Who. Will. WIN?!
Friday, December 12, 2008
Cindi McCain's Blog.
What. A. Week-it-has-been!
I mean first we get the best debate ever (Props to my McHubby!) then we get a wonderful S.N.L (Sassy Negative Liberals, gotta love 'em, or at least pretend to try, smile through teeth, no quick facial movements, botox helps); then there was Joe the Plumber, some kidnapping, dow goes up, dow goes down, pill pill pill pop pill pill pill and those 14 million robocalls, weren't they just--desperately aggressive but oddly comforting?
Huh?!
Can I get an amen, here, or what, people?!
Give it up to McHubby. Wow. Just wow. Wow; we've been together for so long that I know whatever he's thinking, whenever he's thinking it, down-to-the-decimal.
Some people call it witchcraft. I just call it Love.
I FEEL him.
Deep in my heart.
Like a lump. Or an oddly hidden purse.
When he's stumbling around on a debate stage, I feel his love like a chill licking up my spine; a dragon, thirsty for my flesh and blood.
Deep. Jurassic.
When he's shaking back and forth on a McCain Plane charted for Hellsville, Virginia, I am with him, thousands of miles below, in Arizonia, under a table, out of codine, rattling my false teeth together in my hands like pom-poms for politics.
And when he's space to space in the greatest race with what's-his-face I parry I duck and I spew my guts all over the place; kids, let-me-tell-you-truth:
Obama?
(Devil-fucker, yes,) BUT-
He has helped my marriage more then anything. In. Years.
Now, we've tried everything before Obama.
Every-THING. I'm talking adderbal botox claritin detox ecstasy fucking other people like George and Herbet and Ian and Viagra?
Anyone?
Can I get an amen?
Obama has helped us, helped us walk away from all that.
Now, I'm a smart woman. I don't believe all those cries of "socalist!" and "n@#%@r!" and "choosen one!"--but they're fun to say, right?
Try it, (when you're alone, first, and in front of a mirror) but try it--and realize that these are the words that can save your husband.
Words. So small, I know, right, but still--words have the power, here.
Not signs. Not billboards. It sure as hell isn't T&A, I mean, have you seen me and Palin tit-to-tit and tit-for-tat (HELLO, people, OK, right?)--no.
It's about words.
Now, it's been years since McCain has held a gun during a time of war. (True, in 91 during dessert storm he chased me around the penthouse screaming for my death, but that wasn't a real war and he told me later that he set the rifle on "Stun.")
My husband needs these words. They are the only artillery that God has left him.
And after a night of ra-ra-rabble-rousing, with screaming masses, burning effigies, puking rednecks...When the rallies are empty?
When the cleaning crew's picked up every last bottle of red bull and the chettos are crunched to dust on the floor.....
It's just the two of us.
Me, and Mchubby, pacing that empty gymnasium, that deserted cafetorium, yelling, shouting, screaming "Socalist!" "Back Taxes!" "Pussy!" "Pansy!" "Cotton Picker!" "DEMOCRAT!" until it gets him so worked up, so hot to trot, that he takes me over to the hotel and on the MCcain/PALIN bedsheets he fills up my buttercup so much that I scream "Drill, baby! DRILLLLLLLL!"
That might have been a little T.M.I*, as the kids say, but folks, let me tell you this: Times are getting tough.
Think it's ugly now? Oh.
Just. You. Wait for November.
Mud-will-fly.
Now if this blog-post--along with the robocalls and the rhetoric and the misleading-liberal-media bias get you down, well, just hang onto this little kernel of truth-cluster:
It may be hurting YOU. But it's helping MY marriage.
And at the end of the day, isn't that what this elections all about?
Thank you, fellow republicans.
God Bless My Cunt and your country.
-Cindi McCain
(With an i cause it's fun! I know it's really Cindy. I just did it with an i cause I felt like it!
No, but really! Isn't our country just LIKE that? See you at the polls!)
*T.M.I=Too Much Information
I mean first we get the best debate ever (Props to my McHubby!) then we get a wonderful S.N.L (Sassy Negative Liberals, gotta love 'em, or at least pretend to try, smile through teeth, no quick facial movements, botox helps); then there was Joe the Plumber, some kidnapping, dow goes up, dow goes down, pill pill pill pop pill pill pill and those 14 million robocalls, weren't they just--desperately aggressive but oddly comforting?
Huh?!
Can I get an amen, here, or what, people?!
Give it up to McHubby. Wow. Just wow. Wow; we've been together for so long that I know whatever he's thinking, whenever he's thinking it, down-to-the-decimal.
