Monday, May 18, 2015

Leapin' Lepus!

In the latest episode of the All Star Summer Jamboree podcast, I had the privilege of joining host Jeff Holland, along with the proprietors of No-Budget Nightmares, Doug Tilley and Moe Porne, for a probing, Face The Nation-style panel discussion of the 2014 film, Beaster Day: Here Comes Peter Cottonhell.
Jeff thinks he has become violently allergic to bad films. His panel of experts convinces him otherwise. There is swearing, there is laughter, there are boobs, there is a bunny puppet.
If you've got half an hour to kill, click here. It's a relatively merciful form of euthanasia.

Sunday, May 17, 2015

They Call Her One Eye

There's a new addition to the World O' Crap Extended Family of Wildlife. Say hello to KWillow's new cat:
And no, she wasn't caught in mid saucy, come-hither wink. As K explained...
She was up for adoption at our Vet's office. Poor thing had been there 6 months. No one wanted a one-eyed black cat... except Jesse. I caved almost immediately, tho I protested feebly...she's a sweetie. Rescued as a kitten and raised in a cage, poor baby. A biggish cage, but still! Right now she lives in Jess' bedroom, and LOVES sitting on the window sill, especially when the window is open (it's screened). 
Jess named her "Dani", tho the people at the Vet's called her Nattie.
Adopting a handicapped cat is something few feline fanciers would do (other than Sheri, of course), so kudos to K and Jesse for their kindness and charity, and congratulations to Dani for her good fortune in finding a home with them.  (The great thing about a one-eyed cat is that -- unlike the rest of the family -- they probably won't bug you to buy one of those new fangled 3D TVs.)
Jess says Dani gets v agitated when Jess showers. Like the comic said "All that water! ALL OVER HER!" 
She's scared of my other 2 cats, tho they're not aggressive. Chester is not well -kidney problems- and just looks at her disdainfully. Rai wants to PLAY, but poor Dani is unclear on the concept of play. I think they'll be pals eventually, and Chester may eve wash Dani's face like he does Rai.
Chester (left) and Rai, just to refresh your memory...

I sent K my felicitations and mentioned that I probably would'a been mean and called the new addition "Popeye," because I'm mean. K wrote back to say:
I was calling her "One Eye", but making myself get used to Dani. She doesn't answer to any of them- probably has a secret name (One Eye?)
And why not? It was good enough for Christina Lindberg!
Welcome to Wo'C, Dani!

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Post-Friday Beast Blogging: "The Flash(er)" Edition

Moondoggie can't get the sight of Aquaman's rampant sea snake out of his mind.
I'm never touching my tuna treats again.

Thursday, May 14, 2015

There Is No Unseeing This

I asked about this on Facebook last night, just to determine if a.) I was crazy, or if b.) other people saw it too, and the consensus seemed to be that a.) yes, others saw the same thing, and b.) yes, I'm crazy, and c.) thanks sooo much for bringing this up, Scott...so the whole thing was kind of a wash. Anyway, it's continued to haunt me, and I feel like the World Must Know...

So...Aquaman's new costume:


Is it just me, or does this look like an upskirt shot featuring his piscine-green penis and scrotum? I mean, it's just... right there, and now that I've seen it, it's never gonna go away. So is it just me?

It's not just me.  Is it?

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

A Doofus Dog's Amazing Adventure

By Hank Parmer

The Narrows of Harpeth. Photo by Hank Parmer

I have a mystical thing about water.

It may have begun when I was far too young to remember: According to my mother, when I was an infant, she and my father would go paddling on a slow stretch of the river in our old canoe, with myself snugly tucked away in the bow.

Or it may have been the creek which ran near our house, where I spent many a happy hour as a child, discovering how tadpoles become frogs, catching minnows and turning over rocks looking for crawdads. As well as learning important life lessons such as the fact that a big snapping turtle can chomp through a three-quarter-inch stick as easily as you or I bite off a piece of a Slim Jim.

Or it might have been those summer weekends my family spent at my grandmother's cottage on the lake, where from the time I was eight I was allowed to take that monstrously heavy old wooden, fiberglass-covered canoe out on my own.

Whatever the reason, stick me on something that floats, on a scenic body of water, and I get as close to nirvana as I'm ever likely to be. (Yes, I want a Viking funeral.)

This river where my parents used to take me is only about half-an-hour's drive from where I live. Hardly deep or wide enough to merit being called a river, the Harpeth meanders through fertile bottom land, and past high limestone bluffs capped with a thick layer of the mudstone peculiar to this area, with its multitude of shades from tan to yellow to dull reddish-orange.

