Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Candy Corn

Obviously we at McBone spend a disproportionate amount of time railing against the evils of mayonnaise, and rightly so. Perhaps though in our rather single-minded quest we lose sight of the fact that mayonnaise is just one of the "foods" that have found their way onto our boycotted substances list.

With Halloween drawing near and Thanksgiving on the horizon, this seems an opportune time to discuss candy corn. Fortunately for research purposes, my wife annually buys a bag of candy corn, which invariably ends up in a cupboard mostly uneaten and utterly forgotten until about July, when we throw the bag away. This year she has procured a bag of Brach's, which proudly calls itself 'America's #1 Candy Corn.' Also conspicuous is a purple label featuring a beehive and a buzzing bee surrounded by the words: 'Made with Real Honey.' Real honey? That's not a bad place to start, and so perhaps it behooves us to examine the ingredients a bit closer. They read: sugar, corn syrup, salt, honey, gelatin, confectioner's glaze, dextrose, artificial flavor, titanium dioxide color, yellow 6, yellow 5, red 3, blue 1. Personally, I try never to leave titanium dioxide color out of a recipe.

OK, truth be told, I've seen longer and more horrifying lists of ingredients. This candy corn will never be mistaken for something all-natural, but mostly we're talking about loads of sweeteners. Oh, and let's not forget about the honey, which thus far is the only draw I can think of. Because, let's face it, what is the lure of something called 'candy corn?' Corn that's been candied? Yuck! And just look at the stuff. Does candy corn really look like anything to eat? It's tri-colored, yes, but how appetizing is white, orange and yellow? The colors are evocative of fall, I suppose, and pumpkins and, yes, corn, but more than anything, when I see a piece of candy corn, I think of the awful cupcakes that moms made for the Halloween party every year at King Elementary. Orange frosted cupcakes that invariably had a single candy corn rising from the center, like a candle. By the time it made it to us kids, the candy corn had leached some of its color into the cupcake, and really even thinking about it is causing my teeth to decay.

And speaking of candles, candy corn is also cone shaped and waxy to the touch, not unlike a miniature candle. While most candy corns contain carnauba wax, Brach's achieves waxiness without the need for the carnauba palm derivitive. Of course wax and candles, even tri-colored ones, don't exactly make my stomach growl. But I enjoy many foods that may not look too appealing, so I'll move to the next phase.

I stick my nose in the bag, half-expecting to be enticed by the smell of honey. Instead, an artificial, sort of sickening, prefabricated sweetness parks itself in my nasal cavity. I gag but am undaunted. I pour a small amount onto the table and hear the little corns click-clacking like a pile of Legos. Again I inhale. Lurking beneath all that sugar is something plastic, as if the candy has absorbed the scent of its packaging and the machines that made it. This stuff is so manufactured that any semblance to real food has been processed into oblivion. I recognize other unfoodlike aromas too. Silly putty. Polyurethane. Legos.

The last thing I want is to put one of these things in my mouth, but as a service to you, dear McBoners, I will. At first I taste nothing. The sensation truly is like having something plastic in my mouth. Then, I chew. As my teeth and saliva work hard, too hard, to break down the sugars, an unmistakable candy-corn flavor is released. My first reaction is: where's the honey? And if there is any real honey, I wonder why they bother, because I sure don't taste it. Corn syrup, among the cheapest of all sweeteners, is closer to the mark, and why not? It is candy corn, after all. During this assault on my erstwhile cavity-free molars, I find little to recommend it. To be fair, though, I will attempt to discern with some attention to detail a few of candy corn's characteristics. Plastic is certainly the predominant flavor. Also present are staleness (18-24 months), wax, artificiality, and processed (is 'processed' a flavor?). What about the texture? Again, plastic and wax, these followed by grit--grittiness being one of the truly unpleasant mouthfeels I can think of. Against every impulse, every survival instinct, I swallow. Let my stomach acid try and deal with this stuff now.

After a mere three pieces I feel a strong urge to brush my teeth for an hour. The ordeal should be over, but lingering on my tongue is something truly unnatural, almost unholy--kind of like the aftertaste of a diet cola. My mouth is not happy, and may not be for weeks; it demands fluoride and floss.

In conclusion, I want to make one thing clear: candy corn is not mayonnaise. While undeniably and almost ineffably awful, candy corn has few of the truly menacing qualities that have made mayonnaise McBone enemy #1. Still, McBone strongly urges you to avoid candy corn this holiday season, whether Brach's or any other brand of this sham of a candy. If you're desperate for something sweet, I think you'll find a spoonful of actual honey much more satisfactory.


