Matilda ferociously guards the pizza box which is her new favorite napping spot.
I've been trying to throw it out for days, but every time I reach for it, she runs
over and sits on it.
Friday Cat Blogging
Matilda ferociously guards the pizza box which is her new favorite napping spot.
I've been trying to throw it out for days, but every time I reach for it, she runs
over and sits on it.
Douchery
"No doubt in my mind with your help Dave Lamberti will be the next United States congressman." — President Bush at a fundraiser for Jeff Lamberti. Think Progress has the video.
It’s not his fault, though. From what I understand, "Dave" and "Jeff" are nearly indistinguishable to the human ear when it's attached to a head planted firmly in one’s ass.
Bush Administration Official Heads to Jail
18 months, bitchezFormer Bush administration official David Safavian was sentenced to 18 months in federal prison Friday for concealing his relationship with disgraced lobbyist Jack Abramoff.Safavian told the judge that Abramoff manipulated him and cried while he begged for leniency. Aww. Somebody call the waaaaaaaaaaambulance!
…Safavian was convicted in June of lying to investigators about his relationship with the lobbyist while Safavian was chief of staff in the General Services Administration. He helped provided Abramoff with details about GSA projects and offered advice on dealing with the agency.
“Tradition” is the Ultimate Dog Whistle
The GOP is the party that will protect traditional values. That’s what we hear all the time. Don’t want the radical homosexual agenda to render marriage and families obsolete? Vote Republican! Don’t want abortion to be used by soulless hussies as a form of birth control? Vote Republican! Don’t want erase our identity as a Christian nation? Vote Republican! Don’t want to see Christmas and Easter made illegal? Vote Republican!
Never mind whether the threats aren’t true; the message is what’s important, and it’s quite clear: Republicans will protect your way of life and what you believe in. They’ll protect tradition.
Liberals see an American tradition of slowly but surely making good on that promise of equality for every citizen, but we tend to call it “progress” and ourselves “progressives.” Social conservatives, on the other hand, define American tradition as the good old days, when there was no question that men were superior to women, straights were superior to gays, and whites were superior to everyone else. They want to preserve and protect that “tradition,” and, though some of them call themselves culture warriors, mostly they call themselves “traditionalists.”
Not only is that shorter than “sexist, racist, homophobic retrofuck jackholes,” but it sounds a lot nicer, too.
“Tradition” is the kind of word that appeals to people who don’t pay attention all that much, but might have a notion that the world is changing more rapidly than they can comfortably keep up with, who have heard some things about how feminism is responsible for the breakdown in the family and maybe that explains why all of Junior’s friends are such smart-alecks; maybe their mothers are feminists. “Tradition” is a word that plays well with that mushy middle, who can’t be bothered to examine anything too closely.
But it’s an even better word for speaking to the unabashed bigots of the base, reassuring them that they’re right to hate women and gays and brown people, and promising them, without saying as much, they’ll be protected from the onslaught of the radical hordes. America’s great tradition of conferring undeserved privilege on you won’t fail. Not on our watch. “Tradition” is the ultimate dog whistle to the social conservative base.
In Tennessee, where the bitter Senate race between white Republican Bob Corker and black Democrat Harold Ford, Jr. has escalated into one of the ugliest campaigns in recent memory, the GOP has sent out a flyer to voters which says across its top: “Vote early to preserve your way of life.” Already it’s being called out for its nefarious implications, as well it should be—when social conservatives issue promises to protect tradition, our first response should be pointing out the tradition to which they refer is not worth protecting.
Proponents of “traditionalism” like to conjure images of the America that most Americans know from shows like Leave It to Beaver, but never experienced firsthand—it is a rare family indeed who never struggled for money, weathered a layoff, suffered an extended illness or loss, or fell out with each other, not to mention had no friends of color, gay friends (or members), or, ya know, daughters. The reality that most families aren’t a picture of Christian white perfection, and never were, doesn’t stop people from imagining the opposite, however. And that’s what makes “tradition” the ultimate dog whistle—it doesn’t just send a covert message, but makes people come running, panting and wagging their tales eagerly in search of a reward, a glorious something that never existed.
