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OTOOLEFAN GOES TO IRELAND – Part 4

March 3, 2011 1 comment

May 1 – Ah, the first day of a new month! But we are still in Moycullen, that horror show of a town! HELL TOWN!

We’re sitting in the local launderette, watching our clothes tumble and spin in the window. My hands are still numb as I narrate.

Last night we did nothing but wait for it to get dark so we could go to sleep.

This morning found our room much the same – cold. There was no hot water to be found anywhere. The only thing we could do was watch our breath. I’m not joking.

We ate a meager breakfast. When it came time to pay our bill, we had one last adventure. The bill was £16.00 and I handed her a £20 pound note.

“Oh, I don’t have any change,” she says.

Steve and I exchanged eye messages.

The lady started looking in her cupboards and then her cabinets for change. Finally, she solved the problem by breaking into her daughter’s piggy bank and doling out the £4.00 pounds in two pence coins!

I couldn’t believe it.

About three quarters of the way through the doling, Steve said, “Okay, that’s enough.”

Needless to say, we just wanted to get the hell out of that house and this town!

Heard “Rhinstone Cowboy” in the launderette.

We caught the bus back to Galway City, if you can believe it. From there we inquired when the next bus to Clifden departed. There were two buses, we found out. One left at 4:45 and the other left at 6:15. The latter was a more direct route. But we decided we wanted to get out of Galway as soon as possible. So to kill time, we went into a pub and watched “World Snooker” for a while. Then we went over the The King’s Head for more Guinness.

Steve and I began trading old stories about our school days. We worked our way up to the 8th grade until a way drunk Irishman attached himself to us. He started talking to us because he thought we had mentioned “Los Angeles”. He then went on to narrate his experiencing working and getting stoned on every chemical known to man. From his descriptions, Los Angeles is not a very nice place.

“Every time I went to sleep, someone got killed.”

Steve and I were souced by the end of this story. Soon we were jogging through the streets of Galway in search of the magic bus.

We found it, but it was too cramped. Besides, we had to take a piss.

So we hit yet another pub and had yet another glass of Guinness and yet another one and watched yet another Snooker match.

Soon it was time to board the last bus to Clifden. This one was just as cramped and I had to take a piss. Nevertheless, we got on the bus.

What followed was the most painful bus ride I’ve ever had in my life. I had to piss so bad. I had to sit in some absurd position just to avoid misbehaving myself. Suffice it to say, I couldn’t really enjoy the scenery.

I was sitting, or rather squirming in the edge of the back seat, and every time we went over s bump, my bladder almost broke. After about two hours of anguish, the bus stopped in some little town and we all got out to go to the bathroom. Others were getting back on the bus while we were still unloading Guinness.

If I didn’t have to piss so bad, I might have noticed how rugged and barren the scenery was. I might also have noticed that I was surrounded by mountains.

As soon as Steve and I spilled out of the bus, we booked ourselves into Ben View House, a local bed and breakfast place.

As the guy was showing us our room, I asked him, “How far is Paedre O’Toole’s from here?” meaning the pub by that name.

“Oh, it’s about five miles from here…”

“Oh, nevermind.”

“You mean the film star?”

“No, no the pub.”

“Oh, it’s right down the road from here.”

Steve and I had a few jars o’ Guinness at Paedar O’Toole’s.

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OTOOLEFAN GOES TO IRELAND – Part 3

February 26, 2011 3 comments

April 28 – Today it was time to say goodbye to Christy McKenna and make our way toward Galway.

We were hitching in a bad spot and two hours passed. We still had no ride. So we decided to split up. Steve started to walk on, saying, “See you tomorrow.”

We planned to meet each other at the Galway Tourist Office.

In a matter of minutes I got a ride from this lady driving a van. I told her about Steve and she picked him up about 22 kilometers up the road toward Galway.

She dropped us off in the middle of the town called Tubbercurry.

It was at this point that we got the weirdest ride thus far in the trip. “The Green Blur” we call it.

The man who drove us had curly red hair, a curly red beard. “I was looking for horns,” Steve said.

