Thursday, March 27, 2008
Full Metal Pantsuit
"...when we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that reality — judiciously, as you will — we'll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's actors…and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do."
Hillary Clinton, The Tarradiddler of Tuzla, emerged from her self induced fog of war to inform the nation that her cork-screwy bullet riddled arrival and deplaning on a hot tarmac in Bosnia in 1996 was in actuality a lot more codpiece and crow than cork screw and crisis management. A lot more sniper fire fib than actual sniper fire.
She "had a different memory"? And her "staff and others" are trying to "sort out" her different human memories for her? What the flibbertigibbet does that mean? Maybe she had a Bill O'Reilly memory:
Remember that "combat" memory moment from human commando Bill'O back in the winter of 2005? Al Franken had a lot of human fun helping the Fantasy Factor sort that one out. Maybe Hillary should ask Al Franken to help her sort out her memories too? Or maybe Hillary is somehow - through some kind of paranormal osmosis - exchanging memories with Bill O'Reilly.
Oh noooo Hill'O!
I hope that isn't the case. What if, after defeating the pastor Jerimiah Wright in the Democratic Party nomination title fight, and John McCain in the general election, Hillary becomes the next president of the Yoo-S.A. and suddenly starts having Bill Kristol memories. Or begins to believe that she is Artemis the Greek goddess of forest and fertility and angry arktoi!
Alright, which one of her staff wants to sort through her memories in that event?
And then, what if Hillary Artemis Clinton starts staying up until 3am waiting for the glowing red hot-phone of doom to ring - while surrounded by blind angry she-bears - dressed in a lambswool angora tweed and velvet reversible hooded cape, loden check kevlar pantsuit with Audley House havana leather cartidge belt, nubuck ankle boots, Selina Scott angora socks, a felt tribly, and Coco Chanel costume pearls. And carrying a Purdey 12 bore side by side while sporting a crescent moon on her head and dragging a bloody fawn and a stringer of dead ducks around behind her. All the while spewing the combat fantasies of Bill O'Reilly and Bill Kristol and Bill What's-His-Face (so many Bills, so many arrears).
Well, if it comes to that, don't say I didn't warn ya.
**********
Even worse, what if it's 3am and your children are safe and asleep. But there's a phone in the White House and it's ringing:
( 3 AM RING RING
Helloooo, Oval Office, yes, this is President Hillary Clinton speaking.
" CALLER:
( Bill, is that you.. Bill?
*CLICK*
----------
( 3:14 AM RING RING
This is President Hillary Clinton, how may I help you?
" CALLER: "Yeah, uh, I'd like to buy a vowel! hahahaha..."
*CLICK*
----------
( 3:17 AM RING RING
Good morning, President Clinton speaking what can...
" CALLER: Hillary!, is that you? It's me, Bill. Bill Clinton! Your husband! We met back in Law School at Yale. Hill, please, just listen a minute. I wanna come home. Please, I don't want to be the first former president to live aboard the international space station anymore. Especially not for two years. I need to get out Hillary. I need to meet people and make friends, and.... and... are you wearin' the nubuck ankle boots right now, ya know how I love em' on ya... Hillary, I just sayin'... I just ain't having any fun here. Governor Richardson is always hoggin' the treadmill and Ken Lay won't stop complaining about media assasins and conspiracies of rogue executives and... Hillary, are ya there? Hillary... it's always nighttime up here, please don't hang...
( *CLICK*
----------
( 3:46 AM RING RING
Hello, this is President Hillary Clinton. Thank you for calling the White House Red Phone. No one is here right now to take your call but if you leave a message I will get back to you as soon as possible.:
" CALLER: Hello, Ms President, this is Admiral Michael Glenn Mullen, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I'm sorry to have to bother you at this hour but I think we have a situational update you should be made aware of concerning security developments aboard the international space station. We may have a security breach with respect to known target. Reporting, ghost surveillance targeting Orbit Dawg: The rabbit is in the wind! Repeat, the rabbit is in the wind! -- Will keep you notified if and when situation develops further. Well, that's all, give me a ring when you get a chance. Bye. -- *CLICK*
----------
Personally, I like to make up my memories ahead of time. If you make up your memories ahead of time, then, by the time anyone gets around to sifting through all your unforgettable memory mementos and begin discovering that your memories were never actual milestones (as in occurences or actual incidents) but more like fuzzy recollections or transpirings or cherished qualities... well, by that time, you will have already made arrangements for elucidated clarifications or admissions of minor misstatement to be presented as atonement for any previous lapses or problematic amplifications. Know what I mean?
