Monday, May 26, 2008
I was going to say this offering from The New York Times is a welcome respite from the mishegas in Lebanon (and if those of you who fret about/burn candles over this situation could please add my friends Mr. Shangles and Brook to your fretting/candle burning, I’d greatly appreciate it—they’re in Beirut for the year, and I’d like to see them get through it alive, of course) and the jaw-droppingly inane Campaign ’08 here in the good ol’ U.S. of Motherfucking A, but I can’t, ‘cause it ain’t. I mean, I’m certainly on more, um, intimate terms with the subject of wise and sober patriarchs guarding their daughters’ purity (not MY dad, of course, but even the most liberal, atheist parents can do only so much to protect their smart-assed heathen daughters from a nonstop infusion of Xtian creepiness), which makes for easier reading but does not prevent one from feeling the need to projectile vomit black bile and/or take a decontamination shower a la Karen Silkwood. And yet, it is a car accident from which I cannot look away, and so I share it with you, that I might not remain alone steeped in projectile vomit. You have been warned.