It's been real. Google has treated me well.
Time to move on...
You can find Joe at:
http://blutarskireality.com/
See ya' there!
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
Pittsburgh Runs Out of Time
Amazing those guys remember how to play football after all that diversion in Big D, now Large Death. Not The D and, certainly, no Chi Town. The Big Apple is just... well... big. Not that anyone in their right mind would want to live (that being what it's called) in any of those shitholes.
Meanwhile...
It's Roethlisberger versus the Rugrats.
At least, that's what The Wall Street Journal calls them in a headline today. I'm not stooping any futher (sic).
Used to be I could read the morning papers without getting offended by some journalistic boor. The NY Times is so-better-than-moi I can barely stand to look at it. Even the automobiles section has gone snooty, never mind.
But The Journal?! Jeez, Louise! What kind of yuppie wanna' be their audience target?
"LeShawn, can you put the word 'before' into a sentence?"
"Sho. Two plus two be foh."
"What about you, Manuel?"
"He right, Homes."
When Rupert first bought The Journal, the oldtimers said, "He can't do that to us."
It had been said before, and like before, all those older guys are history, replaced by clueless ass-kissers. At least with McDaily, ole Rupert can start fresh, there bein' nobody to replace. What joy.
Bring out fightin' chirren (sic) home from Afghanistan.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Faceman Shares Super Bowl Wisdom
Some years ago in Albertsons I run into a local lawyer, head guy at one of the biggest law firms in town. That's not saying much, maybe. It's a small town even if does have an Albertsons.
This guy's name is Tom. Golden Boy from yesteryear. At least he didn't commit suicide during the oil patch meltdown of 1984 like his compatriot, Golden Boy Banker.
I'm not talking about real Golden Boys like Paul Hornung, Ray Nitschke or Troy Aikman; the guys I'm referring to here are facemen. They look great and have trophy wives.
Tom's married to a fine figure of a gal who bears an uncanny resemblance to Million Dollar Mermaid, Johnny Weismuller squeeze and retro swimwear model Esther Williams. JoAnne wears high-dollar beach shoes to the swimming pool.
It's Super Bowl Sunday and 'Here's T-o-m. Out of respect (he's much older), I say hello and shake his hand. "Oh, hi, Joe, nice to see you." Always it's nice. Guthrie always says ni-i-ice, three syllables.
So, I ask Tom if he's celebrating the Super Bowl. Oh, yes, we're having some friends over, he says.
"You know," he tells me. No, of course, I don't know, but I'm about to find out anyway, like it or not.
"My wife doesn't know anything about football," says Tom. "I asked her who she was rooting for in this year's game. She told me, 'I just want to see Montana play.'
"Hell, Joe" says Tom. "They don't even have a team in Montana."
This guy's name is Tom. Golden Boy from yesteryear. At least he didn't commit suicide during the oil patch meltdown of 1984 like his compatriot, Golden Boy Banker.
I'm not talking about real Golden Boys like Paul Hornung, Ray Nitschke or Troy Aikman; the guys I'm referring to here are facemen. They look great and have trophy wives.
Tom's married to a fine figure of a gal who bears an uncanny resemblance to Million Dollar Mermaid, Johnny Weismuller squeeze and retro swimwear model Esther Williams. JoAnne wears high-dollar beach shoes to the swimming pool.
It's Super Bowl Sunday and 'Here's T-o-m. Out of respect (he's much older), I say hello and shake his hand. "Oh, hi, Joe, nice to see you." Always it's nice. Guthrie always says ni-i-ice, three syllables.
So, I ask Tom if he's celebrating the Super Bowl. Oh, yes, we're having some friends over, he says.
"You know," he tells me. No, of course, I don't know, but I'm about to find out anyway, like it or not.
"My wife doesn't know anything about football," says Tom. "I asked her who she was rooting for in this year's game. She told me, 'I just want to see Montana play.'
"Hell, Joe" says Tom. "They don't even have a team in Montana."
Friday, February 4, 2011
Super Bowl Hoopla Insufferable
Pity the poor citizens of Arlington, Texas, who are enjoying getting stiffed for $500 million dollars for Jerry Jones' extravaganza, otherwise known as Cowboys Stadium. Oh yeah, sales tax, car rental tax, hotel tax, that's for other people, right?
Do you think he would have built the damn thing if he couldn't squirrel half the dough from the weak-kneed civic leadership? Do the people really think they'll get their money back? Who gets all those dollars that are supposed to come into the city by all those tourists? Not Joe Schmuck, that's for sure. Bonanza Steak House, anyone? Anyone? National figures suggest the public gets screwed every time on football stadiums and convention centers.
