releasing a new “smartwatch”. Its most interesting feature…
“We can’t see the TV from here,” Kyle said, looking with confusion about the dinner table.
“Well, no,” Bob admitted to his son, “but that’s sort of the point. This is a family dinner where we’re going to talk to each other instead of watch TV.”
“Petey can’t talk,” little Lily said, “he can only watch TV.”
Bob looked at Petey who was in his high chair, hitting his tray with a fork. “Well, he’ll just have to cope. Anyway, we’re having a traditional family dinner at the dining table. Since your mom cooked us this lovely dinner, I thought we’d try it. I saw it in a movie once.”
The doorbell rang.
“Of course,” Bob grumbled as he went to see who it was.
When he opened the door, standing on the porch was President Obama. “Hi, Bob!”
Bob forced a smile. “Hi, Mr. President. Um… we’re in the middle of dinner and–”
“Oh, I should come take a look!” Obama barged in and headed for the dining room. Bob sighed and followed him.
“Hi, it’s me!,” Obama announced, taking the seat at the head of the table where Bob had been seated. “I’m the President of the United States.” He looked around. “You can’t see the TV from here.”
Kyle nodded. “That’s what I was saying.”
“I didn’t know the president was coming,” Bob’s wife Deborah said to Bob as he sat down next to her.
“He just barged in,” Bob whispered to her. “I’ll see if I can get rid of him.”
Deborah shook her head. “No. We can’t not invite the first black president to dinner or we’ll get called racist.”
Bob smiled and looked at Obama. “So, Mr. President, would you like to join us for dinner?”
Obama nodded. “Sure. You see, my wife was saying I need to eat healthier. So I said, ‘Why don’t I instead make everyone else eat healthier,’ and she agreed to that. Thus I’m checking in on people and seeing what they’re eating. So, how are your kids doing?” He looked at the children. “Any of you obese? Childhood obesity is a big problem.”
“Who are you?” Lily asked.
“I told you; I’m the President of the United States.” He leaned in close and whispered to her. “By the way, if you need contraceptives, I respect your rights and will get you some. You don’t have to tell your parents.”
“Don’t offer contraceptives to my four-year-old daughter,” Bob said firmly. “And my kids are fine. They’re not obese. Just whiny sometimes.”
“I don’t have a problem with whiny. If they stay whiny into adulthood, that’s a good indication of their voting habits.” Obama put a napkin on his lap. “So, are you feeding your kids healthy food? Like, what’s for dinner here?”
“It’s a home-cooked meal,” Deborah said. “It’s a pot roast and potatoes.”
Obama nodded. “Do you have a vegetarian option?”
Deborah raised an eyebrow. “Are you a vegetarian?”
“No, but maybe someone else wants the vegetarian option.”
Bob took a deep breath. “No one here is a vegetarian.”
“What do you have for someone with peanut allergies?” Obama asked.
“It’s a pot roast,” Bob said, a little annoyance seeping into his voice. “You don’t put peanuts on a pot roast.”
Obama frowned. “I’m very smart you know.”
Bob smiled. “I know. But as the president of this country, should you really be barging in to people’s houses and critiquing what they eat?”
Obama chuckled. “I can blow people up with out due process; I can certainly tell people what to eat.”
“I’m not really sure you’re supposed to have the power to do either of those,” Bob said.
Obama smiled and folded his arms. “Yeah, Bob, but you’re not a constitutional scholar.”
“No, I’m just someone with basic reading comprehension who’s read the six-page document on our government’s powers,” Bob grumbled.
“Anyway,” Obama continued, “I’ve decided that I really can do a lot of good focusing on individual behavior and nudging people to doing what’s best for them.”
Bob rolled his eyes. “And you know what’s best for us?”
Obama smiled confidently. “I do have a staff of Ivy League educated intellectuals, while all you have is…” He motioned to the people seated at the table.
“My family,” Bob said.
“Do you think we should be watching TV while we eat?” Kyle asked.
“I do if it’s special programs that helps you think globally and be a better citizen,” Obama answered.
Kyle shrugged. “I guess I’m fine without TV.”
“Now, Mr. President,” Bob said carefully, “don’t you have a lot more important things to do than… you know… worry about little things like how people lead their private lives. For instance, isn’t there all this stuff going on in the Middle East you should be focused on?”
Obama grimaced. “I never really like that stuff — foreign affairs and the military and what not. That’s why I have some generals and the State Department handling all that. What’s always interested me is the domestic picture and improving peoples lives by getting them to buy health insurance and educating people and getting everyone to act healthier. If I really want to improve things in this country, I need to focus on individual behavior.”
“Okay, well…” Bob hesitated, trying to think of the nicest way to phrase things. “…if you’re main interest is the domestic arena and influencing individual behavior and not the big things like national defense, then maybe — just maybe — that President of the United States not the right job for you?”
Obama chuckled. “It’s going to be some work setting you straight, Bob, but I’m going to do it.”
Deborah shrieked. Out the window Bob saw some hideous, almost skeletal figure staring at them from outside. “Who is that?” Bob demanded.
“That’s just Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid,” Obama said.
“Should we… invite him in?” Bob asked, though Deborah shook her head vigorously.
“Nah,” Obama answered, “he just likes to stand outside and watch.”
“He’s… kind of creepy,” Deborah said.
Obama nodded. “Very creepy. So… we going to eat while I tell you more about how you can improve your lives?”
Bob sighed. “Okay, let’s bow our heads.”
Obama looked around with confusion. “Whoa? What’s going on here?”
“We’re saying a prayer,” Bob explained.
Obama looked worried. “I didn’t know this was some sort of religious thing. Is this going to be all about hating homosexuals?”
“We’re just saying grace,” Bob said. “I thought you’re supposed to be a Christian.”
“I am!” Obama insisted. “I just don’t make a big deal about it.”
“Being a guest, then, would you like to say grace, then?” Bob asked.
“Sure…” Obama folded his hands. “So what do I do? Do I just talk about me?”
Bob groaned. “I’ll do it. We’re just thanking God for all we have.”
“You should thank the government too,” Obama suggested, “because they’re also — in a much more direct way — responsible for what you have.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” Bob bowed his head.
“Oh,” Obama interrupted, “and tell God that I’m smart.”
“I’m not telling Him that.”
So, this past Saturday morning, I had my day interrupted by a text. Wrong number, as it turns out. And that always brings up how best to handle those. I should just respond and let the person know they have a wrong number.
I should. But I don’t always.
I felt like screwing around Saturday:
I know my response probably wasn’t a good idea. But, maybe there was a way to have some fun that would have been better.
So, ideas? What should my response have been?