Semper Paratus (not)

We’re in commencement season, which means that Personages high and low will show up on university and college daises to mouth platitudes as one final trial for graduating students. If you’re lucky—and your institution has juice—you get Matt Damon or even Condoleeza Rice.

If you’re not, the Kleptocrat may show up.

As he has done twice this week. The crowd at the completely misnamed Liberty University, an offshoot of the RWNJ Jerry Falwell’s evangelical enterprise, kind of had it coming as penance for their individual and institutional support of someone who in every respect both professionally and personally is the antithesis of Jesus.

The poor cadets at the Coast Guard Academy, now—they did not deserve to embark on their careers in service to this country by having the whiner-in-chief whiz on their commencement. Because, after submitting a budget to Congress earlier this year that cuts the Coast Guard’s budget by $12B, somewhere in the vicinity of 12%, he had the unmitigated gall to not only congratulate himself on how swell a job he’s doing as president, but to go on and moan that “no politician in history, and I say this with great surety, has been treated worse or more unfairly.”

And this, BTW, was part of his “advice” to the graduates. You know—the part where the person at the podium, who’s supposed to be imparting a few final nuggets of wisdom, gives his or her secret of success. The Kleptocrat’s secret is to moan.

Well, not secret, really. More like his defining quality. "You want advice, guys? Lemme tell you what a great job I'm doing. Best in history. And I don't understand why the cool kids don't want me to sit at their lunch table."

That “no politician in history” thing—Jesus wept. Just off the top of my head: Julius Caesar, Michael Collins, Cataline, Abraham Lincoln, Jean-Paul Marat, Yitzhak Rabin, Gustav von Kahr, Anwar Sadat, Patrice Lumumba, Thomas More, Gabby Giffords, Salvador Allende, Rosa Luxembourg, Nelson Mandela, Alexander Hamilton, Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. To my knowledge not one of them hawked up the kind of self-pitying vomit as the Orange One. And anyway: I thought his whole point was that he's not a politician. At this point I believe it's his claim to being humanoid that is being called into question.

As for the cadets, it’s a mark of their professionalism and class that, when the Kleptocrat started his self-puffery and cringeworthy sniveling, the entire class did not stand up, turn their backs, drop trew and moon him. But I’m betting they couldn’t wait to hit the bars to start drinking away the memory of yesterday.

Bushes-whacked

As you know, following the Kleptocrat’s axing of FBI Director James Comey last Wednesday, much hilarity ensued among the cut-rate Goebbelses in the White House as they came up with more stories to explain the action than a porn fan fict site.

One of the highlights was press secretary Sean Spicer cowering among bushes desperately trying to get newsies to turn off the lights and cameras that are a basic function of his job, because even he was uneasy at the optics of the hogwash he was about to spew in his orange master’s behalf.

Social media, as you might imagine, sprang into action. There were Spicey-in-the-bushes memes plastered all over Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. How could there not?

Well, a geography professor in British Columbia also was taken by this image. Lisa Kadonaga dropped a PDF of that unprepossessing face of the White House mouthpiece and began propping copies in shrubs and hedges around town. After she posted to Facebook, people took notice, so she posted the PDF to Dropbox, and the idea spread like pyroclastic flow.

This needs no further set up, so I’ll just give you some examples.

 I'm a little afraid of this prophecy:

And I’m kind of waiting to see what will emerge from the latest Oval Office Follies of the Kleptocrat showing off to his Russian buddies how good his intel is—the best. Bigly.

Piss up in a brewery

Okay, further to my recent posts about Human Resources, it’s almost as though they sensed a disturbance in the Force and decided to double down on their efforts.

The first two weeks in June are the Open Enrollment period for resetting all company benefits. (Last year, the director scheduled a three-day off-site “team building” meeting for the entire department during this time, which I know because I got an out-of-office email response announcing it, when I tried to get clarification on one of the benefits.) Open Enrollment is preceded by all-staff meetings where representatives of the various providers get up on their hind legs to try to convince us that higher premiums and lower coverage are definitely the way to go.