Of course, it the nonexistence of this perfect America, in spite of illusions to the contrary, that created the beloved “traditions” of racism, sexism, and homophobia in the first place. The dangling enticement of a happy family, supported by a single secure and well-paid job, in which no one is wracked with disillusionment, dispossession, or a lack of opportunity—an invitation to join for which most Americans are never given the chance to RSVP—creates the resentment and scapegoating that are the foundations of social conservative traditionalism. If I don’t have everything I want, it’s got to be somebody’s fault. And the GOP is always happy to point a finger in the direction of the already-marginalized.
They’re the ones—they’re the ones taking away what you deserve, the uppity niggers, the Jews, the illegals, the feminazis, the purveyors of the radical homosexual agenda. It’s them, but if you vote for us, we’ll protect you.
It’s the siren song that has hoodwinked generations of poor white Americans into voting for the GOP—and while the GOP keeps distracting them with promises to preserve tradition, they continue to redistribute wealth up the ladder away from them, doing precisely the thing they accuse the scapegoats of doing. But as long as there are scapegoats, the real culprit goes unnoticed by its victims.
That’s the tradition the GOP likes. And that’s the tradition they really want to protect.
Then there are the people who know the score, who get the game that’s being played, and don’t care—because they just liked things better when women and people of color and the LGBT community were to be unseen and unheard. They don’t like them. They don’t like the thought of working for a woman, or the thought of a black man marrying a nice white girl, or seeing two men holding hands on the street. And they call themselves “traditionalists” to mask their overt hatred of a changing world where their aesthetic only exists in podunk backwaters in which they’d never deign to live. It’s the height of insolence, in their view, that a metropolis like New York or Chicago has the temerity to be metropolitan—sophisticated, multicultural, progressive.
What a conundrum for a culture warrior like Bill O’Reilly who has to stoop to making his millions working in a cesspool like New York City; thank Christ for the suburbs. And even there, you see working women and nouveau riche tokens and two confirmed bachelors living in the same house—shit. But at least it’s better than living in a trailer park in Indiana where the air reeks of meth and hillbillies might make you vomit with their desperate ignorance of foie gras and four-syllable words.
The GOP is happy to cater to these people, too.
Which is why, though we hear that the GOP is just using sexism or racism or homophobia as a marketing tool—they don’t really hate those people; look at all the women and minorities and gays in their ranks!—they’re still out there selling protection of tradition, blowing that dog whistle like there’s no tomorrow…because even if they don’t hate the disenfranchised, their base does. And without that base, there really won’t be a tomorrow for the GOP.
Scrunch
It's a terribly onomatopoeic word, scrunch. Sounds awfully cute spoken aloud, but when produced by the collision of objects in space - automobiles, say - it loses its cuteness really fast. I heard it in such a context while driving yesterday. It was the product of a pickup suddenly attempting to become one with my car.
In response, I produced some sounds of my own. Something along the lines of "Fuckity fuck fuck fuck."
Not that I feel the need to stress here my non-culpability in the accident, but it's astonishing how things can happen to you out of the friggin' blue, even while you're taking every precaution you can think of. It's a metaphor for something or other.
I'm fine. The car is driveable, but damaged. So now I'm walking the okay-dokey trail of Auto Insurance Gulch, and am reminded of what a colleague once said her own agent told her years ago: "Insurance isn't pretty." So far, though, the insurance machine seems to be working just as it should, and everyone I've spoken with has been helpful and competent. Fingers crossed that things stay that way.
In the meantime, I'm a touch paranoid about other motorists. Probably not a bad way to be.
(Always look both ways before cross-posting...)
Random Notes
You might want to watch Letterman tonight. Here's why: "Bill O’Reilly has taped an episode of CBS’s 'Late Show With David Letterman' set to air tonight. During the show, Letterman 'machine-guns him with insults,' prompting O’Reilly to say, 'It isn’t so black and white, Dave - it isn’t, ‘We’re a bad country. Bush is an evil liar.’ That’s not true.' Letterman responds, 'I didn’t say he was an evil liar. You’re putting words in my mouth, just the way you put artificial facts in your head!'"
