Listics

Shelley points to the New Yorker’s tasty bit on "intelligent design."

Stormy needs to return to the workout regimen.  Here he is giving what’s left of his attention to a hurricane Rita briefing…

Thanks to Eric Sinclair for the moldy oldie link to the aerobics, and to Canoe Network for the candid photo of the drunk-in-chief of US Forces World Wide.

Studies of a genetically mutated mouse strain showed that AMPA receptor function is disrupted by the lack of stargazin…

Lu Chen’s MacArthur genius announcement carries more information about synaptic transmission than most of us lay creatures can comfortably absorb.  But at least I know about "stargazin" and I’m here to suggest the use of a telescope…

get down to WalMart
grab some food, some drink
no state control, Calvin –
no Hobbes.

A bag of Cheetos is not property and not theft.
no Proudhon.

What can we learn from a few hungry looters?
that doubt may do some good?
that god unleashed his fury on the materialist hell of the bible belt at a time when snow fences contain the parade route of the jingoistic bastards so eager for something to celebrate that they pump up the patriotic pipe organ and wail like PigPen…

Big Boss Man.  Sent his mercs to town
Big Boss Man.  Some looters to shoot down
Big Boss Man.  Raise his flag up in the tree
Big Boss Man.  I think he’ll soon be lynching me.

Do you really want to understand the success of Cindy Sheehan?  Would you like to know the simple reason that she has found her way into the American consciousness?  Do you care about the reason that her message is being so well accepted even in the face of the powerful White House media manipulation machine’s strongest opposition?  Walk through this with me…

Cindy Sheehan.  Crawford Texas.  Cindy Crawford.  Tits.

Simple, ain’t it?

Consider the problem.  You can do this the difficult way or you can do this the warm, soft, and cuddly way.  It’s your choice really.

At Mystic Bourgeoisie this morning Chris takes on the issue of Manifest Destiny… a chick rocker from the 80s.  My question to all concerned is this:  What keeps Columbia’s bodice from dropping into an Ashcroft-unfriendly configuration as she strings those miles and miles of telegraph wires? 

I’m wondering about the searches some people use to find their way here.  I’m sorry to disappoint them when they arrive. 

In the story mafia, our numbers are legion.  Wandering the paths of solipsism we find it difficult to retrace our steps.  Every song is a new song and a delight.  Every picture is just right.  But the words carry us to corrupt places.  They frighten me.  Return to Dotty Solace, comforting, quiet, secure.

Thanks to Mark Wood for the pointer…