Monday, October 27, 2008

McBone Chooses the Black Guy!

Today Alex and I voted at our local polling place (Kroger) and, after absolutely no deliberating whatsoever, chose the black guy. Now, we may not be the most informed voters in the world, but neither are we ignorant fools. We don't vote for a candidate based on one issue, and we like to think ourselves above voting for skin color. But let's face it: Obama's candidacy is important because of his skin color, and his victory will be important because of his skin color. Why? Because the fact that an African-American candidate for president can be leading in the polls so late in the game tells us that we have come so very far since these degenerates held political sway:

Obama's rise is important because it means these guys didn't die for nothing:

Obama's imminent victory is important because it means there is hope for this couple, and maybe not just in Massachusetts, California and Connecticut:

And it's important because civil rights are about gender too. Let us not forget that black men had the right to vote in this country before white women did, and let's never forget that this year's Democratic primary was truly unprecedented, boiling down to Obama versus:

In terms of politics, I'm ambivalent about Barack Obama. I believe what the world needs more than anything is for the United States to take a hard tack to the left. I also understand the need for moderation and mass appeal during election season. I hope he's a little more liberal than advertised, but I'm not getting my hopes up.

In one respect Obama is fortunate; his presidency abuts directly that of George W. Bush. Whoever is elected is bound to look pretty good next to eight years of unmitigated failure. Ultimately, though, the shortcomings of one administration cannot be a measuring stick for future ones. History will decide. Obama's presidency will be judged by how much he did to combat global warming and poverty, on how well he repaired the situation in the Middle East, on whether health care became accessible to everyone, and on how he handled an economy that is hanging on by a thread. Times are tough. People compare Obama to Kennedy. I want FDR.

Yes, policy is paramount, and I can't imagine myself voting Republican, no matter if the candidate is black, brown, yellow, red, white, or green with antennae and tentacles. I'm just saying: Obama's racial makeup is important. In light of that fact, we must remember that we cannot accurately call Barack Obama black. His mother, after all, is white. Obama is something of a hybrid, and for that reason he may just be the symbol of our time. Will Obama be one of those rare galvanizing symbols that are common in fiction but sorely lacking in reality? Hard to say, especially in an age when reality has become so sensationalized. I'm hoping that the word he has uttered over and over again from the start, the word he has made the centerpiece of his campaign, is not as empty as most campaign slogans (anyone remember "compassionate conservative?"). Change is needed. Barack knows it. Can he deliver it? In a way he already has. I just hope he doesn't lose because of his skin color.


PS: Is this post a little corny? I hope not.

Pictured above: Alex votes for president for the first time ever.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

The Carter-Cash/ Alex Photo Gallery

Being the preeminent Venezuelan-born scholar on the Carter-Cash family, my darling wife, Alex, has had ample opportunity to brush elbows with members of the legendary musical family. McBone invites you take a few moments to browse the Carter-Cash/Alex photo gallery.

Here's Joanne Cash, Johnny Cash's sister. We met her in Akron, Ohio, not far from McBone HQ. She gave a great concert, which was followed by a sermon by her husband. As I recall, he denounced evolution, but we won't hold that against him.

Joanne Cash and Alex, Dec. 2007

This next photo is of Alex and Carlene Carter, June Carter's oldest daughter from her first marriage to Carl Smith. We met Carlene last night at a concert at the Little Nashville Opry in Nashville, Indiana. Carlene gave a great concert which was not followed by a sermon, which was Ok by me.

Carlene Carter and Alex, Oct. 2008

Finally we have Alex and Unit One, Johnny and June's tour bus. Here Alex is basking in the warm glow that June left behind in her personal quarters. While Unit One may not in fact be a living breathing member of the Carter-Cash family, it's pretty close. Incidentally, we stumbled upon Unit One outside the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame earlier this year in the month of June.

Unit One and Alex, June 2008


Thursday, October 23, 2008

The McBone Beer Journal: Harp

Sometimes in life you have to read the fine print. Harp Lager, the label boasts, comes "from the brewers of Guinness." Maybe so, but the bottle in my hand did not come from the St. James Gate Brewery in Dublin, nor even the Great Northern Brewery, Dundalk, where Harp was born. Nay, this lager was not crafted in Ireland, as illumined by the inconspicuous lettering on the side of the bottle: "Brewed and bottled by Guinness Brewing Company, Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada. Product of Canada." Also, both Guinness and Harp are controlled by the parent company Diageo, a multinational firm that owned at one time--God help us--Burger King.

