They’re so out of ideas, they’re reduced to projecting:
They’re so out of ideas, they’re reduced to projecting:
This just in from the McCain/Palin campaign trail:
“I don’t believe these polls,” said America Blanca, a 44-year-old small business owner from Miami who wore a red dress and was visibly pumped up by the rally. “Not one of them. Because it’s the kids answering the polls on the computers. Their parents are not home and they are answering and they will not be voting. I think if he is losing, it is only by a little spread. Very little.” She held the tip of her pointer finger about two inches from the tip of her thumb.
Asked if her business made more than $250,000 a year, the cap under which Obama has proposed cutting taxes, she said it did. Told about Obama’s proposal, she answered, “I don’t give a shit. I will never vote for a black man.”
Call me naive, but seriously? You’re not going to vote for a man based on the color of his skin? What is this, 1950s Alabama? Okay, so maybe parts of Miami and other cities are 1950s Alabama – I’m sure those are the “Real America” parts of America that so many of the GOP want us embrace – but this is 2008. And the fact that a color of a man’s skin is more important to you than your taxes/your economy/your reproductive choice/your national security/your overall well being makes you much more naive than I could ever be. Your small business might make more than $250k a year, but if America is going to be so stupid as to vote for The White Man in this race based on his race, America’s business will soon be no more. Another 4 or 8 years years under GOP rule and America, you won’t have to worry about making that kind of money. ‘Cuz there’ll be nobody with any money to spend on your small business.
Let’s say you didn’t like the color pink. I don’t. Maybe you love the color green. So now let’s say you’re at the auto dealer, and you’ve got $10,000 to spend. The first car the car salesman shows you is a pink 2009 Ferrarri, decked out with a leather interior, nice stereo, heated seats, sunroof, and a 100,000 mile bumper to bumper guarantee. This car, amazingly, is $10,000. The second car the salesman shows you (he only has two cars to show you…the other third party cars really don’t matter today) is a green 1982 Ford Fiesta with 210,000 miles on it. It’s close to being scrapped, it has an AM radio only, ripped cloth seats, and is being sold “as is.” This car, amazingly, is also $10,000. Let’s say you HAVE to make a choice between these two cars. You’re telling me that you’re going to buy the Ford Fiesta because of its color? You’re not going to look under the hood, kick the tires, take it for a test spin, and at least check it out thoroughly? Do realize how short sighted this is? Buying a car based on its color will only have you back on the carlot in a few short weeks or months, complaining about how your choice is sucking up all your cash in repairs and asking if the Ferrarri is still available. Well, guess what, America (if that’s even your real name), it won’t be. So you better make the right choice now. And it better be based on more than color. ‘Cuz if it’s not, you’re fucking stupid. And you deserve what you’ll get.
Yeah, you. There in the Chevy Behemoth or whatever the hell it’s called. With the V-8 engine and the 800 pounds of carbon dioxide you’d be putting into the air every minute if the Behemoth were running.
You, with the cell phone glued to your ear.
Yeah, you. In the Target parking lot.
See me? Yeah, me. With the two little boys in tow, having just gone through Target to pick out a small prize for each of them for doing so well with their swimming lessons this morning. Yeah, me. Parked right next to you.
Obviously I have to get back into my Jeep, right? With my two little boys? Right. Of course I do. So I approach my Jeep and I open the door and I put Boy #1 in.
And then you start the Behemoth.
So I close the door and take Boy #2 and we move over so you can get the Behemoth out of your parking space and you can go on your merry little environmentally friendly way.
And then you do this: You roll down your window and you say, “Go ahead. I’m not going to leave until I finish this conversation.”
Um, so let me get this straight. You’re going to run your Behemoth in the Target parking lot, spewing tons of CO2 into the atmosphere, while you FINISH YOUR CONVERSATION? ARE YOU SERIOUS?
Who the hell are you talking to that you need your V-8 Bucket of Bolts running while you have the conversation? It better be your mechanic. And he better be diagnosing some problem you’re having with your vehicle, or else you’re just an idiot who apparently has such a sense of entitlement that you think it’s your God given American right to sit in the parking lot of a big box sweatshop market with your V-8 engine running while you give yourself ear cancer AND talk to whoever.
