My Money Is On Urkel To Die First

Some links to see to first off. Take a peek at Norma's blog for a couple of things she's mixed up in at the moment, including a contest and a giveaway. At Bondi Resort, there's a post about a place in central Ontario that I've never seen before, but you have to see it to believe it. And check out our joint blog for a Musical Interludes post that asks a question about a familiar Christmas song. Also, click on the photo-kitty to the right; tomorrow is City Daily Photo Theme Day, and I'll have a post ready to go before morning. Now then, every once in awhile I write something that makes me wonder, "oh, dear God, have I gone too far with this one?" Judge for yourselves...

Network Crosses The Line In Announcing New Celebrity Reality Series

Los Angeles (AP) Pundits and experts in ethics are discussing a new series announced by NBC for the summer season. Concerns have been raised that the new series, entitled Celebrity Hunt, may be lowering the bar for reality television even lower and delving into profoundly unethical grounds. Reporters gathered for the unveiling of the new series this week, an announcement by Ryan Seacrest, otherwise known for being famous for no actual reason.

Seacrest flashed that big smile of his as he stepped up to the podium. “You know, before we bring our cast out, I’d just like to thank the networks for giving me work. I mean, I’m worth millions of dollars, and for the life of me, I don’t know why. And I’d also like to thank the California legislature for passing the Removal Of Liability For Incidental Reality Television Deaths Act last week. It’s made Celebrity Hunt possible. Without it, the studio would never stand up under lawsuits for wrongful deaths. And since I’m one of the forty seven producers for this series, I’d be liable to be sued too!” He smiled again, as if expecting applause. There was none.

“Okay, this is taking things in a bold new direction for reality television, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve already seen things out there like Survivor, Temptation Island, The Bachelor, Who Wants To Sleep With A Billionaire, Duck Dynasty, Celebrity Apprentice, and Dancing With The Stars. Well, this one’s going to leave them all behind. This series is going to push the envelope for how far you can go, because you can never go too far. This winter, Celebrity Hunt is going to be on everyone’s minds. People will talk about this for decades to come. And I get to be host! Isn’t that great?”

Again, he seemed to be waiting for applause. None of the reporters clapped. “Well then, the concept is very simple. We’ve got ourselves a large tropical island, and the infrastructure already in place. There are cameras all over the place that will film everything. We’re going to drop our celebrities all over the island so they can be ready for the game to begin. Now without further ado, let’s start bringing out our cast. They are the cream of the cream of celebrity life, a real A-list of talent. First off, you loved to be annoyed by him when he played Urkel in Family Matters. Please welcome back Jaleel White!”

Jaleel White stepped out on stage… not dressed like his former geek character, fortunately. He looked around at the reporters, joined Seacrest, and muttered, “I really needed the work. There are these guys who are gonna break my knees if I don’t pay them back their hundred grand in sixty days.”

Seacrest laughed. “Isn’t he just a joker, folks? Next, from The Jersey Shore, we bring you Snooki, The Situation, and Jwoww!”

The trio of overly tanned obnoxious MTV rejects came out on stage. To be more precise, they stumbled out. The Situation bellowed, “Where’s the booze?”

“It’s coming, it’s coming,” Seacrest promised. “Next, ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Johnny Knoxville and Tom Arnold!”

The former Jackass star and the ex-husband of Roseanne Barr came out on stage and stood with the rest of the group. Looking around at the other reporters, this reporter saw the same look of disdain and befuddlement on their faces that he felt. How could such people be considered the A-list? “Do I have to throw myself off the stage while on fire?” Knoxville asked. “Because my doctor tells me the next time I do anything remotely resembling a stupid stunt, it might well kill me.”

Seacrest shrugged. “Next, we’ve got Hulk Hogan!”

