perfidy

Shitdippery?

Douchefuckery?

Suckassery?

Fucknuttery?

As a proud resident of the Bay State, I have studiously tried to avoid commenting on the recent, um, asssuckery surrounding the doucheshittery arrest of two hippie dudes for putting up lite-brites around the city. But now the fuckdippy masters of Boston, the so-called hub of Teh Univerts, have actually claimed a prize, head of the Cartoon Network Jim Samples. Samples has resigned for his part in commissioning the commission of the recent act of, of... terror... that gripped Teh Hub because of the lite brites that... gripped our Hub with... um... terror...

Working as I do in Boston for one of the pre-eminent cut-rate educational institutions that litter the Hub like glitter on a transvestite's silicone cleavage, I am outraged, yes, outraged, that Samples is a goner yet the two suckdouchely nutass douchefuckers who perpetrated this, this.... terrorism, are not yet swinging by their, yeah, ooooh, right there.... ooooh, by their, what was I.... justice feels so RIGHT, uhhh, ooh,

I'm just so glad they got a scapegoat. I feel so much safer, and sleepy, now that someone got shafted because of those scary-ass lite brite terror things.

Unghhhhngh.

Justice feels soooo goood.

"I heard the heartbeat."

Yep, my forthcoming son and/or daughter is now, inelecutably, fo' rizzle fo' shizzle. Hell yeah!

Recently, Buckethead and clan relocated from their suburban abode in the heart of Alexandria, Virginia, to a mountain fastness some sixty miles distant. That ordeal has been amply documented on this site.

The call went out across the land to bloggers and regular people near and far to gather to celebrate the dual events of the birth of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the ensconcement of Clan Buckethead in their new home at Festung Buckethead. Goodwyfe Johno and I flew into the area to attend this bash, and in the process catch the talented Dead Men's Hollow in concert.

The gathering was a great success. Aside from myself and Buckethead, both Ministers GeekLethal (with the lovely Mrs. Lethal and the lil' Lethal in tow) and Ross made the scene. Also in attendence were Princess Kat, the Maximum Leader, and the formerly AWOL Phil Dennison, reformed blogger who no longer has a webpage and who therefore is only eligilble for old-school meatspace esteem. Much business was transacted. Much perfidy was committed. Much music was played, some of it through an iPod fed into a fire-spewing Ruben's Tube. Much very fine Scotch was consumed, and some fairly nice cigars as well. Good times, good times.

We of the Ministry thank all attendees in body or spirit, and hope that the remainder of their 2007 is as auspicious and friendly as ithe precedent set at Festung Buckethead.

Brew # 14, Desert Fox Dunkelweizen

6.6 lbs liquid wheat malt extract (50% each barley and wheat)
4 oz caramunich malt? or maybe it was crystal malt 90L?
2 oz crystal malt 60L?
4 oz chocolate malt
2 oz black patent malt
1 oz Styrian goldings hops, pellet
1/4 oz Tettnanger Tettnang hops, pellet
1 lb very ripe bananas, frozen, thawed, and mashed
.2 oz locally grown coriander, ground
1/2 tsp black pepper, ground
1/2 tsp North African dried lemon, grated
White Labs WLP 300, Hefeweizen Yeast

Steeped grains in 1 gal bottled spring water at 160 degrees for 45 minutes. Meanwhile brought 2.5 gallons bottled spring water to boil in kettle. Sparged grain bag in kettle water and added the gallon of steeping water. At boil added extract and Styrian goldings and started the hour clock.

At :40 added Tettnanger Tettnang
At :50 added bananas
At :55 added coriander
At :59 added pepper and dried lemon

Removed kettle to ice-water bath and brought down to about 95 degrees within half an hour. Added about 1.5 gallons bottled spring water to fermentor. Added contents of kettle to fermentor, and separated out cold/hot break and hops. There were banana chunks in the wort; made sure that as many of them were in the bucket as possible, which may eventually prove to be a grave mistake. Pitched yeast at 74 degrees.

Woken up the ensuing morning by my wife, alarmed by the amount of activity at the fermentor. Sure enough, a VERY vigorous fermentation at a higher than optimum temperature (74-75 degrees rather than 68-72) had combined with a banana chunk to block the airlock, and pressure was building. Cracked lid for a second to relieve pressure and went to rig a blowoff hose instead; when airlock was removed it blew protein scum and banana a couple feet in the air. Yeesh.

