Category: yecch

So much for that amazing historic World Cup win…

39 seconds.

Michael Bradley has got this
That’s all that was left in the game. 39 seconds and the U.S. would beat Portugal, the 4th best team in the world. America would become the first team to advance from 2014′s Group of Death…

But no.


Remember: It is not appropriate to kill him. America doesn’t love soccer that much. Please adjust your broken heartedness/playerhate accordingly.

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There once was a ‘larming ole’ scribbler…

And a bottle of Hendrick’s Bulgarian-rose and cucumber gin was found in the freezer.

This afternoon there’s nothing to do but snow haiku. My attempts at 5, 7, 5:

Dame Peggington with her weather poetry. Oh no.

Full fat flake fell far
To sleep on the rude pavement.
Grraaawwwr. The shovel. Run!

Snowflake: distinctive,
Unique. Liquefies, blends. A
Loss, but less lonely

Oh my god. Make it stop.

All New York today
Is slush. Slip, fall, “Have a hand!”
We shyly love mess

Yea off me, now. Quite.
Now I mean. Seriously.
Nay, not want to live.

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Professor Gropey McRape with Charlie Gibson to the rescue

Well done Ms. Sullivan.

Kloman would likely still be teaching today but for the fact that one of his victims, Anne Sullivan, saw him in 2011 at the Washington Episcopal School in Bethesda, Maryland, where he was a substitute teacher at the time. “Imagine my surprise, walking down the hallway of my son’s school a couple years ago, and seeing Mr. Kloman, the seventh grade teacher who assaulted me in a swimming pool 40 years earlier,” she said in a press conference after Kloman’s sentencing in a Fairfax County Court. “Kloman still had access to kids? My son’s classmates could be his victims? Enough.”

Can you imagine? 40 years later. And that’s when Christopher Kloman’s tenure as an elite prep school child molester ended. How he managed to stay out of prison all these years is a damning mystery, but these nightmares were once protected as cultural conspiracies. Back then the victims were akin to a societal bargain, like the furniture in a rented apartment. The crimes just happened and everybody kept their mouths shut. At one point the Potomac School administrators were made aware of his pedophilia, so they sent Kloman to counseling. For that yawn of accountability the beloved academy will be parting with millions of dollars, courtesy Gloria Allred.

Beauregard made an agreement with Kloman that she would clean his apartment in exchange for skiing and driving lessons. Everything was “normal” the first time, but she says that when he asked her to come back one day to clean again, he answered the door in a short, blue terrycloth bathrobe and led her to front of the house. “He spun me around so fast, sat down in a chair and pulled me on top of his naked lap. When she asked what he was doing, she says he calmly replied, “Don’t worry, I do this all the time with your best friend.” He asked her to go upstairs. “And believe it or not, I did. From that moment, I just completely shut down emotionally.”

Over the next five months, Beauregard says Kloman raped her eight times. “He always used protection, though I had no idea what it was at the time. My only sexual experience up until then was kissing a classmate.”

So Christopher Kloman was sentenced to 43 years in prison. And this is notable on my little blog because Judge Jan L. Brodie threw McRapey deep in the hole despite the pleadings of some of the country’s Most Trusted Men. The prep school daddies of Virginia took a sizable liking to their child-intercoursing pal and they weren’t about to let him go to prison without a fight. Kenneth Starr, for example. He was the Republican special prosecutor who for years pursued the scandal-phantom of Whitewater until he learned that the President was having oral sex. That was a shocking enough discovery for Ken that he had to feed the country into a constitutional meat grinder.

Ken and Alice Starr:

. . My husband Ken always found him to be a gentleman and sincerely interested in our children’s education and well-being during parent-teacher conferences each year. We would occasionally see Mr. and Mrs. Kloman on social occasions, and again, there was no evidence whatsoever of inappropriate behavior.

In short, all of us in the Starr family have admired Mr. and Mrs. Kloman for many years. We do not know of any occasion when he was abusive to women or children. Thus it is possible that once Mr. Kloman had children of his own in the 1970s and once he was promoted to head the intermediate division, he made a concerted effort to correct his behavior of the past.

We used to all pile in the station wagon and go to Red Lobster. And I never saw him rape any of the women or children there, so, okay?