One bend of the river encloses a mound complex from the Mississippian culture. Some long-dead hand carved a depiction of a ceremonial mace into the rock on top of the bluff which overlooks the site. So we humans have been hanging out here for a good while, even if it's only a blink of the eye in geologic time, compared to the 350-million-year-old fossil corals and shellfish which are embedded in that limestone.

Like other small rivers and streams in the Central Basin, the Harpeth alternates between low rock ledges, gravel bars and long, still pools, punctuated with the occasional stretch of easy rapids to throw a little excitement into the float. Most of the time, it's an ideal trip for a family or a newbie canoeist or kayaker. Yet it can rise with unnerving swiftness -- as I found out one afternoon on a solo trip, when a brief but torrential downpour a few miles upstream turned this placid river into a muddy, swirling flood.

As you might have guessed, my dear wife and I canoe and kayak this river frequently. Our favorite times for this are the early Spring and late Fall, partly because these are the most beautiful seasons on the river, when the water clarity is best, and partly because there aren't so many people out on the river. And the ones you do meet then are usually the more dedicated river rats, who're by-and-large a much better-behaved class of boater, that is, less likely to be loud and/or obnoxiously drunk.

On a day in early April, a number of years ago, Joan and I were canoeing the river. It was one of those glorious, crystalline Spring days: red-wing blackbirds trilling, wildflowers blooming on the river banks, the trees just beginning to leaf out in puffs of brilliant, almost translucent jade green. After the wet winter, the river was up and moving along at a good clip. The water was so superbly clear we could see down several feet into the deep holes where the big carp and gars lurked. When the river hustled us over shallows, it was like gliding through the air, skimming along just above the boulders and ledges and gravel.

As well as being the first time we'd been on the river that year, this was a particularly enjoyable trip not only on account of the fine weather and beautiful scenery, but also because for once we didn't have our dog Pete with us. I should say, although he had his quirks, Pete was a pretty good little guy, a cocker/spitz/God-only-knows-what mix who really dug the water. He'd normally have been with us, despite the fact that he could be a major pain in the ass in a canoe.

Pete had a remarkable talent for standing up on the gunwales at precisely the worst moment, requiring lightning reactions on our parts to keep him from dumping us all in the drink. Another of his favorite stunts was to leap out of the boat at the least excuse, say, if we got too close to the riverbank, or scraped bottom in a shallow spot.

But given the sheer joy Pete took out of dog-paddling around and tearing up and down the gravel bars where we'd stop to stretch our legs, we'd have felt guilty if we hadn't taken him along with us. Except that this time, he'd just had some minor surgery; we couldn't let him get his stitches wet. So we were savoring our guilt-free, Pete-less and somewhat more relaxed canoe trip.

When it comes to notions of an all-powerful, omniscient bearded sky guy who's constantly obsessing over what we're up to with our naughty bits, I am, to say the least, a skeptic. However, I fervently believe that someone or something with a very dry sense of humor listens in when we do what Joan and I had done, which was to remark out loud how nice it was not to have the dog with us that day.

Because not half an hour after that particular conversation, we met the Doofus Dog -- “Kinda big, kinda strong, stupid as a log.” (h/t to Dave Barry)

Since the river was high the current was such that even in the slower reaches we hardly had to paddle at all, except to keep the bow pointed downstream, or for the occasional bit of maneuvering. We floated past a spot where the family who owned that land often fished and camped: a grassy bank and open spot beneath tall trees, with a couple of picnic tables and a fire pit. A man and woman were standing on the bank, along with a young boy; they all waved at us, and we waved back.

They also had a dog: a large Husky or Malamute -- I don't remember precisely which -- who stared at us for a moment, comically dumbfounded, as the river carried us rapidly past. Then he began to bark.

I believe that he had never seen a canoe before, and instantly leaped to the conclusion it was some kind of hideous two-headed monster, waving its arms and horribly malformed flippers threateningly at his humans. Most infuriating of all, this cowardly abomination of nature had turned tail at his first bark and was scarpering down the river.

What else could any self-respecting Doofus Dog do, but take off after this fiendish thing? Even if he couldn't catch it, at least he could warn everyone downstream that it was coming, no doubt to terrorize and savage the unwary.

So off he went, barking furiously, crashing through the undergrowth as he trailed us along the riverbank. His peoples' frantic shouts were soon drowned out, between the ruckus he raised and the noise of the rushing river.