There's a lot about this beer that I'm doing "wrong." First of all, I'm really not sure what my specialty grains are; it was a while back when I bought them and I have conflicting reports on my draft recipes. I should have used a little Caramunich or munich, with a small amount of black Carafa malt for color; these are all German malts and characteristic of the style. Instead, I chose to go with American varieties that are rather unlike their German counterparts. Chocolate malt is fairly astringent, and the dark crystal malt I believe I used is bittersweet, rather than frankly sweet. That's probably fine - I'm not really after a sweet beer, but a complex one. But I hope that the yeast strain I'm using doesn't dry things out too too much. Dunkelweizens are supposed to be a little heavier and sweeter than light hefeweizens. I'm heading in that direction but taking a detour.

As for the adulterants; I'm bored with making regular beers, good as they are. I figure what the hell, I'll go nuts. I have bananas; hefeweizen yeast produces banana flavors; in go bananas. I have this weird little dried up black desiccated Egyptian lemon; some lemon tartness is good in hefeweizens; in goes some of that. Hefeweizen yeast produces phenolic compounds reminiscent of cloves and spices; coriander in small amounts adds depth, and black pepper in small amounts adds punch without being noticeable, and they're both characteristic of Red Sea area cuisine; in they go!

It could suck, I suppose. But I kind of think it won't. We'll find out.

Next up is either an Imperial Belgian IPA, combining the citrusy overtones and maltiness of an American IPA with the spicy punch of a Belgian ale, golden in color and around 8% alcohol, or a Fakey-fake Pilsener Ale, which takes the subtle malt and soft hops of a Czech Pilsener and translates them into a higher-alcohol, hoppier American version made with the cleanest, most lagerlike ale yeast I can find. Nummy-num-num.

[wik] Holy crap! The blowoff hose keeps getting clogged with bits of banana, requiring me to physically go to the bucket every half hour to press on the lid enough to blow the banana down the hose. There's all kinds of floaty bits of banana in my bottle of sanitizer now that have come out the end of the hose. This is what they call "adventure in homebrewing."

[alsø wik] So a word to the wise: no matter the worth of the banana as an adjunct to beer, whether slight or great, always make sure those bananas are liquified before they go in the wort.

[alsø alsø wik] Now what terrible spasm of tastelessness could drive me to name a fusion German-Egyptian beer "Desert Fox?"

[wi nøt trei a høliday in Sweden this yër?] No seriously. Twelve hours into the fermentation and I've had to take the risky step of removing the blowoff hose and replacing it temporarily with a standard airlock while I cleaned the crud that had totally blocked the hose out of said hose. Five minutes was enough for the foam of the fermentation to fill the airlock, force its way out of the tiny holes in the top of the fermentor, and begin pooling. Now that I've replaced the blowoff hose, I sincerely hope this is the last I'll have to screw around with this damn beer until bottling day. Is the yeast just Conan-strong? Did I manage to introduce a very hungry bug that's eating everything in sight (very unlikely)? Will I post yet another follow-up to this saga? Stay tuned!

Truth is, walking around a New England January in a t-shirt, and sweating, is DOWNRIGHT UNNATURAL, like Zima, Cirque de Soleil, and obese men in Speedos.

To the little shit who stole my credit card number:

You should have gone for the big bucks while you could, you unimaginative mouthbreather. $11.99 to Paypal? $100 to DirectTV? One... fercryin... dollar to YahooWallet? Skype?!? Too bad I check my balances every couple days, and here you thought you'd nickel and dime me along to finance your crabbed little scriptkiddie lifestyle. You Skype-using unclefucker. Chances are slim that our paths will ever cross, but if they do, you better pray it's a day on which I'm suffering an excess of mercy.

That is all.

There was a time, several years ago, when my life was all vodka dinners and spite. Yep, those were good days back in the music business. To take our minds off the spite, me and some friends got together and did stupid shit. Some in this situation get into fights. Some guys play rugby. Some golf; some collect stamps or fly to Singapore to perform acts of unspeakable beastliness.

We, we screwed around with media.

There's a tape out there in the world somewhere, that features -- yes -- me and Jenna Jameson. But not in the way you think. No; think the opposite. It's real funny.

And there's also the following, recorded shortly before Christmas, the year 2000, by the Jersey City Taberknuckle Choir. That's me on lead vocals and drunken bass.

