The Applause of Birds

The day began well before dawn in snowy, sub-zero Anchorage. There were northern lights in the sky as I began the long flight over the unending Pacific horizon. The monotonous blue broke only once all day - during a short, but viciously hot midday stop at Wake Island. Too many hours later, I arrived over the beautiful coral reefs and clear water of Midway Island. Omnipotent Dad - who'd been there as a submariner during WWII - always described the place as a bomb-pocked hunk of rock jutting up from the sea. He'd told me many times about Navy ships inbound from the US hauling in loads of dirt in an attempt to green the place up. Apparently the effort worked, because the Midway I saw below was a lush place with the big green lawns and thousands of coconut palms common to most tropical military bases.

Dad also told me stories about the gooney birds - the huge and comical albatrosses that crowd the island. My image of them was mostly based on National Geographic pictures and tales of sailors taking a break from the nasty business of war to feed ice cream to the chicks.

Meet the Goonies

As we taxied to our parking spot, I was amazed that hundreds of the birds lined the runways and taxiways. None of them seemed the least interested in the giant metal bird screaming a few feet away. Off in the distance I could see one or two using the runway for their own takeoffs. They gullomped down the runway flapping their impossibly long wings and bumping their asses on the concrete. After seemingly running for miles, they slowly lifted and struggled for altitude like an overloaded airplane. Once in the sky, their clumsiness fell away and they soared in effortless beauty over the sea. Their flight was so economical. It put man's feeble confection of being the master of the skies to shame. They flew for hours on the island thermals, adjusting their flights with only the subtle movements of their tails.

When we shut down our banshee-screaming engines, it became so quiet. The air held nothing except the gentle ticking of the cooling engines, the hush of the far-off surf, and muted voices from the crew as we unpacked. The wind picked up slightly and the solid thock of a coconut falling onto the concrete reminded us we were in the tropics.

After checking in, a sailor from the naval facility ferried us to our quarters in an ancient Jeep. If I'd been impressed by the number of goonies around the airport, I was totally unprepared for what I saw on the streets. It was mating season and every inch of the island - lawns, driveways, picnic tables, cars, even the road itself - was choked with birds. It was Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds writ huge. There were so many birds that we could drive no faster than 5 mph. Our sailor navigated around eggs laid on the bare ground and straddled birds that refused to make way for the Jeep.

Mom, Dad, and the Chicks

Some of the nesting couples had already hatched their huge eggs and jealously guarded their chicks and ridiculously small patch of ground. It seemed the only thing that ruffled their feathers was another bird or a human getting too close. They squawked loudly and bobbed heads at intruders. If you drew too close, they'd snip in your direction with a pronounced clap of their hooked bills. I'm sure they could do real damage if they managed to connect with flesh.

The chicks couldn't be more different than their parents. Instead of strikingly white, three foot tall birds, the chicks were cantaloupe-sized balls of furry brown fuzz. Lost in the tangle were two beady, glistening eyes and the tiniest of beaks. They looked like fobs on the end of a teenage girl's key chain. Although the parents made poor nest builders - bare ground was fine with them - they made very attentive keepers of their small broods. Periodically, one of the adults would make the long takeoff run and return later with a mouthful of regurgitated fish. It seemed as though the parents might swallow the chicks whole as their kids fed directly from Mom's beak. But they were happy families, the parents periodically stopping to do their silly dipping, flapping love dance culminating in an orgy of claps from their massive beaks.

The Applause of Birds

Our quarters were in an old house, previously used by a navy family. We removed the plywood from the windows and the protective plastic from the mattresses and settled in. We watched the sun go down in a dazzling display from the back porch. When it grew dark, we all moved inside for sleep. As I lay down I felt the cool island breeze tickle the hairs of my body. I could feel a slight sheen of sweat evaporating in the breeze. My eyes grew heavy and as I began to drift off I could hear only one thing - the quiet applause of a million goonies doing their dance and clapping their bills of love. My last thought before I slipped below the waves of sleep was that avian applause seemed like a very fitting end to the day.

Clap, clap, clap.
The Poobah is a featured contributor at Bring It On!

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Tuesday, February 27, 2007

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Randomness Run Amok

Attention Cap'n Dyke - Calling all lesbians! Further proof that you aren't freaks of nature like James Dobson claims. And in other dyke news, this just in from Cap'n Dyke.

Chilly Willie
- Fighting global warming, one ball at a time.

Wowsa! - This is some deal! I wonder if he's related to Mrs. Fatti Zongo from Nigeria? I hear ketchup and rice is the Nigerian national dish. Apparently Fido gets in on the act too.

Sniff, Sneeze, Cough - If bird flu wasn't bad enough, check out these. They're perfect for that little two-year old pre-med student who has everything.

Caution: Capitalism at Work! - Good Lord! How long will it be before Anna Nicole's implants go up for sale?

Pack Rat Alert - Some people collect airline barf bags...go figure.

Mon Dieu! - The Parisians hated the Eiffel Tower when they first built it, but somehow I think these will take a little longer to get used to.

Who Shot My Cheese? - Personally, I find a voodoo doll works much better, but hey...what ever makes you happy.

Swordus Interruptus - You're sitting home, minding your own business, watching a little porn and what happens? A crazed samurai bursts in trying to save the girl.

Does Size Really Matter? - For years women have been lying to men, now turnabout is fair play. Very NSFW.

Couch Potato Excess - If you get any lazier, they might as well just remove your brain and let it operate from than Mason jar in the kitchen. BTW, do these fit?

Sign the PeTITion - Come on, give these boys a helping hand. Allow them to fulfill their dream!

Keep Your Reichstag Clean - Vee haf veys of makink du vipe der feeten.

We Want Crappie! - These guys get all the cool fish. Bush went fishing and all we got was that crappie fishing shirt (and Katrina, but we've all forgotten about that, haven't we?).

What an Orgasm, Eh? - Nothing gets in the way of Hockey Night in Canada, eh? And I mean nothing.

Take a Pill - You got it, they can cure it.

Some People Are Just REALLY Into Fruit - If you have a banana you might want to lock it up before it's employed in some disgusting ritual. On second thought, maybe the locker might BE the tool for the disgusting ritual. (Dip o' the Omnipotent Wings to Konagod)

Roots for the New Millennium - You just can't make this shit up.

Oooo, You Forgot the Diapers Too - What, no plastic sheeting? Clearly, NASA missed Professor Chertoff's class at the Institute for Disaster Preparedness.

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Monday, February 26, 2007

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Dwarfs of the World Unite

Sometimes it's the little things that hurt, but the trouble is, which little things are they? According to one recent newspaper article it apparently includes calling a dwarf a midget.