The reporters sighed and collectively rolled their eyes. The former wrestling champion came out on stage, flexing his muscles and tearing off his shirt. “Whatcha gonna do when Hulk Hogan… what was the rest of that line again?” He looked at Seacrest. “I might have a lot of debts to pay off since I got hosed in the divorce, but there are limits to what I can do these days, brother… I mean, my knees are shot from years of being thrown out of the ring and bodyslamming four hundred pound guys.”

“Oh, come on, Hulk, you’ll be just fine!” Seacrest assured him, and Hogan took a place with the others. “Now then, for our cranky older person, we thought of bringing in Professor Stephen Hawking, but his creepy computer voice told us to go to hell, said he had important things to do, and seemed to think that reality shows are a blight. So we went with Plan B. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Joan Rivers!”

The octogenarian comedian came out on the stage and took a bow. “Hey, how are you? Can we talk?” She stood with the rest of the cast.

“And if that’s not enough, we’ve got more,” Seacrest proclaimed. “We thought of getting Jon and Kate Gosselin in for this, but they’re too busy screaming at each other. So we took things to the next level. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Kardashian family!”

Out onto the stage came Kris Jenner with her daughters Kim, Kourtney, and Khloe Kardashian. Kim, recently widowed following the bizarre death by meteorite of her baby daddy Kanye West, has been recently dating John Mayer. There is a betting pool how long that will last. Kris, the Mommy Dearest of the vile reality show pestilence family, beamed as she came out. “You know, I’ve always believed one can never have too much exposure. So the Kardashians are back and we’re a united front. And we’re getting ourselves in on whatever this show is about. I don’t know, we didn’t really pay too much attention when we were signing the contracts.”

“And we thank you for that, ladies,” Seacrest assured them. “For our final cast members, folks, this is a special treat. Sure, you might have rolled your eyes anytime you heard their music, or you might have wondered who was strangling the cat. But the music did its job: it stuck itself squarely in your head, from where there was no escape and no respite for your brain. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Michael Bolton and Billy Ray Cyrus!”

The singers came out on stage, looking puzzled. They approached the podium. “You know, you and I ought to do a duet,” Cyrus suggested to Bolton. “Maybe re-record an updated version of Achy Breaky Heart.”

“Or a new version of Time Love And Tenderness?” Bolton replied.

“Can you line dance to that one? My audience likes line dancing,” Cyrus said.

Kris Jenner was busy waving at Cyrus. “Hey, Billy Ray! I’m looking for a new sugar daddy! How about you and your daughter come join the Kardashian family?”

Seacrest took control of the press conference again. “Folks, I give you the cast members of Celebrity Hunt, the biggest series coming your way this winter. Now, if you’ll all go off stage again, we’ve got some prep work for you all to get to. Real important stuff and all that.”

The cast members filed off, and after a few moments, Seacrest looked out at the reporters. “Now then, now that they’re out of earshot, the premise of Celebrity Hunt takes its premise from the story The Most Dangerous Game, which of course is a man hunting man story. What these celebrities don’t know is that they’re going to be the hunted. That leaves us with the hunter. We had thought of bringing in Chuck Norris to be the hunter. It turns out, however, that despite endless internet memes passing him off as some invincible warrior even at this point in his life, the truth is that his hips are shot, his eyesight is fading, his bladder is unpredictable, and he spends his afternoons yelling at kids to get off his lawn. Oh, wait, he told us not to say that publicly. Sorry, Chuck! So, well, Chuck is out. So we thought of someone else for our hunter, a really dangerous one. And one name came to mind. He’s already waiting on the island as we speak. He is the most dangerous being on the face of the earth, and I’d dare say in the entire cosmos. So dangerous he doesn’t even need a gun to hunt. His glare and his teeth are all the weapons he needs. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Fluffy... Destroyer of Worlds.”

Murder And Other Misdemeanours

Some links to see to first. Have a peek at Norma's blog for the bird's eye view in something she's working on. And take a look at our joint blog for a Last Kiss post. At the Desert Rocks, Eve has a recipe for you to look over. While at Shelly's blog, the dogs have a Thanksgiving-Hanukkah message. And over the last few days at her blog, Krisztina has been giving Thanksgiving tips.