No, really. I mean it. Rock is dead. Ahmet Ertegun has passed from this world, meaning the single most influential, visionary, and musically aware record label chief of the past century is no longer with us. In every sense, this marks the end of an era.

I was going to eulogize him at length, but everything that needs to be said has already been said, by Reason's Jesse Walker:

To sign Ray Charles, and to refuse to sign Jackson Browne -- Ahmet Ertegun was a man with taste.

Rest in peace, my favorite Turk

Behold the glorious Chingrish of actual English Subtitles used in films made in Hong Kong.

1. I am damn unsatisfied to be killed in this way.
7. Take my advice, or I'll spank you without pants.
8. Who gave you the nerve to get killed here?
10. You always use violence. I should've ordered glutinous rice chicken.
11. I'll fire aimlessly if you don't come out!
14. I have been scared shitless too much lately.
16. Beware! Your bones are going to be disconnected.
18. How can you use my intestines as a gift?
19. This will be of fine service for you, you bag of the scum. I am sure you will not mind that I remove your manhoods and leave them out on the dessert flour for your aunts to eat. [sic, of course]
20. Yah-hah, evil spider woman! I have captured you by the short rabbits and can now deliver you violently to your gynecologist for a thorough examination.
21. Greetings, large black person. Let us not forget to form a team up together and go into the country to inflict the pain of our karate feets on some ass of the giant lizard person.

Using brand new lip-reading software that can decode what someone's saying from practically the side of their head, they ("they" being a deaf German speech-recognition expert named Frank Heubner) have succeeded in putting sound to some of Hitler's home movies. That's right, der wixer himself recorded lots of nice color film of himself, Eva, and assorted friends hanging out at Berchtesgaden. None of this, of couse, was ever meant for public consumption, and none of it was considered relevant to the postwar intelligence/trial efforts. Also, all of it is perfectly silent.

Now the BBC has put together a fairly awesome documentary about Hitler's private life at Berchtesgaden from these movies, and hired an actor to do voice-over on those portions of the film which Heubner could decode using his own expertise and the software he designed. Check THAT out. The meaty parts of Hitler speaking start at about 24:30.

Electric blues in this day and age is, I think we can all agree, about ritual rather than absolute novelty. A good night in a blues bar in Chicago or for that matter in Kiev is about going to the familiar source, reconnecting with the trinity of I-IV-V, with the familiar language of the twelve bars, the bent note, the repeated phrase, and the sweet release of finding company in blackest misery. The blues structure is as well known, as dear and familiar to its devotees, as the Mass is to lifelong Catholics. Sure, okay, all the songs sound alike - it's the ritual that counts.

But what ritual! The rhythms don't always change much and the melodies don't either, but that's not the point. The point is the astonishing amount of energy, of feeling, of meaning a good player can put into one little moan, one note, one line that skids right across the song without regard for the form or the changes, that makes you want to stand up and holler right along. That's where the originality comes in - a good blues player can find something new for you in material you know by heart. A good band on a good night can do practically anything and leave you wrung out, serene, and (for a little while anyway) all right with the world.

So, sure yeah all right, to nonbelievers the blues sounds like the same basic thing over and over again. Bu then again, so is sex, and I don't see many folks getting tired of that. And like sex, (wait, John... so you contend the blues is like sex? How novel!), it's all about the moment. That band, on that night, in that room, is going to put on a show and try to make some magic happen.

Case in point: Delmark has just released Live at Theresa's 1975 by the great Junior Wells, a legendary blues harpist and certified magician, that shows why he was considered one of the Chicago's all-time finest. Wells was a prototypical harp player (that's "harmonica") in the Chicago mold, blowing riffs and phrases through a warm and fuzzy microphone that muddies up the sound and buffs the sharp edges off the harmonica's shrill sound. When he was on, his playing was incredibly thrilling, one of the definitive sounds of the Chicago style.

Wells was a regular at Theresa's Tavern, a now-defunct venue on Chicago's South Side, and Theresa's doesn't have the swing-for-the-fences atmosphere of a big festival show. According to the archives of the Chicago Reader, Wells and his band played Theresa's at least fifteen times in June of that year, so it's safe to say that Wells felt at home in the venue. So rather than being a big-budget spectacle, Live at Theresa's, which was originally recorded for broadcast on Chicago's WXRT, captures Wells and his band in a relaxed mood, hanging out for a late night of blues and casual profanity and whipping off a gem-studded set designed solely to entertain the good people of the greater Chicago metropolitan area.

