"In the event of allegations, open and public, of impropriety of a sexual nature, by
1. Any person with "XX" chromosomes 2. Any person with the anatomical manifestations thereof
In instances where the alleged perpetrator of that impropriety is any person with "XY" chromosomes, AND that person is affiliated with the Republican™ brand or its subsidiaries (including, but not limited to GOP™, Tea Party™, Koch Industries™, FOX News™ or News Corp.™), the national Emergency Alert System (EAS) will be immediately deployed to inform the public that the instigator of those allegations is
Just think of the time and money we'd save as a nation if the Republican noise machine didn't have to spend countless hours and kilowatts trying to apply those labels indirectly. We could just get right to it. Rush could get back to making fun of the handicapped and crushing Oxy pills with his ice cream spoon. FOX could get back to creating, packaging and then reporting on conservative "grass-roots" organizations, while yelling that the Occupiers are trust-fund Nazi socialists who can't afford soap.
And those women - Republicans and Democrats alike - could just get right back to the business of shutting up and taking it.
(there isn't a tag dripping with enough sarcasm to go here)
Why have we been letting them re-frame every debate? It's like we always agree to play football on their practice field. "Oh sure, it's regulation size, but we get to run downhill."
It's bunk. they frame the message, we repeat it and defend ourselves from there:
"Sure, John Kerry's a flip-flopper, but..."
"Sure, Joe Biden should keep his mouth shut, but..."
"Sure, Barack Obama is in the pocket of Wall Steet, but.."
We let them name things "The Patriot Act" and "No Child Left Behind." We let them call it "pro-life" when they'll abandon anything poor, dark-skinned or out of the womb. That's not pro-life, it's pro-embryo-to-fetus and then, like George Carlin says, it's "f*** 'em."
So, let's start re-framing the debate. Instead of finding barbs like repukes, repugs, rethugs which are just antagonistic (and admittedly, sometimes a little bit fun),let's use and re-use our own re-framing of the big issues.
I'll start:
Trickle Down Economics - Table Scrap Economics Bush Tax Cuts - Bush Debt Traps. Tea Party - Retroublicans Republican - Reblican't. Tax cuts for the wealthy - The wealthy's fair share.
I watched Freedom Riders at the Heartland Film Festival a couple of weeks ago. I can't remember the last time I cried with so much cause - so much anger at the injustice, and so much pride in all those of every race, who were so ready to stand up for what was right. A few days ago, I got out of bed, thinking about the ride and its collective strength -- the hundreds, thousands of fingers curled into one righteous fist -- and I wrote down everything I felt about where our country is this week and where it might be next week.
Here it is. Please, if it is anywhere near the piece I wanted to write, feel free to pass it on to anyone with a heart and a voice and a belief that this is not over yet.
Thanks for your time and, more importantly for your courage, A Democrat in Indiana.
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They have lied about him. Lied about our President. Tried to paint him as an outsider. Said he wasn't born here, didn't belong here, not in this system, not in this White House. They have called him a racist, called him a liar, called him a socialist, a Nazi, a terrorist. They have called him everything but Mr. President, our President, our greatest hope for change. They have beaten him with words, with millions of dollars in foreign money, shipped over here by foreign interests with no name, no face, no P.O. Box...no business telling us how to run this nation.
What we have seen over the last two years is an unprecedented attempt to assassinate, not a President, but a Presidency; to take a good man down with lies about who he is and what he's trying to do to fix the things they broke.
There are no guns this time, but this is Birmingham, and Bull Connor doesn't run the police, he runs a news network that says that it's fair, that it's balanced. Our economic future is a lunch counter for the un-Godly rich, for the polluters, for those who do not know the Golden Rule or do not believe it applies to them. And they don't want any of us...not the middle class, not the Just, not the ones who believe that this is still a nation of opportunity, to sit down beside them,to have a slice of the American pie.
We need to let our President know that the buses are coming. And the minivans, the motorcycles, the family sedans and those who can only afford to be on foot. That just like our mothers and fathers who united to change this nation, we are all coming - the black, the white, the latino, the Jewish, the Protestant, the Catholic, the young, the old, the middle class, the poor, the workers, the innovators, the small business owners. All of us. The ones who believe that all Americans should be able to work hard and earn not just a living, but earn a life; who believe that laws should put people before profit; who know that the political Right is political Wrong.
It's time to get up. Every one of us. To stand with our President.
Mr. President, we are coming. We believed in you when we chose you for the most powerful office in the free world, and we believe in you now. Mr. President, the buses are coming, and if they try to stop one there are two more right behind it. And if they try to stop those, there are thousands. Mr. President, you just keep trying to pull the country out of this mess that greed got us in. We've all got your back.
In the next few days, until November 2nd, we will all ring one, bring one. We need to all call one person - a grandmother, a grandfather, a younger brother or sister, somebody down the street and down on their luck who can't afford to buy a new coat, let alone an election - and make sure they have a ride. A vote. And a voice.
Mr. President, we're tired of seeing your best efforts blocked in public by the same set of shifty-eyed schemers who turn around ask for your help and our money when the cameras are off. We're tired of being called un-American by those who do not understand or who do not care to understand, our Bill of Rights.
We're tired of politicians looking into their wallets instead of their hearts. We're tired of the lies and the liars; tired of those who believe that a football game needs 7 officials to keep things honest, but that a multi-trillion dollar banking system needs none. We are tired of hearing that those in need should pull themselves up by their bootstraps, when somebody else's boots stomped them down in the first place. We are tired of a lot of things, but we are not too tired to stand up.
We are coming, Mr. President. And we've got your back.
And boobs aren't just anatomical expressions of biological processes, though that's what they would like you to think. They're powerful, sly, terrifying sin-sacks just waiting to drag us all to Gomorrah. The pink is just a disguise. Boobs should be mottled and green, like raptors or the necks of Sci-fi bad guys. They should all be affixed with warning labels shouting to us in illuminated, gothic text that "There be danger in these! Look away! Look away!"
Let me be very clear on this - Boobs threaten our very humanity. In their presence, we cannot be expected to stick to our mutually agreed-upon laws or the basic premise of civility. They are the worst definitions of anarchy, jutting poutily (in some instances) out into the world shouting at us to defy! Disobey! Destroy! They are the Wormtongues, the Rasputins, the leaning, whispering advisers who bring down kingdoms and politically emasculate the men(!) who were born to rule. From time to time, they are called "puppies," because deep down, they remind us of wolves, primarily those at the city gate, pacing and slavering for their chance to get inside the walls, bringing Hell and all that is unholy with them.
Don't be fooled. Swaddled in satin, they still plot our demise. Draped with too-thin t-shirt, they hate our civilized ways. Permitted to swing freely or strapped in like prisoners of some global asylum, they bide their time, plot our plots, and peek out every once in a while at a formal dance to remember a face or write down a name. Look upon them and be damned.
(If it's not obvious by now, I find the whole thing silly. Boobs are boobs. Sure, they're sexy sometimes, but sometimes babies need to eat, and sometimes women need to relieve the physical discomfort of having too much milk. I find it a little sad that we can't just be adults about it and put basic humanity over outdated, unevolved religious nonsense.)
The lords and ladies of the manner spill a bit of gravy and it's ours. They toss a crust of bread and we're allowed to fight amongst ourselves to see who gets to gnaw on it. We get the gristly bits of meat that stick to whatever they've finished devouring and we're supposed to be happy.