As soon as we stepped inside the car, the man put on his Irish songs, drove 100 miles an hour and never said a word all the way to Galway. When we got out of the car, Steve said, “I need a beer.”

You see, Steve rode in the front seat and his view was quite nervewracking.

That, besides Air India, was the fastest I’ve ever gone.

So I was in Galway! The stretch of Ireland that’s supposed to be Ireland at its finest. According to the two girls who picked us up, Galway City has “brilliant night life.”

Galway City itself is dingy and untidy. It’s the first town where there’s a tourist undertow. Backpacks of all shapes and sizes could be seen; tour buses filled with expressionless tourists.

It was here we realized just how precarious our financial situation is. Unforeseen purchases have killed us.

It was here also we realized we were burnt out from traveling to a different town each day.

It was here too that we developed our starvation plan: One meal a day – a greasy box of fish and chips from a chain called “Super Mac’s.” We affectionately refer to our daily rations as “the allotment.”

We ate our “allotment” in Kennedy Park. This park – which is nothing special –  is dedicated to John F. Kennedy. It was here in 1963 that Kennedy addressed the citizens of Galway.

Maureen told us that Galway was a fun place and a university town. She told us to go to a pub called “The King’s Head.”

We did. It was nothing special and soon it was time to go to bed.

April 29 – Today was our second day in Galway and our first day staying in the same place.

Today was another scorcher. We walked to Galway Bay and then layed out on the beach.

It may be the appropriate time to speak of the Irish girls. When an Irish girl is pretty, there is no girl more beautiful. That combination of black hair, freckles everywhere, and milky white skin drives me wild! I’d like to kiss them all.

Later on in the afternoon, we went to St. Nicholas’ Cathedral.

The church was impressive and large. The silence was loud.

I began to reflect on my life back in Clinton. I could only think about my mother. I still can’t believe she’s no longer in the world. I became sad because it hit me again just how much I miss her. I remembered how much it still hurts and how much of a void I have in my heart that can never be filled.

I lit a candle for her, which if it’s anything like she was, will burn brighter than all the rest.

God, I miss her.

Went to “The Crane” and got souced.

April 30 – Someone has to narrate this apocalypse, so I guess it shall be me. My hands are still numb as I write this. The boom has been lowered. Today we felt the first drops of rain, and then we felt more drops.

“The rain will relieve the monotony,” we joked.

We got soaked. Our goal was to get to Clifden and rent bicycles so we could enjoy supposedly the most beautiful scenery in Ireland.

There were two backpacking girls who passed us around noon.

All in all, Steve and I walked about six miles. We didn’t get one mother-fuckin’ ride. Not a soul stopped to pick us up!

Meanwhile, the rain pelted us from all angles. We should have taken the bus. Everyone told us that hitching from Galway to Clifden was easy.

These sober notes are being written from within the indifferent confines of a Bed and Breakfast. The town we’re in is another greasy little town, greasier than Mount Charles. The only thing good about it so far is that they have a launderette.

Name of town: Moycullen.

Needless to say, we do not hold a high opinion of Moycullen.

“This is the night when I should have bought that scotch bottle,” Steve says, laying in his bed.

I’m listening to the rain beat off the window – God, it sounds cold. Come to think of it, our room is pretty fuckin’ cold too.

This was the worse hitchhiking day of the century. I challenge anyone to match it.

The only way this day could have been saved was if we got a ride home from Van Morrison.

But I must get a perspective on things. This is the first day it has rained in over a week. Still, it sucks.

“One out of eight days you get fucked over,” Steve says.

Well, so far it has been an action packed week. It’s been the best week in a long time. I know that doesn’t make sense, but all this walking had made me loopy.

Both Steve and I are writing in our journals and waiting for the heater to kick on.

The image I recall the most from this day is late in the afternoon when we were making our last stand at hitchhiking. We were in the middle of town, next to a phone booth. Steve and I put our knapsacks in the phone booth so they wouldn’t get entirely soaked. Sure enough, a few minutes later a woman had to use the phone. We left the bags in there and she made her call. Soon she was laughing and laughing. Meanwhile, we’re right next to her getting puddles sprayed at us as the cars whizzed by. I know, big deal.