No, no – I take that back. You ARE an idiot. Remember my two kids? Yeah. You started that small tank up while I was in the middle of my “Putting Two Kids In The Jeep” procedure, which, as any parent knows, is as highly involved as any NASA procedure, guaranteed. There are kids to corral, butts to put in seats, clasps to clasp…it’s almost rocket science. And when our vehicles are parked 2 feet from each other and you start yours up while I’m in the exact middle of my PTKITJ procedure, I have to take a pause and move out of the way because I’m certain that anybody who would start their vehicle next to mine while I’m in the middle of my PTKITJ procedure has to be an idiot and, as such, is certain to pull said vehicle out of the space within a few short seconds, at which time Boy #2 might have wandered into the Behemoth’s way, thusly getting run down by a truck so big and so heavy that certainly there must be room for more than just you in it (Feel free to mix in a carpool once in a while). So I move. And you declare that you’re going to sit there and pollute all the air around the Target with your Chevy Spew (now there’s a name for a truck!) while you talk on the phone. When, really, had you been paying attention instead of talking to whoever, you would have known that I was in the middle of my PTKITJ procedure and you could have waited until I had completed it to start your Truckzilla so that I wouldn’t have to move out of your way under false pretenses. Had you waited, maybe you would have also been done with your conversation and you could have saved a few small bits of the ozone layer as well.
All this makes you an idiot. Enjoy your idiocy. I certainly have.
Yeah, you. There. In the minivan. Talking on your cellphone. Eating a donut. Or whatever that heart-attack-waiting-to-happen pastry is that’s in your hand and heading towards your mouth.
Yeah, you. At the corner. A block away from my kid’s school.
Have you seen me yet? You haven’t? No, of course you haven’t. Because you’re talking on your phone. You must be having the world’s Most Important Conversation Ever (MICE), because what else would distract you so much that you haven’t noticed that I took one step into the intersection before you even got there. And that I have a 3 year old boy in my left hand and a 6 year old boy in my right hand. And that we were going to cross the street.
Yeah, baby. That’s me. Superdaddy. Spying you coming, talking on your Nokia, gobbling on your Krispy Kreme and your tall non-fat drive-through Starbucks mocha, (hold the whip) about a half a block away. And stopping myself and two little boys from continuing our cross – THAT WE HAD ALREADY STARTED – because you looked like you were having the MICE and that you couldn’t be bothered with the fact that we were crossing the street.
Yeah, that’s you. There, in the minivan. You must have kids of your own, right? Why else would you drive a minivan? Sure, you have kids of your own. Did you drop them off at school? Before you drove through the Starbucks and got that phone call? You did? And they were safe, right?
That’s right, they were safe. Because they didn’t have to cross the street with idiots like you on the road.
Oh, wait, now you’re pulling through the intersection. On your way to what must be the world’s Most Important Meeting Ever (MIME), because you STILL HAVEN’T SEEN THE THREE OF US STANDING THERE WAITING TO CROSS THE FREAKING STREET and yet you continue on. To your MIME. Or wherever the hell morons like you go at 9:00 in the morning. You’re pulling through the intersection, and you’re looking left – or so it appears – even though there’s a 42 year old Dad and his 3 and 6 year old sons not 3 feet away from your van ON THE RIGHT. If the 42 year old Dad hadn’t stopped his 3 and 6 year old sons from crossing the street when he spotted your distracted fat ass barreling down ½ block away from him and 1 block away from THE FREAKING ELEMENTARY SCHOOL we’d be sitting here talking about an entirely different situation now, wouldn’t we?
Yes, we would. You’re a moron now; you could easily have been a moron in jail. For a very very long time. With a lot on your mind. Namely, how if maybe you’d been paying attention the morning of February 12th, 2007 and not gabbing to your Bridge Club mate Betty on your cell phone and chowing down on a Winchell’s Bear Claw maybe you would have seen ¾ of my family crossing the street and not run them over.
Then again, I’m giving you too much credit, aren’t I?
Please, pay attention.