And for those Sacha Baron Cohen fans who prefer Bruno to Borat, take heart: "Bruno, English comedian [Cohen]'s follow-up to next week's release Borat, triggered an intense bidding war in Hollywood on Thursday. By early evening, sources said leading contender Universal Pictures had offered more than $42 million for worldwide rights to the film."
Quote of the Day
"I could give a damn about Rush Limbaugh’s pity or anyone else’s pity. I’m not a victim."—Michael J. Fox
Blacklisted
NBC is refusing to air commercials for the Dixie Chicks’ new documentary Shut Up and Sing because the adverts are “disparaging of President Bush.”
"It's a sad commentary about the level of fear in our society that a movie about a group of courageous entertainers who were blacklisted for exercising their right of free speech is now itself being blacklisted by corporate America," Harvey Weinstein said in a statement. "The idea that anyone should be penalized for criticizing the president is profoundly un-American."Indeed. It makes one wonder how it is that Keith Olbermann has managed to stay on the air for as long as he has.
(Via.)
You Have GOT to be Kidding Me
Former ExxonMobil CEO Lee Raymond has been appointed by Energy Secretary Samuel Bodman to "lead an influential study to develop policy solutions to America’s energy crisis."
Lee Raymond, who received "one of the most generous retirement packages in history, nearly $400 million, including pension, stock options and other perks, such as a $1 million consulting deal, two years of home security, personal security, a car and driver, and use of a corporate jet for professional purposes," after Exxon made made the biggest profit of any company ever in 2005, $36 billion.
Lee Raymond, who said that he recognizes that high gasoline prices "have put a strain on Americans' household budgets" but nonetheless defended his companies huge profits.
Who made $6,000 an hour in 2004, yet said of high
gas prices during Congressional testimony, "We're
all in this together, everywhere in the world."
This fucking useless pig of a corporate welfare recipient, who shits money made at the gas pump and has oil pouring our his ears, has been appointed by the Bush administration to head up a study to find ways to solve our energy crisis. We are so far through the looking glass that I fear we’d need more fossil fuels than are left in the world to find our way back.
(Via.)
I’m being invoked in support of George Allen!
I find this at the National Review Online this morning, from Kathryn Jean Lopez (who last we saw defending Rush Limbaugh):
This comes from the Allen camp (which I've received secondhand from a few people because someone has been taken off the press list lest she see something she doesn't like):That’s it. No context or anything—so I’m wondering, “What the hell is this all about?”If you recall, a lot of lefty bloggers found a disturbing sexual scene in a book written by White House aid Scooter Libby, and raised a fuss about it. For instance, Shakespeare's Sister wrote: "What kind of mind comes up with this shit, dreams up scenarios where children are raped by animals to train them in prostitution? Oh, right. A conservative one. ... What I do see is a collection of perverts whose own sickness pours out of them given the slightest opportunity..."
Then I find via at Crooks and Liars that Drudge is running something about some novel George Allen’s opponent Jim Webb wrote (and McCain endorsed, ha) which, according to Drudge, “includes graphic underage sex scenes.” And evidently someone, somewhere, vaguely attached to the Allen camp, has invoked my criticism of Scooter Libby’s novel—as part of a larger post on how the sexual repression endorsed (and legislated, when possible) by conservatives breeds hypocrisy at best and true perversion at worst—to suggest Webb’s book would be objectionable even to liberals.
Of course, in Libby’s novel, “underage sex” was hardly the most objectionable material. It was more the part about children being raped by animals to train them in prostitution. Ahem.
Meanwhile, the funniest part about this is that Webb was still a Republican when he wrote the stinking book.
Stop hitting yourself
So, just watched a bit of the Michael J. Fox interview on the CBS News. It’s worth noting that the Grand Old Party, having well-sated themselves at the trough of megalomaniac villainy with their invasions of privacy, forged wars, constant influx of dirty monies and contempt for the common man so grotesque even Machiavelli would take a step back, have now decided to up the ante by partaking in some well-worn classics of grade school.
To wit: they’re picking on the handicapped kids.