When we got to Moycullen, we saw those two girls again that passed us earlier. We hope it’s raining hard on them, wherever they are.

What else can I write? Nothing. We’re stranded in Hell Town. We’ve been confined to our beds. That last sentence was interrupted by a creepy crawler. It turned out to be some kind of cockroach. I smashed him in half with the “Let’s Go: Ireland” book.

The only time people stay here is when their truck breaks down. What a rip off this place is.

Bed and Bullshit. Above Steve’s bed:  3-D picture of Jesus.

We are trapped.

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OTOOLEFAN GOES TO IRELAND – Part 1

February 20, 2011 7 comments

By OTOOLEFAN

In 1987, Ronald Reagan was still President and I escaped to Ireland for the second time, staying there for a month with my friend Steve, who was finishing up a semester in London. I met him there and then we flew to Ireland. Our basic mode of transportation was our thumb. I had never really hitch-hiked in America, but in Ireland it was no big deal. We depended on the kindness of strangers, but by the end of each day most of them weren’t strangers anymore. I was 3000 miles away from home, and yet…I was home. It remains one of the best experiences of my life. The people of Ireland restored my faith in humanity, at least for a month. Oh yeah, and we drank a lot too. I kept a journal in order to try to preserve the experience and tried to record the day’s events each evening in whatever place we ended up for the night. Following is the first installment of that journal that I kept all those years ago, exactly as it was written, warts and all.

On The Eve

My body is starting to realize I’m going to travel. Sensations are shooting through me. What a feeling! Life is suddenly becoming grand and noble, full of meaning.

I am flying Air India. This company, according to everyone I met at Keene State, is the funniest airline in the skies. One passenger calls it “Voodoo Airlines”.  Another former passenger describes it this way: “When you walk inside the plane, everything’s purple.” She also says that as a treat, they serve a tray of hard candy.

We shall see.

Bon Voyage!

Here I am at JFK, removing my ham and cheese grinder from its plastic coffin and washing it all down with Beck’s. I’m in one of those alcove airport lounges. I’m surrounded by foreign tongues. I hate airports. Life is at its worst. Humanity right now, seems to be one big one waiting room, coupled with harassed people of all creeds.

I am now aboard the Air India plane. It is an astonishment. There is some kind of blue and white wallpaper lining the cabin. The seats are like psychedelic pajamas.

Beth was right. Everything is purple. The orange colored flower pattern on the air sickness bag makes me sick. Now since the plane is only warming up, its time to pull out “NAMASKAR”.

If you don’t recognize the name, I’ll tell you that it’s the “In-flight Magazine of Air India.” On the top right hand corner it reads, “Your personal copy to take away.”

Well, well, “NAMASKAR” doesn’t quite have articles on Thomas Edison, but it’s very boring all the same.

The stewardesses, by the way, look as if they are at a costume party.

If I should become bored at any time in this flight, I can always open my in-flight magazine and read all about the botanic gardens of Singapore.

Uh oh, there are babies on this flight. God help us all.

I’ve just been perusing my in-flight magazine again, only to read about the “Resplendent Elephant Festival.” Are you ready for the big event? That’s right, Elephant Polo.

The seats look like an LSD trip.

I’m waiting for the Night Stalker to show up.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention. A bottle of Jack Daniels has been found” … This is the Captain Speaking!

I’ve never seen so many turbans in all my life.

April 22 – Yesterday was a day of days. I met Steve at Heathrow Airport. I was fired up for adventure. Two hours later, it was time for me to go beddy-bye. Jet lag had possessed my soul.

After a few hours of sleep, I was ready to take on London once more.

We went on a boat cruise called the River Disco. It was a cruise ship up and down the Thames River.

The weather was great for that evening; a memorable sunset over Parliament.

I met many of Steve’s fellow classmates on the boat. Most of them are girls.

Had a few memorable conversations with two girls in particular – especially Pam from Orlando, looking out an open window of the boat, the wind blowing into our faces, talking about our lives and our futures. It’s hard to beat that.