Mr. Kloman is currently repenting for his past sins and will continue to do so if given a chance to serve his community and neighbors. Community service would be a far better punishment than having him languish in jail.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Fellatio Witch Trial.

If that doesn’t giggle your belly, or ache your head, try this one.

By way of introduction, my name is Charlie Gibson.

He’s not just the former ABC nightly news anchor, he’s Charlie Gibson by-way-of-introduction. And he apparently has enough time in retirement to grace the judge with a combination of phrase and cliche so sincere it’d make your sex-fiend buddy weep.

I tried throughout the 12 hours or so after I read the Washington Post account to reconcile the Chris Kloman I read about and the Chris Kloman I know.

Pause. Paragraph.

And I could not.

Carriage return.

And I was left with an ineffable sadness. I grapple with the thought that good men can do bad things, that, as Thoreau wrote, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”

Poor anchorman, having to google Thoreau. Maybe now even Charlie feels quiet and desperate. Staring out the window, perhaps he’s nipping at a tumbler of fine scotch and just allowing the pain to come. Or maybe, like his friend, he’s trapping a fourteen year-old in his apartment, then putting on a condom and raping her.

In my experience as a reporter and in my personal life, this is not the first instance I have observed of such a phenomenon, but to me this is the most difficult to try and understand.

Because I’m not reading it on a teleprompter. I got the guy into the Shriners, incidentally.

For I have known Chris as a wonderful husband, great Dad, and, yes, a truly fine teacher.

Oh, a truly fine teacher. In all this rush to hear the stories of students, now grown, and to recognize them as horrors, and ram them right down the gullets of the justice system, Charlie’d like to remind everybody how hard all of this has been on someone else.

It is a case almost Dostoyevskian (if I can coin a word) in that Chris must have carried this guilt with him for years and I can’t imagine how the knowledge that it would some day come out, as it inevitably would, must have eaten at his soul.

Admit it, judge: You still feel bad for Raskolnikov. And if Anne Sullivan hadn’t walked into her kid’s school that day, would we even be here? But then just imagine how much worse Chris would feel, with his tatty soul, so teh sadz in every direction. Now like a good little talking head, who if nothing else knows his audience, Charlie works to bring it home:

I have tried since learning of Chris’s actions to put myself in your shoes. You have the most difficult of jobs. For I don’t know how one can determine what is fair or right after all these years – fair and right for the young women who were involved;

The women who were involved. Or the eighth-graders who were groped, dry-humped, and raped. It wasn’t really much of an office romance, was it?

. . fair and right for Chris. I do know that I believe in redemption. When I was hosting Good Morning America we frequently broadcast . .

Yes, he underlined it. I bet Chuck would be less prone to flog his résumé if he’d hosted, say, Good Morning Joey Buttafuoco.

. . we frequently broadcast stories and I was amazed that some people who were victimized had reserves of forgiveness far greater than mine. Any punishment for Chris now strikes me as punitive not rehabilitative, but at the same time I realize there is a need for accountability.

Any punishment would be punitive, good point. But any punishment? One day in prison, a little fifty dollar fine? It’s all too grotesque a fate to contemplate for our sidekick, Chris. Yes you may have heard about the unspeakable things he’s done, and you might think you have a right to judge him, but there’s something more important here: We knew him. We trafficked in the same Fairfax social circles! Know ye this so justice may prevail. You can be grateful that Judge Brodie wasn’t buying any of the bullshit the Virginia Brahmin And Butthurt were peddling and that Kloman will ‘languish in jail,’ exactly as Alice Starr bemoaned. If we were any luckier, we’d have Charlie Gibson keep him a week’s company for being an asshole.

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Tell her the sausage factory is closed

Average therefore normal awesome America becomes apparently unhappy when a Boy Scout gets kissed on the mouth. This is a bad deal. Even though the Scout is a horny chick and the kisser is handsome Anderson Cooper, today’s Rock Hudson plus mountain fresh bleach. Unacceptable. Traditional America is wantin’ to give up stabbin’ sticks and wandrin’ dark tick-filled forests with child molesters if this keeps up. What with the boys kissing rich girls with big gazongas.

Anderson Cooper kisses “Boy Scout” to offend traditional America
Cliff Kincaid | Renew America

The headline says it all: “Anderson Cooper Kissed Madonna, Dressed In Boy Scout Uniform, at GLAAD Media Awards” . .