 I've let myself get a wee bit behind in things (and I've had to set up a number of photoblogs), so I'm reprinting an old post today. It's something that you may have seen before, if you've been following me a long time. If not, well, settle in and let yourself be surprised. Oh, and letters of complaint can go to my idiot ex-brother-in-law. Though he doesn't read anything more complicated than the sports page, so your replies might come back in crayon, blaming you for the complaint.

Late at night. A dark house, tastefully decorated. A man wakes up out of a deep slumber, sitting in a chair. He looks around, seeing the furnishings, the photographs and various paraphenalia spread about. It appears to be the living room. Lightning flashes outside. He sees a light from a doorway, hears sounds. He tries to speak, but cannot. He tries to move, but his body will not obey him.

There is movement coming from the other room, and a woman steps into the dimly lit living room. She's an older woman, with curly silver hair and a grandmotherly demeanor. She's dressed tastefully, glasses hiding her eye color. She smiles, carrying a cup of tea, and sits in the chair opposite the man. He remembers her, recalls seeing her face for the first time earlier this night. She's the author Jessica Fletcher, a mystery writer of some fame. He remembers coming to her for advice on how to break into the industry. Then... what? Nothing. She smiles, and speaks in a slight English accent.

Jessica: Hello. You're awake. How wonderful. I suppose you're wondering what's happening. I suppose you're wondering why you can't speak or move. Well, I'll tell you. Paralytic drugs are so useful when one wants to render one's prey immobile, you see. I've used it many times. And in your case, well, let's just say that spiking your wine was a trivial matter. Now, now, I can't have you trying to escape or overpower me while I'm talking to you, so I'm afraid the paralytic was essential. Don't hold it against me.

It's unfortunate that you chose to come to me for advice, you know. If you'd gone to that Patterson fellow, or Connelly, they might have given you advice on the genre and sent you on your way. Coming to me, though? That's just giving me the opportunity to add another notch to my long list of victims.

I know what you're thinking. You're astonished at how a grandmotherly sort like me could talk like this. The facade works every time, let me assure you. The police here in Cabot Cove are morons, which made my work all the more easier. It never seemed to occur to them to wonder why, in a town of 1000 poor souls, at least twelve murders a year were being committed. Per capita, this place is the murder capital of the world. Well, those murders were being committed simply because I needed material for my novels, and because I have a fondness for murdering people.

You're shocked, I know. What's even more shocking is my devious way of framing innocent people over and over again. Yes, I took great care in selecting the perfect patsies and singlehandedly setting them up to look guilty, over and over again. Sometimes it required hypnosis to force them to make false confessions. Other times the forensics frameup itself would be enough to ensure their downfall.

Oh, yes, people used to call it the Cabot Cove Syndrome. Murder would be committed so often in my vicinity, if I was here, or somewhere abroad on book tours, that it seemed I was a magnet for murders. It never seemed to occur to any investigators that I was the one committing the actual murders. Meanwhile, I was meddling in their investigations, driving them crazy over me making them look like the incompetents that they actually were.

You're feeling sleepy, aren't you? Yes, that's the effect of the poison I injected into you ten minutes ago. It's coursing its way through your body as we speak. You don't have long. Perhaps little more then ten minutes before it stops your heart. If, indeed, that long. While you're still awake, I thought I'd tell you that I'm planning to dispose of your body off shore among the lobsters. I've done it before, of course. Incidentally, that's why I never eat lobster.

You should feel proud, by the way. You are, by my count, the 7000th murder I've committed down through the years. I've gotten very good at it.

What's that? Oh, I know, you don't want to die. I'm sure you have plenty of reasons to want to live, but think of it this way. You'll be immortalized forever in one of my books. Isn't that wonderful? A fictional murder victim based on a real murder victim!