I’m writing these notes from the foot of Steve’s bed. The room I’ve been sleeping in is very much like the room I had at the London Student Hotel. It has a high ceiling, skinny everything else. There are bay windows which look out on to the Hotel Meritor across the street. Only the “L” in the sign is lit up.

Scaffolding is everywhere, dead balconies everywhere you look.

As I write these words, I can look up at the sky and I see nothing but blue!

I am in the South Kensington part of London.

April 23 – Did not write anything because it was our first night in Dublin and we went to a pub called Sean O’Casey’s and got souced. Priest blew us off when we tried to ask for directions.

April 24 – These notes are being written aboard a train going from Dublin to Sligo. Getting aboard the train was not free of hassels.

The ticket taker came by to inspect our tickets. We proudly produced them.

“These … You’re not going to Belfast are you?”

“No.”

“Well, your tickets here are for Belfast.”

“Oh no!”

“Didn’t you tell the girl where you wanted to go?”

“We said Sligo.”

The price difference between Belfast and Sligo is only about £15.

We stayed at Leitrim House for bed and breakfast. Very good location in city centre. Only bad point was that the shower only shot out ice water.

“How’s the shower?” Steve asked.

“Not good, there’s only cold water. If you can take a shower, you’re fuckin’ Superman.”

Steve’s fuckin’ Superman.

We walked from Sligo town to Strandhill, in Yeats country. Walked past Ben Bulben. When we came to the village, we went into ye store to buy a bit of food. There we met a guy who drove us around to look at a Bed and Breakfast place.

“I would let you stay in my house, but I’ve got a fishing competition tomorrow.”

He told us what pub to go to, “The Venue.”

After buying our food, we walked down to the beach to watch the surf and sun. It was hot! I was actually sweating. What followed was a piece of heaven. This was definitely the most beautiful place I’ve ever been in. We watched the sunset, a red wafer setting behind the clouds. The most fantastic sunset I’ve ever seen.

Later that night, Steve and I went to “The Venue” for a few pints. Here a neighbor bought us a pint of Guinness. He said that Ireland was the most beautiful place on earth. He was from Denmark but came to Ireland in 1955, and has been here ever since.

April 25 – Today Steve and I hitchhiked from Sligo into County Donegal. This was very far north and the scenery was quite rugged. We came all the way to meet a girl that Steve knows.

Our first ride of the day was a classic Ireland experience.

The guy drove a rental truck and filled us full of stories and jokes. His best anecdotes started out with the line.. “This Texan…”

He also gave us another analogy. “Women are like cars; they start giving you trouble, you trade ‘em in.” We passed a car festooned with “Just Married” regalia. He took one look at the car and said, “There’s somebody who just put a ball and chain around his life.”

There were many other wisecracks, and we all made fun of American Evangelists.

At the end of this ride, he gave us his address! He lives in Sligo and we plan to visit him.

We went into the outback of Ireland in the hopes of meeting up with a girl Steve knew from the London study program. Steve wasn’t exactly sure if she would still be there.

“She either left yesterday or she’s leaving Sunday.”

Today was Saturday.

As we walked through the Blue Stack Mountains, I said, “I hope this girl’s there.”

The weather itself was beautiful and very warm. We walked through the rugged countryside and even got a ride to the fishing village of Ardara. The man dropped us off on the road where the girl, Maureen Cassidy, was staying with her folks.

We were strolling down the road when Steve called out to a girl sitting on the steps of a house.

“Is that her?” I asked.

It was indeed the girl we were looking for!

She was sitting on the porch with Vincent, her cousin. We talked and laughed for a half hour – me mostly- because I was so relieved.

Maureen took us back into town and into a pub. Afterwards, we went to see Vincent play in a Gaelic football game.

The location of the playing field was more than a few kilometers away, and the drive took us across some of the most dramatic scenery I’ve ever encountered. It took us through the mountains and by a loch. It was definitely County Postcard!

Now comes one of the strangest sights of the trip thus far, the football field’s design.

The field was surrounded by the mountains and the goal was only ten feet from a graveyard.