Some people call it witchcraft. I just call it Love.
I FEEL him.
Deep in my heart.
Like a lump. Or an oddly hidden purse.
When he's stumbling around on a debate stage, I feel his love like a chill licking up my spine; a dragon, thirsty for my flesh and blood.
Deep. Jurassic.
When he's shaking back and forth on a McCain Plane charted for Hellsville, Virginia, I am with him, thousands of miles below, in Arizonia, under a table, out of codine, rattling my false teeth together in my hands like pom-poms for politics.
And when he's space to space in the greatest race with what's-his-face I parry I duck and I spew my guts all over the place; kids, let-me-tell-you-truth:
Obama?
(Devil-fucker, yes,) BUT-
He has helped my marriage more then anything. In. Years.
Now, we've tried everything before Obama.
Every-THING. I'm talking adderbal botox claritin detox ecstasy fucking other people like George and Herbet and Ian and Viagra?
Anyone?
Can I get an amen?
Obama has helped us, helped us walk away from all that.
Now, I'm a smart woman. I don't believe all those cries of "socalist!" and "n@#%@r!" and "choosen one!"--but they're fun to say, right?
Try it, (when you're alone, first, and in front of a mirror) but try it--and realize that these are the words that can save your husband.
Words. So small, I know, right, but still--words have the power, here.
Not signs. Not billboards. It sure as hell isn't T&A, I mean, have you seen me and Palin tit-to-tit and tit-for-tat (HELLO, people, OK, right?)--no.
It's about words.
Now, it's been years since McCain has held a gun during a time of war. (True, in 91 during dessert storm he chased me around the penthouse screaming for my death, but that wasn't a real war and he told me later that he set the rifle on "Stun.")
My husband needs these words. They are the only artillery that God has left him.
And after a night of ra-ra-rabble-rousing, with screaming masses, burning effigies, puking rednecks...When the rallies are empty?
When the cleaning crew's picked up every last bottle of red bull and the chettos are crunched to dust on the floor.....
It's just the two of us.
Me, and Mchubby, pacing that empty gymnasium, that deserted cafetorium, yelling, shouting, screaming "Socalist!" "Back Taxes!" "Pussy!" "Pansy!" "Cotton Picker!" "DEMOCRAT!" until it gets him so worked up, so hot to trot, that he takes me over to the hotel and on the MCcain/PALIN bedsheets he fills up my buttercup so much that I scream "Drill, baby! DRILLLLLLLL!"
That might have been a little T.M.I*, as the kids say, but folks, let me tell you this: Times are getting tough.
Think it's ugly now? Oh.
Just. You. Wait for November.
Mud-will-fly.
Now if this blog-post--along with the robocalls and the rhetoric and the misleading-liberal-media bias get you down, well, just hang onto this little kernel of truth-cluster:
It may be hurting YOU. But it's helping MY marriage.
And at the end of the day, isn't that what this elections all about?
Thank you, fellow republicans.
God Bless My Cunt and your country.
-Cindi McCain
(With an i cause it's fun! I know it's really Cindy. I just did it with an i cause I felt like it!
No, but really! Isn't our country just LIKE that? See you at the polls!)
*T.M.I=Too Much Information
Joe The Plumber Can Suck My Dick. (And NOT in the gay way.)
If we needed any more of a reminder that we are entering "The Greatest Depression", look no further then Joe The Plumber.
I hate writing that name. I hate looking at it. I refuse to say it; yes, it's an election year, but I won't speak in simple symbolism because saying "Middle Class" takes to long.
It doesn't. Try it.
Joe the Plumber is an Ohio nobody who had enough free time in his afternoon to wander into a mellow Obama "media-march-through-blue-
He asked (excuse me: Whined) about the prospects of starting a business in today's economy. He'd be taxed. He won't get to keep all his money. He was fed up.
Ok.
Any fucker-of-mothers who think he's going to whip up 250,000 bucks to flush into a plumbing enterprise is a dumbfuck.
Not even Super Mario could unclog that much cash.
NO UPSTART PLUMBER makes 250,000 in his first year.
In THIS economy?
FUCK YOU.
Joe doesn't want to start a "small business".
Joe wants to start a "Joe Business."
His prospectives don't include hiring a rag-tag-team of capable plumbers--Joe believes his plumbing IS the team, HIS plumbing can move mountains, HIS plumbing will get HIM money for HIS house and HIS kids and HIS beer and HIS backyard and HIS life, HIS life, HIS life.
He wants a single enterprise; a one-man-septic-can-changin
Now? Now everybody's all crazy.
Remember that Kevin Costner movie--"Swing Vote?"