Yes, just close your eyes, let yourself sleep. That's it. Nice and easy. Go into that bright light. Or the other place, if that's where you're bound for.

Oh, and say hello to my husband if you happen to see him. He was my first murder, you know.

The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

Some business to see to today first, before I get to the movie review I have in mind. Have a peek over at Norma's blog for a Snippet Sunday post she did with a selection from a future work. As well, one of my fellow writers, Lorelei Bell, has just released a book on Amazon called The Cat Whisperer. Here's a little bit about it:

This is a non-fiction account about how one feral female cat came into our lives, and changed it. My husband (the cat whisperer), took pity on her one summer day, and fed her some table scraps, against my warnings it might be a female. Of course, feeling that was an invitation, she stayed, expecting to be fed...  and then dropped her litter of kittens in the hollow of a tree in our yard. This is how the kitty dram began. This is her, and her kittens' story and how we dealt with the joy of watching their antics, the pain of losing them to predators, and their love/caring for one another

Now then, to the classic at hand....

“The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter.” ~ Sam Spade

“I distrust a close-mouthed man. He generally picks the wrong time to talk and says the wrong things. Talking’s something you can’t do judiciously, unless you keep in practice.” ~ Kaspar Gutman

“Look at me, Sam. You worry me. You always think you know what you’re doing, but you’re too slick for your own good. Some day you’re going to find it out.” ~ Effie Perine

The Maltese Falcon, a 1941 classic by first time director John Huston, who quickly established himself with this film as one of the best in the business, is a personal favourite. The private eye film gives us Humphrey Bogart in one of his best roles- if it’s not his best, it’s pretty close- and is the finest example of the film noir genre. Adapted from a novel by Dashiell Hammett, who also wrote Nick and Nora Charles in The Thin Man, the film stands today among the greats of cinematic history.

A woman (Mary Astor) arrives at the offices of Spade and Archer to hire the detectives to find her missing sister. Sam Spade (Bogart) and Miles Archer (Jerome Cowan) take the case, and Archer quickly ends up gunned down late at night (in the only scene in the film that doesn’t feature Bogart). Spade finds himself caught up in a web of lies, crime, and intrigue as he tries to determine the truth about his partner’s death. On the one hand, his client’s story is not the truth, and she keeps evading the truth as she goes along, revealing herself as Brigid O’Shaughnessy. On the other are a trio of criminals (Peter Lorre, Sydney Greenstreet, and Elisha Cook Jr.) with an interest in a certain figurine, a priceless falcon figure that’s been passed through various hands for centuries. One death leads to another, and Spade finds himself under suspicion by the police… some of whom he gets along with, and others… not so much. Only by finding the truth can he clear himself.

Huston had a background in screen writing before he took this on as a director, and it’s astonishing to see so much of his future in this film. Take a look at his screen credits: The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, The African Queen, The Red Badge of Courage, Across the Pacific, Key Largo, The Man Who Would Be King. This is a master storyteller, and all of that is on the screen through his first film. He tells the story through Spade’s point of view, adapting the novel very much as Hammett wrote it, but using the filmmaker’s touch to give the story his signature. He crafts scenes around his actors, using their strengths to move the story along. He pays close attention to detail, to lighting (or the lack thereof), to the positioning of an actor in a given place at a given time. Something like having a character tell some backstory, in the hands of a lesser director, could bore the audience, but Huston writes the screenplay and directs the actors in such a way that a bit of backstory is utterly compelling. Given the censorship codes of the times, he implies where the novel would be more specific- things like Cairo’s sexual orientation, the fling between Spade and his partner’s wife, the relationship between Sam and Brigid. And the dialogue, much of it straight from Hammett, is sharp, smart, and memorable. It really defines the characters and the performances.