As Vincent’s team was warming up, the ball would be kicked too far over the net, and would bounce off a different grave every time.

The first time we saw this, we burst out laughing.

The second time we saw this, we burst out laughing.

You get the idea.

During one of the many times a player was retrieving the ball from the dead, one of the players said, “They’re dead, anyway.”

Only in County Donegal – Only in Ireland!

But that’s a sight Steve and I won’t soon forget. How many times in your life do you get to see a football bouncing off gravestones?

Later that same night, Maureen took us back down the hill and into the drinking village.

We ordered a few pints and laughed and laughed. Then we went a few doors down and into a dance hall. It was here where we saw the real Ireland. Everyone was dancing with each other. Daughters were dancing with their mothers, grandfathers dancing with the grandsons. We really felt like we were a part of the fabric of life in Ireland. We became even more a part of the fabric of life, when two 50 year old women asked us to dance. Then we became, in Steve’s words, “typical tourist clowns.”

After the last dance, which I was a part of, it was time to head for the homestead. Maureen and the Cassidy’s let us stay in their house.

Oh, Ireland!

Stay tuned…

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Thomas Sowell: Idiot Emeritus

July 31, 2010 144 comments

By OTOOLEFAN

Godwin’s Law states that the longer an online discussion goes, the greater the chance of a Nazi reference. No matter what the forum, unless the subject is the Nazis or

Got Hitler?

genocide, anyone making such a comparison automatically loses the argument. Period. By this standard alone, syndicated Conservative columnist Thomas Sowell is the Biggest Loser.

For those who don’t know him, Thomas Sowell (born 1930) is an American economist, retired professor, social critic, political commentator, author, and lunatic. After seeing his vile, depraved weekly columns for the past four years I truly believe he belongs in an institution – which is just where he is. Since 1980, Sowell has been a senior fellow at the Hoover Institution at Stanford University. The Hoover Institution, like the Heritage Foundation and countless others, is basically a welfare program for Right Wing Op-Ed writers. Wealthy donors give people like Sowell the financial freedom to rail against entitlement programs and rewrite history, particularly the Great Depression. Consequently, they are not bound by prickly things like facts or editors or journalistic ethics.

But before we delve into all things Nazi, let me acquaint you with some of Thomas Sowell’s other bat guano droppings on a host of topics, both historical and contemporary. How this crackpot is taken seriously is more of a mystery to me than Stonehenge or ‘Cop Rock’.

Dig. In a column called “Random Thoughts”,  Sowell wrote of FDR and asked incredulously: “How can a President of the United States be re-elected in a landslide after four years when unemployment never fell below 15% for even one month during his first term?”

Good one, Tommy.

Let’s see if we can unravel this enigma, shall we? OK.

First, notice how Sowell doesn’t even bother to mention that U.S. was in the throes of that little jam known as the Great Depression, and had been since 1929. Note, too, how Sowell doesn’t say what the unemployment rate was when the great Herbert Hoover left office and the awful Franklin Roosevelt took office. In 1933, when FDR became President the national unemployment rate was Twenty-Five Percent! One quarter of the nation was out of work. Maybe Tommy forgot this little fact because in 1933 he was only 3 years old. Yeah, that must be it. (The Meghan McCain Defense.)

Now, during the next four years–the same four years cited by Sowell–the national unemployment rate went from 25% to 16.9%. Funny how he doesn’t tell you this, isn’t it?

Here’s the year by year break down for those of you playing at home:

1933: 25%

1934: 21.7%

1935: 20.1%

1936: 16.9%

So, unemployment fell every year during the first four years of FDR’s first term. It dropped seven points during that period. This would be like President Obama taking office with unemployment at 12% and it falling to 5% by the end of his first term. You think he would be re-elected? And let’s not forget FDR’s rival in the 1936 election; Alf Landon, a man who ran on repealing Social Security, which had just been passed the year before, no thanks to the GOP.  Sound familiar?