A dwarfs' rights advocate told the story of how he has been derided since birth by people calling him a midget. I'm sure he has been subjected to all manner of sick jokes and derision by a society full of hard-headed and hard-hearted people who hold idiotic stereotypes. I have no lack of empathy for his pain, but despite his lengthy explanation of the word's roots and how dwarfs themselves have used it to make class distinctions between themselves, I'm not sure I see how calling midgets dwarfs or little people solves much. I'm confident that no matter which word the dwarf community chooses, the mental midgets who use midget to deride them will simply use another name. People who use words to hurt others aren't much concerned about etymology anyway.

Many similar arguments have been raised over the past decade. African-Americans have moved through nigger, negro, colored, black, Afro-American, African-American, and people of color since the forties and fifties. Even blacks themselves argue over whether nigger is an acceptable term to be used between people of the same race. I'm not stupid enough to suggest that nigger isn't a hot-button word. It is and more often than not, people use it as a term of derision. It shouldn't be tolerated by anyone as far as I'm concerned, but at the end of the day constantly evolving your description won't make the derision go away.

Many Native Americans, nee Indians (or First Nations or First Peoples in Canada) are insulted by sports teams choosing Native American mascots. Many people on both sides (Native American and other) see it as a term of respect while others think it is degrading and crude. I don't think any person with an ounce of sense would say Native Americans haven't been, or aren't still, victims of extraordinary injustice, but if we followed this logic, almost any sports team name would be verboten.

For example, wouldn't Spartans and Trojans perpetuate stereotypes of Greeks? Wouldn't the Fightin' Irish seem to honor drunken leprechauns hopped up on too much clover? How about the Ottawa Senators? Wouldn't their mascot conjure up visions of dim-witted politicians who can't agree on what language Canada should speak (well, maybe that one would)?

Seemingly innocuous names might not even make the grade. One local high school near me is named the Hayward Farmers. Does that make you think of some stupid Clem Cadiddlehopper with straw in his mouth and shit on his boots? How about the Wildcats? Would PETA come to lobby against the stereotype of feline killers? Maybe a truly strange name - like the University of California at Santa Cruz's Banana Slugs - would be OK. However, I'm sure there's a Banana Slug Liberation Front out there itching for a slow-motion fight over their mascot too.

There's no doubt that some of these names are hurtful and clearly out of bounds. There are others where that's a slightly finer point. I believe stereotyping and hate-speech are wrong. There is no room for wiggling on that point. Those who intentionally inflict this kind of pain on others are some of the lowest of the low. However, bigots will be bigots regardless of their lexicon.

I have no problem with groups announcing that whatever term used to define them is offensive - I even support many of these crusades myself - but I try to gauge which ones seem to make sense vs. those that merely seem nonsensical. I think that by lowering the debate about these offenses to quarrels over mascots, heights, or colors it cheapens the effects of the real injustices and distracts people from agitating for real change.

I mean after all, I'm a fat, pasty-skinned honky, member of the patriarchy with insane, drunken paddies and Teutonic war-mongers in my background. You don't hear me complaining during sitcom commercial breaks about the depiction of my people as imbeciles who are incapable of doing anything without a woman's benevolent touch.

The Poobah is a featured contributor at Bring It On!


Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Sunday, February 25, 2007

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The Dogs and Cats Howl

It's raining cats and dogs this morning and all that vicious howling and scratching is the harbinger of a mood as foul as the weather. Each day there is news of another fresh insult to our country - as usual made under the disguise of making us stronger. Each day, the audacity of these assaults becomes more brazen.

For six years we've engaged in a "War on Terror" built on a foundation of quicksand. The drumbeat of division and fear-mongering has made it impossible for the country to move forward. Education, Social Security reform, workable energy policies, and a huge don't tax and spend mentality are only the tip of the globally-warmed iceberg. Meanwhile, Rome burns as George fiddles.

Until recently, his obstinance was mostly based on a fierce, unquestioning political protectorate and a tough Teflon hide. He did and said most anything he pleased because a weak-willed Congress handed his decrees to him on a platter.

Finally, the electorate awoke and spoke at the ballot box. However, George's last true believers are still fiddling with the levers of power and the new electees have only grown a cartilage backbone. It looks like an adult backbone is still a way off, retarded by a shrinking minority who are still clinging to the deck chairs and drinking Kool-Aid cocktails.

What If?

And what if the new legislators had emerged with a fully functioning backbone?

It appears as if it would've made little difference. After the election, he cried out for a new era of bipartisanship even as he poked his opponents in the eye with a stick. He made it abundantly clear that he would defy the wishes of the electorate and Congress and push ahead with his failure of a war anyway.

Stop funding? Feh, nothing but the ramblings of traitorous cowards to be ignored.

Revoke the approval of his war? Doesn't mean a thing.

Challenge his questionable legal measures? He'll simply deny he's breaking the law while assiduously playing a shell game to keep the challenges from coming to court.

Consolidating Power

The War on Terror is bad enough, but he's consolidated his dictatorial power in other troubling ways. He's damaged America's standing and credibility on the world stage. He's laid the foundations of many bad policies that will take years to unravel. He's encouraged the erosion of our economic base to create an astonishingly wide and troubling gulf between the haves and have nots. He has pushed us down the already slippery slope of becoming a country that knows how to a country that knows nothing.

Recently, he's gnawed at the legal underpinnings that might provide a brake on his voracious appetite for control. Despite his frequent criticism of judicial activists, he's called their activism and raised the stakes by firing federal prosecutors who disagree with his positions. He doesn't bother citing justifications for the removals aside from unspecified performance issues. And in one case, even freely admitted the removal was to pave the way for a political crony.

Slow Motion Coup

Far be it to suggest these actions are a slow-motion coup. It isn't fair to accuse him of a conspiracy without proof, but his actions are troubling enough to at least ask the question, "could it be one?" Once, this question would have been laughable. Today, it seems a remote, but somewhat more valid question. After all, many dictatorships started the same way - small changes, one quietly piled atop the other so as not to panic the public. One day, the public awakens to find the levers of government firmly under the dictator's control and the Stockholm Syndrome conversion of them complete.

True, it's far-fetched and probably won't happen. But, the process has gone far enough to be a concern and far enough that someday a dictator may appear and use George's actions as a template for their own slow-motion coup.

And the day that happens the dogs and cats will truly howl up a storm.

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Sunday, February 25, 2007

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The Odyssey of Anna Nicole

What the hell???!! I've been determined not to jump on the Anna Nicole bandwagon, but I saw something today that was truly amazing.

As I ate my lunch this afternoon, I flipped on the TV and tuned to the cable news. I always like a dash of death and destruction with my meals. I find that it aids digestion.

