Liberty, Incorporated

“I prefer liberty with danger than peace with slavery” ~Jean-Jacques Rousseau

TSA forced woman, 95, to remove adult diaper for pat down, daughter says

You know, there are probably a lot of Americans–and I count myself among them–who would be quite willing to feel a little less “safe” and get all of our rights back.

If the issue of “safety” is even the case, nowadays. I don’t think it is. Osama bin Laden is dead, al-Queda is in disarray–I don’t think the TSA’s ridiculous procedures are even necessary anymore. Focus on scanning and/or searching the cargo instead of the passengers, give me a disclaimer to sign if the airlines feel like they have to protect themselves against lawsuits–hell yeah, I’ll sign it.

As Benjamin Franklin once said: “Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

I know which one I want.


Slimeballs and Sleazebuckets

This proves what I’ve suspected for a long time–Wisconsin Senate Majority Leader Scott Fitzgerald is nothing but a scum-sucking slimeball.

I’ve often wondered if he’s the puppet jerking Gov. Walker’s strings, as Walker has always struck me as being not overly bright and easily manipulated. Possibly by David Koch, but you would think his puppet master would need to be closer to hand.

Scott Fitzgerald would fill that role admirably.

However, not content with merely stripping 50 years’ worth of union rights, he now wants to punish the valiant Democrats who tried to uphold democracy.

I really wish he was up for recall, but he doesn’t seem to be. Wisconsonites need to kick his ass out.

The Speech That Should’ve Been

(Edit: WHY WON’T WORDPRESS EMBED STUFF!!! To see Rachel Maddow’s excellent Fake Presidential Speech, go here.)


Seriously, why can’t (or, rather, won’t) Obama say things like this??

Thy Fearful Symmetry

Today in my dinky little hometown paper, there were–count ’em!–FIVE articles about Tiger Woods.

Talk about overkill.

I’m glad I no longer watch much TV (except for Rachel Maddow). I cannot understand why modern, more-than-half-batshit-crazy America is so obsessed with this sort of thing (along with reality shows). The only reason Tiger held this public humiliation in the first place was to keep from losing any more corporate sponsors. (And one can bet said *white male* corporations were very happy to see him put in his place.) It’s no one’s business but him and Elin’s who he screwed, and it’s up to them to work out their problems and save the marriage, if they want to.

The rest of us should neither know nor care.

It’s really pathetic to see fellow golfers (and other publicity-hungry hangers-on) raking Tiger over the coals and making comments about a situation that is none of their concern. Of course, there are all kinds of societal and patriarchal undercurrents to this, as others have commented on. Those issues deserve to be written about.

Tiger and the state of his marriage do not.

I’ll let William Blake have the final word.

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Woman’s Last Stand

The following is a reply to the Super Bowl Dodge commercial. I didn’t see it myself, but there’s a wonderful take-down of it here, where I also gakked the aptly named “Woman’s Last Stand.”

(Note: Don’t read the comments–for the most part, they’re just putrid.)


I will get up and pack your lunch at 6:30 AM.

I will eat half a grapefruit for breakfast.

I will get the kids ready for school.

I will ignore your smelly loser friend who is crashing on our couch.

I will make seventy-five cents for every dollar you make doing the same job.

I will assert myself and get called a bitch.

I will catch you staring at my breasts and pretend not to notice.

I will put my career on hold to raise your children.

I will diet, Botox, and wax everything.

I will assure you that size doesn’t matter.

I will be a lady in the street but a freak in the bed.

I will turn a blind eye to your ever-encroaching baldness.

I will humor your fantasy baseball obsession.

I will pretend not to notice when you cry at the end of “Rudy.”  (This is the only thing I couldn’t understand–is this some tear-jerker movie I’ve never heard of?)

I will watch TV shows where fat, stupid, unattractive men have beautiful wives.

I will allow you to cheat on me with younger women.

I will see “Paul Blart–Mall Cop” twice. (I’ve never heard of this movie either, but even the title sounds idiotic.)

I will elect male politicians who make decisions about my body.

I will listen to Rush and tell you, “Yes, if there were a gold medal for air-drumming, you would win it.” (With all due respect, Rush is a pretty awesome band. Neal Peart is one of the most erudite, well-read lyricists in the rock world. Read the lyrics for “Witch Hunt” if you don’t believe me.)

I will get angry and you will ask if it’s that time of the month.

I will watch Super Bowl commercials that depict men as emasculated and oppressed and I will feel so fucking sorry for you.

The Dodge guy sounds like a whiny-ass, entitled baby in comparison.