Shame on you, Thomas Sowell. Is your argument about FDR’s re-election so flimsy that you’re afraid to tell your readers what the unemployment rate was when he took office? I know, as John Adams said, “Facts are stubborn things”. If you’re truly puzzled as to why FDR was re-elected in a landslide, why not come down from your ivory tower and talk to people who actually lived through the Great Depression. Ask them why they voted for FDR. Ask them if the New Deal worked or not. FDR won because he put people back to work and gave them hope. Even my 80 year old Republican step-mom will tell you this. Roosevelt created a few programs too, Sowell: FDIC, Social Security, SEC, WPA, and put financial regulations in place that kept us safe from another financial catastrophe until they were dismantled piece by piece. (See S&L Scandal and Financial Meltdown of 2008)

By the way Mr. Sowell, the most recent presidential poll conducted by real historians rates FDR as our 3rd greatest president. I’m no expert, but I think that puts him ahead of Herbert Hoover and George W. Bush, whom you described in another one of your idiotic columns as “an honorable man.”

In yet another column, Thomas Sowell protested against the idea of high school students engaging in community service to pad their college resume’. The activity that angered Sowell the most was volunteering at a homeless shelter. It seems that in Sowell World, anyone who ends up in such a shelter is just no good. Students shouldn’t help out at a homeless shelter, he argued, because they shouldn’t have to be involved in, and I quote, “feeding people who refuse to work”.

This ignorant statement is so vile on so many levels I don’t know where to begin. First off, most people who are homeless are homeless because of mental illness – specifically schizophrenia. It’s not due to lack of character or laziness. Beyond that little fact, to label people in a homeless shelter as there simply because they refuse to work is particularly despicable, especially in today’s economy.

God forbid young people help those in need and maybe see just how lucky they themselves are. God forbid young people get a glimpse of just how cruel life can be. God forbid they develop a sense of compassion or community – they might not want to become millionaires! Where’s the profit in that?

Using Sowell’s logic, battered women seeking shelter do so because they refuse to get along with their husbands or boyfriends.   I guess people who were homeless in the Great Depression got that way because they refused to work also. This thinly veiled contempt for people that drips from every paragraph of Sowell’s columns reveals to me a man whose heart serves no other function but to pump blood into a jaundiced brain. Guess no one will ever accuse Thomas Sowell of being a “compassionate conservative.”

Last year Sowell devoted an entire column to the notion that Rush Limbaugh had never made any racist statements in his professional life.  Guess Sowell doesn’t watch football.

Here’s what Sowell wrote last summer about what he thinks might happen if Iran gets the Bomb.

“Just two nuclear bombs were enough to get Japan to surrender in World War 2. It is hard to believe that it would take more than that for the United States of America to surrender – Especially with people in control of the White House and the Congress who were for turning tail and running just a couple years ago.”

Huh?

So let me get this straight, Tommy; If Iran were to drop two nuclear bombs, we would surrender? WTF? Is this why they call you “brilliant”? Yeah, Dems are weak – especially those two pansies who guided us through World War 2; FDR and Harry Truman.

“Turning tail and running in Iraq”? You mean that illegal, immoral war George W. Bush started instead of pursuing the actual people who attacked us on 9/11? Kind of like invading China after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. Like the GOP today, Thomas Sowell’s solution to every foreign policy problem is WAR.

After Sowell has us surrendering to Iran, here’s how he finishes that scenario:

“Perhaps people who are gushing over the Obama Cult today might do well to stop and think about what it would mean for their granddaughters to live under Sharia law.”

Thorazine, anyone?

I can’t imagine that even Thomas Sowell believes this nonsense. He’s simply pandering to the serial bedwetters of the far Right. After all, it pays the bills. If, however, Sowell really believes this garbage he is clearly insane or, at the very least freebasing Metamucil.

One of the most remarkable political events in recent times took place the summer of 2008 when then Senator Barack Obama spoke to a large, cheering crowd in Berlin. And what did the great Thomas Sowell have to say about this?

“To find anything comparable to the crowds’ euphoric reactions to Mr. Obama, you would have to go back to the old news reels of German crowds in the 1930’s with their adulation of their Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler.”