At any rate, HR has been sending out a blizzard of emails reminding us that these meetings are being held, with accompanying Go-to-Meeting details if you want to attend virtually. (I am not making this up: there were at least five system-generated emails reminding registrants that the all-important Open Enrollment webinar would start in three days, then one day, then one hour, then 30 minutes, then five minutes.)

Since I do not fancy being stuck in an auditorium for 90 minutes to glean 12 minutes of pertinent information (Kaiser, no) and watching HR swan about like beauty pageant contestants, I registered for the GTM webinar yesterday. At the appointed time I launched the web client and dialed in (this crowd has never mastered the art of running audio over the web, so you have to call as well as launch). And I waited. And waited. And waited. (Think Casablanca levels of waiting.) I got thrown off the audio twice because the webinar had not begun.

Finally, 21 minutes after this big event was to have started, this went out:

Every time I think they cannot possibly underperform worse than any given instance, I discover that I have underestimated them completely, and they are indeed capable of plumbing ever darker depths of amateur-hour incompetence.

Seriously: could not organise one.

Gratitude Monday: It's in the air

We’ve been having kind of weird weather here around the District They Call Columbia. Last week I actually hauled out my down jacket and ate the last of the cottage pies I’d stored up in the freezer. I even turned the heat back on at home, because it was below 63 degrees.

But yesterday the sun was out, I hacked out some of the overhanging branches of some probably overgrown tree-like entity in my back yard, and I opened my patio door to let in the spring air and listen to the birds outside.

In the morning I read the Sunday paper at my dining table with a view through an azalea bush, and then went out to meet a friend for a catch-up. Walked away from that one with a gorgeous sparkly-puce pussy hat, a pound of "Sweet Love" coffee beans and many things to think of about the healthcare system.

I also enjoyed my first supper of poached chicken breast with tomato mayonnaise of the year, with a glass of Prosecco, while looking out onto the patio and watching the juvenile cardinals peeping at their parents amid the bird seed I toss out there; they haven’t quite grasped this concept of feeding themselves.

Thus, today I am grateful for the joys of Spring in an area that has a true change of seasons.

I am also, tbh, grateful for Flonase, because you can practically see the pollen in the air around you.

TWTWTW

Man, what a week, eh? I neglected to stock up on popcorn, and there I was Tuesday evening with nothing but a leftover pork chop to fix for supper when Twitter blew up.

Because sensing that even the understaffed and underfunded investigation into Russian ties to the Kleptocrat and his Gauleiters might still manage to overturn enough rocks and expose some really slimy things, 45 decided that FBI Director James Comey [hadn’t been fair to Hillary Clinton, wasn’t doing a good job, isn’t obsequious enough; was asking for more money to expand the Klepto-Russian investigation, whatever]—or possibly it’s just that it was Tuesday—so he fired him. In a letter hand delivered by a flunky while Comey was in California recruiting prospective FBI agents.

Honestly, you just cannot make this stuff up.

Moreover, the Chaos Monkey gave his mouthpiece chimps about an hour’s warning before making the announcement, and their efforts to ‘splain the “removal and termination” were caught—at the very least—wrong-footed.

One of the most entertaining incidents was press secretary Sean Spicer literally cowering in the bushes outside the White House, insisting that he would not speak about the sacking on camera and demanding that the newsies turn off the lights.

And then, Wednesday—possibly to reinforce his insistence that there are no ties between the Kleptocrat and the Russians—he received Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov and Russia’s ambassador to America, Sergei Kislyak in the Oval Office. US media were barred (even Fox News and Breitbart; go figure), but Russian photographers took pictures and posted them to the Web.

This apparently came as a surprise to the White House. One can only imagine that the decades the Kleptocrat has spent smirking into cameras in the expectation that photographs would subsequently appear in all manner of media did not prepare him for that happening this week.

Well—as you would expect—late-night comedians and social media have been erupting like Krakatoa around the clock.