Should this bother me? I don't know. Is drinking a Harp the equivalent of scarfing a Whopper? I have an increasing love for local beers crafted in small batches. On the other hand, Guinness is a world-class stout with a worldwide demand. That demand is met by building breweries overseas. I would rather have Canadian-made, Diageo-owned Guinness than no Guinness at all and really I don't think I would even be having these issues if Harp weren't such a humdrum beer.

The problems begin almost right away. Nothing wrong with the bottle, of course, and the label is elegant and pleasing to the eye. Not so pleasing is the pale color of the lager itself, reminiscent of a certain American counterpart that begins with the letter "B." The pour produces a thin head and there is no nose to speak of, and from first sip to last this beer is stubbornly bland. What flavors are to be found, and boy was I searching, are so inconspicuous as to be irrelevant. Maybe a malty tone here, a half of a hop there. Bitter? Only very, very slightly.

It's not that Harp doesn't know what it wants to do, it's that it doesn't seem to want to do anything. Really though I'm sloshing the stuff around my mouth and mostly detecting certain tell-tale unpleasantries: that sort of imported macro-brew staleness that indicates maybe the bottle has been sitting around too long, has maybe traveled too far, perhaps underwent a temperature change or two and basically was made and handled without any love whatsoever. While there is slightly more flavor to be found here than in a typical American lager, the whole experience really smacks of the lamer "imports" of the world, like Heineken. One could argue that Harp is great with Guinness in a black and tan, but I say: codswallop! Don't ruin a good stout with a weak lager. Use Bass Ale instead.

Look, Harp is a somewhat serviceable beer and not too expensive. But really, why bother? The promise of the Guinness name is made early, and quickly proves hollow.

McBone Rating: 1.5 McBones.


Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Forty Ounces of Lard!

$4.54 won't get you much in today's economy. Fortunately, we can always count on the low, low cost of rendered pig fat. Slap down five dollars at Kroger and you can walk away with a 40 ounce tub of lard and some change. Oh, the fun I am going to have with my very own bucket. Won't you join me?

Ah, lard. Lard has so many, many uses. Baking. Frying. Manufacturing soap. Me, I like to find a nice comfy spot on the sofa, pop in a movie and go to work with a spoon. I'm not above using my finger to find those last little gobs at the bottom. I also like to sneak up on old ladies in the park in the afternoon and smear lard on their faces. My wife absolutely hates it when I do that, and she would certainly prefer that I got a job, but I just ignore her threats to divorce me and go to bed each night clutching tight my favorite 40 ounce tub of goodness.


Monday, October 20, 2008

Red Sox Go Home!

Any baseball season in which the Indians fail to qualify for the postseason is a bad season. The consolation prize is that the Yankees, in the final year of their precious little shrine of a stadium, also failed to qualify. Yes, every spring I cast a couple of prayers to the Baseball Gods, hoping they will see fit to bless my Indians, and that a horrible, flesh-eating plague will be visited upon the New York Yankees. God, if I have to read one more article about that goddam Joba Chamberlain...

And how sweet is it that the Red Sox were eliminated this week by the Tampa Bay Rays? Very sweet, for I loathe the Red Sox with a hate nearly as pure as that which burns for the Yankees. I loathe Youkilis and Pedroia, Papelbon and Beckett. A pox upon this team, and every Red Sox team to come.

Now, let's get Charlie Manual the World Series ring he deserves.

McBone Most Hated Sports Franchises:

1) The New York Yankees. The Evil Empire has been pounding my Indians for 100 years and counting. Most hated Yankee: Derek Jeter.

2) The Boston Red Sox. Seeing a team with Manny Ramirez and Coco Crisp beat the Tribe and win the world series is a blow I'll never get over. Most hated Red Sox: Jonathan Papelbon.

3) The Pittsburgh Steelers. Someday, somehow, the Browns will beat this team again, and the old rivalry will be restored. Most hated Steeler: Terry Bradshaw.

4) The Boston Celtics. The Yankees of basketball. I throw up in my mouth every time I think about this team winning a title in the LeBron James era. Most hated Celtic: tie, Danny Ainge and Paul Pierce.

5) The Denver Broncos. Three times the Browns faced John Elway's Broncos in the AFC championship game. Three times, Elway won. To this day, I would love to break John Elway's teeth. Most hated Bronco: duh, Elway, always and forever.