Seriously, what the fuck is this shit? At this point in most novels, a reader would start rolling his or her eyes at the astonishing absurdities in play. It’s not enough that they’re responsible for thousands of deaths, not enough that they’ve eroded our civil liberties to the point where I feel I should ask for permission every time I use the toilet in my own apartment- they’re now so enthralled in their own pitiless mechanisms that they actually think accusing a sufferer of a major illness of “faking” is a well-considered, do-able strategy. What's next, driving by cemeteries and screaming "POSERS!!!" at the graves?
It’s inevitable, really. Too much power, too much ego, the cracks show up sooner or later. But I was amazed, watching Fox speaking clearly and eloquently as every part of his body shook, at how fundamental a mistake Limbaugh has made. No idea if it’ll bear much fruit, but the only way the Republicans could’ve come off worse is if footage surfaced of Dick Cheney’s baby ranch. (C’mon, we all know he’s got one. Crates stacked in endless rows, the constant low cries of the infants, the smart ones holding their breath and hoping, in some dim way they can’t entirely formulate, that the bald bastard with the sharp teeth will pass them by on his next feeding. Too bad for them, he eats the smart ones first.)
I really don’t have anything clever here to say. I guess I’m just still dumb enough to be shocked by some of this crap...
Jesus Endorses Gay Rights
At least, that’s what I’m thinking, since Florida gubernatorial candidate Charlie Crist is allegedly gay. That’s the same Charlie Crist whom Jesus endorsed when he came to the Reverend O’Neal Dozier in a dream, telling the good reverend: “There's something I want you to know. Charlie Crist will be the next governor of the state of Florida.” Amen.
“Limbaugh's words are just sounds carrying an emotion”
Excellent post from Mannion on Limbaugh’s latest bit of wankery.
He’s spot-on when he says that Limbaugh “probably doesn't give people with disabilities a thought when he's not using them to stir up the pot on his show.” In fact, I doubt there’s any “probably” about it. I’m quite certain he doesn’t. And I’d be willing to bet that, when forced by virtue of proximity to consider a person with a disability, on a one-to-one basis, Limbaugh would treat him or her with the same respect that most of us would. Were he the kind of guy to ride the subway, I don’t think he’d use the ass cyst that got him out of Vietnam to justify keeping a seat on a crowded car from a disabled person.
To say that Limbaugh probably isn’t, in real life, the monster he plays on the radio isn’t a particularly nice thing to say about him, though it may seem so. In reality, it’s rather the opposite. I firmly believe he has the capacity to be a decent person (most people do); that he chooses to shed that decency as soon as a microphone is put in front of him speaks to the depth of his lack of character. It’s one thing to be the kind of person who truly hates the disabled by virtue of ignorance or masked fear or plain, old-fashioned intolerance; it’s quite another to affect that hatred in spite of knowing better to make money from the devotion of people who really do, by inflaming their repugnant beliefs.
Limbaugh is just one of many loathsome characters who have made names for themselves by treating politics as a game, a fun and profitable little pastime that has no real-world consequences—and the richer he gets, the more real a lack of consequences becomes for him. The luxury of staggering wealth means never having to worry about Social Security, or healthcare, or how much gas costs. It’s a game. Who cares.
And in that game, people like Michael J. Fox aren’t real people. They’re images on a screen, they’re pawns to be played. Stem cell research isn’t a real thing. It’s a political football. Safely nestled away from the real world in a radio studio, Limbaugh doesn’t want or need to think about the people he mocks, the people he uses to score a goal. And he doesn’t want or need to think about the people he addresses, either, or what it means that they might very well refuse to give up a seat on the subway, and that he provides their justification, fuels their ire. He’s just too busy having fun playing his game to be hampered by anything that matters, anything that might suggest the game he’s playing is a very dangerous one indeed.
The Magical, Mysterious, Mighty Power of Uncovered Meatdom
Mike forwarded me this article, asking what I made of it, about a Muslim cleric in Australia who blamed women for being raped.