This was a deliberate effort to mock the Scouts for standing for traditional values and instructing young men to be “morally straight.” Anderson Cooper went along with the gag by “kissing” the faux Scout. It was supposed to be cute.

It was not. Cliff vomited in his mouth. And if he’d swallowed his corn-dog and beans lunch, a second time, he would have demonstrated the minimal talent necessary to earn himself the “Legal Proceedings Badge.” This a Scout gets for 1.) Poring over BSA civil court transcripts where they allege thirteen year-olds raped by their Scout leaders are not victims, but boyfriends, of said leaders, and 2.) Not cannon-hurling on a distant galaxy.

And should we take this Scouting revelation seriously, which followed the swearing of an oath, which my gosh they take seriously, we’d have to accept that Scouting routinely features thirtysomethings making tent pretzels of their newly pubescent [rrawf] boyfriends. So why does Cliff Kincaid care about this? So what if Anderson wants to steal a kiss from some soft-skinned Scout, with her curvaceous hips and heaving jugs?

As an Eagle Scout and father of three boys who also had some fun in Scouting, I don’t think it is right to mock this worthwhile program.

Ah, and maybe this is the point. Anderson and Madonna are legally permitted to commit whatever crimes against Jesus they like — unwed kissing between boys and girls, for example. But they shouldn’t do it in public just to mock the Boy Scouts. Closeted sexual experimentation (and pedophilia) is a traditional, worthwhile pursuit. Keep it naive. Keep it private. And keep it strictly same-sex, the Boy Scout way. Now that’s ‘some fun.’

Do most boys experiment with sex at Boy Scout camp?
Yahoo!Answers | Resolved Question | 4 years ago

When I was 12, I joined Boy Scouts. Since then I have attended summer camp every year. It has always been the same. Before going the first time, jacking off was something guys used to joke about and do in private. Not at camp! There, guys are doing it right in front of each other in the tents, woods and showers. Once, the first year, one of the counselors came into the shower after troop swim. Several of the guys were showing their erections to each other. The Counselor just said “Hurry up, other guys want to use the shower. You can do this stuff in the tents after lights out”. It was no big deal!

After saying “no” three times, I finally went into the woods with some other guys for a circle jerk. It was awesome! Everybody was squirting all over. Sometimes you could go hiking and find some guys doing more than jacking off.

My question is….are all scout summer camps like this??? . .

Dave S
Best Answer – Chosen by Voters

Yeah, that stuff went on at night at the scout camp I went to also. Mostly just jerking off with each other in the tents at night, but sometimes there would be a circle jerk in the woods.

Sometimes some guys would go further too! That’s where I first learned to give head.

You see Cliff’s point. Get Madonna out of there, at least.

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In lengthy praise of Uncle Tom

When you’re a God-fearing black man you’re allowed to say whatever you like.

The modern day Sambos and Quimbos fall under two categories They are the poverty pimps like Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton who may have begun on the proper path but have since been co-opted by racist liberal Democrats . .

‘Sambo’ Jackson and ‘Quimbo’ Sharpton.

And you have the just plain stupid Black leaders who have been selectively bred to drink the Kool-Aid with an insatiable thirst, despite the glaring evidence of the devastating toll that liberal policies have wreaked upon Black America . .

President Dumbshit was bred to destroy his people.

They are the triumph of the changed Southern Democrat strategy adopted after realizing they couldn’t win with fire hoses, attack dogs and the hangman’s noose.

Once the Republicans stopped Al Gore Sr. lynching the Negroes, Junior sent the suckers to college. Will a mister Clayton Bigsby please proceed to the courtesy phone . .

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Politics all sexy like a rock n’ roll Indian

Makeup saleswoman and video actress Gwen Stefani, partnered again with the gang from No Doubt, does her darndest to popularize a song dumber than “Just a Girl”:

Do you think I’m looking hot?
Do you think this hits the spot?
How is this looking on me, looking on me?
Do you think I’m looking hot?
Do you think this hits the spot?
How is this looking on me, looking on me?

That’s not the video, of course. The clip has all but vaporized from the world because nobody anticipated dressing rock stars like American Indians, who actually exist, was less hot than it was insulting.