Wells got his early start in Muddy Waters' band, but by the mid-1960s had migrated to a slicker, smoother sound. He was probably an early influence on James Brown's move to funk, and sometimes took heat for the R&B sound of some of his compositions.

On , Wells opens with his hit "Snatch it Back and Hold It," a slick and bubbling workout that features great guitar work from journeymen Phil Guy and Byther Smith and a vocal contribution from Wells that definitely invites comparisons to the Godfather of Soul. From there, Wells and the band pan out to cover a lot of Chicago Blues territory, turning out polished numbers, roadhouse crawls, and more than a few tracks (notably "Love Her With A Feeling" and the instrumental "Juke") either written or inspired by Muddy Waters. The set as a whole rambles from style to style and song to song, as Wells holds court in a supremely casual mood; 'let's do this one, next we're gonna try this.' In the hands of lesser musicians this kind of set would never catch fire. That's not a problem here.

The music is broken up by plenty of stage patter: some of it rambles, some of it is downright filthy, and all of it is priceless. Junior's just hanging out, his friends are in the house, and he has business to transact right then and there. And although some of the between-song talk is of dubious historical importance, it's a thankful thing that Delmark made the decision to preserve it, because it really makes the show. It was some guy's birthday that night, so the band does a little bit of "Happy Birthday" and then joshes the birthday boy about being a virgin. Somebody's Jewish. Or not; maybe it's Junior, or so he claims. Or not. Junior denies being a blues singer and introduces "Come On This House" as a Perry Como number. Junior starts telling a story that turns out to be the first line of a song. Great, great stuff.

Musically, highlights include all the aforementioned tracks, plus an eight-minute version of the standard "Goin' Down Slow" and a set-closing version of Wells' "Messin' With The Kid" that, although the band is totally out of tune and ragged by that point, is the exact sound of a pie-eyed and happy last call.

Overall, the album captures a great band on a good night at a good club, and, you know what? That's enough. Sure, the blues is three chords over and over again, but that only matters if you're not a believer. Live at Theresa's shows one of the finest blues musicians of all times in his element, relaxed and hanging out with nothing to prove, making magic just for the hell of it.

What is this?? Three football-related posts in a row? Johno must dig sports or something.

Today during the noon hour, my local CBS affiliate went on the air with the CBS football pregame extravaganza show. I was thrilled - nay, elated - to find that the first matchup of the day was Kansas City at Cleveland.

Cleveland! My beloved Browns on national television!

I never get to see a Browns game. I'm a cheap man and refuse to shell out for NFL cable packages. I'm also a lazy man, and no matter how much I'd like to, I really don't want to trek twenty-five miles into Jamaica Plain, Boston, to the "local" Sunday Browns club at some jackass bar. So when the meatheads on CBS started talking about the Browns-Chiefs [edited for clarity] matchup, I immediately cleared my calendar for the next three hours and sat down to watch what for me is at best a biennial event.

Come game time, the NFL pregame show went off the air, and was replaced by two solid hours of children's programming followed up by an hour of infomercials as the Browns beat the Chiefs 31-28 in an overtime nailbiter.

FUCK! Oh, come now. Is it really true, really true, that more people in the Boston area are going to turn the television over to their children at 1:00 on a Sunday, while the Patriots play a game over on FOX, than would appreciate seeing either the Chiefs or the Browns play?

Fucking really?

The Columbia Broadcasting System and the employees of its local Boston affiliate WBZ are hereby cordially invited to suck my ass.

Dickheads.

Speaking of Kissing Suzy Kolber, the guy's got some fantastic fake inner monologues of football stars up there.

Is that Berrian? I think he's triple-covered. You know what? Fuck it. I'm throwing it downfield.

Yeah, I see Jones open on the flank. But fuck that. Dumpoff passes are for faggots. I'm fucking Sexy Rexy Grossman. I can get that ball in there. And, even if I can't, I bet I'll be able to pull it off the next go round. I like throwing the ball long. It makes my dick hard.

What's that? I should throw a quick slant? Fuck that. That's gay. Button hook? Gay. Flare out? Gay. Screen pass? Kevin Spacey gay. This is fucking football. You can't just expect wins to come to you. You can't massage that shit. You gotta grab that game by the throat and rape the ever-loving shit out of it. You think a 5-yard out is gonna win you a game? You're a pussy. This ain't John Shoop running this offense. Sexy Rexy's got the arm. The dragon. You gotta unleash the dragon.