His cast is astonishing. This was the first time that Sydney Greenstreet appeared on the screen as an actor, but his presence is formidable. Kaspar Gutman is a seemingly hospitable man, quite formal in the way he conducts himself, but behind that hospitality is a deviousness, and a ruthless nature. He’s a man quite happy to sell out his allies if the need rises, obsessed with the wealth of the falcon, the statue he so desires. He might not be the sort who bloodies his hand doing his own dirty work, but Gutman is a menacing figure, and compelling to watch. Peter Lorre, the esteemed character actor who’d left Europe years before, turns up as Joel Cairo, the eccentric crook who is tied up in the entire affair. He’s a bit unpredictable as an accomplice to Gutman, playing to his own ends, trying to pass himself off as tougher than he is. The third member of the trio, Wilmer, played by Elisha Cook Jr., is doing some of the same, thinking he’s more dangerous than he is. Well, he’s more dangerous than Cairo, certainly, but no match for Spade. Ultimately he comes across as a kid with a hair trigger temper, easily provoked.

Mary Astor is the femme fatale of the film, a chameleon playing her game, trying to keep Spade on her side. There’s steam and chemistry between Brigid and Spade, and she manipulates as much as she can- though Spade can see that for what it is. She brings these qualities to the role, along with a neediness that fits into her character’s motivations. It’s a complicated role, but she makes it work. There are a couple of other women in the film in smaller roles, but should be noted. Gladys George is Iva, Archer’s widow, not particularly torn up by her husband’s murder, and she’s had a thing for Spade. She’s throwing herself on Spade in the aftermath, and we’re left to wonder what she’s been up to. The other woman in question is Lee Patrick, playing Spade’s loyal secretary Effie. She’s probably the one character in the movie Sam trusts completely. She’s smart, sassy, willing to speak her mind to Sam, and probably head over heels in love with him. She humanizes Sam, and he needs that.

Bogart had been playing various crooks and tough guys through the thirties, but started getting serious notice in the years leading up to The Maltese Falcon. In this film, he really establishes himself as a leading man. He plays Sam as the hardened man, cruel perhaps at times (he doesn’t particularly care that his partner has died, and he’s eager to keep the widow out of his way). He’s a listener- he gathers information by letting everyone talk around him and absorbing what they say, the signs of their body language. He’s a great observer. He has a dry and deeply cynical sense of humour, a sense of how to provoke the reaction he wants out of others in a room. And there’s a fierce dangerous quality to the man that makes him so compelling. He’s quick to act, fast to disarm a threat, has no problem inflicting violence. And he has no problem setting aside matters of the heart. We’re not sure what to make of this man, but at the core, he has principles. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of his partner, he has to solve the case, because you’re supposed to do that when your partner dies. It’s a powerful performance, and the core of a true classic film. 

It Must Have Been In One Of My Drunken Stupors

“I didn’t mean to impale, brutally torture, and murder all those people. It must have been in one of my drunken stupors.” ~ Vlad The Impaler, 1475

“Okay, so I bathed in the blood of hundreds of virgin girls and committed all kinds of atrocities. I can only say that each time I did it, I was in a drunken stupor.” ~ Countess Elizabeth Bathory, 1611

“What was I thinking, invading Russia? I must have been in a drunken stupor” ~ Napoleon Bonaparte, 1812

“I didn’t intend to assassinate the President. I was in one of my drunken stupors.” ~ John Wilkes Booth, 1865

“Oh God Oh God Oh God, I’m surrounded by Lakota and Cheyenne on all sides and no way out. What was I thinking? Was I in a drunken stupor?” ~ George Armstrong Custer, 1876

“Did I murder those women? Must have been in one of my drunken stupors.” ~ Jack The Ripper, 1888

“Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the communist party? And if so, were you in a drunken stupor?” ~ Senator Joe McCarthy, 1953

“I did not have sexual relations with that woman. Unless I was in a drunken stupor, then, well, all bets are off, because let me tell you, I tend to run wild when I’ve had some good ol’ Arkansas moonshine, and it takes me weeks to figure out from the news articles what I did. That’s usually when my wife raises hell. Oh, hey, honey!” ~ President Bill Clinton, 1998

