The Hunt For Gollum

Trailer 2 - The Hunt For Gollum [2]
by HuntForGollum

Ooops

"The administration says they're replacing abstinence with---quote---'teenage pregnancy prevention programs that have been proven effective through rigorous evaluation.' So what??? Abstinence-only education effectively prevents teen pregnancy---just ask its new spokesperson, Bristol Palin. Sure, she had a baby. But imagine how many babies she would've had if she wasn't abstinent."---Stephen Colbert

Denny Dent, Rock & Roll Painter

Get Over It!

The Sunday Funnies

Lily Allen

The Fear video

Houston, We Have A Solution

A Terrible Clarity

George Will: Torture comes from a theory of government called "the unitary theory of executive power.” This was the tipping point.

Sam Donaldson: Where in the Constitution is this found, George?

George Will: I’m just saying here are intelligent people who believe...

Cokie Roberts: First amendment? The Congress?

George Will: It is not a theory I agree with, or you agree with, but there are intelligent people who do.

Sam Donaldson: “If the president does it is not illegal.” Thank you Richard Nixon.

George Will: Yes, but these are intelligent people...

I think it's sick that people wearing jeans gets George Will angrier than the fact that the United States government tortured prisoners. Then again, it's his job to provide an alibi for the Bush administration's complicity in these crimes. Besides being offensive, it's an useless theoretical debate.

It's like addressing concerns about racism by framing in it a "Suppose Whites were oppressed by African-Americans?" construct, or claiming women would rape guys if they had penises. These are bogus philosophical arguments manufactured for the sole purpose of confusing people. As George Orwell said, "The enemy of clear language is insincerity." Because George Will and the usual suspects (Hannity, Limbaugh, Coulter) are unable to admit that Bush gave the green light on torturing alleged terrorists, they'll spew this obtuse and dishonest intellectual gibberish instead.

No matter how many right-wing jerks idolize Jack Bauer and his use of violence as a means to an end, torturing prisoners is illegal, barbaric, and it doesn't work. As an interrogation tool, it's a stone axe that's clumsy, needlessly cruel, and a waste of time. This is a fact that has been substantiated by men like Jack Cloonan, a former FBI Interrogator interviewed in the Oscar-winning documentary "Taxi To The Dark Side".

Do you know what the dirty little secret about torture that nobody wants to admit? The United States didn't torture people because we wanted information to prevent another 9/11 from happening.

Our country tortured people because they liked it.

Buster Keaton

Keaton was a genius of the silent film era whose later career was derailed by his alcoholism, bad luck, and dumb studio executives who didn't know what to do with him. Although Keaton was a contemporary of Lloyd and Chaplin, I thought he was funnier than those comedic icons. Lloyd was a one-trick acrobat, and Chaplin annoyed me with his cold, smug narcissism. What keeps Keaton fresh for me is his brilliance as a director. Even now, in the era of Industrial Light and Magic, film critics still can't figure out how he created some of his visual gags. Although it's an overused word, "genius" fits Keaton as well as his trademark porkpie hat did.

J.G.Ballard (1930 - 2009)

All the while I stared at those parts of Gabrielle's body
Reflected in this nightmare technology of cripple controls.
I watched her thighs shifting against each other
The jut of her left breast under the strap of her spinal harness
The angular bowl of her pelvis
The hard pressure of her hand on my arm
She gazed back at me through the windshield
Playing with the chromium clutch treadle
As if hoping that something obscene might happen

It was I who first made love to her
In the rear seat of her small car
Surrounded by the bizarre geometry of the invalid controls
As I explored her body
Feeling my way among the braces and straps of her underwear
The unfamiliar planes of her legs and hips
Steered me into unique cul de sacs
Strange declensions of skin and musculature

Each of her deformities became a potent metaphor
For the excitements of a new violence
Her body with its angular contours
Its unexpected junctions of mucus membrane and hairline
Detrusor muscle and erectile tissue
Was a ripening anthology of perverse possibilies