The screens of all three major cable news outlets had the usual BREAKING NEWS! THIS JUST IN! OMIGOD! SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED! banners up while crawls about Anna Nicole ran across the bottom like the out of town scores on a ballpark Jumbotron. At first, I barely noticed the banners because they're so often there. Remember newswench Rita Cosby croaking on for over a year about the murdered teen in Aruba? Each night the banner said the same thing - "Developing Story: Natalie Holloway is still dead". I hadn't seen anything like that since Chevy Chase used to give us, "Generalisimo Francisco Franco is still dead," on Weekend Update back when it was still funny.

Banners r Us

As I became vaguely aware of the banners, I realized they laid over an overhead shot of some building. This seemed a bit odd to me. Had she died again and this footage depicted the arrival of a hearse at the hospital? Had Howard K. Stern committed suicide by jumping off the roof of the building after realizing he'll have to drag his lazy ass off the couch and work for the rest of his life? Perhaps Paris Hilton and Michael Jackson had stolen Anna's body and were holed up in a warehouse negotiating with the SWAT team for extra coverage on E!

Suddenly, the helicopter shot gave way to a courtroom where the usual legal talking heads whispered in the background, "The judge is about to announce his verdict concerning Anna Nicole Smith's body. Let's listen in." Yes, let's!

Damn, I thought. She did die again! Then I remembered the dysfunctional cast of crudely drawn comedic characters were still fighting over a disputed inheritance from a dead 90 year, what should happen to the baby...I mean where Anna should be buried...or was it who was taking over the Trimspa franchise?

Just Dust and Implants

It turns out this was just this particular case was about the body. After all, she'd been laying around for a week and if somebody didn't make a decision soon, Anna be reduced a pile of dust topped by a pair of silicone implants. Just ask James Brown's body what that's like. "HUH! Good Gawd. I don't feel good!"

The judge began reading his legal mumbo-jumbo and I started to eat my PB&J. As I chewed, I heard the Skippy-muffled sound of crying. It was eerie. I thought someone was in the house before I realized it was the judge. There on national television sat a judge, looking like Alan Rachins from LA Law, bawling his eyes out. He whimpered and simpered and broke down several times.

I began thinking, "Maybe this isn't about Anna Nicole. Maybe they just left the banners up and this was really a story about something else." But no, Howard K. Stern was there banging his head on the table and bawling right along with Judge Teary McRedeyes. Over in the corner, Anna Nicole's estranged mother was blowing her nose like a moose with hay fever. In fact, everyone in the damn place was howling like...well, like attendees to a funeral. Talk about a lack of judicial decorum.

Through a snot-blowing, tear-laden delivery, the judge said Anna Nicole's kid was the legal heir and would be in charge of making the decisions about Anna's final resting place.

What the Hell Are You Smokin'?

Huh? Um, judge? You are aware the kid's only a few weeks old aren't you? I mean I hate to question the wisdom of your honor, but what the hell are you smoking?

After stopping the reading of the verdict for another nice long cry, he croaked that the kid's guardian would make the decision. Then, he wrapped the whole case up with, "You people get together and work it out amongst yourselves." He said, literally, "I have completed all my tasks in this case," apparently not remembering that the main task was making a damn decision.

I never figured out what was so traumatic about this case. Unfortunately, the world is filled with dysfunctional people who relish picking the bones of their dearly departed. This guy is a family court judge, surely he must have seen similar cases many times before.

Oh yeah. This one case was on television. I guess you just can't pass up exposure like that. I thought Lance Ito should have gotten his own series after his over-the-top display of courtroom thespianism. I guess this guy was just angling for a spot on Dancin' With the Judges.


When the cameras went back to the studio, legal beagle Dan Abrhams asked the recently airbrushed Susan Filan (who actually looks pretty good now - I'd hit it), "Susan, what was all THAT about?"

"Dan, I'm not sure."

Neither was I. I mean weird legal decisions are the norm in this country, but I can't recall a judge breaking down like a schoolgirl while reading a verdict and I can't remember a case when a judge essentially said, "I punt. No decision for you! I'm outta here." Stupid decisions yes, no decisions, not so much.

So the Anna Nicole tragicomedy will continue. The dueling fathers will fight over the kid until she follows Mom off to Forest Lawn. Big Daddy Oilman's disputed fortune will continue dwindling through leeching legal fees until the 13 Dads and 6 grandmothers agree to equally split the $2.57 that's left. And Anna will finally get what she no doubt wanted while she was alive - an inexhaustible supply of publicity without the trauma of having to live with it.

All I have to say is, "Britney! Are you paying attention to this?"

The Poobah is a featured contributor at Bring It On!

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Thursday, February 22, 2007

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All Hail Hiromistan

We are a benevolent deity. We go about the world righting wrongs and smiting those who deserve to be smitten. Occasionally, we take time out and pay homage to a particularly deserving blogger. Today, that blogger is Hiromi X.

We are proud to say we heartily endorse the recent birth of a new republic, the People's Republic of Hiromistan. By our holy command, we beseech all who believe in Poobah and goodness to salute the flag of this proud young republic and hail its leader in inestimable Hiromi X.

Flag Facts:
  • The red background symbolizes the terrible might of those scorned.
  • The blue and white seas symbolize the tranquility to be discovered.
  • The bird symbolizes freedom taking wing.
  • And the mixer is the symbol of culinary excellence and the personal marque of Hiromi X.


Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Thursday, February 22, 2007

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Snarkin' on the Dick

It turns out that it may not be Libby, Libby, Libby on the label, label, label after all. To be sure, Scooter's defense is taking its lumps in the trial, but the Vice Chickenhawk might become cannon fodder on the political battlefield too.

Remember that La Scoot isn't on trial for outing Valerie Plame, he's up for lying about what he told to whom and when. It appears as though Chief Gossip Richard Armitage blabbed the information first, but the administration's version of the kid's game "Telephone" ensures little can be definitely proved beyond the Plame "secret" becoming the worst protected secret in the world.

I've watched a few James Bond movies. Aren't these guys supposed to keep their traps shut about official secrets? Even George Lazenby managed that.

Scooter's Dumb, Dumb Thing

The more testimony that comes out, the more it looks like Scooter did a dumb, dumb thing - he allowed himself to become the sacrificial lamb grazing on the White House lawn. Apparently, the Diminutive Deceiver couldn't believe that he'd be tossed over the side as so many others in Crawford East had been. For an administration renown for loyalty to its Crony Cabal, history shows they aren't hesitant to shove someone overboard with a lead life ring if it looks like they have become a liability that can't be ignored.

Think Dudley Doright screaming at Snidely Whiplash to, "do anything you want to the girl, just don't hurt me!"

Brownie got his pat on the back and "don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out" rejection. Junior varsity Tammy Faye and Bush groupie Harriet Myers got the ax when the drums of doom got so loud that Shrub couldn't sleep inside his bubble. Although Rummy, the King of Kronies, held on long past his shelf date, Baba Bushie eventually gave him walking papers to stave off an open rebellion in the Pentagon and Congress.

