Leonard* of Arabia

From the days of the Barbary Pirates (can anybody remember why Thomas Jefferson decided to send the U.S. marines to the shores of Tripoli?) to the days of the Somali Pirates, America has been shaken down by terrorists who are frustrated and disappointed with their numinously orchestrated hopelessness. Shaking the American money tree and watching golden shekels rain down upon their various promised lands has become an international sport for these highly self-regarded jihadists. America has been driving headlong into the sandtraps that these "Mice that Roar" have been laying out for it for more than 200 years now. Finally, it seems, that in Obama we might have a President that doesn't want to continue playing this idiotic cat and mouse game.

Perhaps if we just ignore these poor, helpless, democratically-challenged Warriors of God they will attempt to shakedown their 'god-fearing' neighbors in China or Russia? Good luck with that.

And regarding Myth Romney's worry about the world being four years closer to Iran having a nuke, may someone remind this self-adoring Olympian that the U.S. is always four minutes closer to having, inshallah, 2,000 nukes stockpiled.

*Leonard Wibberley, The Mouse that Roared. 1955.

Out of the Bush: Myth Romney, The Lyin' King

In a display of a deeply imbedded atavism, not to mention a palpable fear of losing all that they have not worked hard for, the Republican Party's stale offering for President of these United States, from out of the bush, the former bane of the workingman, his high and his mighty, to himself twice-endeared, Myth Romney is a cruel joke being played on an embattled and embittered middle-class. To the consternation of his Party's tea-swilling base this choice of the lesser of a dozen evils was grudgingly granted his candidacy with a reactionary stiff-upper-lip formerly suitable only for senescent, if not fossilized, British lions.

However, now that this crimson-colored, flick-tongued lyin' king has demonstrated his latest moves (somewhat reminiscent, actually, of the Soweto Shuffle) to at least 47% of the 99% that had already feared his bite more than his bark, any remaining Myth Romney acolytes may be switching to coffee come November. To merely call him out as a duplicitous charlatan capable of a callous casuistry not seen or heard since Marx (both Groucho and Karl) is not strong enough hortatory. This louche bean counter must not be allowed in a place where 2 plus 2 does not equal 4.

De Omnibus Disputandum

After bearing witness to the shambolic main event on the Denver card last evening wherein the red-eyed challenger from (tba) had the effrontery to land several stinging jabs at the seemingly diffident gentleman in blue from (tba) in whose hands many have entrusted their prosperity, if not their posterity, I exited the arena myself reeling with a disoriented feeling, a sense of being, in the words of the late Christopher Hitchens, (or was it Winston Churchill?) "bruised, battered, and buggered." (Or in my own poor choice of words, as battered as a filet-o-fish being lowered into a cauldron of roiling oil). Fortunately, however, being a modern man (for my age) I have an attention span that can be measured in bites of sound, and a memory that can be measured solely by its relative paucity of kilobytes, so I awoke this morning only able to recall the following salient blows landed during the first round of these so-called "debates."

Firstly, I was struck by the tenacity with which the Republican who somehow, heuristically, perhaps, made the best of his innate talent for imposture and dealt short, swift, shots to the insouciant southpaw; and dumped a tautology [flurry] of baleful ignominy upon the Democrat.

Secondly, the crowd which had gathered to attend this long-awaited conflagration were foresworn to silence, thus disabling their deliverance of the appropriate amount of opprobrium due to the hard-punching outlier. The entropy of the incumbent, though, was palpable.

Finally, not being one to repine, I must confess that the referee of the contest (who I like as much as his doppelganger, Walter Cronkite) was rebarbative, to the nth degree. The whole affair hung upon me throughout the day like the redolent circumambience of another long-gone, widely-touted battle,  one that took place in a distant ring when the sonorous Max Baer plucked the crown from the swollen head of another gentle giant, Primo Carnera.