But can you blame the Orange County kids? Now in their forties, millionaires and purveyors of all manner of retail crap? They were only trying to make rock n’ roll fun. Make it easy on the ears. Easy on the brain. Cowboys and Indians, get it? What a sexy good time.

We turn now to Politico, to my mind the No Doubt of politics. Before them, what the powerful did or said was mysterious and arcane, like a Bob Dylan song. Those videos were no fun. Bob very rarely filmed himself dressed up like Roy Rogers so he could save the fashion model squaw, though he could have. Think of the career he threw away, the one where he sold Stetson hats and sandalwood cologne. What a dinosaur. Talk about your opportunity lost.

Anyway, the new media gurus have educated themselves a great deal in 2012. After 12 months of making Entertainment Tonight out of cable access Channel 9 Rubidoux, California, on the internet, plenty has been learned. Politico shares the lessons:

The 2012 election will be remembered by history for its smallness in a big, historic moment: The high drama of the first debate was a rare respite from months of petty rhetoric, egged on from start to finish by gobs of money from millionaires and billionaires.

Nothing learned of any use, however. The first debate should have been interesting to Politico for Romney’s near-psychotic lying. And for the electorate’s tragic response to it, which was positive. Instead it was tingling historic drama because Team Romney wins! Look at the polls go! This is an epic ballgame, we’re telling you!

If anyone were capable of reducing actual issues, like a dishonest candidate who holds America in complete contempt, to little more than “petty rhetoric,” it was Politico. The site has never once produced a word of political coverage that wasn’t instantly disposable. But now they need a word with you, good people, to tell you the way the 2012 election year failed them, and America, with its propensity for shallow and short-sighted politics. They demand better. You should too:

For those who hate long campaigns, get over it.

The combination of increased early voting and unlimited money in politics means longer campaigns and earlier attacks.

Well not that bit, that fact’s deep and sophisticated. Big Money now makes for politics 24/7/365 and you should grow up and get used to it. Politico will be there the whole way, of course. But here’s a good point:

In Missouri and Indiana, two states that once seemed like sure-bet wins for Republicans, the party could now lose both because two old, white, Christian men thought it was fine to weigh in on why a woman who was raped need not have the legal right to an abortion . .

Republican operatives tell POLITICO that after the election, top officials plan to enlist some of the influential outside groups representing conservative grass-roots activists to see if they can help pre-empt the future selection of unelectable conservatives. The hitch: A lot of those groups couldn’t care less what the Wise Men of Washington want.

In fact, it was the locals that forced the loons down the throats of, you guessed it, entrenched Washington. But now that Politico’s CIA agents have identified if not solved this problem — empower the locals! — the GOP will recover their sanity. Valuable lesson learned or maybe not, but we wrote it so you should read it like anything else. And for you Democrats:

If President Barack Obama wins, he will be the popular choice of Hispanics, African-Americans, single women and highly educated urban whites. That’s what the polling has consistently shown in the final days of the campaign. It looks more likely than not that he will lose independents, and it’s possible he will get a lower percentage of white voters than George W. Bush got of Hispanic voters in 2000.

A broad mandate this is not.

Don’t you get too puffed up about this election, liberals, especially if you win. All your colored guy did was appeal to “Hispanics, African-Americans, single women and highly educated urban whites.” Without normal people, you’re stuck with a chunk of America that represents everything but the homogenous Republican base. If there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that those people really count: The good-looking folks with an interest in politics as cultural fashion, particularly when it’s delivered in an easily digestible manner.

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If Orpheus had a stick, Steyn would need a helmet

It’s bad enough that lumbering ginger bitch Mark Steyn pesters the internet with his whining. Today he’s crying about an Obama campaign graphic, btw. A flag! Bastards!

But can you believe he sings? Or tries to?

Mark Steyn is an international bestselling author, a Top 41 recording artist, and a leading Canadian human-rights activist . .

“Top 41?” There is no Top 41, Dino. Any more than there’s a “Billboard Hot 99.” Or a “Kapitol Records.” Larfs.

“A Marshmallow World,” his Christmas single with Jessica Martin, reached number seven on Amazon’s easy-listening bestsellers, and number 41 on Amazon’s main pop chart . .

Marshmallow World! Great fartz of schmaltz. On YouTube, there’s also a Sweet Gingerbread Man. I shit you not! Typing and giggling, it’s harder than it looks.