You could have been yelling at the top of your lungs, just twenty yards distant, and it would have been impossible to hear you above the water's uproar. You see, right after that fishing camp, the river abruptly changed its character, as it undercut a limestone bluff on that side, and lost a bit more than the average in elevation. At summer depth, this stretch is dotted with easy-to-negotiate boulders, where the current picks up enough to make a nice change from the long calm pool preceding it. That Spring day, with the river level three or four feet higher, it was a boisterous ride, not exactly challenging white water, but a fast, mostly straight run through chaotic boils, eddies and low standing waves created by the now-submerged rocks.

Nothing could deter the Doofus Dog. Though the way became progressively more difficult, the strip of riverbank beneath the bluff ever narrower and steeper, he pursued us through weeds and cane brakes and underbrush and over fallen trees, with the kind of single-minded determination you sometimes encounter in the mentally deficient.

Until about half a mile downstream from where he first took up the chase, where the riverbank finally disappeared into the near-vertical face of the limestone bluff. Despite his praiseworthy attempts to emulate a mountain-goat, he soon slipped and plunged right into the river with a tremendous splash, not far from the canoe. And promptly proceeded to swim after us.

Though he clearly excelled at the cross-country part of the course, it quickly became apparent that Doofus Dog was not very experienced with this new element. He was doing the "lift my fore paws up and try to claw my way out of the water" crawl of the novice canine swimmer. Add to that the swift and unpredictable current, and in no time at all he was in real trouble.

After he went under for the third or fourth time, I had worked our canoe near enough to grab him by the collar, just as the water was closing over his head yet again, and somehow -- maybe it was the adrenalin -- managed to horse that big, exhausted, thoroughly soaked dog over the gunwale and into the boat. (Fortunately for him, I'm a pretty hefty individual, plus all that canoeing and kayaking definitely helps with the upper-body strength.)

Once inside the canoe, he of course did the natural thing for a very wet dog, deluging us in a spray of icy water. Perhaps he realized by that point that we were just people, or my monster theory could be way off-base: maybe all along he thought he was rescuing us. Either way, instead of Pete -- who only tipped the scales at around forty pounds -- we now shared our easily-upset craft with seventy or eighty pounds of large, extremely friendly, very excited dog. For whom the concepts of balance and the advantage of a low center-of-gravity in a canoe were as obscure as quantum physics.

He wasn't in the boat for more than a few minutes before he fell out again while trying to get a drink, almost flipping us in the bargain. After being hauled back in and favoring us with another bracing shower, the idea that staying in the boat might be a bit trickier than he'd first thought evidently filtered through all those protective layers of bone in his head. Although that didn't prevent him from trying to overturn the canoe at odd intervals, and almost falling in a couple more times. As far as I could tell, he seemed to be having a wonderful time.

We, however, were presented with something of a quandary: There was no way we were going to paddle him back upriver against that current, and we hadn't the slightest idea how to find the place by road.

While I was occupied steering and constantly shifting my weight to compensate for the Doofus Dog's sudden, random movements, Joan turned around in her seat and examined his collar.

She began to laugh. When I asked what was so funny, she said she'd tell me later. But at least, she assured me, this numbskull hound had a name tag with a phone number. Which had an out-of-state area code.

Understand that this took place back when cell phones were nowhere near as ubiquitous as they now are. If we had one, it hadn't been for long; regardless, I wouldn't have taken it with us on the river. I wasn't about to try to locate a pay phone out in the boonies and feed it quarters. Any attempt to contact his owners would simply have to wait until we got home.

Against all reasonable expectations, we made it to the take-out without getting dumped in the water by our rambunctious passenger. No one there or at the canoe livery had any idea who his owners were, so homeward we all went.  He was just as thrilled to go for a ride in our car. No coaxing necessary -- all I had to do was open the door.

When we arrived back home, we tied the Doofus Dog up in the back yard and gave him food and water. Then I called the number on his nametag. As was to be expected, no one was at home. But they did have an answering machine. I left a message and hung up, leaving us both wondering just how long we'd be stuck with this uninvited guest. (”We're gonna need a bigger bag of dog chow!”)

Thankfully, only a couple of hours later we received a return call, from a very uncertain-sounding young boy. Did we have his dog? We answered in the affirmative, gave the adults directions to our house, and to everyone's relief, shortly thereafter the furry nitwit was reunited with his humans.


Oh, and the reason Joan laughed when she first read the Doofus Dog's tag, and so did I, when she later told me his name: Because it was so completely appropriate, so cosmically inevitable that this big galoot should have been gifted with the moniker "Lucky".

