Friday, October 14, 2005

Giant bloodless mutant shrimp take over the world! 

Is it just me, or does Harriet Miers look like Yasir Arafat in drag?

Speaking of fat: in publishing news... and i'd just like to point out here that if Dick Cheney continues to lose any more blood vessels he's going to eventually come to resemble the dredged carcass of some ghastly giant boilded mutant shrimp. Some gelatinous pink lump with one black artery running from the base of his skull to his asshole. (What the hell will we tell the children!)

Oh yeah... publishing news: Anyway, none of this bodes well for the scheduled release of Jumbo Dick's new "diet and exercise book", which, as I've learned, has once again been postponed.
Fit Like Dick, the diet and exercise book written by Vice President Dick Cheney, has had its release postponed yet again in the face of its author’s continuing health problems.

The book, to be published by Nashville-based Thomas Nelson Publishers, was originally scheduled for release in 2000.

“Every time it seems like we’re going to be able to put the book out, some other health crisis comes up,” one Thomas Nelson executive laments. “And it’s too bad, because the book is full of useful health tips.”

The publisher had tentatively scheduled the book, subtitled A Guide to Fitness for the Busy and Stressed, for October to take advantage of the holiday and New Year’s fitness market, but Cheney’s surgery on both legs to remove aneurysms behind his knees has halted that plan.

“The timing is still just not right,” the publishing executive says.


“I would often direct bombing raids against Saddam while walking on my treadmill at the Pentagon, sometimes munching on a low-fat turkey sandwich,” Cheney writes. ~ [full details here: Cheney’s fitness book timing "still not right"]

No one ever said life's timing is fair. Look, for any of you who purchased Bill Bennett's 2004-05 traditional exercise regimen video titled "Bison Bill's Sweatshop of Virtues", well, I don't suppose you'll want to spend another lonely blue winter watching a shirtless fat man in spandex Victorian knickers grunting like a 300 pound Samoan prostitute while performing deep knee bends at Cleopatra's Slot Garden in Atlantic City.

No, I didn't think so. So, hey'a, I'll be honest: I'd rather spend winter's naked midnight ice fishing on some Adirondack pond with Nancy Grace as coyotes run deer along the ridge. And Larry King interviews plastic surgery addicts - and horned litigators sift the golden sands of Crony Beach for bone fragments - and the tops of Western White Pine trees explode into flames. Etcetera. Kill the cohabitators before they can marry! Apocalyptic makeovers for a doomed nation's mortality! And on and on... You get the picture.
"Those rosy scenarios are what keep us going in this business" - Chris Mathews, Hardball, MSNBC, Jan 20, 2005.

Sure, we're all big fans of VLADMIR ZWORYKIN'S amazing Iconoscope. You understand.

So, Dick Cheney - you bloodless undead mumbling cardivascular accident - pull your pee-soaked speedo from around your swollen ankles and get the fuck out there and play dodgeball like a real prince! America needs to trim the fat! Buff up! Become a lean mean fightin' Machivelian machine! Gimme 25 one armed pushups soldier! And shame on you, you toxic bloodclot, for leaving your blushing, preening, pouty-lipped pretty boys and poly-power-sci diletantes attending Billy Buckley's wicked fabulous fiftieth folderole, standing at the altar without a hero. What will we tell the children of privilege!

And, by the way, I still think Harriet Miers looks like Yasir Arafat in drag.



Far out on the desert to the north dustspouts rose wobbling and augered the earth and some said they'd heard of pilgrims borne aloft like dervishes in those mindless coils to be dropped broken and bleeding upon the desert again and there perhaps to watch the thing that had destroyed them lurch onward like some drunken djinn and resolve itself once more into the elements from which it sprang. Out of that whirlwind no voice spoke and the pilgrim lying in his broken bones may cry out and in his anguish he may rage, but rage at what? And if the dried and blackened shell of him is found among the sands by travelers to come yet who can discover the engine of his ruin? ~ Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian

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