With both the President and Vice President on the hot seat, how long will it be until the more cowardly of them turns on the other?

The Big Dick is a Tough Guy

The Big Dick is a tough guy. He has an impressive sneer and looks every inch the Penguin from Batman. Hell, he even shoots people before cocktails back at a campaign donor's house. But he has his cowardly moments. He dodged the Vietnam bullet with a lame excuse and an insemination creating one lesbian and one "normal" daughter. I expect that when they build the Cheney library the biggest draw will be the piss-stained pants he wore on the day he got his draft notice.

Napoleon Bushapart fared a little better. He had the iron will necessary to join the Texas National Guard. He even showed up for a few meetings in war-torn Houston before "retreating" to run a friend's campaign in Alabama and go to the government-supplied dentist. After about eleventy-seven tries, he even has some of the documentation to prove it.

In a battle of the halfwits it's hard to tell who'd win out. George can't operate without Dick fisting him to pull the strings that make him talk - rather poorly. But, the Big Dick gets a big dick from wielding all the power he gets via association with a vacuous idjit. Marionette vs. Viagra-fueled hard on - a real battle of the titans.

Going Out on a Limb

Even though most people would dearly love to see Dick take the long walk into dove-hunting oblivion, they also concede he may be the only crony with enough goods on George to last out a serious challenge. Remember, no one thought Spiro Agnew would get the boot, yet it happened anyway. However, George is one of those savants who somehow knows where to get a human shield. Saddam was at least as dumb as George and he managed it, so there's no reason to believe Shrub can't pull it off too.

I'm going out on a limb here, but I predict the Big Dick will succumb to erectile dysfunction before the election and be thrown to the howling Poodles of War. George, using his extra-long coke-spoon fingernails, will hang on until Inauguration Day. Then, he'll slink out of town to begin his historical rehabilitation. It will be composed of screeds claiming his whole eight-year odyssey of ineptitude was Bill Clinton's fault. Then, he'll throw spitballs at the new President because he's, "helpin' the terrists" by staying in Iraq. "Them poor, poor troops. The war's just devastatin' to their morale," he'll proudly bloviate.

After all, stranger things have happened. Hey, the nimrod crawled into office twice didn't he? Who knew?

The Poobah is a featured contributor at Bring It On!

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Wednesday, February 21, 2007

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Mitt and the Simian Scatologists

When Republican Presidential hopeful "Mittens" Romney threw his hat into the ring last week he made his announcement at the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, MI. Unfortunately, it turns out ole Henry was a racist so Mitt was covered by the guano hitting the fan. The anti-Mittens crowd immediately piled on and dubbed him guilty of racism by association.

Mitt explained that he meant no harm in choosing the museum venue. He simply wanted to use Ford as an example of the type of creative dynamism he believes the country needs. He also reiterated that he's not now, nor has he ever been a racist - a defense that appears to be true. You can rightfully criticize his policy positions - I do - but there's no solid evidence that Mittens is anything more nefarious than a blow-dried, bumbling politician. If we extended the logic of his attackers, no one should visit Mount Vernon - where the original George W. kept his slaves - or Monticello where Tom Jefferson kept his. Further, tributes to a Nazi-sympathizing Charles Lindberg should be revoked and half the members of the British royal family should vacation in shackles in the Tower of London for their Soviet and Nazi sympathies during WWII.

Everyone Has a Past

Everyone has a past and nearly all of us carries some ill-considered decision that would certainly be blown out of proportion during the heat of a campaign. That's why they call it attack politics and none of would think it fair if we were victims.

Was Henry Ford a racist? Undoubtedly so.

Did he accomplish many things that improved the lives of workers (including Jews, blacks, et al). No one could argue that.

As inexcusable as Flivver Ford's racism was, he did good along with his bad and there's absolutely no reason why Mitt Romney should be tarred by the runoff from Henry's backward beliefs.

Mittengate a Hate-Filled Mudfest

Mittengate is a prime example of how politics has turned into a hate-filled mudfest that discourages quality candidates from campaigning for office. Each election cycle I think, "we have 300 million people in this country and the best we can do is this rabble of jackasses?" At least part of the answer is in this fable of Mitt. He made a decision that had absolutely no bearing on himself or the supposed legion of the offended. It was a decision that quite a few of us would innocently make in similar circumstances. He paid the price with accusations about his character, mud-splattered clothes, and a wasted campaign event at a place visited by millions of regular, non-racist citizens each year.

If that's a "mistake" what the hell should we call our current Pud-in-Chief's decisions? His have been demonstrably bad and yet he remains in office.

The "gotcha" mentality runs wide and obscenely deep in this political season. We've become a nation of people so focused on the molecular structure of the trees that we can no longer find the hemisphere where the forest lies. Our winners are no longer the best candidates for the job, they are the ones who emerge with the least amount of feces - real and imagined - clinging to them.

A Belly Full of Simian Scatologists

Members of both parties and mud-slingers and slingees alike say the politics of personal destruction must stop. They are correct, if not a little disingenuous. They practice the fine art of turd flinging for only one reason - it works.

We the electorate need to stop it. We need to stop listening to, and engaging in, these sorts of petty non-incidents. We need to evaluate candidates on the full breadth of their platforms and not just the litmus of single wedge issues. We need to stop looking at candidates through the lens of a single-party affiliation. And we need to hold them responsible for the type of boorish behavior Mitt experienced. Campaigns should be noble things where ideas are openly and honestly debated, not places where every candidate's decision can turn into a bludgeon with which to beat them. It's one thing to disagree with a candidate's position, it's quite another to beat them about the head and face with manufactured gotcha's that mean nothing to the political process.

If we don't do these things, we'll be doomed to live in a country governed by turd flinging apes. And I don't know about you, but I've had my belly full of these simian scatologists.

The Poobah is a featured contributor at Bring It On!

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Tuesday, February 20, 2007

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Weirder than a bald-headed bimbo, deader than a gold digger, and crazier than a diapered's all the randomness you can stomach!

Candidate Throws Leaf Into Ring -, she has my vote. According to WaPo, there's a real danger she'll siphon off the Hillary vote.

One Word: Ew!
- Schools can teach kids to do this, but can't teach them to wash their hands when they pee. Go figure.

ZAP! - The ladies can also use it as a "personal massager", wink, wink...nudge, nudge.

Designated Pisser - This is likely to be the last thing a drunk sees immediately before the fiery crash.

The Novelty (Store) Never Wears Off - The gift store for that Suicide Girl (NSFW) in your life.

Stem Cell Debate Rages On - Stem cells aren't just for curing disease anymore.

Jet Blue Update - Then, they held him on an airplane for 11 hours and force-fed him blue potato chips.