The man has no soul, so how does he carry a tune? He doesn’t. He can’t come close. Mark Steyn has the music in him, and your budgie is Don Giovanni. He’s flat as a Texas panhandle:



Woof woof. Looking good, too.

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George Will: I don’t know how to love him

This caught my eye. After Obama fired tonight’s yet unprecedented centrist salvo on the Charlotte crowd, this take on his political personality is precious:

Gee willikers!

Four years ago, Barack Obama was America’s Rorschach test, upon whom voters could project their disparate yearnings . .

No. That’s not how a Rorschach works. Nice try. No matter how thirsty I am, ink blots won’t make me cry ‘Water!’ The Rorschach test draws out obsessions. Pre-occupations. Pardon George for seeing his big-eared cabana boy everywhere and then writing this.

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Pastor finds God way up his mom’s vagina

Here’s one way you can fight abortion. You can go back to the womb, back to the seldom-remembered time before you were born, or right after you were born but months before the vagina shuttle dropped you off at the delivery ward, and you can watch Jesus punch your mom in the face because she’d like to take Franklin Roosevelt’s RU486 pills. Then you can tell a harrowing first-hand account of Holocaust zygote survival to your Christian pals and high-five everybody because you just won the all-time yuck episode of Fear Factor.

Delivered from Abortion: Healing a Forgotten Memory
July 31, 2012 By Gordon Dalbey

Late in the fall of 1943, as Nazi submarines terrorized Allied shipping, a young Navy officer and his wife faced a terrible dilemma when he deployed to an aircraft carrier in the North Atlantic.

What to do. Should we abort our future hallucinating baby? Or should we have the Nazis do it? They’re not about to feed and clothe an eight pound homeless person. Oops: SPOILER ALERT. Oh well, Gordon’s mom is pregnant, back to the drama unfolding:

The doctor, however, had a solution to her problem. Handing her a small, dark red vial and scheduling her for an appointment the following week, he explained that he could “fix everything” quickly and easily after she took the pills.

Days later, before the appointment, the young woman shook the pills out of the vial into her hand and closed her fist. Shaking from both cold and anxiety, she poured a glass of water with her other hand. Uneasily, she hesitated and looked out a frost-covered kitchen window. “What if this is the son my husband wants?” she thought. Turning to her fist, she paused, then opened it and lifted the glass of water.

Remarkable lyrical details from the scene supplied by Gordon, especially considering the vantage point. Maybe his womb was brilliantly lit and richly appointed with sight-lines, glass and mirrors. Whether it’s hosting an impromptu Summer fest for the neighbors or a cozy detente in the whisper campaigns among the executive class, the guests frequently ooh and aah at the views from Gordon’s crystal palace. How you ladies manage to lug one of these eyesores around is a mystery. I’d be crankier.

“At the last minute, she just threw the pills away into the trash can.”

This jarring revelation stirred a host of unsettling, lifelong mysteries.

I remembered my recurrent nightmare of swimming frantically underwater and, strangely, breathing while submerged—an amniotic, prenatal “memory”? Once, I told a psychiatrist how I felt “trapped” and panicky in close relationships with women. Fears of death had dogged me, and a pervasive, empty sense of not belonging anywhere.

It’s starting to make sense. The water. The nightmares. The bouncing and the noise whenever the tenement janitor dropped by to say “Toodle-oo Carol. Don’t you look nice today?” The pieces fit.

Lying on the floor, I curled up in a fetal position and imagined the kitchen scene 35 years earlier as my sister had related it: myself tightly bound inside my mother’s womb, her holding the pills and glass of water, pausing over her decision.

As I “saw” my mother lift the pills, I began to shake in terror. “Jesus, help!” I cried out suddenly, desperately. “Save me, Jesus!” As I lay trapped and trembling, in my mind’s eye I saw a figure come into the kitchen and stand by my mother. With a single gesture, he reached and swept the pills out of her hand and into the trash can.

Amazed, I watched as he then turned to me. “You don’t owe your life to your mother,” he declared. “It was I who stayed her hand. You belong to me.”

I tried to say something. But with the silent wave of his hand, strong and thin, he simply replied “No.” Our eyes met, I couldn’t tear myself away. That’s how the most amazing night of my life began BOOOWN-CHIGGA-DOWN-BWAAAOOOOOWWW no I’m kidding. Too easy.