"If you take out uncovered meat and place it outside ... without cover, and the cats come to eat it ... whose fault is it, the cats' or the uncovered meat's?"The cleric, Sheik Taj Aldin al Hilali, is being (rightly) lambasted for his statements, and has said he doesn’t condone rape. (Gee, thanks.) But the surprising thing about this incident, as far as I’m concerned, is not that it was said; it’s that people are so outraged about it, nearly unanimously, when things like this are said—and reinforced, via action and attitude—about women all the time, to little response. It’s one thing to treat women like pieces of meat, but actually calling them meat, all bluntly and shit—now that just crosses the line!
"The uncovered meat is the problem. If she was in her room, in her home, in her hijab, no problem would have occurred."
The idea that a woman who dresses “a certain way” is either asking to be raped, or shouldn’t be surprised when she is, is still a fully functional—and largely acceptable—idea in Western society. It still plays out in courtrooms (and media) all over America, as rape victims’ appearance, along with their sexual histories, social habits, and all other manner of irrelevant nonsense when it comes to answering the basic question “Did she say no?” are introduced as evidence, speaking not to overt consent, but implied consent. The notion of implied consent is still widely regarded as defensible by many Westerners—even those who see no hypocrisy in denouncing a Muslim cleric for stating more plainly the very same principle. What’s the difference between saying an uncovered head is the problem, and saying uncovered legs or cleavage are the problem? Nothing—the arguments just draw the line about women’s modesty at different places.
Also wrapped within al Hilali’s “uncovered meat” analogy is the implication that women have a supernatural and inescapable power over men, wielded primarily through their bodies. It’s a concept we have seen advanced not just in defense of rape, but in everything from 15th-century witch hunts, when only witches would dare to have “wide hips, prominent breasts, conspicuous buttocks, long hair,” to a modern-day justification of dress codes, as girls’ bodies are charged with distracting boys from their work. We’re all Eve, tempting every Adam by holding out ripe, delicious, forbidden fruit—and when he cannot resist, it is the fault of the woman who led him astray.
What curious irony that women, with the magical, mysterious, mighty power of uncovered meatdom, somehow have managed to nonetheless find themselves subjugated through most of human history. The same men who claim helplessness, defenselessness, lack of control in the presence of uncovered hair or a shapely calf have yet managed somehow to hold the upper hand in virtually every culture since the beginning of recorded history. You’d think if all it took to render a man mortally vulnerable were the throwing off of the hijabs and hoes that bind us, we might have done so long ago (and taken over the world—mwah ha ha ha!), but it hasn’t quite worked out that way.
Could it be, do you think, that perhaps uncovered meatdom doesn’t really hold any intrinsic control over men? That men who rape and blame women for it, or blame women for bewitching them, or distracting them, aren’t really out of control? Could it be instead that the objectification of women, and inevitable rape and blame and all the rest, are in fact the means of control?
Surely not. That would mean that men who assert a collapse in virtue at the hypnotizing force of uncovered meat were lying, that maybe the fault lies with the cat.
Karl
How not to convince people you're not stealing elections.
(Blogger is totally buggered today. Posts will eke out slowly as I can get Blogger to cooperate.)
Shakespeare’s Sister Theater Presents…
Episode 59: “The Jailbird Always Sings Twice”
Story and Graphics by: Shakespeare’s Sister
When last we left our fearless Superbloggers, they had just managed to narrowly escape Mark “maf54” Foley’s Chat Room of Doom through the cunning use of explosive snark.
“Thank Zeus you came up with that terrible pun about turning the page,” said The Pink Petulance. “Otherwise we might never have busted out of that thing.”
“No kidding,” agreed Dr. Zero. “By the way, did you notice how Foley’s series of tubes were totally clogged with porn?”
“What am I—blind?!” exclaimed The Pink Petulance. “It’s a wonder he isn’t, the dirty wanker.”
Just as the superbloggers arrived at the Fortress of Snarkitude, the Spudphone started to ring.“Could you be a dear?” said Dr. Zero. “I’m making us drinkies.”
The Pink Petulance grabbed the phone. “Who is it and what the hell do you want?”
“For Clenis’ sake! What kind of way is that to answer the phone, Pink Petulance?”