As I sat with her by the airport fence in her darkened car
Her white breast in my hand lit by the ascending airliners
The shape and tenderness of her nipple seemed to rape my fingers
Her sexual acts were exploratory ordeals

As she drove towards the airport I watched her handle the unfamiliar controls
The complex of inverted treadles and clutch levers of the car
had been designed for her -- implicitly, I guessed, for her first sexual act
Twenty minutes later, as I embraced her
The scent of her body mingled with the showroom odor of mustard leatherette

We had turned off near the reservoirs to watch the aircraft landing
As I pressed her left shoulder against my chest I could see
The contoured seat which had been molded around her body
Hemispheres of padded leather that matched the depressions of her
brace and backstraps
I slipped my hand around her right breast
Already colliding with the strange geometry of the car's interior
Unexpected controls jutted from beneath the steering wheel
The cluster of chromium treadles was fastened to the steel pivot
Clamped to the steering column
An extension on the floor-mounted gear lever rose laterally
Giving way to a vertical wing of chromium metal molded into the reverse
of a driver's palm
Aware of these new parameters
The embrace of this dutiful technology
Gabrielle lay back
Her intelligent eyes followed her hand as it felt my face and chin
As if searching for my own missing armatures of bright chromium

She lifted her left foot so that the leg brace rested against my knee
In the inner surface of her thigh
The straps formed a marked depression
Troughs of reddened skin
Hollowed out in the forms of buckles and clasps
As I unshackled the left leg brace
And ran my fingers along the deep buckle groove
The corrugated skin felt hot and tender
More exciting than the membrane of a vagina

This depraved orifice
The invagination of the sexual organs still in the embryonic stages
of evolution
Reminded me of the small wounds on my own body
Which still carried the contours of the instrument panel and the
controls
I felt this depression on her thigh
The groove worn below her breast
Under her right armpit
By the spinal brace
The red marking on the inside of her right
upper arm
These were the templates for new genital organs
The molds of sexual possibilities
Yet to be created in a hundred experimental car crashes

Teabagging, R.I.P.

No matter how hard Fox News tried, the rest of the United States was underwhelmed by the "teabagging" protests. The Octomom and Amy Winehouse's latest drug bust had bigger ratings. After the autopsy, it reaffirmed what we already knew: it was a ridiculous, vulgar, racist, misguided and pathetic display of frustration and rage. This wasn't a vast, populist uprising. It was the same angry white people who showed up during the McPalin's doomed presidential campaign. It was the same 26% of the country who supported Bush in spite of how bad he was. (Everybody else, however, was sick of Republican ideology and voted accordingly.) All the screaming about "taxes" was a lie to hide their bigotry behind. The teabaggers are terrified at finding themselves on the wrong side of history, but it's already too late. Their noisy delusions didn't keep Obama from being elected to the White House, and it won't get him out.

The Sunday Funnies

Laurie Freelove

Teabaggers

Thre Gathering Storm

Dead End

Marilyn Chambers (1952 - 2009)

650 Million Years

The Sunday Funnies

The Jackson 5

Secret Asian Man

The One

Baracknophobia

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	M - Th 11p / 10c
Baracknophobia - Obey
thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Economic Crisis Political Humor

Mission Accomplished

Christianity For Dummies

Gun Shop

Mommy's Home

The Sunday Funnies

Kurt Cobain (1967-1994)

Naked Lunch

Pistachio company: Raw nuts may be bacteria source

TERRA BELLA, Calif. – The salmonella scare that prompted a blanket federal warning against eating pistachios may have erupted because contaminated raw nuts got mixed with roasted nuts during processing, the company at the center of the nationwide recall said Tuesday.

Lee Cohen, the production manager for Setton International Foods Inc., said the company does not believe pistachios were contaminated by a human or animal source in its plant. He said the company suspects that roasted pistachios sold to Kraft Foods Inc. may have become mixed at Setton's plant with raw nuts that could have contained traces of the bacteria.