Remember Texas Stadium in Irving, Texas? It's been bulldozed for an outlet mall.
Here's the point - there will be almost eighteen minutes of football action.
All this publicity. Air time. Paper. Breath.
Eighteen minutes.
The average is seventeen, but, hey, this is the Super Bowl.
I couldn't let it go by.
Who is Hosni Mubarak, anyway? Didn't he get shot years ago?
Do you think he would have built the damn thing if he couldn't squirrel half the dough from the weak-kneed civic leadership? Do the people really think they'll get their money back? Who gets all those dollars that are supposed to come into the city by all those tourists? Not Joe Schmuck, that's for sure. Bonanza Steak House, anyone? Anyone? National figures suggest the public gets screwed every time on football stadiums and convention centers.
Remember Texas Stadium in Irving, Texas? It's been bulldozed for an outlet mall.
Here's the point - there will be almost eighteen minutes of football action.
All this publicity. Air time. Paper. Breath.
Eighteen minutes.
The average is seventeen, but, hey, this is the Super Bowl.
I couldn't let it go by.
Who is Hosni Mubarak, anyway? Didn't he get shot years ago?
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Muslim Unrest Ham and Eggs
It used to be the Koran. To be politically correct, it is now the Quiran.
Guess what? There's no doctrine of tolerance to be found in Islam. Supposing the Sunnis could agree on something, there'd be a few Shias wearing balaclava throwing rocks!
Well, maybe the Sufis are peaceful, but they're the favorite target of traditional Muslims in Pakistan.
Those ragheads don't get along among themselves. They prey on each other. Kindness, civility and courtesy are sure signs of weakness.
Pummel the mother to a bloody pulp. That's how you get respect. Wipe their DNA from the gene pool and nobody will mess with you for a generation.
The least insult becomes grounds for eternal blood feud. Forgiveness? Forget about it.
There will never be peace in the Middle East and Israel has nothing to do with it.
Christians have no concept of the Levantine mind. Christians believe other people are like themselves. Well... You know... Christian.
Americans have no business telling Hosni Mubarak how to run his country. We've got our hands full running our own. Those assholes have to fight it out among themselves. Where's our Brotherly Leader when we need him? Quietly contemplative as he should be. Probably laughing his ass off because Rupert Murdoch's making ninety-nine cents times a gazillion off this one!
In the Muslim world, it's eat or be eaten. Alms are given to beggars to keep them quiet. They're beggars. They won't be going to school and getting a job. If you don't give them a handout, they'll just steal it from you after following you home.
Nasrudin tells a story about a beggar who, after awhile, begins to complain about the food handouts.
In some ways, Christians are the same. Keep giving them handouts and they'll never get a job.
At least, a Christian won't kill you when the handout stops.
Bring our armed children back home from those Muslim black holes.
Guess what? There's no doctrine of tolerance to be found in Islam. Supposing the Sunnis could agree on something, there'd be a few Shias wearing balaclava throwing rocks!
Well, maybe the Sufis are peaceful, but they're the favorite target of traditional Muslims in Pakistan.
Those ragheads don't get along among themselves. They prey on each other. Kindness, civility and courtesy are sure signs of weakness.
Pummel the mother to a bloody pulp. That's how you get respect. Wipe their DNA from the gene pool and nobody will mess with you for a generation.
The least insult becomes grounds for eternal blood feud. Forgiveness? Forget about it.
There will never be peace in the Middle East and Israel has nothing to do with it.
Christians have no concept of the Levantine mind. Christians believe other people are like themselves. Well... You know... Christian.
Americans have no business telling Hosni Mubarak how to run his country. We've got our hands full running our own. Those assholes have to fight it out among themselves. Where's our Brotherly Leader when we need him? Quietly contemplative as he should be. Probably laughing his ass off because Rupert Murdoch's making ninety-nine cents times a gazillion off this one!
In the Muslim world, it's eat or be eaten. Alms are given to beggars to keep them quiet. They're beggars. They won't be going to school and getting a job. If you don't give them a handout, they'll just steal it from you after following you home.
Nasrudin tells a story about a beggar who, after awhile, begins to complain about the food handouts.
In some ways, Christians are the same. Keep giving them handouts and they'll never get a job.
At least, a Christian won't kill you when the handout stops.
Bring our armed children back home from those Muslim black holes.
Spare Me, Rupert, Here's Two Cents
My first cousin called last night.
He asked me how cold it was.
I told him it was cold enough to freeze the mucous inside one's nose.
He cackled like he does.
He said we were a lot alike.
I said yeah, fucked in the head.
He cackled again.
He told me some time ago that when people asked him what business he was in, he told them the mining business.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah. I mind my own business.