Okay, I'm throwing it. Nice. Look how far it went. I look good. I bet I made that Pats cheerleader wet her panties with that throw. She fucking wants me. I bet she likes it over a stair railing. I can hit that with 100% accuracy, my dear. Mmmmmm. I am delicious.

Oh shit. Looks like Samuel caught it. Again. Oh well. It still felt fucking great to throw that shit. Tell me that wasn't one of the prettiest passes you ever saw. You know what? Not only am I gonna throw it long the next time we hit the field. I'm gonna throw it even longer. Harder. You see that kid in wheelchair sitting in the end zone bleachers? I'm gonna nail him right between the fucking eyes with a Sexy Rexy fastball. Why? Because I can.

This is Rex Grossman we're talking about here. We're talking 210 lbs. of twisted steel and sex appeal. I'm not just a gunslinger. I'm a cumslinger. Throwing that ball long tells all the Rexettes that I am fucking out there. On the edge. Where I gotta be. The ladies love the danger. The unpredictability. Oh, maybe I'll tease them with a pretty touch pass every now and again. But then I'm gonna go right back to pumping that ball out for all it's worth. It tells them I throw like I fuck. That's how we do things in the sexy business.

Tell me you're not turned on right now. I am.

Thanks to the oddly named weblog kissing suzy kolber, I find the linked video, probably the insanest, crazymost sports highlight clip I will ever see if I live to be eleventy-hundred. Watch the video all the way through, and then try not to think about the number of lives that peaked that night, before any of them turned 19.

Thanks also to unfogged for the pointer.

[wik] Here is the direct YouTube link.

The Pentagon is apparently investigating a group of American soldiers who taunted Iraqi children by proffering a bottle of water to a group of them out the back of their humvee and then driving away juuuust a little faster than a group of thirsty urchins can run, and who had the good sense to videotape their hijinks and post it to the interwebs for a larf.

See, several hundred thousand people over there, and you're gonna get some dilholes. But it sure don't make the dilholes any less, uh... dillholy? At least they're gonna pay a little for their dickish fun.

I used to really dig indie music stores. Of course, this was back in the day when I could walk into such a store and know more than 30% of the bands in the bestseller section, but I digress.

I was never totally comfortable with the default attitude of indie music store clerks. We all know what they're like: assholes. On the other hand, you gotta love their pluck. Witness the following, pulled from an indie-store industry newsgroup.

From: xxxxxxxxxxx
Sent: Wednesday, November 29, 2006 12:17 AM
To: xxxxxxxxxx
Subject: the indie record store; TOO good not to share

>From xxxx, [Dinkypeter Records] in [Springfield City]:

Well, Dinkypeter bought 400 [of the Tom Waits box set]. We pre-sold 179 copies, and I wanted to be the only place in [Springfield] with 'em on 12/24. Yesterday, this dude calls and says, "Will you match the Best Buy price on the Tom Waits box?" We'll refer to him as BBF (you know, Best Buy's Friend) in the dialogue below.
BBF: "Will you match the Best Buy price on the Tom Waits box?"
Me: "What's the price?"
BBF: "$44.99."
Me: "Sure, I'll do that. And I'll put $44.99 on it, so there's no confusion."
BBF: "Cool, because I think your shop is awesome. Can you put one back under the name 'Dave'?"
Me: "Yup, not a problem at all. See ya in a bit."
Then, about 10 minutes later...
BBF: "I spoke to someone on the phone, they're holding a Waits box. The guy said he would match Best Buy's price. He said he would put a note on it."
Me: "Yeah, that was me. All right, it comes to $47.91."
BBF: "Your price tag says '$39.99'."
Me: "You asked us to match Best Buy's price. Our price is $39.99 Theirs, you said, was $44.99, so it comes to $47.91 with tax."
BBF: "Dude, that's a f*(king sh!tty thing to do."
Me: "I'm not sure I understand. You asked us to match Best Buy's price, and we are."
BBF: "F*(k you, man. I'm not shopping here again."
Meanwhile, I turn around and put the box set back on the shelf next to ones for the winners that got signed editions.
Me: "OK, so I can put this back? Because this is the last signed one we have, and we'll just put it back for the next person."
BBF: "What do you mean it's signed?"
Me: "We got signed ones, direct from the label."
BBF: "That's bullsh!t. Let me see."
I reach back and get a signed one from the stack next to it, and...
BBF: "OK, I'll take it."
Me: "You said you were never gonna shop here again. I don't want to see you make yourself be a liar."
BBF: "I'm serious, man. I'll take it."
Me: "Dude, it's not worth it. Your personal integrity is more important than this signed Waits CD. Believe me, you'll hate yourself later for going back on your word."
And now the big ending...
BBF: "F*(K YOU!&#*#*^(@*$(^$(@Y$(&$@*&(*&@$!!!!!"
Next customer in line: "That was awesome."

