Tim Blair referenced this photo, which supposedly shows Martin Sheen praying. I can't see it. Maybe he's high fiving Jesus, or just raising his hand to call on the Almighty. What a little attention seeker. And what a wonderful use of duct tape. Hey...what if that catches on, and all the protesters....yeah. You got it.

If you only read one thing (ok two) this morning, be sure and read this TNR editorial by Kanan Makiya...

I was thinking about Bagdahd this morning, and a certain Joe Walsh album cover...

which I hijacked from this fan site that you should see...it wasn't possible to isolate just the photo or I'd have linked to the whole thing instead of just printing the photo, not wanting to be rude.

This morning brings us a warm, fuzzy column by Ann Coulter. Ann never shilly shallies around when talking to or about the Vicious Traitors in our midst, and you just have to love the refreshing sensation you get when a first class hosing is being accomplished.

Thank you Denise for this fine protest photo...

protestthis

Last night on the news Wolf Blitzer and a commentator who vaguely resembled Janine Turner (let's just call her J), having nearly run out of things to say about the war, started talking about keeping the troops awake during very tiring circumstances. I don't recall exactly what they said, but it was something (assume I'm making this up completely.) like this:

J: To keep the troops alert, the military gives them amphetamines. They're called "Go Pills".
(slight pause)
W: Uh, couldn't they just use caffeine pills, or coffee or something?
J: It turned out that the military was worried about the diuretic effect, and dehydration was a concern in the desert.
Also, it made the troops edgy, and cranky too, and nobody wanted that. So caffeine is not being issued to the troops.
W: Why are they calling the stuff "Go Pills"? What's wrong with speed, or crank, or meth? Those words were good enough for us when we were in college.
J: Nope. It's Go Pills. Gotta be Go Pills, because that sounds less like street drugs. The troops need access to the very finest in clean pharmecutical grade crank, as you put it, because they have the need, the need for speed. Plus they never, ever, grind those Go Pills up and snort them through a straw, like I've seen you do in the employee lunchroom when you're working late.
W: Has the military ever considered that maybe a cranky military would be superior to a force that's simply alert? That maybe amphetimine psychosis is the way to go?
J: Our military advisors say this information is classified. But you can bet our troops are going to leap on the Iraqi divisions like opening a can of whupass on a roach in the kitchen.
W: Thank you.

"I am your Bitchmaster," he proclaimed.
"Charmed, I'm sure,"she replied.

Rachel Lucas has something to say about Mistuh Moore, oh yes she does indeed. Not only that, but she pointed the way to a cute t-shirt for Moore haters. See Flashbunny's for March 12 and 13. Nice French military advisor photo too!

This editorial by Robert Bartley
in the Wall Street Journal takes a good look at the Iraq timeline, starting in 1981. It's somewhat more comprehensive than most.

Drunken Master Attorney

Here's some things I'd like to see on television.

The Scene: A Law Office.

Drunken Master Attorney, a man in a suit and ill-matched tie, has his head face down on a conference table. There is a knock on the door. The man in the suit lifts his head quickly, gets up and stumbles to the door. "Cummin!" he says loudly and then opens the door. A woman steps into the office. "Siddown!" cries the attorney. He sits down. So does she. The attorney grabs a legal pad and pen, and pushes his hair out of his eyes. "Whassa trouble?" he slurs. "It’s the phone company" she says. "Bastards!" he shouts, "I’ll hit ‘em with a writ of Handimus Maximus!" He then commences to drink heavily from a pitcher he takes from the refridgerator, and passes out on the floor. The client has a somewhat worried expression on her face.

The Scene: A Courtroom. The next morning.

A well-dressed, corporate-looking attorney stands before the bench, giving his summation: "And therefor, your honor, my client the phone company demands that the defendant shall pay us all her money, forever and ever. We think it’s only fair." He smiles and adjusts his tie.

Drunken Master Attorney is apopoleptic. His face is red; he stammers and hisses and tries to adjust his hair and dark sunglasses, he grabs a law book and jabs furiosly at a chapter heading, grabs a pitcher on the desk and empties it, then falls headlong to the floor, the book spread open by his fist. "Order! Order!" cries the Judge, banging her gavel. The Bailiff comes forward. "What is he pointing at?" the Judge asks. The Bailiff brings the book, marking the paragraph with his finger. The Judge reads the passage and exclaims, "Why, he was pointing at the inscrutable section of the law dealing with Handimus Maximus, an obscure but utterly appropriate principle that shall obtain in this case! Bailiff, imprision the Plaintiff and their counsel!" and it was done, and the observers in the courtroom cheer, and the defendant claps her hands, jumps up and down and shouts "I win! I win!"