6) The Detroit Pistons. Always an antagonizing team, whether featuring the likes of Laimbeer, Mahorn, Thomas and Rodman, or the modern gang of miscreants, Billups, Hamilton, Prince and Wallace. Most hated Piston: tie, Bill Laimbeer and Rasheed Wallace.

7) The Florida Marlins. In their short history, the Marlins have won as many World Series as the Indians have since 1901, including one against the Indians. Disgusting. Most hated Marlin: Craig Counsell.

8) The Chicago Bulls. Five times Michael Jordan eliminated the Cavs from the postseason. Five. As in Five times in five attempts. Most hated Bull: Michael Jordan.

9) The Dallas Cowboys. America's team? Screw that. Who outside Dallas ever wants to see the Cowboys win again? Most hated Cowboy: Pacman Jones.

10) The Oakland Raiders. There has always been something disgusting about the Oakland Raiders, probably due to the pure evil streaming from its owner. Most hated Raider: Mike Davis.


Thursday, October 16, 2008

Playing Chess, or Checkers, with Death

As anyone who has ever seen Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal can attest, Death grants no pardons. He can, however, be forestalled for a time:

Sure, Death will eventually win--that's a bit of false modesty when he calls himself "quite a skillful player"--but a clever chess enthusiast like Antonius Block can buy himself a few precious hours, days or even weeks if he can manage to put together a solid game.

Clearly chess, a game of endless strategy, is the ideal way to postpone the inevitable. What few people know is that Death has been known to play many games. More than anything (aside from ushering you and me to our dooms) he likes a good challenge, even if he is confident in his superiority (he's also a devilshly good cheater). For those with no skill in Chess, the Grim Reaper will happily go head-to-head in any of the following:

Electronic Battleship
Three-Card Monty
Miniature golf
Hi-Ho Cherry-O
Tic Tac Toe
Thumb wrestling
Hungry, Hungry Hippos

Just remember, you don't have to be a chessmaster to hold off Death for a while, and the above list is certainly not comprehensive. He's not picky about the game he plays. Challenge him, and when he wins the first time, call it best two out of three.


Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Whatever Happened to Jeff Bowler?

As millions of loyal McBoners know, McBone began as a joint effort between brothers, a multi-purpose blog dedicated to liberal politics, Cleveland sports and the complete and utter annihilation of mayonnaise. And if an occasional recipe or movie review found its way into the archive, so much the better. Above all, though, we vowed never to rest until the Republicans were run out of office, Cleveland won a championship in any of the three major sports, and mayonnaise was wiped off the face of the planet.

We've made strides, to be sure. Democrats have won back the Senate, the House and, soon, the White House. The Cavaliers advance deep into the playoffs year after year while the Indians have become competitive again. Even the Browns, perennial laughingstocks of the NFL, have gained an air of--dare I say it?--respectability in recent seasons. Best of all, mayonnaise consumption is down 5-8% among international bloggers. The world has McBone to thank.

All this takes a lot of work, and it's not easy to do alone. Hardly a day goes by that I'm not stopped in the street by fervant admirers. Usually a medium to large crowd forms. Traffic stops as the throngs press upon me, all wanting to know two things: 1) What makes Nate Bowler tick, and 2) Whatever happened to Jeff Bowler?

The first question is a study of many, many posts, and I shall not attempt to answer it here. The second? Difficult to say, and it takes a Herculean effort at times to quell the conspiracy theorists. Let me just answer some of the more virulent rumors now. No, Jeff Bowler is not a closet McCain supporter. No, he has not become a Yankees, Steelers or Celtics fan. No, he is not secretly spreading the White Menace on his ham sandwiches. No, he has not checked himself into the Betty Ford Center. No, he is not dead.

So, where is he? Perhaps not coincidentally, Jeff Bowler's contribution to this blog began to decline when he accepted a job with the Lake Erie Monsters. Perhaps his involvement with someone he affectionately refers to as his "girlfriend" has also been a distraction (yes, Lauren, it's YOUR fault, woman!). But whatever the case, the bottom line is this: Jeff Bowler's probing insight has vanished from the sphere. His self-imposed exile has left a gaping hole which, despite my best efforts, has not been filled.

Today is Jeff Bowler's 27th birthday. Surely at this advanced age the spectre of Death weighs heavily in his thoughts. Time waits for no one, and with the new Cavaliers season and a presidential election drawing nigh, it's time for Jeff Bowler to throw himself back into the fray. I'm not saying quit your job and/or dump your girlfriend. Just give the McBoners what they want: McBone as McBone was meant to be.