“Yes, I have smoked crack, probably in one of my drunken stupors.” ~ Mayor Rob Ford, 2013

It’s been a hectic few weeks here in Canada. At Hallowe’en the chief of police in Toronto confirmed that they had in evidence a video recording of Mayor Rob Ford smoking crack, an allegation first brought forth months ago through newspaper investigations and vehemently denied by the walking disaster, his idiot brother, and their legions of cult devotees known as Ford Nation. The story blew up from there and went global. While Ford’s many pratfalls in the past have gone out on the international press before, and he has had many in the years since his election, this one has stayed in the spotlight ever since.

The man is a buffoon, a bully, an idiot, a man-child incapable of growing up, an alcoholic, addict, probable wife beater, and utterly unfit for his job. I’d thought that for years, as had many a reasonable person. After years as an irritating city councillor, he rode in on promises to “end the gravy train” and keep taxes low (this in a city with a low tax rate, surrounded by cities with higher taxes). Those who voted him in weren’t all mouth-breathing troglodytes. Some of them were reasonable people, who found all too late that they voted in a man unable to learn from his mistakes, unwilling to work in consensus with others. Despite his many, many claims that he was doing a good job, the evidence simply didn’t support that. He removed revenue streams that were not unreasonable, backed foolish ideas that just pointed out his complete short sightedness, and did everything he could to affirm my opinion that this man was not fit for the slightest position of responsibility.

And he got into trouble. Boy, this man has had a gift for putting his foot in his mouth, making an ass of himself, and ignoring the rules. It’s landed him in court, and he’s barely gotten away from things unscathed. His devotees demand that people leave him alone and suggest there’s a vast conspiracy out to get him. He acts like a five year old at times, throwing temper tantrums, unwilling, even when he should, to show the slightest humility after narrowly escaping the consequences of his actions. When I say he’s an idiot, it’s both an insult and a fact: a person of reasonable intelligence understands how to learn from their mistakes. This man never, ever learns anything. He’s avoided media- aside from those asking softball questions- using a radio show with his idiot brother Doug, a city councillor, as his bully pulpit, taking shots at everyone who even remotely offends him. I shook my head when this man got elected, and got used to the regular “what’s he done now” moments. At least he wasn’t my mayor, but as the mayor of the largest city in the country, that behaviour got noticed around the world.

Their father was a wealthy man, a businessman and politician who got rich (I’ve heard horror stories about the kind of man he was). The family itself seems screwed up on a monumental scale. A sister mixed up with shady sorts, including members of the Klan. Allegations going back years about the Brothers Ford in the drug trade that have come to light. I’ve always felt that these guys were bullies as kids, indulged in every single way, never having to face the consequences of their actions. No one back then gave them the ass kicking they desperately needed. They might have been better for it. Now it’s too late. And for all their insistence that they’re fighting for the little guy, it’s bull. These two were born with a silver spoon in their mouths, never had to work a serious day in their lives- and yet never developed the manners and class you’d expect out of anyone who was rich. Had their old man not been rich, they’d have ended up being nothing more than the loudmouthed jerks down at the corner bar each night, complaining about how everyone else but them were getting ahead in life.

So Crackgate blew up, as you might expect. For days, no real response- aside from denials and deflections by Brother Doug, demanding the police chief step down. And the feeding frenzy continued. Even his few media allies by this point had had enough, telling him to step down. Finally he came out and admitted he had smoked crack. “In one of my drunken stupors,” he added. Apologies started up, along with the declaration that he was not an addict or an alcoholic.

Bull. If you’re drinking so much that you have blackouts and can’t remember what you did, you’re an alcoholic. And if you’re addicted to one thing, it’s not that hard to get addicted to another, particularly crack, which has a vicious reputation for that.