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Play Mommy For Me

By Bill S.

Today is Mother's Day, and it's customary for me to mark that occasion with a look at some of the less-than-stellar movie and television moms. This year, I've decided it's time we pay tribute to an actress who's excelled at playing such parts. Of course I'm talking about the fabulous Jessica Walter.
Born in 1941, Ms. Walter began her career in film and television back in the early '60's, but didn't hit her stride until a decade later. Her breakthrough role came in the 1971 thriller Play Misty For Me , as a crazed fan of a radio DJ. 
It made her a star, and established that she wasn't cut out to play ingenues, frumps, or anything in between. In 1975, she won her only EMMY for playing a police chief on the mini-series Amy Prentiss. Then in the '80's...

Wait, what? She only has one EMMY? That doesn't seem right.

...in the 80's, she landed her first sitcom mother roles, on the short-lived Three's a Crowd (not to be confused with the 1969 movie, which she was also in). The idea of her playing such a role seemed so absurd that, in his book TV Sirens, author Michael McWilliams likened it to casting Anthony Perkins as the father on Family Ties. I choose to interpret that as meaning, "Kinda wrong, but also kinda awesome." Walter doesn't play wholesome, Donna Reed-Marion Ross moms. When she plays one, she slings cutting barbs, downs booze, flirts inappropriately, or simply conducts in decidedly non-maternal fashion. And we love her for that. Well,I do, I don't know about you. Maybe you're an idiot with no taste. Here are some of my favorite Walter roles:

Fran Sinclair on Dinosaurs. More often than not she was the show's voice of reason, as much as a talking dinosaur could be. Still, there was that episode where a play date between Baby Sinclair and another boy goes horribly wrong. Which is to say, Baby Sinclair eats him. Fran and Earl have to deal with the other boy's indignant parents, and the Sinclairs address the problem as you'd expect -- by eating them. If I'm not mistaken, that was also the ending in the original draft of Yasima Reza's God of Carnage.

Tabitha Wilson on 90210. A retired actress who still craved the spotlight, even if it was only her family. She decides to oversee the class production of Spring Awakening her granddaughter Annie is appearing in, because this reboot of the '90's series takes place in a parallel universe where a high school is fine with letting kids perform in a musical featuring songs with titles like "The Bitch of Living" and "Totally Fucked". In this clip, Tabitha helpfully offers pointers to Annie and the other girls on performing the opening number.

Listen to your granny, Annie. Unfortunately, Walter was only on the show for the first season. I don't know why. Perhaps her character was deemed too similar to Susan Sullivan's character on Castle* Or perhaps they noticed that she didn't look that much older than the show's "teenagers".

(*idea for a TV series: a geriatric reboot of Charlie's Angels with Jessica Walter, Susan Sullivan and Holland Taylor as the Angels, and Kathleen Turner supplying the voice of a female Charlie. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd watch the crap out of that!)

Lucille Bluth on Arrested Development. Her most famous, and arguably, funniest TV mom. Lucille could never be a typical housewife, because there's no way to balance a highball glass on a vacuum cleaner. She raised her daughter Lindsay and eldest son Michael as fraternal twins, concealing from everyone the fact that Lindsay was A.) adopted, and B.) five years older, which nobody -- including Lindsay and Michael -- ever quite picked up on. Treated middle son GOB with utter contempt, although to be fair, anybody else would. Having withheld affection completely from her first three children, she showered a bit too much on youngest son Buster, which may explain why he ended up dating a woman who was not only the same age as Lucille, but shared the same first name. And let's not forget THIS horror (as if we could!)

Malory Archer on Archer. As the head of the super-secret international spy agency her son worked for, she was his boss. She used her position to satisfy every selfish whim she had, commit global atrocities, and display maternal instincts that made the Madea of Greek tragedy look like the Madea of Tyler Perry comedy. In other words, she was a heightened parody of every mom role Jessica Walter ever played. Which makes sense, since the show's creators conceived Malory with the actress in mind.

Walter is a mother in real life too, and we can safely assume a better one than the ones she's played onscreen. So let's wish her a Happy Mother's Day! and hope she continues keeping us entertained with many more bad moms in the future.

And to all the Moms who are reading this, a Happy Mother's Day too.

-Bill S.

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Libs Shellacked By Schlichter!

You may remember Kurt Schlichter, the ex-Army Man, former stand-up comedian, current lawyer, and alleged pundit who wants all those dusky layabouts who might -- if Obama gets his way -- possibly one day attend community college at government expense to pay for the privilege now by washing his BMW (I know the prĂ©cis doesn't make much sense, but trust me, it's funnier in the original Gibberish).

