William E. Miller With Tits

FIRST, I'm a bad blog administrator, and deserve to be spanked, and my goddam neighbor with OCD is using her leaf blower or shop vac again, which is how she spends every Friday, hours of every Friday, including yesterday, and the incessant high-pitched whine is probably going to come through in the next few paragraphs, probably in the shape of a few additional "fucks", although you'd hardly notice. Fuck. It's really interesting being surrounded by three lawn-care fanatics and one guy five times slobbier than myself, especially during late fall, because the fanatics can't be bothered to rake leaves before they blow all over the neighborhood, but they've spent the last seven-and-a-half months mowing every time the grass grows 1/8 inch. Even Lady MacBeth next door will watch the leaves befoul the pacific verdure of her front yard without picking up a rake. I'm guessing that the introduction of a popularly-priced gasoline-powered rake would change these matters entirely.

Fuck that whine. Anyway, I don't generally reap blog comments until I sit down late in the PM and check the day's email. So I don't frequently appear in my own comments section. Besides which, out of some odd quirk of the cosmos, every single one of you is smarter than I am, which makes no sense to me, but there you are. And so, for example, kentropic says, "David Brock, not David Brooks, generously leaving out "you moron", to which we reply 1) never mind, then; 2) now you have some sense of what it must be like to be married to me; and 3) you still don't get the t-shirt, because we consider the development of an allergic reaction to right-wing slime over the course of a decade to be less a matter of ideology than public health.

Now, as to Davis X. (who, in case we've never said it on this blog, though we know we've said it elsewhere, was our favorite commentator in the old Table Talk days), and Scott: we do actually try not to go too far on most occasions, right up to the point where we'd have to re-read our own stuff an', y'know, edit it an' shit. We meant no insult to Harvey Weir Cook, American flying ace. We meant to insult the people who appropriated him in the continuing battle to militarize everything. We knew it was hydrogen; we were just riffing on the Tethered Child's Toy bit. We know that flying in the Great War was more dangerous even than being in the infantry, which is saying something, and we suspect, though can't prove, that just flying the things was more dangerous in WWI than combat flying was in WWII. British pilots were denied parachutes, on the grounds that this might cause them to actually bail out (which, by the way, reminds us that while P.J. O'Rourke thinks no one this side of sanity could be a Leftist after the 20th century, we think anyone with the potential of learning from WWI, which pretty much kicked the century off, and particularly, but not limited to, the actions of the British High Command, and yet remains a crypto-monarchist and 9/11 martinet has no room to talk). Millions died between 1914-1918 for antiquated notions of glory; the worst possible way to memorialize them is to append them to latter-day attempts to revive it.

What I really wanted to do this morning was simply thank Sarah Palin for taking the weekend off, while encouraging her to take right back up where she left off next Monday. It's truly heartening to see the Mass Media following up on a story it allowed her to refuse to tell back when it might have informed the electorate. Special thanks to my local teleprompterites keeping me informed of the goings-on at the Republican Governors' Association; we've had a fucking Republican governor for the last four years and I can't remember them ever saying anything about it. Please, keep this up. I think most of us expected the Republican party to behave classlessly post-election; and what better spokespirana could they ask for?