Shrub Speaks With Forked Tongue - How's that for an accomplishment?

News Flash - Love means never having to say you're just have to show it. (Tip of Omnipotent Chapeau to Peacechick Mary at Knock Knock)

Curmudgeonly Conservative - It's no wonder they thought he was the leaker, you could hear him talking about it four blocks away.

Oye Como What? - The Samba Pa Ti goes well with the Milli Vanillishake we hear.

Tawney Kittaen Eat Your Heart Out - Why bachelorette parties (NSFW) are much much sadder than bachelor parties.

Not All Spam Comes From Nigeria - At least he didn't sell them as "organic" Viagra.

He's Making PA Proud - Ladies and Gentlemen, the Rick Santorum memorial sex statue. (Omnipotent juju goes to Random Speaks)

It Works So Well I Bought the Company! - I wonder what they're really getting at.

TMI - I think I could have gotten along without knowing some of these. (A free round at the Omnipotent Bar & Grill for Konagod)

Would You Like to See the Wine List? - Come on down to Dahmer's where the meat's always fresh and tender.

Pucker Up - Some people obviously don't know their ass from a...never mind.

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Monday, February 19, 2007

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Where's a Good Emperor When You Need One?

When Nancy Pelosi was anointed Speaker of the House, many Republicans pooh-poohed her as the embodiment of San Francisco values. It's true that by today's political standards, La Nance is a staunch liberal. However, by San Francisco political standards she's but a mere moderate.

Perhaps in the difficult times we find ourselves, a pinch of San Francisco values might not be such a bad thing. Baghdad by the Bay has a long history of political intrigue and a reputation for accepting just about anyone. Hell, even Mayor - and political golden boy - Gavin Newsome's affair with his best friend's (and campaign manager's) wife hardly made a dent in his popularity. San Francisco is an astonishingly forgiving place.

A Good Emperor

If there's a central figure in the history of this city-state who might provide a model for handling our current quagmires, he would be Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico.

The good Emperor was a well-known San Francisco character who never shied away from the political duties befitting a self-proclaimed monarch. In a series of proclamations - dutifully legitimized in the local press - he showed himself to be an Emperor of the people. He was a rare champion of the Chinese in an era when anti-Chinese societies were the norm. He put himself between a rabble of local racists and the Chinese to quell a potential riot. He called for citizens to resist the urge to blame others for their problems. Our current Emperor of the United States and Protector of the Wealthy would do well to take a similar path.

Norton was similarly firm with other political potentates. In 1860, he issued a proclamation forbidding Congress to meet - a particularly far-sighted decree indeed. He followed that wise proclamation with one abolishing both the Democratic and Republican parties "because of [the] party strife now existing within our realm". Again, politicians of the present would do well to take note.

He issued other important proclamations as well. He dismissed the Governor of Virginia for hanging John Brown, ordered representatives of the states to change laws to "ameliorate the evils under which the country is laboring", and ordered the arrest of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors for ignoring his decrees. Of course, he did have a touch of the "real" politician in him, temporarily leaving San Francisco to seek a yearly tribute from the legislature and lobbyists in Sacramento.

A Benevolent Monarch

Norton was also an extraordinarily civic-minded man. He issued decrees to clean up the filthy streets, install gaslights to dampen crime, and, in 1869, decreed that a suspension bridge connect San Francisco with Oakland across San Francisco Bay. The Bay Bridge was finally built in 1936. Norton was even a early proponent of a "League of Nations" - probably risking ridicule from the 1800s forerunners of today's anti-UN crowd.

In return for his benevolent rule, bankers honored the destitute man's handwritten money, the police were ordered to salute him on sight, and he received widespread acclaim. When he died in 1880, a two-mile long, 10,000-person funeral cortege accompanied his body to the cemetery. Something that not even St. Ronald Reagan commanded.

Of course, most of Norton's proclamations ever amounted to much - clearly the Democrats and Republicans are still squabbling strong - they were just the scribblings of a man whose mind departed Earth before his body. But his reign was far from pointless. He stirred up civic pride and provided a valuable diversion from the relentless news of a nation in turmoil and the hardscrabble life on the Barbary Coast. He was an inclusive and far-sighted monarch, so different from the one we currently suffer. Norton's story is an important one. One that I wish Emperor George followed more closely. It makes me wonder just what it is that makes San Francisco values so reviled by some. It also makes me wonder something else.

Where's a good Emperor when you need one?

The Poobah is a featured contributor at Bring It On!

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Sunday, February 18, 2007

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The Stories I Tell

I think I was born with a genetic predisposition to tell stories. From a young age I imagined many a fictional story and used imagination to frame my physical world as well. Even though you "hear" me through writing, I speak many more stories in everyday life. Despite a poor memory, I somehow make thousands of connections each day between what I observe in the present and what I remember from the past. The grout in between is a vast panoply of trivial facts, emotions, and other stuff. These connections form the frame of my stories.

Whatever the reference - personal, work, current events, music, art, etc. - I automatically consult the overstuffed memory notes I keep in my head. And these are no Cliff's Note memories either. They frequently come with an astonishing texture. I can vividly recall not only sights, sounds, and snippets of conversation - I also experience smells, tastes, and subtle feelings on my skin. Sometimes, my memory of a particular event is more "real" than the reality of writing this post or drinking my morning coffee.

When I remember childhood stories they aren't through the eyes of a child, but a curious composite me who is simultaneously adult and child. The kid fills in the sensory details recorded in the moment and the adult brings voice to thoughts I lacked the language to speak at the time.

Before I birth my stories, I experience them as nothing more than random thoughts. Sometimes I begin with the thinnest shred of an idea - possibly no more than a catch phrase or sentence that spontaneously pops into my head and beckons. I start with no real beginning or map to the end. I find the story only when I arrive. It's a splintered trail of false alleys and edits that I sometimes wish I could form into a different story. But, the true story always seems to push the other ideas to the side so it can emerge. The final period at the end of my stories is like the buzzer at the end of a game. When it's over, it's over and I suddenly realize it's time to hit the showers.

The facts of every story I tell you are true, but the secret of a good story is pacing and length, memorable turns of phrase, and a logic that isn't always there in a spontaneous and unedited event. So even though the facts are true, I sometimes edit them slightly by trimming away fatty details or slightly changing the order or importance of the facts. Because I have a vast library of stories, they all evolve based on new experiences and new stories. Each story illuminates another so that each retelling ages all the stories as a whole, like a fine wine. What you read here is the result of years of polishing that will continue until the last time I tell a story. The job won't end until I do, and that's a fitting enough end I reckon.

Besides, I could do no more.