A cool sensation of release swept over me. Sighing deeply, I lay quiet.

Later, I remembered Jesus’ promise to his followers, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32NIV).

Indeed, this watershed experience freed me to face many unhealthy dynamics in my life—most notably, feeling overly responsible for my mother’s happiness and guilty for wanting a life of my own.

That last bit could use highlighting if ever there’s a non-fiction version of this drama. That part’s actually compelling. What? Right, The King stays in the picture, got it.

Today, 68 years later, I remain humbled by this unwieldy yet compelling mystery—and determined to entertain it. I’m neither obligated to believe nor ashamed to be alive.

I’m privileged to testify. The more I do, the more thankful I am to God, and the more determined I am to see others experience that saving power themselves.

So that they, too, may garner the same sort of forensic attention. By the way of visions-and-visits-with-Jesus. Imagine how difficult to believe some of this would be if it weren’t true.

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Mitt Romney and the ‘Eat My Chocolate’ story

This is strange. Here’s a tidbit that comes by way of author Bryan Young, whose brother worked at a Seattle’s Best in Provo, Utah. He told it to Jesus General (who is manly, amen), and that’s how I came across it. You might be surprised, or you might be nauseated, by the oddball generosity of Mitt Romney:

One day in 2010 the baristas were surprised to see Mitt Romney and his wife come to the counter.

Since they’re both Mormon, neither ordered a coffee drink. They each ordered a hot chocolate and took them… without tipping. It seemed odd for someone so wealthy not to tip, but no one thought of it as a big deal. Baristas usually make less than minimum wage and make their living on tips. I understand that it’s not worth Bill Gates’ time to pick up a hundred dollar bill, but Mr. Millionaire couldn’t dump his change in the tip jar?

The man was out of touch…

…only they didn’t know just how out of touch he was until later.

Romney spent some time in the coffee shop as his wife browsed through books before they were called to leave.

On their way out, Anne throws away her half-consumed hot chocolate, but Mitt approaches the counter. “I know you guys can’t sell this again, but I was wondering if one of you guys wanted the rest of my hot chocolate.”

“No thanks,” one of the other baristas told him, wondering if this was some sort of bizarre joke.

“I don’t want to waste it, there’s still plenty left, it’s still perfectly good…”

According to my brother, Romney seemed genuinely confused by their refusal. His hot chocolate was so good he didn’t want to waste it, but it wasn’t so good that it was worth tipping those who made it. “I think the important part of this story isn’t the tipping,” my brother explained. “It’s that he doesn’t understand that everyone else is throwing their unused drinks away because they understand that it’s against social norms. His germs are on it, but somehow, in his mind, his millionaire saliva is good enough that it shouldn’t bother a barista of the serving class.”


Is this the weirdest man ever to run for president? I leave it to you.

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The funny way National Review cares for California

California, that’s us. Unemployment is pegged over 10%, the state government’s poorer than a fruit picker, the mention of the word ‘water’ in polite society starts fistfights, and, beginning about a month from now, the Santa Ana winds will turn greater Los Angeles into gunpowder in a potter’s kiln. There are so many good reasons for the bleedinghearts at National Review to worry about us.

If Californians did not have enough problems already, they are about to be deprived of delicious, fattened liver.

Jesus, now this.

As of July 1, when Arnold Schwarzenegger’s 2004 “Force Fed Birds” act finally took effect, California became the first state in the nation to ban foie gras.

No more tortured goose organs for you. The fates. They are cruel.

Some, like the newly founded Coalition for Humane and Ethical Farming Standards (CHEFS), say the law goes too far. “It would lead to the widespread production and sale of contraband, black-market foie gras that would be dangerous to animal welfare and customers,” the CHEFS website states.

Because CHEFS are all about animal welfare. Similar arguments were forwarded the author by GNASHING BIRD MAGNETO. Now, here’s how the Review tie up this piece. No ma’am, I’m not making this up:

These birds are only the most recent job creators pushed out of the Golden State.

When the attorney general deports the Hell’s Angels, the morticians lobby will collapse.

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Turn out the lights: Thomas Kinkade dead

The cynical artist with facile hands and a powerful lust for business, Thomas Kinkade, has died. He was 54.