It's a real P.O.S,* but if you must, find it on Surf The Channel.
He plays a man who's vote will determine the election.
A sloppy, drunk, angry man.
Kelsey Grammer and Dennis Hopper play candidates fighting over his vote--they paint him as an example of the "Everyman", The "Common Man", The "Plumber", The "Teacher", The "Racist", The casual watcher of "Dancing with the Stars."
He becomes everything to the campaign.
Now.
Joe The Plumber is no Kevin Costner.
At least Kevin Costner, with all the shit he's dropped, could probably get a decent plumbing license.
"Joe The Plumber" doesn't have a plumbing license.
...Let me write that again.
"Joe The Plumber" doesn't have a plumbing license.
I HATE writing it I hate thinking it I hate him.
He's a VISIBLE redneck republican.
He has a SHAVED HEAD (And not in the sexy way.)
He throws around words like "socialism" and "Stealing" like they're actually going to happen.
He asks a hypothetical question and now has to carry the weight of the election on his broad bronzed shoulders.
Joe The Plumber is no Joe Worker.
He's no Joe Six Pack.
Hell, he's not even Joe Millionare.
*P.O.S=Piece of Shit.
Dear "Heroes": FUCK YOU, we're over.
Dear "Heroes"You've jumped the shark.
Actually,"Heroes", you've jumped the shark more times then Ecco the fucking dolphin.
In the course of one episode, no, make that every episode starting with the season one finale, you have fucked me, over and over again, and just when I was about done just when I was "almost there" you pulled out zipped up and said "To Be Continued."
No. We-will-NOT continue.
Now, I'm a forgiving TV watcher, in very much the same way that I'm a forgiving battered house-husband. Knock me around as much as you want; I'll always come back if the mood's the same and the cock's still hot.
The mood: Serialized drama-rama with super-dupa-powers by the hour.
The cock: Peter Petrelli with emo-shock-locks.
Easy, sexy, 42 minutes a week, BAM.
Lately, though?
Not so much with the BAM.
More with the cheese, and the snark, and the self-aware and the characters nobody cares about anymore, dude, what's WITH you?
You started out fine as hell--A team of international homies realizing they're punch-drunk with superpowers?
IDEAL.
Giving these characters an entire season to hook it up?
HOT.
Squandering that hook up quicker then a prom date forgetting the condoms at the party?
BULL. SHIT.
You came back for Season Two and I was all like "Kool, whatever,", cause you promised something new.
But I didn't get new.
WE didn't get new; we got "Spy Kids 2" instead of "Empire Strikes Back", we got "2 Fast 2 Furiouis" when "The Incredible Hulk" woulda sufficed; we opened our arms to you and you squatted in between them and shat upon us again and again and again;
Giving us half the cast of "The Wire", only to ignore them, (JUST like the Emmy's!)
air dropping Kristen Bell and giving her dialogue Helen Keller couldn't stutter with a straight face,
Killing your cast, then bringing them back to life
Killing your cast, then bringing them back to life
Killing your audience, it ain't right it ain't right it ain't RIGHT.
NOW.
HERE'S what we finna DO.
First, you're going to give me back my comic-book-show virginity so I can save it for a BETTER show with morals and what-such; I got class, see?
Then, you're gonna apologize to all my friends because I have STUCK UP for you ANY TIME one of my homies has stated the truth about WHAT YOU DO WHEN I'M NOT AROUND.
Finally?
FINALLY?
....You're going to get better. You're not gonna fuck up again. You're gonna come back, next week, promise me something bigger, better, anything, baby, give me drama give me comedy give me a proposal I can wave around on my TIVO and show off, gimme SOMETHING.
Cause I'm not giving up on you.
I don't know how.
Now you get better.
And I'll see you next week.
P.S
Don't think I won't leave your ass if you ain't right when LOST comes back,
cause I can
I have before
and I'll do it in a humming-bird-heart-beat if you don't pull yourself TOGETHER.
...Love you baby.
Sometimes.
....Only sometimes.....
I Saw Milk And Cried Like A Faggot.
I did.
Tears busted outta me like that dam in "X2:X MEN UNITED", and, like Jean Grey, once that water hit me I was transformed into a Phoenix.
-Not Dark, though.
No.
I didn't go on a killing spree that resulted in the lives of Professor X, a solar system, or a coulda-been-awesome-franchise, no--
But I changed.
And who the hell changes watching a movie anymore?
(I saw "Speed Racer" and some emo-vampire-texting-cylon changed her backpack because she was "too hot" in the theater,)
but other then that,
who changes anymore?