I urge all of you McBoners out there to raise your voices. Raise your voices, and Jeff Bowler will answer the call.


PS: Happy birthday, idiot.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Three Giant Bottles of Booze

This weekend my parents came to town, and not empty-handed. For my 33rd birthday I was gifted an extraordinary amount of the good stuff. I'm talking hard liquor here. Booze. Whisky, gin and vodka. I'm in business now, so, from here on out it's gonna be martinis, Manhattans, old-fashioneds and Bloody Marys all the way. I may even take a few snorts straight up. Hell, that's what puts hair on your chest, right?

When supplies run out in a couple of days and I'm found newly tattooed and filthy in some ditch just south of the Mexican border, I'll say, thanks Mom and Dad, thanks for getting me all @#*!-ed up.


Thursday, October 9, 2008

Throwing Up in Film

What is it about throwing up that inspires? Could it be the sheer ridiculousness of purging a load of half-digested food and stomach acid through the mouth? How about that smell? Maybe it's the way vomiting often induces vomiting in a witness. Or maybe it's the helplessness of the victim, immobilized by his own digestive system, face grotesquely contorting as the body contracts and relaxes--an agonizing heave, then relief, heave, relief. I don't know for sure, but I do know that vomiting is tough to depict in film. In honor of my favorite bodily function, I present here two scenes from moviedom that have made a great impression on me.

Here's one from my youth:

This scene from Stand by Me is memorable for its obvious sensationalism. Fountain-like and blue, this over-the-top take on vomit nonetheless taps one universal truth: vomiting begets vomiting. That small seed of authenticity lends an air of credulity to an otherwise fanciful tale, and lets us forget that the vomit is clearly propelled mechanically from behind the actors' mouths. Director Rob Reiner doesn't bother with realism, and he makes the right choice; the moviegoer is meant to enjoy the scene's absurdity. I like to think that the long, forceful and abundant stream of vomit inspired Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill, where blood sprays endlessly from severed limbs.

Here's another more recent depiction:

Obviously, the victim from Team America is a puppet, which oddly enough works to the advantage of the filmmakers, who are freed from the limitations of a human actor's body. Quite often, throwing up in film is a disappointment. Either the vomiting is done off screen and is signified by that unmistakable "throwing-up sound," or the actor simply dribbles a load of fake vomit from his mouth. Clearly the second option is preferable, even though it is usually over too quickly, and one rarely gets a good look at what the character might have eaten that day. In Team America the puke is realistic in color, consistency and, for a little while, quantity. I've never thrown up drunk in a back alley before, but when the vomiting commences in this scene, a definite sense of pathos develops. Suddenly, I'm there in the gutter with our hero. He's a puppet, yes, but I feel what he feels. The genius of the scene, of course, is when the flow of vomit doesn't stop. The music swells to a crescendo. Realism is displaced by the absurd. Tragedy launches into high comedy, and our pity is supplanted by laughter. At last the drunk collapses into a veritable pool of vomit. Pathetic? Yes, but funny too, and hence the viewer is torn between emotions. That's powerful.

What we can deduce from this is that vomiting is easier to portray as comedy. Personally, I'd like to see a director rise to the occasion by offering a realistic depiction of this fascinating bodily function in a drama. Hey, puking is a serious matter, and in the age of CGI, this should be well within our capabilities. Or perhaps this task would call upon an actor to actually throw up. I say: if that's what it takes. Aficionados like me would appreciate it.


Monday, October 6, 2008

Darth Vader Was a Stutterer

James Earl Jones can make a pretty good speech. I think it's safe to say that I could spend the rest of my life studying elocution, diction and grammar and never be one tenth as captivating as James Earl Jones. Yea, should I spend hours before the mirror, rehearsing, refining my voice, I'm pretty sure I could never approach in eloquence or power the rich, rolling, sonorous baritone of James Earl Jones. You know what I mean. It's a voice that bellows as if from deep within the earth, or from long ago, when thunder gods called to each other from distant worlds. Surely Zeus must have sounded a bit like James Earl Jones. Put it this way: if James Earl Jones was your father and he told you to clean up your room, by god you'd do it and you'd do it now. My voice? Flaccid. The thinnest wisp by comparison.

Not that we started out on level playing fields. Nay, until he reached the age of 14, I would have had the big guy licked. James Earl Jones was a stutterer. Hard to believe, right? And just how did he overcome such a barrier to become perhaps the best-known voice of his generation? That was the crux of the lecture Alex and I attended the other night at Purdue.

