What has come of Scooter Libby's trial? Besides being guilty on four counts (no matter that a presidential pardon isn't far away), it gives us a chance to revisit Scooter Libby's bestial and incestuous sex-novel, "The Apprentice."
It's the story of Satsuo, a virginal inkeeper in a remote Japanese province in the winter of 1903, and it's full of uncles fucking daughters, bears, and deer, and what with all the scatalogical descriptions it's no wonder it took Libby 20 years to write. But the New Yorker magazine skewered it just right as it chronicled the list of things that glisten, quiver, and piss. "He asked if they should fuck the deer. The answer, dear reader, is yes."
That the first words to come from the microphone at the very beginning of the trial didn't involve Pickton or the jury or evidence or the judge; the first words were from one lawyer to another, whispering: "I really have to pee!"
Achtung! You are 46% brainwashworthy, 36% antitolerant, and 57% blindly patriotic
You're not evil exactly, but you still would've joined the German army. Driven by STRONG patriotism and a willingness to do what your country asks, you would've thrown your moral reservations aside and stepped right up to the platz for the AXIS POWERS.
The sad fact is: while you're not self-centered, you are are an enthusiastic nationalist, malleable like so much half-dried glue, and ready to follow zee rules. Unfortunately, you're not cynical enough to tell when you're being manipulated. You probably have a violent itch that needs scratching anyhow, so why ask questions?
Conclusion: born and raised in Germany in the early 1930's, you would've supported the Nazis militarily while turning a blind eye to their 'civilian' programs.
Anyone want to buy an Island? Sealand, a small principality off the North coast of the United Kingdom that's is about the size of a medieval castle, is for sale for only $1.14-billion.
The Brits built the artificial island as a fort in WWII, but a retired army general took it over and named himself the head of state. He even shook off an invasion by the Royal Navy. Says his son, the current owner and president-for-life in his sales pitch: "The neighbours are very quiet. There is a good sea view."
Hey hey, I'm back in Vancouver as of a few hours ago, and if you didn't hear from me in the past three weeks it was because I was skiing. The snow was great. You're all invited to the condo at Panorama. Yes, even you.
My Christmas present this year was a lovely new set of ski clothes, so I have no need of my old gore-tex jacket and pants. I was going to send them to the Sally Ann, but I thought I'd post here if people are looking to take a green jacket and brown pants, somewhat damaged but still servicable, off my hands. Let me know!
Good Lord, I hate it when I forget to log out of Livejournal and then someone staying at my house comes and updates this page for me, paying me back for a similar day, oh, probably two and a half years ago, which I've probably actually forgotten by now, when she forgot to log out of hers. Yeah. That. I hate that.
The best corrections in newspapers and TV this year at regrettheerror.com, including:
-Reuters apologizes for an article about a recall of 'beef panties' -The Ottawa Citizen asserting that the Sabres outshit the Senators 32-28 -Or that little mixup in the National Post about Iran passing laws forcing Jews to wear badges -And right now my favourite, from the Daily Star (U.K.):
IN previous issues of this newspaper, we may have given the impression that the people of France were snail swallowing garlic munching surrender-monkeys whose women never bother to shave their armpits. We now realise that the French football team can stop the Portuguese – and in particular their cheating whingeing winger Cristiano Ronaldo – from getting to the World Cup Final which we so richly deserved to do. We apologise profusely to France and its sporting heroes like Thierry Henry and Zinedine Zidane who we now accept are skilful, brave and the most wonderful neighbours we could ever wish for. Vive La France!
Oh, and with all these treaties coming out, I call for a return to humourous naming practices. "Tswwassen First Nation Final Agreement"? Bring me the "Indian Intercourse Act" any day...
Eminent zoologist Richard Dawkins becomes the picture of the evangelical athiest, no longer a contradiction in terms, in a recent BBC interview about his book, The God Delusion:
An early-90s movie where a finely coiffed Peter Mansbridge shows CBC viewers the wonders of a newfangled computer network called 'Internet'.
Mansbridge: "There's a revolution going on in rec rooms, offices and classrooms around the entire world, in which 15 million people are taking part, sharing information, gossip, and cooking tips, night and day, through a computer network called 'Internet."
And as the background to an old computer monitor rotating in space: "Computers have matured from adding machines to tools of the human spirit."
"The internet is growing like an embryonic brain."
And of course, the blurred text on the screen as the camera focused on the reporter's face, reflected on the screen. Looking through the computer... at himself!
The Vancouver Sun called this faithful scribbler a "shadowy patient" and wondered if "he was really seeking treatment" in an incredibly dark take on my stunt here. But I gotta agree with Tim: I gotta wipe that grin off my face. Poker lessons?
And Jon's appearance on TV on Friday at the False Creek Urgent Care Centre was then followed by Jon's article which was followed by news that the clinic would back down. I wonder if it had anything to do with the revelations in the article: the price lists, the contract that said patients couldn't talk to any government about their care. It would be a total victory if the injury of my pinky wasn't so ridiculous...
Remember Jon Stewart on Crossfire? This was the precursor: Frank Zappa takes on Crossfire's old white men of 1986 (one of them Bob Novak, who hasn't aged a day) on the issue of censorship of obscenity, and the discussion gets a little heated...
But among the e-mails I drunkenly responded to last night (oh, my aching head... curse you, boil water advisory!) was one from Superman's old paper, the Toronto star, telling me to quit applying to their internships and apply for a *real job*... I'm "impressive"! I abandoned the no-backspace rule for drunken e-mails to reply to that one, thank God. Toronto calls...
If only the time zones would work out so I could have called Toronto (read: drunk-dialed lovely Laura). But no one wants a phone call at 3 am, no matter who's on the other end...
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