Sean Penn changes. It's his superpower. Gone are the days of using his might for mere Oscars; this man is out to shake up a download-only generation of young gay men and woman.
He steps inside Harvey Milk, whose one term as city supervisor (a "community organizer", if you will, take THAT Sarah Palin--) was cut short by Dan White, a fellow supervisor who assassinated Milk and the mayor of San Francisco.
Sorry. Did I spoil the movie?
Milk's story has been with me since I was a kid.
I don't consider being "up on history" spoiling a movie that, maybe, is a bit too late. (More on that later.)
In October of 1998, after Matthew Shepard was killed by two drunk hate-mongers in Laramie, Wyoming, my teacher sat the whole class down and gave us a lesson on not just gay rights--but HUMAN rights.
I was in eighth grade, getting a history lesson that I could have used YEARS earlier.
Harvey Milk's story put a piece into my robotics; gay people weren't this formless cult like the Moonies or the Twilighters, no, we've been around since the beginning of time--
Harvey Milk made up the middle.
I was convinced that the end was not written in stone; that one gay kid's death did not signify the end of a movement, or the beginning; it was just that, a piece of a "movement."
....Say what you will about the movie.
Yes, it's a bit long, yes, there IS a gay in a wheelchair, YES, the score hypes, but people, please: WE don't get films like this, with actors like this, treated with the time, passion, and RESPECT this movie got.
I don't mean WE as in the gays, or the blacks, or the gemeni's (holla), I mean WE as the under 40's who voted Obama,
said NO on 8,
and have the power to form the shapeless mass that Bush left us into something bigger then the bitterness.
I'm excited to talk about this movie.
YES, it would have pushed people's minds if it was released in a pre-post-prop-8 election, but you know what, that day is done.
We live in a world where people's rights can be pulled off willy-nilly.
And, seeing Harvey Milk state that to a group of people in recreated 1977 is horrifying.
Realizing its going on right outside your theater is embarrassing.
What this film gets right is the clarity of reflection:
What are WE doing, everyday, anyday, to change tomorrow?
Thank you, Harvey Milk.
You let a black queer twenty something pot smoking play promoting abomination of an ObamaNation cry like a faggot during the movie about your life.
Consider me recruited.
And who the hell changes watching a movie anymore?
(I saw "Speed Racer" and some emo-vampire-texting-cylon changed her backpack because she was "too hot" in the theater,)
but other then that,
who changes anymore?
Sean Penn changes. It's his superpower. Gone are the days of using his might for mere Oscars; this man is out to shake up a download-only generation of young gay men and woman.
He steps inside Harvey Milk, whose one term as city supervisor (a "community organizer", if you will, take THAT Sarah Palin--) was cut short by Dan White, a fellow supervisor who assassinated Milk and the mayor of San Francisco.
Sorry. Did I spoil the movie?
Milk's story has been with me since I was a kid.
I don't consider being "up on history" spoiling a movie that, maybe, is a bit too late. (More on that later.)
In October of 1998, after Matthew Shepard was killed by two drunk hate-mongers in Laramie, Wyoming, my teacher sat the whole class down and gave us a lesson on not just gay rights--but HUMAN rights.
I was in eighth grade, getting a history lesson that I could have used YEARS earlier.
Harvey Milk's story put a piece into my robotics; gay people weren't this formless cult like the Moonies or the Twilighters, no, we've been around since the beginning of time--
Harvey Milk made up the middle.
I was convinced that the end was not written in stone; that one gay kid's death did not signify the end of a movement, or the beginning; it was just that, a piece of a "movement."
....Say what you will about the movie.
Yes, it's a bit long, yes, there IS a gay in a wheelchair, YES, the score hypes, but people, please: WE don't get films like this, with actors like this, treated with the time, passion, and RESPECT this movie got.
I don't mean WE as in the gays, or the blacks, or the gemeni's (holla), I mean WE as the under 40's who voted Obama,
said NO on 8,
and have the power to form the shapeless mass that Bush left us into something bigger then the bitterness.
I'm excited to talk about this movie.
YES, it would have pushed people's minds if it was released in a pre-post-prop-8 election, but you know what, that day is done.
We live in a world where people's rights can be pulled off willy-nilly.
And, seeing Harvey Milk state that to a group of people in recreated 1977 is horrifying.
Realizing its going on right outside your theater is embarrassing.
What this film gets right is the clarity of reflection:
What are WE doing, everyday, anyday, to change tomorrow?
Thank you, Harvey Milk.
You let a black queer twenty something pot smoking play promoting abomination of an ObamaNation cry like a faggot during the movie about your life.
Consider me recruited.
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