The house was packed. More than a few geeks like myself crammed into the auditorium to see one of the more distinguished and recognizable actors of the past 50 years. He was introduced, quite naturally, as such--a master of the stage and the silver screen who had made his voice legendary in works such as Dr. Strangelove, The Great White Hope, King Lear, Conan the Barbarian, Field of Dreams and Cry the Beloved Country. Oh, he also had a voice role in an obscure space trilogy, but none of the presenters saw fit to mention that insignificant work in which Jones played an almost negligible part as the nondescript villain who nevertheless haunted my childhood and changed my life.

But I veer off course. The subject of the night the dilemma of illiteracy. Nearly mute for more than a decade, Jones overcame his handicap when a high school teacher discovered in his student a knack for writing poetry. Jones was made to recite a poem in front of his classroom, and, though petrified, the worlds flowed as they never had--without a stutter. The written word performed, a poem about grapefruits in the style of Longfellow. I can only imagine what his peers must have thought when such a voice issued from an erstwhile closed mouth.

Reading, writing, recitation. Education was his cure. Jones cited others with disabilities: Frederick Douglass and Helen Keller, those oppressed by ignorance and later freed by education. Yet, in spite of our right to a free public education, he spoke of the dilemma in the present tense. He never said as much, but I imagine he had in mind our crumbling schools and our disadvantaged inner-city youths, and I believe he was speaking of not just illiteracy, but of semi-literacy and poor education in general as a modern problem. The speech seemed headed toward a call to action, and I wish he would have given his audience a directive. Believe me, we were listening. Alas, after 30 minutes, none was forthcoming. That for me was the one missing piece in a mesmerizing half-hour.

But my complaint is a small one. The evening was profoundly enjoyable, and it was not all gravitas. Jones has the wit and charm to match his voice. When asked what roles were his favorites, he said (half) jokingly that he just loved his work for Verizon. After a quick Q&A, the voice was silent, and he exited the stage to a standing ovation.

Thanks to Laurie and Kate for the tickets!


Thursday, October 2, 2008

Blah, Blah, Blah

So, after listening to almost two hours of her down-home, chicken-fried brand of debate and speechifying (how many times can she say the word darn?) here's what I can deduce about Sarah Palin.

1) She's from A-LAska, by golly.

2) She supports tax cuts. This pretty much comprises one half of the Republican credo, even though taxes pay for our infrastructure, even though the economy was undeniably in better shape before the Bush tax cuts, even though many of the most successful nations in the world have much higher taxes than we do, even though so many of our citizens live without basic human needs, like health care, while CEOs are rewarded millions in severance for driving their companies into the ground.

3) She says the surge is working, but believes that a 16-month plan to withdraw from Iraq (Eye-rack) is "waving a white flag of surrender."

4) She insists that she's just like any other "Joe Six-Pack, hockey mom" American who wears a pair of 700 dollar glasses.

5) She supports energy independence, which is of course why it's SO critical that we win in Iraq and stay there for who knows how long. She also mentioned alternative fuels a total of zero times by my count.

6) She doesn't mind that same sex couples exist, just as long as they don't expect to be treated like straight couples.

7) "Nukiler." "Nuliker." "Noo-liquor." Whatever. She can't pronounce the damned word any better than that shithead president Bush. And she doesn't really care for diplomacy with countries she considers a threat, even though a lack of diplomacy created the greatest foreign policy catastrophe in recent memory. Of course "looking back" at past mistakes is something only losers like Joe Biden do.

8) Coming from the only arctic state, she has seen first-hand the frightening reality of global warming, and yet she doesn't really believe in it.

9) Hence she wants to drill, baby, drill!

10) She supports more regulation on Wall Street, even though she's on a ticket with a guy who has always endorsed deregulation.

That's about it for now, folks. I've been swilling martinis and I can't really keep this coherent anymore. Sarah Palin sucks. It's so obvious. I'm going to bed.

Alex's take: Obviously I think Biden is a zillion times better, but I'm kind of mystified that no one saw fit to mention the poor at all. These speeches were directed at the middle class and it seems to me that the reason for the omission is that they don't think the poor vote, so why bother? But then why would the poor bother voting if neither one of the VP candidates bothers addressing them even once?


Wednesday, October 1, 2008

I Haven't Slept in Like 3 Days, McBoners

I don' t know what the hell my problem is, but I haven't slept in like 3 days. I'm getting kind of punch drunk at this point.

Anyhow, happy October.