By way of sampling—because it’s the end of the week, and if ever there were an embaras de richesses, the past few days have produced it—I give you these two.

WRT the new White House garden gnome, there was apparently an update, because Spicey actually called WaPo to “correct” them on what, precisely, he was doing in the shrubbery:

And in re: the not-a-Russian-connection, not-a-Russian-connection, there was also an attempt to explain the whole khaloshes:

Then—apropos of, just, you know—blonde conservative mouthpiece Laura Ingraham was driven to such apoplexy by the removal of monuments in New Orleans to what you could call the biggest losers in American history that her tweeting fingers got way ahead of her brain:

Poor old Laura is not a credit to her alma mater, Mr. Jefferson's university, oh-so-close to his home.

And I think I’m ready for a couple of fingers of single malt. I’m seriously sick of all the winning.

Cookie monsters

As you know, I often pick up oddities from my forays around the web; things I find of interest for one reason or another. Viz.:

Who among you, I ask, is actually “happy” to deal with cookies?

We all know that people foist cookies on visitors’ browsers not because they give a toss about your “experience”, but so they can monetize the traffic. Either directly on the site, or by tracking your web browsing (depending on the type of cookie).

I reckon that the least I can do is clear cookies from my cache on a regular basis, just to make it harder for them. In the end, I understand that I can’t stop the cookies altogether and still navigate the Web. But I can do my part to mess with their minds wherever possible.

And no, I am not “happy” with it.

Body electric

There are those who will look at this photo and start laughing:

Those people do not live with a cat.

Yes, it’s amusing to illustrate the principles of static electricity by letting a feline jump in a box of little Styrofoam pellets. But that amusement wears off as you watch the animal race around the house trying to rub them off, and you realize that you are going to have to vacuum the entire place. Possibly after you’ve woken up the next morning with little Styrofoam pellets in your nostrils because Fluffy walked on your pillow while you slept.

Also consider the phenomenon of hair balls, and what those pellets will look like in a soggy caterpillar of substance that emerges from either end of Fluffy’s gastrointestinal system.

Just sayin’.

Can you hear me now? I thought not

This came into my email queue over the weekend:

You might consider it rather pedestrian, and it is.

Except that I ended my association with Verizon in February. And I haven’t had one of their “your bill is ready” notifications since March. Why it suddenly kicked in again, I have no idea.

Except that this is emblematic of their service for the 12 months that I was stuck with them. Sloppy, indifferent and inaccurate.

Gratitude Monday: Ribbit

After last week—which I was ready to be over with by mid-morning on Tuesday—here’s what I’m grateful for today: the Internet. Not for the first time, the ability of people to share taking the piss at the expense of those in power gives me hope.

It’s not just that there are amazingly inventive and witty people out there (scattered about among those whose brains have never evolved beyond the amygdala stage), it’s that the worst things inspire them to great work.

The latest example is that an artist from Austin noticed that the Kleptocrat’s chin looks like a frog. Before you know it—we’ve got klepto-frog memes all over the place.

@ColinMcInerror @sirmitchell I animated it with sound, for all those who'd like Trump to croak. #TrumpFrog pic.twitter.com/HJGa94nnSk

— Colby Fulton (@colbster) May 5, 2017

@sirmitchell Animated pic.twitter.com/agt0QkdDuA

— Andrey Zakirzyanov (@Bezizyanov) May 2, 2017

And—as pretty much every media outlet on the planet points out—once you’ve seen it, you can never unsee it.

Thank God.

Twitter, as we all know, is fairly equal opportunity. So, for example, a pathetic, amygdala-frozen git like former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee can use it to spew all manner of disgusting sewage—now that he’s unencumbered by hope of future political office. (He was always devoid of a conscience and scruples.) Viz. his tweet on Cinco de Mayo:

But—as with every tweet by the Kleptocrat—those ready to call him out are legion.