Well, Kurt's back, and this time he's standing athwart History, pursing his lips and shaking his head like a highchair-bound toddler refusing to grant access to a spoonful of strained peaches.
Conservatives, Unleash the Awesome Power of "No" 
We decent Americans are bombarded with lies, libeled, and subjected to petty (and, increasingly, not so petty) tyrannies by government flunkies.
Admittedly, this kind of thing was great during the Bush Administration, especially the first few months of the Iraq War, but now that the flunky's on the other foot, it's not quite as much fun.  (Also, when did we become a country that could be tyrannized by flunkies? I remember when that kind of thing required a bully.)
 At every turn, liberals and their suck-ups in the media and academia seek to delegitimize our interests, concerns, and opinions.
The important takeaway here is that when it comes to sucking, a good sense of direction is vital. If you want to be successful, always suck up, never suck down.
 They want us to submit
That's not really my scene, but hey, I'll try anything once. (Fyi, my safe word is "Snausages").
to take the easy way out, to just go along. Our fate, they decree, is cultural and political dhimmitude.
Well, you do sound like a bit of a dhimbulb. 
Well, it’s time to draw a red line and, unlike President Feckless and the Wimptones, to enforce it.
And while you're forcing the world to obey your crayon etchings, I'll just jump in here and mention that the remastered President Feckless and the Wimptones: Live at the Apollo is now available on iTunes.
Conservatives, it’s time to say, “No.”
Of course, for conservatives, "No" means "Maybe" (if she's had a drink) or "Yes" (if an insurance company pays for her birth control pills) so there's still a little wiggle room.
No, liberals, you can’t just lie about us anymore without us pushing back. 
Ah yes. With your every effort at diplomacy rebuffed, you've finally concluded that you have no alternative but to strike back at liberal lies with lies about liberals. It's a bold battle plan, and would no doubt benefit from the element of surprise if you hadn't basically been pulling this exact same shit since the Gilded Age.
The days of surrender in the face of your slander are over.
While the days of surroundsound in the service of slashfic are just beginning.  Anyway, now that you've monologued your whole evil plan, we might as well get on with it. Hit me with your best lies...
No, liberals, you are the racists. 
It's a Shyamalanian twist!
Your party created the Klan. 
And yet I never see those guys in their pointy white hoods at the weekly Comintern meeting. By the way, what's the statue of limitations on this kind of thing? Are we still responsible for them if they haven't paid their party dues since 1964?
Your party created and enforced Jim Crow. 
And abolished it under a Democratic President, which to be fair makes the Democrats less like ordinary villains, and more like the sympathetic supervillain who earns redemption by destroying his own abomination in the final reel. Sort of like Doc Ock in Spider-Man 2 (I realize this is a fairly stupid and needlessly geeky similie, but I'm still working through my fraternity initiation [I'm a procrastinator] and today's hazing ritual requires me to "write something that gives Jonah Goldberg a half-chub").

This does raise a question though, Kurt: if you find Jim Crow legitimately abhorrent, and not just a convenient cudgel, why are you guys trying so hard to reboot the franchise?
Bull Connor was a union-loving populist and a delegate to a Democrat National Convention. 
While today he'd be the Keynote Speaker at CPAC.
Your Democrat party relies on racial divisions, lies, and hatred. 
And an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope!
Quick, which party would fold tomorrow if racial hatred suddenly evaporated – the party that seeks to limit government and to empower every individual to create his own success, or the party that seeks to grow government to more lavishly hand out scraps to buy votes?
Frankly, I don't think even something so unsettling to the status quo as the sudden evaporation of racial hatred would make either party would go away -- at least not permanently; they're both too much like herpes -- but it sure wouldn't do Fox News much good.

