The Girl With All the Gifts

Nothing like a couple of scathing profiles of Princess Snowflake to make the weekend just a little more enjoyable. Whatever the outcome of Daddy Dearest's malignant reign of error, Princess will emerge with a chip on her shoulder, feeling wronged on all sides, that she has earned every privilege she's ever had, that we thankless peons should have just shut the fuck up and appreciated our brioche.

No matter. She can say what she wants, but she knows what she is. Your father is a fucking ghoul, lady, with his thumbs-up and his shit-eating grin, supposedly consoling survivors of a massacre, holding an infant like a trophy. This is your birthright, it is literally your job to enable this, and then pretend to be the voice of moderation. This is your empire of dirt.

Let her live with that knowledge, and so much more. She can fool the cult members with her phone-sex voice and her anime-sculpted features, because they want to be fooled -- hell, they need it. But in the dead of night, when the dreams come to visit, they remind her of who she really is, who her brothers and parents really are.

These are indecent people; even when they're not actively harming others, every thought and word and action is nothing more than a transaction for them. They are brand-bots, Kardashians with political power that they have no business having.

She and her vile family will never be held accountable for what they've done or what they are, so we might as well enjoy the print smackdowns when they're good.

Space Truckin'

If we are to have a taco truck on every corner of this great nation of ours, then let's get this party started.

Insane in the Membrane

It's no surprise that Bo Dietl is an ignorant, jingoist asshole, but I didn't realize that he'd lost his fucking mind. Someone might want to tell Bo about decaf.

Also, too -- people are still listening to Don Imus? I mean, I guess Paul Harvey's audience needed somewhere to mosey off to after that clown bought the farm, but shit. I almost feel like we should all chip in and get these angry codgers the Murder She Wrote and Matlock box sets.

Into the Void

Whether your a Belieber, or even just a Biebnostic, you have to appreciate the symbolic heft of launching the little turd into outer space. If they can load Kim and Kanye and the rest of the Kardoushian klan on the one-way rocket ship into the sun, it would be a start.

At the very least, Harvey Levin would have to find other, hairier legs to hump.

Cheesy Rider

Once again, if we accept the classic premise that markets act on demand, then our corporate media is a reflection of us as a nation, a bloated, rotted husk which, like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense, just doesn't know it's dead yet.

Also, too. Someone should maybe tell these halfwits the difference between a "scavenger hunt" and a "snipe hunt". Here are three major differences the mediatards can share with their window-licking friends:

1. Scavenger hunts have clues.
2. Scavenger hunts have a point.
3. Snipe hunts are, by definition, participated in by gullible morons.

Consider the most consistent line 'mongst media morons far 'n' wide, regardless of political bent -- they admit that they don't know what the subject of their "articles" is actually doing, ergo, they are literally following her around, unable to speak with her, for absolutely no reason at all.

If that doesn't tell you everything you need to know about the American media -- which again, like the country itself, is merely a series of obvious scams that people, in a tragic spate of collective Jungian subconsciousness, have agreed to dance to. Much like disco.

And we all know how that turned out.

Vacation, Interrupted

I've been sitting on this one for a couple weeks now, but what the hey -- as it turns out, the big interview I went on last month was successful, and I started the new gig at the beginning of this week. And it's a really good job, better money, great people, better situation. I was starting to wonder what the over-under would be for having to settle for a Kwik-E-Mart job or whatever was out there, and this came through.

I'd like to be able to say that it was constant hard work and perseverance, blah blah blah, but it was really more a case of preparedness and mindset. As I said before, I read and exercised, drank profusely, played guitar, spent time with my family. I probably spent an average of 90 minutes a day job-hunting, if that, but I made goddamned sure that every bit of it counted, the materials were tight, and that when asked for something specific (such as the aforementioned presentation) I knew my shit cold. So there is hope, just keep at it and keep perspective.

Of course, this now means that I can no longer sleep in till ten, do vodka shots in my underwear all day and watch Rachael Ray. And the intermittent bursts of punctuated snark and epic jeremiads will be even more erratic, if that's possible. The sacrifices we make.