Yes, it was SuperKos, calling our Superblogger heroes to give them their Superblogger orders, which they would follow without question, as all Superbloggers do.
“Shut it, SuperKos,” snapped The Pink Petulance. “My ass has been stuck in Foley’s Chat Room of Doom all day; I don’t need any shit right now. What’s the score?”
”I’m afraid there’s serious trouble in Beltropolis,” SuperKos said. “I’d take care of it myself, but with the election coming up—““Just give me the lowdown,” barked The Pink Petulance. Dr. Zero arrived with drinks. “Wait, hold on—I’m putting you on superspeaker… Okay, go.”
“The Googler has stolen the flag!” exclaimed SuperKos.
“The Googler has stolen the fag?” asked Dr. Zero. He and The Pink Petulance looked at each other curiously.
“No, not the fag, you idiots! The flag!” yelled SuperKos. “God, I hate superspeaker! Anyway, The Googler has stolen the flag and is using it to wreak all kinds of havoc all over the country. From village to dell, he’s terrorizing the people and making them bow to his bidding. It’s our worst nightmare!”
“We’re on it,” said Dr. Zero. “To the Spudmobile!”
As the Superbloggers approached The Googler’s lair at the center of Beltropolis, they realized it was even worse than they had feared. Standing outside Internets Mansion were The Googler’s evil henchmen, Darth Cheney and Heinous Hastert the Tyrannosaurus of Turpitude. From nearly a mile away, the Superbloggers could hear Darth Cheney’s guttural howling: “Goooo fuck yourself!” It sent chills up their spines.
“We’re gonna need backup,” said Dr. Zero.
“Give me the communicator,” said The Pink Petulance. “I know just who to call.”
While The Pink Petulance put out the call to their Superblogger ally, Dr. Zero parked the Spudmobile. They had barely had time to finish the delicious tuna sandwiches The Pink Petulance had packed for them before help had arrived. “Look!” cried Dr. Zero. “It’s Captain Waveflux!”
”It is I—Captain Waveflux!” said the newly arrived Superblogger. “Whuzzup?”“The Googler has stolen the flag,” said The Pink Petulance. “He’s using it to take control of the whole country!”
“According to our sources, he’s hiding out in his lair right now,” added Dr. Zero. “But Darth Cheney and Heinous Hastert are standing guard. We’ve taken on some evil beasts in our day, but the two of us against that dastardly duo…?”
“You were wise to call,” said Captain Waveflux. “Let’s roll.”
The trio of Superbloggers made their way to the front gate of Internets Mansion. “Goooo fuck yourself!” shouted Darth Cheney. He aimed a rifle at them.
Captain Waveflux shot an Anti-Belligerence Bolt at him, stunning him. At that moment, Heinous Hastert came lumbering toward them. “You two finish off Darth Cheney,” said The Pink Petulance. “I’ve got a score to settle with the scaly pot of shit over there.”
Dr. Zero shot Darth Cheney with the Integrity Ray. “You got it!” he said. “I think we’ve got this under control.”
While Captain Waveflux and Dr. Zero dispatched with Darth Cheney, The Pink Petulance strutted toward Heinous Hastert. “So we meet again,” snarled Heinous Hastert.
“Yeah. Last time I saw that ugly mug of yours, you were devouring my grandma, if I recall correctly,” said The Pink Petulance.
“You’re damn tootin’!” cackled Heinous Hastart. “And she was delicious.”
The Pink Petulance reached into her backpack and drew out her secret weapon. “Take this, Hastert!” she cried.
“Sweatin’ to the Oldies?!” Heinous Hastert yowled. “Noooooooooooo!” He quivered and backed away, trying vainly to reach his small arms far enough to cover his eyes.
“By the power of Richard Simmons, I condemn you!” yelled The Pink Petulance.
And with that, Heinous Hastert exploded and was no more.
The three Superbloggers regrouped to formulate a plan to take on The Googler. But then—out of nowhere—he appeared before them. “The Googler!" Dr. Zero cried.
“Yeah, heh heh. That’s right,” said The Googler. “That’s me. Heh heh. I’m—”
“Damn you, Googler!” shouted The Pink Petulance.