That's what "staff and others" are for. To have pre-sorted all the memories and hallucinations and romanticized figments and so forth and prepared in advance any clarifications for such misspokements or peculiar prevarications that might present themselves problematically somewhere along the rosy way.
Unfortunately, as things are these-a-days, the liar in chief threshold (especially in the age of Bush and Cheney and Rove and Rumsfeld and Rice and so on. All masters of the liars universe) is the one threshold that must be mastered and traversed by any magnifico who wishes to be installed as commander in chief of the good old Yoo-S-of-A.
It's a kind of resume padding/enhancement threshold thing. Preferably you should cross this liars threshold and enter the universe of liars with the giggling yeanling japes and jesters of the press and teevee media in tow. Once you lure that easily amused hairbrained herd over the threshold with jerked BBQ and Dove Bars and other bah-lamb seductions you are well on your way to universal conquest and shepherdom. Once you have convinced the media dolts that the apocryphal is the authentic... once you have sold the fog of war as a fluffy summer cloud with a silver lining... once you have Joe Lieberman fluttering around you like a twittering bluebird in a fantasia ballet... once you have crossed that important threshold dividing reasoned cognitive reality from fanciful gasiform enterprise... you and your fawning media coterie are on your way to the gravity free deep space gloryland center of the liars universe.
All Aboard the Amnesia Express Cuckoo-Choo-Choo Sooper Dooper Rocketship to the planet White House. Well, at least that's how it works if you are a Republican.
But if you are a Democrat you will have a much more difficult time crossing into this anti-matter outter limits. It may also be difficult for you if your mission control people have not properly prepared you for your dangerous journey over the threshold and into the interstellar medium of gaseous liars space. For one thing, if you do not know how to eat Dove Bars in a weightless atmosphere you will probably be at a severe disadvantage with your fellow traveler media cadrenauts. Also, if you insist upon allowing James Carville -- a creature who looks like something that may have hatched from a charred pod that crashed into the desert outside of Roswell, New Mexico on July 7th 1947 -- … -- if you insist on allowing this being to hover around your campaign trying to freak out the Governor of New Mexico with wholly absurd and pretentious comparisons to recreant biblical figures, you might risk alienating large segments of human terrestrials who might begin to think that James Carville should be netted and subdued and loaded aboard the next Voyager mission to the intergalactic void. And that maybe you should blast-off right along with him!
In general, being a Democratic candidate these days requires you to at least maintain some kind of earthy grounded attachment to telling the truth. At least theoretically. It's sort of a selling point thing these days. If the Republican party wishes to die by asphyxiation in the vaccum of outter liars space then i say by all means bon voyage, have a nice flight! Take CNN with ya! And don't forget to send back a yoo-toob vid postcard as you pass beyond the heliopause.
Where was I? I seemed to have wandered astray of my intended orbit in this post.
Anyway, Hillary Clinton wasn't ambushed by snipers hiding in the Bosnian hills while crossing a tarmac in Tuzla in 1996. She wasn't dashing head over head down hobnails for cover while rotors whirred and bullets ricocheted - ping ping ping - at her heels and all gawd-awful hell came uncorkscrewed around her. Far from it. It was all a great big corkscrew kickshaw combat geegaw of a yarn intended to pad her full metal pantsuit for her launch across the threshold of glory and into the cosmic untouchable outter limits universe of spinning extra terrestial bullshit.
Mission, not accomplished.
Next time you decide to cross a tarmac watch where you are going. And try not to shoot yourself in the ass while you are at it.
RING RING
Hello, yes, this is Hillary Clinton. Oh, hello President Obama. Oh yes, I understand, Bosnia can be chilly this time of year. Yes, yes, I see, well, I recommend packing a fleece lined duster and a pair of good angora socks for those difficult blustery tarmac receptions.
No... no no, really, yes, yes Mr President, I assure you... this time I'm not making it up.
*
Hillary Clinton, The Tarradiddler of Tuzla, emerged from her self induced fog of war to inform the nation that her cork-screwy bullet riddled arrival and deplaning on a hot tarmac in Bosnia in 1996 was in actuality a lot more codpiece and crow than cork screw and crisis management. A lot more sniper fire fib than actual sniper fire.
"I just made a mistake. I had a different memory. My staff and others have all come together trying to sort out -- so I made a mistake. That happens. It proves I'm human, which for some is a revelation."