So, when people ask me what I'm doing I tell them I'm working at getting a thousand people to send me nineteen ninety-five a month for the rest of their lives.
Well, Rupert Murdoch has outdone me again. Usually, it's Warren Buffet.
Ninety-nine cents a week, automatically billed to your credit card.
Where do I sign up? I mean to get the ninety-nine cents a week.
The Daily. Clever, huh? How long will it be before people start calling it McDaily?
The guy's rich, right? OK, superrich, so what, never mind.
Ever since he took over the The Wall Street Journal, one is more likely to read some drivel about why the party's over at Apple Computer. Puhlease.
Now, it turns out he's been sleeping with those mothers.
By the way, how do I get Game Center off my iPhreakin' phone?
The fix is in.
If Rupert has his way, you'll never be able to get that ninety-nine cents off your credit card. You will have been assimilated.
Did I mention the advertising content?
Remember when television with commercials was free?
He asked me how cold it was.
I told him it was cold enough to freeze the mucous inside one's nose.
He cackled like he does.
He said we were a lot alike.
I said yeah, fucked in the head.
He cackled again.
He told me some time ago that when people asked him what business he was in, he told them the mining business.
Oh, yeah?
Yeah. I mind my own business.
So, when people ask me what I'm doing I tell them I'm working at getting a thousand people to send me nineteen ninety-five a month for the rest of their lives.
Well, Rupert Murdoch has outdone me again. Usually, it's Warren Buffet.
Ninety-nine cents a week, automatically billed to your credit card.
Where do I sign up? I mean to get the ninety-nine cents a week.
The Daily. Clever, huh? How long will it be before people start calling it McDaily?
The guy's rich, right? OK, superrich, so what, never mind.
Ever since he took over the The Wall Street Journal, one is more likely to read some drivel about why the party's over at Apple Computer. Puhlease.
Now, it turns out he's been sleeping with those mothers.
By the way, how do I get Game Center off my iPhreakin' phone?
The fix is in.
If Rupert has his way, you'll never be able to get that ninety-nine cents off your credit card. You will have been assimilated.
Did I mention the advertising content?
Remember when television with commercials was free?
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Nellybelle to the Rescue!
I was sure it was Andy Devine and not Gabby Hayes. Remember Midnight the cat? Pluck your magic twanger, Froggie!
It was Pat Brady!
'Course, here's Roy boy saving Nelly's bacon. Anyone remember how Pat got tossed? Anyone?
Maybe it was those thrilling days of yesteryear, but America has lost her civility. Courtesy does not appear to be part of the paradigm anymore. We have become politically correct in our speech which means we don't talk about anything important. Even our cherished freedom of speech will get your ass fired from a good day job. Forget about working at the White House.
Chris Rock'll tell it like it is. "Martin Luther King was assassinated! President Lincoln was assassinated! Tupac and Biggie Smalls was jus' 'a coupla' niggaz got shot!" Wonder what the hubub would be if Charles Rangel got shot 'stead 'a Gabby Giffords.
What happened to the Peanut Gallery? Were they throwin' the peanuts or were they on the receiving end?
It would appear the advertisers figured out people didn't care what they watched on TV, it was just dots on the screen.
People thought Marshall McLuhan was some kind of genius because he said "the medium is the massage." Dumbest thing I ever heard of, or of which I have ever heard. Dumb shit! There's no message to the medium, much less massage, unless some one has come up with smellavision since I last watched. Be hard to miss something like that. Wait, stay tuned for the Super Bowl, sports fans.
Not much to do with sport, either. Television, the medium, has no essence, no ethos at all. It is just dots on the screen. No feeling, no compunction, no civility, devoid of any intrinsic virtue.
It is a nothingness to which we ascribe whatever value we wish. The medium is a lie and people have used it to lie effectively. Most of the characters in TV drama are devoid of any character at all. They appear as subhumans going through the motions without feeling, without joy, without sorrow, without redeeming social value. What happened to virtuous pursuit? What happened to the idea we would ultimately defeat the bad guys? Now everybody's a bad guy, some are just a little worse than others.
"We fell in love with atrocity. We make pornography and we call it news."
Even the advertising is a pack of lies. Most of us don't need that crap or have those symptoms or can make light of those side effects. But it all looks great on TV! The worst shit in the world looks great on TV for some reason. If that's what the producer wants. That stuff in between the commercials? Know what the advertising people call it? Filler. You got it, filler.
Is it any wonder America has lost its soul?
Bring out children home from Iraq and Afghanistan so they can enjoy the fruits of their own creation rather than continue to suffer, and suffer deeply, that especial mendacity propagated by those assholes on Capitol Hill.
At least, Nellybelle had some charm, some definable virtue.
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