“Lemme finish,” said The Googler.
“You won’t get away with your evil plan, Googler!” said Captain Waveflux.
“Lemme finish,” said The Googler. “Interrupt me once, shame on you. Interrupt me twice…interrupted…can’t get interrupted again.”
“What the fuck are you babbling about?” asked The Pink Petulance.
“It’s an old saying we got in Texas,” said The Googler. “Heh heh.”
“I really hate this guy,” muttered The Pink Petulance.
“Me, too,” said Dr. Zero.
“Me, too,” said Captain Waveflux.
“I gotta mandate!” said The Googler. “Stay the course. There’s a rumor on the internets, you know. Is our children learning? We’ve got to be able to put food on our families.”
The three Superbloggers looked at each other. “How did this guy become an arch villian?” Captain Waveflux asked. “He’s a moron.”
The Pink Petulance sighed exasperatedly. “Listen, Googler. Are you going to give up the flag nice and easy, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”
“Being The Googler is hard work,” he replied.
“I’m over it,” Dr. Zero said impatiently. “Let’s get him.”
The Superbloggers rushed in, flinging everything they had at The Googler—Anti-Belligerence Bolts, the Integrity Ray, the Hypocrisy Beam, the Spritzing Clown Flower of Undeniable Logic. Each onslaught was met with The Googler’s infamous 9/11 Blocks of Impenetrable Terror. “We’re never going to get the flag away from this guy!” yelled The Pink Petulance, as The Googler wrapped himself ever more tightly in the Stars and Stripes.
“Hit him with the Investigatitron 3000!” said Captain Waveflux.
“9/11!” retorted The Googler.
“Get him with the Low Approval Laser!” said Dr. Zero.
“9/11!” retorted The Googler. The attacks slid off him like he was made of oil.
“I’ve got it!” shouted The Pink Petulance. “Let’s hit him with the Vote Shifter!”
The Superbloggers blasted The Googler with the Vote Shifter, hitting him in every direction. Its beam turned slowly but steadily from red to blue, searing into The Googler and rendering him weak. “It’s working!” said Dr. Zero.
The Googler collapsed to his knees. The flag was almost in reach—
Suddenly, Dieboldo swept in out of nowhere and threw himself between the Vote Shifter and The Googler. “I am immune to your puny Vote Shifter!” said Dieboldo. “Mwah ha ha ha! Your powers are useless against me, Superbloggers!”
“Noooooooooooo!” shouted the Superbloggers in unison.
“Yes!” shouted Dieboldo. He danced in front of The Googler, shielding him from further damage. The Googler pulled himself together and hugged the flag to him.
“Fuck this noise!” exclaimed The Pink Petulance. “Get me the Impeacherator!”
Dr. Zero grabbed the Impeacherator out of his knapsack, and the Superbloggers took it in hand, aiming it squarely at The Googler. “Even you can’t stop the Impeacherator, Dieboldo!” snarled Dr. Zero.
“Uh, lemme finish,” said The Googler.
“Finish this!” shouted The Pink Petulance. Captain Waveflux flipped the on switch, and the Impeacherator buzzed to life, sending a think stream of Impeachment right through Dieboldo and into The Googler’s heartless chest. Dieboldo exploded in a shower of sparks, and The Googler writhed in agony. “Heh…heh,” he stuttered. “If this were a dictatorship, it would be a heck of a lot easier, just so long as I'm the dictator. Heh…heh…hehhhhhhh.”
The Googler fell forward onto his codpiece. Thusly was the villainous flag-snatcher vanquished.
Dr. Zero grabbed the flag. “The flag is ours!” he cried triumphantly.
“Let’s return it to its rightful place,” suggested Captain Waveflux, “where all the citizens of Beltropolis can enjoy it.”
“Good idea,” said The Pink Petulance. “I always loved this flag.”
“You’re such a flag hag!” said Dr. Zero.
“Ho ho ho!” they laughed.
Tune in next time, true believers, when Dr. Zero and The Pink Petulance come face to face with KILLER CONDI!
(Previous adventures here and here.)