She "had a different memory"? And her "staff and others" are trying to "sort out" her different human memories for her? What the flibbertigibbet does that mean? Maybe she had a Bill O'Reilly memory:
"I've been in combat. I've seen it. I've been close to it. And if I'm... my unit is in danger, and I've got a captured guy, and the guy knows where the enemy is, and I'm looking him in the eye, the guy better tell me. That's all I'm gonna tell you. He better tell me. If it's life or death, he's going first."
LINK
Remember that "combat" memory moment from human commando Bill'O back in the winter of 2005? Al Franken had a lot of human fun helping the Fantasy Factor sort that one out. Maybe Hillary should ask Al Franken to help her sort out her memories too? Or maybe Hillary is somehow - through some kind of paranormal osmosis - exchanging memories with Bill O'Reilly.
Oh noooo Hill'O!
I hope that isn't the case. What if, after defeating the pastor Jerimiah Wright in the Democratic Party nomination title fight, and John McCain in the general election, Hillary becomes the next president of the Yoo-S.A. and suddenly starts having Bill Kristol memories. Or begins to believe that she is Artemis the Greek goddess of forest and fertility and angry arktoi!
Pre-pubescent Athenian girls young Athenian girls approaching marriageable age were sent to the sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron to serve the Goddess for one year. During this time the girls were known as arktoi, or little she-bears. A myth explaining this servitude relates that a bear had formed the habit of regularly visiting the town of Brauron, and the people there fed it, so that over time the bear became tame. A young girl teased the bear, and, in some versions of the myth it killed her, while in other versions it clawed her eyes out. Either way, the girl's brothers killed the bear, and Artemis was enraged. She demanded that young girls "act the bear" at her sanctuary in atonement for the bear's death. LINK
Alright, which one of her staff wants to sort through her memories in that event?
And then, what if Hillary Artemis Clinton starts staying up until 3am waiting for the glowing red hot-phone of doom to ring - while surrounded by blind angry she-bears - dressed in a lambswool angora tweed and velvet reversible hooded cape, loden check kevlar pantsuit with Audley House havana leather cartidge belt, nubuck ankle boots, Selina Scott angora socks, a felt tribly, and Coco Chanel costume pearls. And carrying a Purdey 12 bore side by side while sporting a crescent moon on her head and dragging a bloody fawn and a stringer of dead ducks around behind her. All the while spewing the combat fantasies of Bill O'Reilly and Bill Kristol and Bill What's-His-Face (so many Bills, so many arrears).
Well, if it comes to that, don't say I didn't warn ya.
Even worse, what if it's 3am and your children are safe and asleep. But there's a phone in the White House and it's ringing:
( 3 AM RING RING
Helloooo, Oval Office, yes, this is President Hillary Clinton speaking.
" CALLER:
"So anyway I'd be rubbing your big boobs and getting your nipples really hard, kinda' kissing your neck from behind...and then I would take the other hand with the falafel thing and I'd just put it on your puss..." TRACE CALL
( Bill, is that you.. Bill?
*CLICK*
----------
( 3:14 AM RING RING
This is President Hillary Clinton, how may I help you?
" CALLER: "Yeah, uh, I'd like to buy a vowel! hahahaha..."
*CLICK*
----------
( 3:17 AM RING RING
Good morning, President Clinton speaking what can...
" CALLER: Hillary!, is that you? It's me, Bill. Bill Clinton! Your husband! We met back in Law School at Yale. Hill, please, just listen a minute. I wanna come home. Please, I don't want to be the first former president to live aboard the international space station anymore. Especially not for two years. I need to get out Hillary. I need to meet people and make friends, and.... and... are you wearin' the nubuck ankle boots right now, ya know how I love em' on ya... Hillary, I just sayin'... I just ain't having any fun here. Governor Richardson is always hoggin' the treadmill and Ken Lay won't stop complaining about media assasins and conspiracies of rogue executives and... Hillary, are ya there? Hillary... it's always nighttime up here, please don't hang...