Note: By way of example, today's post came from a comment that Dr. Zaius left for The Last True Moment of Silence. As I said to him in my reply (excusing my ham-fisted typing skills), I find myself incredibly lucky to have readers who take the time to read unreasonably long posts. I suppose I make you work awfully hard for it, but I can't tell the stories any other way - that's the true significance of omnipotence. Thanks to the Doc for the inspiration and to you for your patience as an audience. In the business, you're what we call an easy room.

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Friday, February 16, 2007

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Cherubs Strike, Holiday Endangered

New York - Cherubs protesting what they describe as substandard working conditions and wages staged a wildcat strike at St. Valentine Industries (SVI) corporate headquarters today. The protesters, many armed with bows and arrows, clashed several times with riot police in front of the building.

There were several injuries among the cherubs and five SWAT team members were taken to St. Francis hospital after "swooning" from arrow shots that pierced their Kevlar vests. A hospital spokesangel said three cherubs were released after being treated for minor injuries including one torn wing. The SWAT team members are being held for observation.

"Their prognosis is good," the spokesangel said of the SWAT members. "However, they may continue to suffer from a sense of euphoria and a craving for candlelight dinners, chocolate, and roses."

A police spokesperson said the police response was hampered by the cherubs' ability to launch spontaneous air attacks against a police force primarily armed for land-based operations. "The little bastards are swarming all over us," said NYPD SWAT commander Lt. Paddy O'Malley. O'Malley himself was injured a short time later when a member of his team accidentally shot him with a rubber bullet while trying to down a cherub. The cherub rejoined the fracas unscathed.

The strike was staged by Local 637 of the Amalgamated Union of Cherubic Archers (AUCA) after a prolonged contract dispute. The cherubs have been working under an existing contract after five-year years of negotiations fell apart on Monday, just as the Valentine's holiday rush began.

The Down Jones Industrials fell 135 points in after hours trading on news that chocolate deliveries would stall and retail outlets' ability to reduce huge inventories of greeting cards before the holiday will severely impact Q2 retail sales estimates. SVI was the loss leader, losing 73% of it's value while retailers such as Hallmark, American Greetings, and Whitman's Chocolates fell as much as 63 points. Bears and Stearns has placed a solid sell recommendation on SVI's stock and it has been degraded to junk status. NYSE officials warned the company that if its stock value falls further, the Big Board will suspend trading.

In a recent development, SVI officials requested President George Bush dispatch a federal mediator to negotiate an end to the crisis. However, White House aides indicated the President was on an extended crappie fishing vacation at his Texas ranch.

"The request has been made, but the President is studying whether Iran is the cause of this labor unrest. He feels strongly that Iranian labor agitators have infiltrated the union, but would not like to engage in idle speculation or indicate a headlong rush to war," White House spokesman Tony Snow said. "The President is a very careful man and I'm confident that after serious deliberation he will decide - despite any additional information presented - that the Iranians are supplying the strikers with their arrows of mass destruction. It is just one more indication that Iran is a rogue state that must be dealt with forcefully, but fairly. The question is whether that will happen this week or next," Snow added.

Reached in an Indonesian bar, Joint Chiefs of Staff Chairman, General Peter Pace, said, "I don't know what the hell he's talking about. The President is a complete loon." When asked for additional comment, Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff said, "He is not. I love the man like I would love any of my fellow cronies. Just ask Brownie."

With both sides at loggerheads, the strike is expected to last several more weeks - more if a federal mediator is actually assigned. "We hold out hope that the President will act soon," SVI spokesman Chub E. Luv said. "With the President on our side, we know we will prevail. When this thing is over, the communist union movement in this country will finally be extinguished. This is a Reagonian moment to act. We may never have a chance to change the landscape of American business again."

Luv added, "Besides, we donate millions of crappie to the President and we expect favorable treatment."

Ex-White House staffers, interviewed under deep background, confirmed that Valentine is a huge Republican contributor and may be a candidate to replace the current Labor Secretary.

The labor flap began when SVI refused to raise the cherubs' hourly wage to $1.35 per hour. Luv said, "Cherubs are classified as agricultural workers under the minimum wage laws. We are under no obligation to pay more and we feel our offer is a substantial value for our workers. It is certainly on par with wages paid to illegal immigrants and we supply excellent working conditions."

Labor spokesman Julio Bastidor de Amor disagreed.

"The company refuses to pay cherubs a living wage," Amor said. "We work from sunup to sundown, making chocolate, printing cards, and shooting diners at romantic restaurants. We have not received a pay raise since 1136 AD."

"This is our due," Amor added. "This great national holiday would be quite impossible without the hard work of our cherubic brethren. We are forced to work in filthy conditions. Our bows and arrows are ancient, and just look at the condition of our wings. It's disgraceful and immoral."

"Our CEO, St. Valentine, is more concerned with his corporate perks than he is with the well being of his employees or the hearts of millions of middle class Americans," Amor said.

The reclusive Valentine is rumored to have made a record bonus during the last quarter, estimated to be as high as $635 billion. He is also rumored to have many high-cost corporate perks, including his own set of gold encrusted wings, a handmade Stradivarius bow, and a quiver of arrows made by master-whittlers imported from the Vatican. His biggest reported corporate perks are a personal key to St. Peter's Gate and an exclusive club membership in the Halfway to Hell Club.

When contacted for an interview, a club spokesman said the club has a very restricted membership list. "I am going to tell you nothing. Zero. Zip. Nada. We are a private club with a very exclusive clientele." Rumored club members include Anna Nicole Smith who is on a provisional membership awaiting final approval by the Bahamian Supreme Court.
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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Wednesday, February 14, 2007

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The Last True Moment of Silence

More Omnipotent PhotosI pulled into the trail head just after dawn, when the first rays of sun blinked on. Balancing my coffee on the damp roof of the car, I busily unloaded my hiking equipment. Pack, food, cooking gear, water, extra clothes, poncho, maps, and sleeping bag. I'd need all 40 pounds on this solo hike. Satisfied with preparations, I hefted the pack, swallowed the dregs of coffee, and set off with my wide brim hat set at a jaunty angle.

The going was a tougher than expected. The "moderate" trail my hiking guide described was considerably steeper and less well-maintained than claimed. I groaned under the weight of the pack and sweated my way uphill, immediately wondering if I could do without some of my equipment. But I pressed on, lulled by the squeaking of the pack and the rhythmic sloshing bounce of the canteen on my hip. My heavy breathing matched the rhythm of my equipment and I hit my stride - legs tight, a slight forward tilt to balance the pack, and sweat called out onto my cheeks by the rapidly rising sun.

Lost in the Wilderness

A series of paint slashes on the trees marked the narrow trail. At first, it was quite clear and I had no need for the slashes, but as I continued - head down and absorbed with the cadence of the hike - I didn't immediately notice the trail becoming more and more overgrown. Suddenly, I realized the thin bare-dirt path was gone and I'd worked my way deep into a rhododendron thicket.