The pistachios were processed at central California-based Setton Pistachio of Terra Bella Inc., which is in the corporate family of Commack, N.Y.-based Setton International Foods Inc. Cohen is in California to help as the Food and Drug Administration inspects the nation's second-largest pistachio processor.

Kraft spokeswoman Laurie Guzzinati said her company's auditors "observed employee practices where raw and roasted nuts were not adequately segregated and that could explain the sporadic contamination."

She said she didn't know what they saw specifically, but "that's how the auditors shared the information with us.

I think I just lost my appetite.

"Naked Lunch", Jack Kerouac explained, "is that frozen moment when everyone sees what is on the end of every fork." It's a terrible epiphany that never goes away.

When the America people voted for the dumb-ass fratboy who promised "lower taxes" and "less government" this is what happens. When corporations are left to "regulate" themselves, checks and balances disappear. Cities drown, bridges fall down, and food is poison. When Bush gutted the FDA and replaced the competent people with idiots who couldn't do their jobs, the organization that was entrusted to keep our food safe wasn't able to do it anymore.

How long before Soylent Green is the safest food we can eat?

Always Looking Up

This morning Tracy is already up, dealing out breakfasts and readying the kids for school. I blindly fumble a plastic vial from the nightstand, dry-swallow a couple of pills, and then fall immediately into the first series of actions that, while largely automatic, demand a practiced determination. I swing my legs around to the side of the bed, and the instant my feet hit the floor, the two of them are in an argument. A condition called "dystonia," a regular complement to Parkinson's, cramps my feet severely and curls them inward, pressing my ankles toward the floor and the soles of my feet toward each other as though they were about to close together in prayer. I snake my right foot out toward the edge of the rug and toe-hook one of my hard leather loafers. I force my foot into the shoe, repeat the process with the left, and then cautiously stand up. Chastened by the unyielding confines of the leather, my feet begin to behave themselves. The spasms have stopped, but the aching will persist for the next twenty minutes or so.

First stop: the bathroom. I'll spare you the initial details of my visit, except to say that with PD, it is essential to put the seat up. Grasping the toothpaste is nothing compared to the effort it takes to coordinate the two-handed task of wrangling the toothbrush and strangling out a line of paste onto the bristles. By now, my right hand has started up again, rotating at the wrist in a circular motion, perfect for what I'm about to do. My left hand guides my right hand up to my mouth, and once the back of the Oral-B touches the inside of my upper lip, I let go. It's like releasing the tension on a slingshot and compares favorably to the most powerful state-of-the-art electric toothbrush on the market. With no off switch, stopping means seizing my right wrist with my left hand, forcing it down to the sink basin, and shaking the brush loose as though disarming a knife-wielding attacker. I can usually tell whether shaving is a good idea on any particular day, and this morning, like most, I decide it's too early to risk bloodshed. I opt for a quick pass with an electric stubble trimmer. Miami Vice lives.

A bench in the shower takes the pressure off my feet, and the steady drumbeat of the water on my back has a therapeutic effect, though if I sit here much longer, I might never get up. Getting dressed is made easier by the pills, which have begun to assert their influence. I avoid clothing with too many buttons or laces, although I'm still addicted to Levi's 501s, making me a fashion victim in the truest sense of the word. In lieu of proper brushing, I raise my twitching fingers up to my hairline and, raking it back, hope for the best. Executing a slow shuffle (my legs haven't yet earned my trust for the day), I make my way out to greet my family.

At the turn from our bedroom into the hallway, there is an old full-length mirror in a wooden frame. I can't help but catch a glimpse of myself as I pass. Turning fully toward the glass, I consider what I see. This reflected version of myself, wet, shaking, rumpled, pinched, and slightly stooped, would be alarming were it not for the self-satisfied expression pasted across my face. I would ask the obvious question, "What are you smiling about?," but I already know the answer: "It just gets better from here."

Stop The Presses