No, liberals, you are the sexists
No, we're the sexiestJust ask People magazine.
the ones offering up as your nominees a corrupt, accomplishment-free punchline who got where she is solely by being hitched to a successful man. 
Whereas Kurt is a morally bankrupt joke in search of a punchline who pours out his spleen on Townhall because no decent man would have him. You can see why he's bitter.
Anyone else without her plumbing but with her track record of failure would be lucky to be consigned to the Martin O’Malley tier of primary candidate asterisks. If there really was a glass ceiling, a bar exam-flunking, ethically bankrupt hack like Hillary would need a ladder to reach it if she wasn’t already standing on Bill’s shoulders."
What about someone with her plumbing, but an even bigger track record of failure? You know what I'm saying...
You don’t merely tolerate sexism – you reward it. Your demigod Teddy Kennedy didn’t just treat women like trash. He killed one by leaving her to drown alone in the wet, cold dark while he slinked away to his team of Democrat sycophants to sober up and hatch the lies that helped him avoid justice. And you don’t care. You made him a liberal icon.
Well we already downgraded him from demi-god to icon, and that's a pretty severe demotion, going from a guy with his own temples and cult to just another face on an altar screen. What else do you want us to do? It's a little late to cancel his pension.
Then there’s Bill Clinton, Count No. 1 in the lengthy felony fraud indictment of liberal “feminism.” 
I don't think you can make feminism legally responsible for Bill Clinton, let alone indict it for fraud, unless NOW was caught selling imitation Bill Clintons that fell off the back of a truck in New Jersey.
No, Mainstream Media, we are not swallowing the lies you pass off as the truth. 
We're swallowing truth passed off as lies!  Or...Wait...  Well I think we can all agree, the important thing is, you're swallowing.
Liberal newspapers?
Nope, none that I'm aware of.
And we’re sick of funding your war upon our kids for the crime of being normal. If our kids are male, you hate them and call them “rapists” even as you gush over rapist-apologist Hillary.
Wow, you read me like an open book, Kurt. No -- I'll go further -- it's like you've drilled one of those creepy rural motel manager peepholes into the bathroom of my soul.
 If our kids are Christian or Jewish, you want to treat them like outcasts for not worshipping your false gods.
False gods??  That, sir, is a direct attack upon my deeply held religious beliefs, and you may expect a strong letter from my attorneys, Cthulhu, Cthulhu, Hungadunga & Zoth-Ommog!
 And you want to shut them up by empowering campus freaks who shriek that our kids’ dissenting views make them feel “unsafe.”
Speaking as a former campus freak, I can attest that those shrieks aren't always pre-emptive; sometimes they're simply the very human reaction to having your arm twisted up behind your back by three guys who reek of Cruex and Mennan Speed Stick.

But let's face it, Kurt, whatever crimes of normalcy your kids may have committed, neither you nor I are anywhere near the psychological or behavioral baseline. I'm an intense introvert with outrĂ© social views, while you're a borderline sociopath who reacts to empathy the way a vampire does to sunlight. I say we should just embrace our contradictions and taste the rainbow. 
Tick-tock, the era of the computer college education is coming to an end.
Tough titties, DeVry!
Maybe you can find new jobs in the shrinking classified ad sections of those liberal newspapers you still read.
I don't mean to pry, Kurt, but I've got to ask: how do you write a column for the Internet when you don't seem to know the Internet exists?
No, liberals, we refuse to go along and be complicit in the suicide of our culture and our country.
I can just imagine Kurt working the Suicide Prevention Hotline on the night Liberal America calls, and  immediately going into his I'm-rubber-you're-glue bit:

LIBERAL AMERICA: Yeah, I've been thinking about taking my own life--

KURT: No, Liberals, you're not going to kill yourself! I'm going to kill myself! (BANG!)

LIBERAL AMERICA:  Wait -- What?  Hello?  Hello...?
 Your long-term strategy has been to browbeat us into acquiescence, to pester, prod, and persecute us into silence and submission. And why?
Because we like you!
Unlike your leftist heroes elsewhere, American leftists have no army of willing murderers to enforce your sick vision at the point of a gun – except in Wisconsin, and the spotlight’s on that now, you scurrying cockroaches.
By show of hands, who seems more likely to have a sick vision for the country -- the leftist arguing for sensible gun regulations, or the guy denouncing his political enemies as "scurrying cockroaches" and daring you to knock the battery off his shoulder? Oh well. At least Kurt has been spicing up his rhetoric with selections from Adolf Hitler's junior high slam book. 
Just remember that most of you can’t even guess correctly which end of a gun goes “bang.” 
Sure we can. It's the end the little flag comes out of.
So you have to depend upon us normal people going along, of not resisting, of just giving up. 
Well, we aren’t giving up. We’re on to you. We’re fighting back.* And here’s our battle cry: 
“No.”
Well, it's no "Fifty-Four Forty or Fight!", but it is a lot easier to embroider on a pillow.

*If you follow Kurt's link to Amazon, you'll discover that this whole column has been a lengthy infomercial for his new book, a future oral history, something like World War Z, about the conservatives who permanently overrun America. So exactly like World War Z, actually.)