( *CLICK*
----------
( 3:46 AM RING RING
Hello, this is President Hillary Clinton. Thank you for calling the White House Red Phone. No one is here right now to take your call but if you leave a message I will get back to you as soon as possible.:
" CALLER: Hello, Ms President, this is Admiral Michael Glenn Mullen, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I'm sorry to have to bother you at this hour but I think we have a situational update you should be made aware of concerning security developments aboard the international space station. We may have a security breach with respect to known target. Reporting, ghost surveillance targeting Orbit Dawg: The rabbit is in the wind! Repeat, the rabbit is in the wind! -- Will keep you notified if and when situation develops further. Well, that's all, give me a ring when you get a chance. Bye. -- *CLICK*
----------
Personally, I like to make up my memories ahead of time. If you make up your memories ahead of time, then, by the time anyone gets around to sifting through all your unforgettable memory mementos and begin discovering that your memories were never actual milestones (as in occurences or actual incidents) but more like fuzzy recollections or transpirings or cherished qualities... well, by that time, you will have already made arrangements for elucidated clarifications or admissions of minor misstatement to be presented as atonement for any previous lapses or problematic amplifications. Know what I mean?
That's what "staff and others" are for. To have pre-sorted all the memories and hallucinations and romanticized figments and so forth and prepared in advance any clarifications for such misspokements or peculiar prevarications that might present themselves problematically somewhere along the rosy way.
Unfortunately, as things are these-a-days, the liar in chief threshold (especially in the age of Bush and Cheney and Rove and Rumsfeld and Rice and so on. All masters of the liars universe) is the one threshold that must be mastered and traversed by any magnifico who wishes to be installed as commander in chief of the good old Yoo-S-of-A.
It's a kind of resume padding/enhancement threshold thing. Preferably you should cross this liars threshold and enter the universe of liars with the giggling yeanling japes and jesters of the press and teevee media in tow. Once you lure that easily amused hairbrained herd over the threshold with jerked BBQ and Dove Bars and other bah-lamb seductions you are well on your way to universal conquest and shepherdom. Once you have convinced the media dolts that the apocryphal is the authentic... once you have sold the fog of war as a fluffy summer cloud with a silver lining... once you have Joe Lieberman fluttering around you like a twittering bluebird in a fantasia ballet... once you have crossed that important threshold dividing reasoned cognitive reality from fanciful gasiform enterprise... you and your fawning media coterie are on your way to the gravity free deep space gloryland center of the liars universe.
All Aboard the Amnesia Express Cuckoo-Choo-Choo Sooper Dooper Rocketship to the planet White House. Well, at least that's how it works if you are a Republican.
But if you are a Democrat you will have a much more difficult time crossing into this anti-matter outter limits. It may also be difficult for you if your mission control people have not properly prepared you for your dangerous journey over the threshold and into the interstellar medium of gaseous liars space. For one thing, if you do not know how to eat Dove Bars in a weightless atmosphere you will probably be at a severe disadvantage with your fellow traveler media cadrenauts. Also, if you insist upon allowing James Carville -- a creature who looks like something that may have hatched from a charred pod that crashed into the desert outside of Roswell, New Mexico on July 7th 1947 -- … -- if you insist on allowing this being to hover around your campaign trying to freak out the Governor of New Mexico with wholly absurd and pretentious comparisons to recreant biblical figures, you might risk alienating large segments of human terrestrials who might begin to think that James Carville should be netted and subdued and loaded aboard the next Voyager mission to the intergalactic void. And that maybe you should blast-off right along with him!
In general, being a Democratic candidate these days requires you to at least maintain some kind of earthy grounded attachment to telling the truth. At least theoretically. It's sort of a selling point thing these days. If the Republican party wishes to die by asphyxiation in the vaccum of outter liars space then i say by all means bon voyage, have a nice flight! Take CNN with ya! And don't forget to send back a yoo-toob vid postcard as you pass beyond the heliopause.
Where was I? I seemed to have wandered astray of my intended orbit in this post.
Anyway, Hillary Clinton wasn't ambushed by snipers hiding in the Bosnian hills while crossing a tarmac in Tuzla in 1996. She wasn't dashing head over head down hobnails for cover while rotors whirred and bullets ricocheted - ping ping ping - at her heels and all gawd-awful hell came uncorkscrewed around her. Far from it. It was all a great big corkscrew kickshaw combat geegaw of a yarn intended to pad her full metal pantsuit for her launch across the threshold of glory and into the cosmic untouchable outter limits universe of spinning extra terrestial bullshit.
Mission, not accomplished.
Next time you decide to cross a tarmac watch where you are going. And try not to shoot yourself in the ass while you are at it.
RING RING
Hello, yes, this is Hillary Clinton. Oh, hello President Obama. Oh yes, I understand, Bosnia can be chilly this time of year. Yes, yes, I see, well, I recommend packing a fleece lined duster and a pair of good angora socks for those difficult blustery tarmac receptions.
No... no no, really, yes, yes Mr President, I assure you... this time I'm not making it up.
*