Actually, Mr. Sowell, no, we don’t. Not even close. We need only go back to June, 1963 when President John F. Kennedy addressed the brave people of West Berlin and stood proudly with them, declaring “Ich Bin Ein Berliner.” Remember that? It was kind of big deal. After his stirring speech, JFK was informed by the Mayor of West Berlin, Willy Brandt, that on his best day, Adolf Hitler, Fuehrer, never had as large an audience as he did on this day.

Oh but wait a minute….If JFK drew a larger crowd than Hitler, he must have been even more like Hitler than Hitler! Do I have to connect the dots? It all makes sense now. Like Hitler, JFK mesmerized a nation with his soaring rhetoric and got us all to carry out his evil agenda. We were so brainwashed that we even followed him to the moon! Chilling, isn’t it?

In Sowell’s warped mind, anyone who can draw a massive crowd must be like Hitler. If this is the case, then Garth Brooks is Hitler, too!

The massive audience in a unified Berlin wasn’t worshipping Obama.  After eight years of the disastrous go-it-alone, cowboy diplomacy of Bush/Cheney, these people were just happy to hear from a potential President whose foreign policy didn’t consist of simply thumbing his nose at the rest of the world.

But by far the most amazing and inspiring spectacle of all was the sight of thousands of Europeans proudly waving American flags again. When was the last time we saw that? And this piece of shit Sowell compares him to Hitler?

If all of this isn’t vile enough, Thomas Sowell’s latest ad Hitlerum about the BP Oil Disaster made national news.  Last month, BP agreed to voluntarily set aside $20 billion to compensate those whose lives and livelihood and already been destroyed by this tragedy. Even Bill O’Reilly was happy about this. But Thomas Sowell could only see Nazis again, saying, “That law gave Hitler dictatorial powers that were used for things going far beyond the relief of the German people — indeed, powers that ultimately brought a rain of destruction down on the German people and on others.”

So getting BP to take responsibility for the disaster they caused is going to lead to another Holocaust? This is the kind of screwball opinion I’d expect from someone in a straitjacket.

Speaking of screwballs, Sowell’s column was actually read on the House Floor by GOP Congressman and Slow Talker Louie Gohmert (R TX).

“When Adolf Hitler was building up the Nazi movement in the 1920s, leading up to his taking power in the 1930s, he deliberately sought to activate people who did not normally pay much attention to politics…”

You mean like teabaggers?

Never one to pass up an opportunity to be hateful, Sarah Palin jumped on Thomas Sowell’s Crazy Train, and linked to this idiotic column on her Twitter page. When it blew up in her face only hours later, she tried to jump off the Sowell train by tweeting, “ I never compared Obama to Hitler”.

No Sarah, you just endorsed and linked to an op-ed piece written by a man who compares President Obama to Hitler almost every week. This is another classic example of that great conservative trait of personal accountability that Palin and others brag about possessing.

And  there were others, Michele Bachmann and  Sharon Angle (who even Joe Scarborough called a “jack-ass”) who referred to the BP victim fund as a slush fund, and even one member of the GOP, Congressman Joe Barton went so far as to personally apologize to the CEO of BP, calling the victims fund a “shake-down”. How much does a new ocean cost anyway?

What the hell is wrong with these people? Whose side are they on?

Dear Mr. Sowell: There are at least six Million reasons why you need to stop calling President Obama Hitler. I wonder what Anne Frank would think of your despicable Nazi comparisons? You trivialize the actual evil of the Nazis, and insult the memory of their victims. Have you no shame?

Shame on you.

Close Encounters Of The Turd Kind

June 20, 2010 21 comments

My Day With Karl Rove

By OTOOLEFAN

I never thought I’d meet Karl Rove, let alone punk him. For my money there was a better chance of him answering a subpoena than coming anywhere near me. But life is funny. Turds have a way of showing up in the strangest places (See Dick Cheney).

I was blocked by Karl Rove on twitter months ago, believe it or not. Getting blocked by Rove is kind of like Nixon telling you that you suck. You know you’ve done something right. So when I heard Karl was coming to town to our local Books A Million for his Crook Signing, I leapt at the chance to be the turd in his drink, even if I had to buy his book.