Finally (for today), there are those who otherwise might toil in obscurity, taking comfort only in knowing they did the right thing, even if no one else sees it. Twitter gives them a platform, like the air lifting soap bubbles, so that we may all share in their happy moment.

For example: this true American hero who took advantage of Paul Ryan’s desperate need to smirk into a camera with anyone who doesn’t immediately look like they’re going to punch him. Especially after his cruel performance on Thursday. (You’ll note that he feels the need to write his name in full on his “Hi My Name Is” label. Seriously.)

Thank you, Internet.

Time to start the revolution

Well, sports fans, the Repugnants in the House got what they wanted: the appearance of a victory on a healthcare bill that reveals them at their despicable worst. In this case, it was more important for them to be seen to be doing something—anything—than to do something productive. So Trump-RyanCare squeaked by in yesterday’s vote—without Congressmorons reading it, without meaningful debate (even by Congressmoron standards) and without a thought for anything except getting it voted on before they take their next recess (at least the second since the beginning of the year).

Some quick thoughts:

Jason Chaffetz, Despicable-Utah, whom last we saw fleeing the House because he urgently needed foot surgery to repair a 12-year-old defect, managed to wheel himself back to the floor to cast his vote in favor of shafting his constituents. Despite being too incapable to do his Congressional work of investigating connections between the Gauleiter administration and the Russians, he literally scooted (on a scooter) back in order to uphold the principle that if you aren't already well-cushioned financially, you don't deserve a decent quality of life. Even if you vote for him. Will you look at the grin on that face? 

(Although, since this is such an important vote, I'm betting he would have slithered in, like he usually does.) He—like all his Repug cohorts—do not see the irony in the fact that, under this new bill’s provisions, his problem with his foot would be a pre-existing condition, which once again becomes grounds for being refused coverage.

But, hey—not a problem, it turns out, because the bill presciently exempts Congressmorons, their families and their staffs from this pre-existing coverage limitation, so they’ll be taken care of. Yay! Chaffetz will now slink back under a rock somewhere in Utah (or maybe somewhere nicer; where there are no constituents to ask him any questions) for his three-week work-free “recovery” period.

Which no other employer in the country would give any employee who wasn’t in a coma on life-support. You call in that kind of sick, they fire your ass. Although, in fairness, hard to distinguish any Repug from a comatose person, and I would personally question whether they’re even a life form.

It’s not clear to me how long it will take for denizens of the red states, who’ve been so vocal in their support for repealing the reviled Obamacare, to realize that what actually got repealed was the Affordable Care Act, the one that provides them actual coverage for a raft of conditions that will no longer be included (or that will cost far too much for them to buy coverage). And that the “death panels” the Repugs threatened them with back when ACA was initially debated (for much longer than 40 minutes) turn out to be the Repugs.

Yo—smokers, chawers and snuff-takers. Ask about tobacco-related conditions. Then prepare to hear a lot of laughter. You’re shafted, dudes. 

(Fun fact: the state of being female is essentially a pre-existing condition for this crowd of bloated white males, so care for pregnancy and other things to do with lady-parts—including rape and sexual assault—are not covered. But that great scourge of humanity, erectile dysfunction, that, boyos, is definitely in.)

I’d almost be okay with that, because you’re the ones who brought this about. It was more important to you to expunge the legacy of a black man in the Oval Office, and to prevent a woman from entering it, than it was to even look after your own interests. You were so intent on sticking it to the mythical libtard elites that you hauled out your Second Amendment assault rifles and shot yourselves, your families, your neighbors and your future.

But you also screwed millions of innocent, hard-working people who never hurt you. This shitstorm is all on you, and the vindictive Kleptocrat and the vicious Congressmorons you sent to Washington. You raised the water level of the so-called swamp to tsunami proportions.

I’d say fuck you, but your elected representatives are doing that anyhow.

But as for you spineless, lickspittle swamp monster Repugnantss laughing your limos to the airport: better start looking into post-Congressional healthcare coverage, because in 18 months, Winter’s coming.