Ok... I'll play.

Your five desert-island comedies. Mine are:

Young Frankenstein
Ghostbusters
Waiting For Guffman
The 40-Year-Old Virgin
Sixteen Candles

And the runners-up:

Blazing Saddles
The Big Lebowski
This Is Spinal Tap
Airplane!
Schindler's List

I'm pretty damn down with the Belgian strong ale I made last winter, so this is a more or less reprise of that. More or less.

3 cans (9.9 lbs) Munton's extra light malt syrup
8 oz light Belgian candi sugar
2 oz Styrian Goldings leaf hops, about 4.6% AA
1 oz Czech Saaz leaf hops
8 oz aromatic malt
8 oz crystal malt, 60L
2.5 oz chocolate malt
1 whirlfloc tablet
EasYeast Trappist Ale Yeast

Steeped grains in 1 gallon water for 45 minutes at about 160 degrees. Brought 3 gallons spring water to boil in pot and added steeping water. Sparged grainbag in hot water. At boil, added extract, sugar, and Styrian Goldings.

Added 1/2 oz Saaz hops at 45 minutes. Added whirlfloc at the same time. Added 1/2 oz Saaz hops at 59 minutes.

Cooled in ice bath and added to fermenting bucket with about 1 1/2 gallons water to make up 5.3 gallons or so. Pitched yeast at 74 degrees. Placed blowoff tube and stashed bucket in closet. Within 24 hours it was gurgling like crazy. Craaaazy.

Atlantic Pale Ale, Mark II

5 lbs dry malt extract, light
1/4 lb crystal malt, 20L
1/2 lb crystal malt, 40L
1/4 lb crystal malt, 60L
1 oz Perle hop pellets, about 7.6% AA
1 oz Amarillo hop pellets
1 oz Cascade hop pellets
1 oz East Kent Goldings hop pellets
EasYeast British Ale Yeast (liquid)

Steeped grains for 20 minutes or so at 160 degrees in 1 gallon spring water, give or take. I probably should have let it go a little farther as I don't think I extracted the sugars fully. Added the steeping water to 3 gallons of water heating in the pot and sparged out the grain bag. Added extract and Perle at boil. Added 1/2 ounce of each of the other hops at 45 minutes, and another half ounce of each at 59 minutes.

Removed to water bath, and added to about 2 gallons of water in fermenting bucket to make about 5.2 gallons. Pitched yeast at 78 degrees.

Fermentation began within 24 hours and had begun to slow down within 48 - nice and vigorous.

[wik] Very delicious, which is nice. Good hop balance, nice ale character. Good yeast! Some esters, some minerals, and little to no masking of hop profile. Johno say "yes!" The only issue is that, for the third time, I have a little benign mold growth in the bottles. THIS time, it wasn't bad enough to ruin the beer, but I suppose it will in time. Time to replace my buckets!

The body of the former Republican Majority hasn't even assumed ambient temperature yet, and the Democratic leadership are already grabbing the wheel and steering the ship of state right off the cliff (way to mix your metaphors!!!). The Democrats are clearly so confident about their chances in '08 that they feel they can spend their first days after the election fucking with us.

Or... wait. No. They are trying to set the bar of success as low as possible, so even moderate gains seem monumental in retrospect. That's the ticket!!

Or, um.... They... shit. I don't know. What the damn hell could Nancy Pelosi be thinking nominating that half-senescent gasbag John Murtha for House Majority Leader? Rambling speeches, more funding for polka and peirogies, but most of all having the troops home in time for Wapner, come hell or high water!

There must be at least two or three people better suited for the job than Murtha, including both myself and the retarded guy who sells balloons outside the Farragut West Metro stop... what in the world is the strategy here?