The Announcer’s voice: "Another Victory for Drunken Master Attorney"

 

Psychic Tour Guide

The scene: a televised advertisement for a New Career.

The Announcer: "Now, from the friendly folks who brought you Miss Cleo, here’s a brand new once-in-a-lifetime chance for you to make an incredible amount of money! Imagine yourself as a Psychic Tour Guide! No experience necessary, satisfaction guaranteed! Why should anyone spend thousands of dollars on airline tickets and hotels when they can pay YOU to describe foreign lands for them?

There is a large mystic with a white beard,wearing a turban and glasses, seated at a table holding a crystal ball. The client sits with her palms flat on the table. "I see you in Mexico City!" he says excitedly.

The Announcer: "Meanwhile, your attractive assistant burns diesel fuel in the kitchen while blowing a fan toward the client".

The Client: "I can smell it Psychic Tour Guide! It’s just like I’m there! Here’s a hundred dollars!"

The Announcer: "We’ll teach you all the secrets of the trade, including possible Red Flags. Avoid places the client may actually have been. That would be one. Don’t feel compelled to describe the Alien Civilization that you know has its headquarters below the Denver airport. That would be another. With help like this, how could you possibly fail?"

A blue screen appears:The Announcers voice is heard: "To order, call 1 888 Megamillions, and have your credit card ready. Only $295, or 10 easy payments of $49.95. Act Now to Avoid Bitter Disappointment."

The Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program

The Scene: a middle-aged man is being chased through an alley by an angry mob.

The Announcer: "This year, innocent americans will have their lives and limbs placed in jeapordy by angry mobs."

The Scene: a darkened office, the speaker is seated in shadow, an interviewer sits to one side.

"We were there for the ministry, just excercising our First Amendment rights as usual; engaging folks in long discussions about Jehovah right around dinnertime, or on Saturday mornings when they were all hungover. Then, one day, somebody said that we could maybe pick up a few bucks selling Amway as long as we were there, and that worked pretty good, so we added insurance to our line, and from then on people feared us. Man, we ruled those streets. Those homeowners may have hated us, but gosh darnit, they respected our power."

The Announcer: "In response to numerous threats, the Federal government has established the Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program, transferring dozens of practicioners to new positions with the Department of Homeland Security. Their names and addresses are:"

(a long list begins to scroll)

Announcer: "The Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program. Protecting Americans, and making it safe to answer the front door again."

Welcome to Planet Mongo, a demi resort that exists strictly to promote fun and decadence, and allows me to mock the media fools (and for them to mock me) on a more efficient basis than simply shouting out the window. (I don't know if the mediafools (tm) actually shout out the window, but I wouldn't put it past them).

I've already lost several clever paragraphs to a setting error, and if I run out of things to say you could assume that this is what's happened; and that profundity will follow in no time at all. Just keep hitting the reload button and praying to the appropriate deities and maybe you'll get lucky.

Planet Mongo is a Stirner Asylum, just like the one YOU live in, except that I get to rant all I want. I've been meaning to leap into the blogosphere for months. After reading Web Gods like Andrew Sullivan, Tim Blair, the Mystic Dolphin, and She Whose Name Cannot Be Spoken, I wanted to contribute. Or perhaps contribute is a funny word for whatever it is I'm doing.

Today is an interesting day for me. I invented spam ten years ago today, on March 24th, 1993. You can see the first commercial spam of the internet here:
Port Watson Project

My two co-conspirators were Ben Power and Sean Sheedy. (All the funny stuff in the article was Ben's, I was responsible for the finished version). We meant well. There will be more on the Port Watson Project someday if I feel like telling the story---but no utopia resulted from our efforts. We gathered names and email addresses from any newsgroup that looked sympathetic or promising and sent out this massive (at the time) text file.

The flames were incredible. You can see how naive we were; spam in the beginning had our names, addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers on it. Pissed off recipients used all of these to let us know what they thought about getting unsolicited email. Of course we never planned to spawn the hideous evil that IS spam today...and thanks for asking but I have all the spam (and more) that I can stand. I do apologize, though. Until later...newer...and fresher atrocities.