The controversial Christian and jillionaire will not be missed. It’s a sorry shame he didn’t die a day sooner. He was a gifted man who seduced and repulsed the world with his portraits of incandescent treacle. He trademarked himself “Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light.” He may have mass-produced and sold as many as ten million paintings. Here’s one:

Though he may have rivaled only Andy Warhol for success in the business of art, he was neither satisfied nor respected. He was angry at critics and frequently drunk.

[Kinkade's Media Arts Group executive John] Dandois also said of Kinkade, “Thom would be fine, he would be drinking, and then all of a sudden, you couldn’t tell where the boundary was, and then he became very incoherent, and he would start cursing and doing a lot of weird stuff like touching himself.” On 11 June 2010, Kinkade was arrested in Carmel, California on suspicion of driving while under the influence of alcohol.

He thought Pablo Picasso was lame. Kinkade believed himself to be great because he outsold everyone else, as if that were important. Creating factories to produce his ‘paintings’ wasn’t relevant, but you’re welcome to admire that too. His art was licensed to the likes of Wal-Mart and Hallmark for calendars, puzzles, CDs, greeting and gift cards. Have some more:

His arrogance extended to creating entire Thomas Kinkade towns. In 2002, Salon‘s Janelle Brown visited “The Village at Hiddenbrooke, A Thomas Kinkade Painter of Light™ Community.”

Kinkade has parlayed his fame into an entire country-cottage industry of Kinkade-licensed products, as seen on QVC — home furnishings, La-Z-Boy chairs and sofas, wallpaper, linens, china, stationery sets, Hallmark greeting cards and so on . . The Village at Hiddenbrooke bills itself as the culmination of Kinkade’s vision: an actual manifestation of the quaint cottages, charming gazebos and inspiring landscapes in his artwork.

Except that it isn’t. What you find in the rolling hills behind Vallejo is the exact opposite of the Kinkadeian ideal. Instead of quaint cottages, there’s generic tract housing; instead of lush landscapes, concrete patios; instead of a cozy village, there’s a bland collection of homes with nothing — not a church, not a cafe, not even a town square — to draw them together.

Your first glimpse of Hiddenbrooke features four enormous satellite dishes and a radio tower, nestled in a green valley next to an oblivious troop of grazing cows from the adjacent farm. The second thing you see upon arrival in Hiddenbrooke is an endless stretch of the community’s semi-identical greige tract homes, squeezed in close.

Hiddenbrooke is still around. Many of his hundreds of exclusive galleries are not. While it may have cost franchisees $100,000 or more to buy into the Kinkade trade, they labored to make the sort of money they were promised. They frequently encountered competition from a seemingly unscrupulous business competitor: Thomas Kinkade.

Kinkade’s company, Media Arts Group Inc., has been accused of unfair dealings with owners of Thomas Kinkade Signature Gallery franchises. In 2006, an arbitration board awarded Karen Hazlewood and Jeffrey Spinello $860,000 in damages and $1.2 million in fees and expenses due to Kinkade’s company “[failing] to disclose material information” that would have discouraged them from investing in the gallery. The award was later increased to $2.8 million with interest and legal fees. The plaintiffs and other former gallery owners have also leveled accusations of being pressured to open additional galleries that were not financially viable, being forced to take on expensive, unsalable inventory, and being undercut by discount outlets whose prices they were not allowed to match.

The unfortunates felt victimized not only for the loss of income, but for a kind of spiritual betrayal.

Former gallery dealers also charged that Kinkade uses Christianity as a tool to take advantage of people. “They really knew how to bait the hook,” said one ex-dealer who spoke on condition of anonymity. “They certainly used the Christian hook.” One former dealer’s lawyer stated “Most of my clients got involved with Kinkade because it was presented as a religious opportunity. Being defrauded is awful enough, but doing it in the name of God is really despicable.” On June 2, 2010, Pacific Metro, the artist’s production company, filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, one day after defaulting on a $1 million court imposed payment to the aforementioned Karen Hazlewood and Jeffrey Spinello. A $500,000 payment had previously been disbursed.

One more:

A.S. Hamrah, writing in The Baffler, detailed the impact his life would have on others:

“Kinkade is a living testament to how the triumph of kitsch values has repercussions in the marketplace, outside the world of taste.”

Thomas Kinkade, dead at 54. Bury him deep.

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