I didn’t want to buy his novel, but it was the only way I could come face to face with “Bush’s Brain” and see that turd in the flesh.  As you all know, Karl has many names, “Turdblossom”, “The Architect”, “M.C. Rove” or, as I like to call him, “Notorious T.U.R.D.”

Right after buying the book we were all told that “Mr. Rove would not personalize his signature”. I almost returned the book right then and there, but something told me to press on so I took my place in that Honkey Conga Line.

This Honkey Conga line I found myself in was very diverse. There were white people of all shapes and sizes. It was like a Pat Boone concert had just let out. The hardest thing for me was to bite my tongue as I heard the various comments from among the sea of vanilla.

“We drove all the way from Maryland,” boasted one Rove groupie in socks and sandles.  I kept quiet at first as I didn’t want to blow my cover and reveal I wasn’t a moron. “Maybe Bush will be here next year with his book,” he continued.

ENOUGH!

“Yeah, he’ll be in the kids section,” I said. “Just turn left at My Pet Goat.”

With that, I turned back around and concentrated on live mocking the event via twitter. “Does anyone know how to spell subpoena?” I asked outloud. “Anyone? Anyone?”  I was having so much fun live tweeting the event, that it took me by surprise when suddenly I was next in line to meet Karl Rove.

I was one person away from finding out if he still remembered me from twitter. I had a feeling he might, because at least one person had told me he blocked them just for mentioning my name. Would Karl Rove remember OTOOLEFAN?

“Karl Rove,” he said, extending his hand and smiling.  I mumbled “yeah” as I shook his hand and made a mental note to buy Lava soap. “Who do I make this out to?” he asked.

“OTOOLEFAN.” I replied.

The look on his face changed completely. His eyes narrowed and the smile was gone as he said slowly, “Otooooollllle”.  The pen froze in his hand and we just stared at each other. “I’m a political junkie,” I said, breaking the silence. Then the pen began to move as he wrote To Otoolefan! and then he scrawled out his name. “Hope you enjoy the book”, he said, handing it back to me.

Mission Accomplished I said to myself, as I started to walk away.  “C’mon let’s get a picture”, he said. This caught me off guard for a moment but then I thought, this might be funny, so I played along. As they were getting ready to take the picture, it came to me that I wanted to have the same expression that Bill Clinton had in his photo with Kim Jong-il.

I could’ve caused a scene, or spit on him, or poured paint on his head, but I wanted this to be just between me and him, mono e turdo. I’m happy with the way it worked out.

An hour after the event began, it was over. Poor Karl was left standing there flanked by two security guards with two hours to go. And this is Lee County, the most Republican county in Florida. I hung around for a bit enjoying his humiliation and snapped a few more pictures of the rogue. On my way out, I took the time to put Karl’s book in its proper section.

When I got home, I sent the video contents to GottaLaff for her to assemble into a Blunt video. I opened Karl’s book to look at the autograph once more and laughed that I got him to make it out to OTOOLEFAN.  I decided I would try to read just one thing out of his book for the hell of it. I opened the book randomly to a page and this is what I read:

“At the age of nine, I decided I was for Richard Nixon in the 1960 presidential election. I got my hands on a Nixon bumper sticker, slapped it on my bike’s wire basket, and rode up and down the block, as if that alone would get him a vote. Instead it drew the attention of a little girl who lived in the neighborhood. She had a few years and about 30 pounds on me and was enthusiastically for John F. Kennedy. She pulled me from my bicycle and beat the heck out of me, leaving me with a bloody nose and a tattered ego. I’ve never liked losing a political fight since.”

So Karl Rove became the architect of dirty politics because he got beat up by a GIRL!

It’s clear from this passage alone, that even at an early age, Karl Rove had already lost his battle with his Inner Loser. He is what’s known in layman’s terms as an Outtie.

Imagine my surprise when a couple weeks ago I received an email with the photo of Karl and me. Even though these are two people who clearly don’t belong in the same picture together, this is real and has not been photo-shopped in any way. I know.  I was there. So was Karl. We’ll always have Books A Million.

Here’s looking at you, Turd.