|
We have 109 guests online
Actual Books
 Who Hates Whom: Well-Armed Fanatics, Intractable Conflicts, and Various Things Blowing Up A Woefully Incomplete Guide™
“Revelatory... Harris's sly wit and infectious curiosity make understanding world chaos fascinating... witty, horrific, and necessary.”
-- Boston Globe
"Brave... irreverent... charges into the thick of the globe's myriad simmering wars... hilariously relaxed."
-- New York Observer
“Fascinating, enlightening, and surprisingly: NOT TOTALLY DEPRESSING.”
-- John Hodgman, author, The Areas of My Expertise and correspondent for The Daily Show

"A rollicking ride of intellectual discovery and emotional growth... his comic timing never fails"
-- The Wall Street Journal
"A surprisingly touching memoir"
-- Entertainment Weekly
"Effortlessly funny and informative... tender, human, and very wise... A must for anyone who loves Jeopardy!, or has ever seen it, or is breathing."
-- Joss Whedon, creator, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
|
Home
|
Iraq
|
No, that's not a children's book from hell. (Although now I kinda want to write it.)
Two quick things from today's LAT which I haven't seen in other blogs yet:
Item 1: Chimpy's uncle William H. T. "Bucky" Bush just made half a million bucks cashing in stock options from helping run a defense company that got no-bid contracts which look pretty hinky.
Item 2: Mother's milk -- pretty much anybody's, at least in the U.S. -- now also contains a key ingredient of rocket fuel. Which is surely what nature intended. Downside: thyroid impairment leading to cognitive dysfunction and learning disabilities, and thus another possible generation of Bush supporters. Upside: American babies can now incinerate their own diapers by farting. So that's a time-saver right there.
I'm sure a lot of mothers in Iraq right now are hoping, just hoping, someday to do well enough to pass rocket fuel contamination through their own breasts.
We can only dream.
Have a great day. Yeesh.
*And what is it with these people and their need to maintain both a long
string of initials indicative of pedigree, displaying their breeding papers like a show dog, and widdle-kid nicknames, as if to announce, hey, we're not all that serious about the elitist rights of inherited dominion we affirm with our every waking breath? I mean, hell,
everyone's related to somebody who did something. If any of these people believed their own crap about personal responsibility, they'd occasionally act like who they are was defined by their own actions, not the eugenic cotillion-closet genetic filesharing which allows them to escape any consequence.
Hell. Maybe I should start
calling myself Robert Clemens Priestley Cleopatra "Skeeball" Harris and hope somebody hands me a no-bid contract. Worth a try.
|
|
Twitter Feed
Advertise with Bob
Get exposed

Ask us how
|