I stopped and looked up. Clearly, I could go no further in the thicket and I couldn't see any paint slashes above the shoulder-high tangle. I retraced my original steps until a more clearly defined string of bare earth emerged from the pungent undergrowth. Rising up like a groundhog and peered out into the distance and there - a few hundred feet away - were the paint slashes ready to show me the way.

Clearing a copse of briars and bleeding from a thousand sticker pricks, I found the tiny thread of trail. Watching more closely for paint slashes and a visible trail, I mushed on with my pack and my squeaks and my sloshes setting the pace.

Over the next two hours I lost the trail three more times, despite my careful eye. Small side paths - presumably from those who lost the trail in earlier seasons - splintered off and fooled me. As often happens in deep forest, trees began to look alike and topographical features blended into a series of homogeneous and unremarkable ups and downs. The sun was high now and the sunlight easily parted the loose tree cover. The heat was up and my endurance down. I stopped more often for water and to verify I was still clinging to the slender trail.

Paint slashes good - impenetrable briar patches bad.


Nearing lunch time, I entered a large area of second-growth forest. Judging from the size, the younger generation of trees had matured long ago. Although the trees were widely spaced, they provided a thick canopy that kept the forest floor in perpetual twilight. There was no wind and the air was cool and as green as the trees. The entire area sported a lush green carpet of moss that flourished in the damp protected space.

I thumped to a stop by a fallen tree. It was covered in moss and it's giant roots were a spider web exposed. If I looked closely, I could imagine a gnome taking up residence in the cool cave formed by the roots. Chuckling to myself, I lifted the pack off my shoulders and stood completely upright for the first time since I started. I bent this way and that to get the blood flowing through my aching limbs. I poured some water into my hat. It refreshed me as soon as it was back in place.

The Sound Game

I sat down, free of my burden, and pulled some trail mix from my pack. I crunched handfuls of peanuts, chocolate chips, and dried bananas greedily in between small swigs of water. The primary sound was my gnawing, some slowing - but still-heavy breathing - and the nylon rush of the pack as I dug things out.

Lunch done, I took a final deep draw of canteen water and noticed something. There were no animals. No squirrels nor rabbits. No small birds rustling in the leaves. No wind. No racket of civilization. There was only the sound of my lungs dragging in the cool air.

I could hear them quite plainly. A tiny rumble of air going in and a minute breeze of air coming out.

I experimented with holding my breath and when I did, I noticed something extraordinary. I could hear my heartbeat and the sound of blood rushing through my veins. My heart was a far off drum beat, the cadence of life. The blood had a sound so like a rushing stream I thought that's what I was hearing at first. There were no other sounds. It was womblike and cool. The moss left me feeling almost buoyant.

Occasionally, I would add or take away a noise. I swallowed and was almost overcome by the din. I moved my hand against my nylon pack and it sounded like the very sky was opening up. Coughing was the loud rumble of a close-by thunderstorm. Each sound came and went as I pleased. I could make it as noisy or as quiet as suited me. It was the first time I felt omnipotent, a supreme being who could control the world at will. I could make it so quiet that I heard the essence of life within my body. Or, I could make noise and add just enough (but not too much) noise to remind me of the sounds of civilization that I only vaguely remembered in this special place.

I occasionally peeked at my watch - which I could hear ticking loudly when I brought it close to my face - and played my game for more than an hour. Much longer than was wise. I knew that when I stood after the prolonged rest, my tightened legs would scream in a screech so loud I would only feel it.

Time to Go

It was 12:15 and time to go.

I played sound games for a few minutes and glanced down at my watch once more. It was 2:45!

I swear I'd not slept. I clearly remembered playing the sound game and turning my senses off and on. I shook my watch, but it was still ticking and the sun verified that it was well past noon.

Reaching for my pack, I leapt up and put it on. I needed to make some time so I could get to my planned stopping point before dark. I started walking and buckled the pack frame and adjusted my canteen as I walked. Rushing on, I approached the edge of the area and I could see more sunlight and trees waving in complete silence in the distance.

I stopped once more and let my squeaking, bumping equipment go silent as I held my breath. I could still see the trees ahead waving in the breeze, but there was no sound except my heart and the sparkling steam of blood coursing through me. It was the last true moment of silence I ever experienced.

And it made me wonder, just what had happened to that missing time?

The Poobah is a featured contributor at Bring It On!

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Tuesday, February 13, 2007

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Valentine Randomness

Damn You Cupid! - I just hate it when bloggers get all sappy with their posts. I wish he'd just tell us what's really on his mind.

Damn, Escaped Again - Sure, my mind wanders, but at least it has the common courtesy to call before I get worried.

A Texan is Born - A small kid. A big hat. A pack of smokes. It's time for some Texan fun!

Weird Demographics - It seems like this new magazine is working with a steadily declining demographic. Still, I guess any publicity is better than no publicity.

Down on the Farm - I believe these guys may be the brothers of the farmer's daughter. A hard-hitting expose (that's ex-po-say, not ex-pose) to be sure.

It's No Harvard - It seems with tuitions on the rise, some institutions of, um, higher learning, have to have a gimmick. I BID $57.50!

Truth in Advertising - It may be a fake ad, but boy does it have his number.

Pollapalooza! - His numbers are down across the board, but apparently he still polls higher than broccoli. It didn't help Crawford any though.

Well That Was a Little Depressing - Our good friend Dave Away From Home pointed us to this little demonstration of his place in the universe. Since I am omnipotent, I'm going to slip him an upgrade.

I'm a Godzilla Fan Myself - NEWSFLASH! A giant cheese grater has attacked Tokyo. There is no word yet on casualties, but the grater is said to have completely destroyed a automobile-sized brick of Tillamook Extra Sharp. FEMA has been called and is expected to be on the scene of the disaster in the year 2016. Film at 11.

Just a Little Dab'll Do Ya - Amazing new technology revealed! Company expected to release new product aimed at men who shave their heads.

1001 Uses for a Live Cat - Oooo baby! That's it! I love it when you do it rough! OOOOOOO! Can you play Wipeout? (A big tip of the omnipotent sombrero to Miss Syl)

Man, Why Didn't I Think of That? - Now's the time to buy stock in this company. I think these are going to go over big. Really big! But maybe not so big as Blue Gal's panties.

Takes One to Know One - Does John Basedow know about this dude. It'd be over the top if these two hooked up. No woman would ever be safe again.

In Other Fitness News - Two-thousand pound weightlifter and protein milkshake maven Pat Robertson is at it again. That bodyguard better watch out. Pat has a direct line to the Big Guy and all it takes is one call to put the bodyguard into a pair of concrete
penitence panties and send him to swim with the Christian fishes.

Glad We Worked All That Out - Apparently, the technology of hydrodynamics is beyond some people. However, there is hope!

YAWN! - Damn bosses are always poking around at the most inopportune times. Hey! Turn off the monitor! Here he comes now!

I'll Have the Duck With Mango Salsa - These guys eat lizards for breakfast and then pick their teeth with the bones.

Also Available in the Handy DuoPack - What a wonderful world we live in when bodily functions from different ends of the body can work so closely together.
(A big tip of the omnipotent fedora to Tits McGee)

Feeding Beans to the Dinosaurs - Hey! Wait a minute! I thought these guys said the Earth was only 10,000 years old.

Carrot Top, Man of Steel - I always wondered where he got his superhuman powers.

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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Sunday, February 11, 2007

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Cheney Testifies, Found in Contempt


The prosecution in the I. Lewis Libby case called Vice President Dick Cheney to the stand today to testify about comments attributed to him during the federal investigation of leaks involving CIA agent Valerie Plame. OP News Service obtained this exclusive transcript from an unnamed "live blogger" covering the trial in real time.

Judge: Clerk, please swear the Vice President in.

Clerk: Will you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?

Cheney: Go [explicative] yourself.

Judge: Mr. Vice President, please answer the question.

Cheney: It is NOT a legitimate question. You and Wolf Blitzer are impertinate [explicative].

Judge: Sir, be that as it may, I must insist you answer the question or I will find you in contempt.

Cheney: Contempt? That's rich! I'm the [explicative] President, um Vice President, of the United [explicative] States of America. I shoot people in the [explicative] face before breaking for cocktails at the club. And those are just the people I'm found of. You should see what I do to the enemies of America!

Judge: Sir, please!

Cheney: Yeah! OK, I'll tell my version of the truth.

Judge: Recorder, let the record show that as a yes.

Fitzgerald: Mr. Vice President, the defense charges that you were at the center of a campaign to damage the career of Ms. Plame by divulging her identity to the news media.

Cheney: She works for the CIA?! The HELL you say. I didn't know that. When did she go to work for them?

Fitzgerald: Sir, it's been common knowledge for months and for some time before the alleged outing occurred.

Cheney: Well, nobody told me. I must have been in my undisclosed location at the time. You can't expect me to know everything. Besides, Scooter told me about her.

Fitzgerald: Which is it sir, you didn't know or Mr. Libby told you her identity?

Cheney: Don't put words in my [explicative] mouth! I said that Judy Blume bitch told me. Hell of a skirt. Fine piece of Feminazi meat. Don't tell Lynne I said that though. She'll have my balls on a [explicative] platter.

Fitzgerald: Do you mean Judy Miller? Of the New York Times?

Cheney: Might have been. It was either her or Geraldo Rivera. I can never tell them apart.

Fitzgerald: Is it true that in trying to cover up the allegations you were trying to divert attention from the President and senior members of his staff? Perhaps Karl Rove?

Cheney: Not the President. He's a world class moron. If I let him off his leash things just go all to [explicative] hell. Dumbest [explicative] I ever knew. Too stupid to come in out of the rain. I always need a stooge around to take the fall. That dumb [explicative] is my get out of jail free card. Besdies, I'm the brains behind the idiot. Me! I'm in charge!

Fitzgerald: And what about Mr. Rove? Were you trying to hide any involvement of his?

Cheney: Turdblossom? Good God man, he's a bigger idiot than that addlebrained crackhead he works for. Karl couldn't [explicative] without me coming to wipe his [explicative].

Fitzgerald: Mr. Libby has alleged that you pointed the finger of blame at him in order to save Mr. Rove.

Cheney: Go [explicative] yourself!

Judge: Mr. Cheney, please answer the question.

Cheney: I said go [explicative] yourself you black-robed son of a [explicative]. I don't have to answer to you! I don't have to [explicative] listen to anybody. I am [explicative] in charge!

Judge: Sir, may I remind you that you are under oath and are required to answer this question?

Cheney: I didn't say anything about those Enron boys and myself getting together. Why do I have to answer to you?

Judge: Because it is the law sir. It is the law!

Cheney: Go [explicative] your law! It says right in the Constitution that the Vice President is exempt from any and all laws that he finds objectionable.

Judge: Sir, it does not say that! I order you to answer the question!

Cheney: Well, it ought to say it. I pay big money to that Mexican fellow over at Justice to interpret the laws any way I [explicative] well see fit.

Judge: Sir, you give me no other recourse than to declare you in contempt. I hereby order you to be incarcerated in a Federal Penitentiary until such time as you decide to answer the questions put to you and show respect for this court!

Cheney: Go [explicative] yourself! Where's my shotgun?!

Judge: Bailiff! Take him away!

Cheney: OK, OK, but I'm not going to any Federal Pen. I demand to be treated commensurate with my position. I will incarcerate myself in my official residence at the US Naval Observatory. I also insist you provide me with cocktails at 10, 2, and 4 and permit me to throw a dinner for my former colleagues at Halliburton. They say they're being picked on and I have to figure out whose head is going to roll over that. I'm the [explicative] Vice President of the United States and you [explicative] with me at your peril. Oh yeah, I want plenty of ammunition for hunting deer on the grounds and shooting at Cindy Sheehan at the fence. [explicative] woman is ALWAYS butting in where she doesn't belong!

Judge: Bailiff, take the Vice President away!

Cheney: Hey! What kind of chicken [explicative] is this? You're supporting the terrorists! You're in bed with Osama bin Hussein! Are you crazy man? I'm the only one standing between those terrorists and the total destruction of our way of [explicative] life! No [explicative] one can keep this country safe except me! Get your filthy islamofacist hand off me! This will not stand. Unhand me or the full weight and wrath of the House of Saud will be unleashed upon you.

(Voice of Vice President fades away.)

Fitzgerald: Your honor, I don't know what to say.

Judge: Wrest your case now Mr. Fitzgerald, before it's too late. I don't think anything more can be said. Given his testimony, we should be able to wrap things up by lunch tomorrow. Mr. Libby? Do you concur?

Libby: Yes sir. See what I had to put up with from that guy? Hang me out to dry? Phffft! I'm the one in charge! I'm the brains of the outfit! I make all the decisions! I'm King of the World!

Judge: Bailiff. Please take Mr. Libby away as well.

George Bush (softly, from rear of courtroom: Ummm, who do I talk to about bail fer them fellers? I got a few corners to turn and a democratracy to create and I need some help. It's hard work being the Decider.

Judge: Good Lord. Bailiff?

Bailiff: Yes sir, I know what to do. Mr. President would you come this way?

Bush: Do they have cookies back there, or maybe some tacos? I like tacos.

Bailiff: Yes sir. This way sir...


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Truth Told by Omnipotent Poobah, Friday, February 09, 2007

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