Apology followed apology, the endless “I swear, I mean it, I realize I’ve messed up, but I’m sorry, now let’s just move on and keep running this city.” He tried to deflect by speaking to his record, claiming he’s saved the city a billion dollars- a claim that comes apart under even casual investigation. More allegations came forward from the police files, his many associations with criminal lowlifes, people who live in arrested development, often living in their parents’ basement, guys with criminal records, histories of anger management issues, serious pathologies to say the least. The full allegations of the police investigation into Ford and his occasional driver have not been fully revealed, and charges against Ford himself have not yet been laid, but the information that is out in the open is damning: a man with a tendency to drink heavily, make use of drugs, engage in behaviour that indicates a persistent use of drugs, abuse staffers, and more. Taken into account with his known history- many calls to the family home about domestic disturbances, hair trigger temper around strangers, and inability to actually understand there are consequences for his actions- what you have are the ingredients for a monster.

I don’t know what my last straw where this man is concerned is. It might be the video recording that got aired, with him in an erratic state, yelling about wanting to kill someone. That seemed to confirm the impression I’ve always had of him: deep down this is a man of pure, unadulterated rage. It might be his vulgar reference to oral sex in denying allegations about propositioning a former staffer, or the cowardly way he had in bringing out his wife for that apology. Maybe it’s the way he acted in a series of council meetings that saw him stripped of much of his powers, the last measure council had after pleading with him for weeks to step aside. Instead of taking things seriously, he snorted, bickered, made threats, heckled other councillors, laughed with his brother, went into the public gallery with one of his drivers and argued and harassed onlookers, and generally made an ass of himself… with the world watching. Steamrolling into a fellow councillor when he lost his temper certainly didn’t help. She could have had him charged with assault. His final parting shot- even after admitting that if it had been someone else in this position, he’d have been inclined to vote along the same lines- was to declare war, comparing himself to Kuwait and the decision of council to Saddam Hussein. And if that wasn’t enough, he’s crazy enough to believe someday he’ll be Prime Minister.

I am tired of having my country humiliated like this. It’s stopped being funny. This man- and I use that term loosely, because Rob Ford is a pathetic excuse for a human being- has dragged the entire country through the mud (and whatever else). He refuses to leave. Anyone with the slightest shred of integrity, self-awareness, or decency, would leave. He continues to lash out, to feed his own delusions, to refuse to take responsibility for the monstrous mess he has made of his own life. He is responsible for his own self destruction, not some vast conspiracy by leftists and liberals. Just him… and his enablers. His family, who refuse to admit there’s a problem, and his die-hard supporters, who at this point cannot be reasoned with. They are so blinded by their support of the man that it’s become like a cult. They are literally unable to see him for what he is.

I’m also past the point of compassion, at least for him. I reserve some for his wife and children, who have to live with this monster. For him? None. I just want him- and his repulsive brother- gone. Forever. My disgust for this crude, stupid, repugnant thug grows by the day. He has humiliated the largest city of my country time and time again since before his election, and it seems to only intensify now by the day.

Rob and Doug, go to hell. You two slobbering dolts and wastes of oxygen are the biggest assholes on the planet.

Spammers Of The World, Drop Dead

Some business to see to before we get things started today. Have a peek over at Norma's blog for a look at what she's been up to as of late. Now then, to the business at hand... a visit from one of those people who wastes perfectly good oxygen.

Admittedly I don't get into my Yahoo email folders that often. It had been more than a month since I last went in there (long enough to wonder what my password was again). So looking about, I happened to look at the junk folder. Lo and behold, I had a scammer about, supposedly from Fed Ex. The exact same message, not once, but twice. As follows, the full message:

We the management of  FedEx Courier Service here in South Africa hereby uses This medium to notify you that your parcel is still in our possession, this parcel contained an International Cashier Bank Draft/Cheque worth the sum of $500,000.00USD (Five Hundred Thousand United State Dollars only) and it is ready for delivery to your door step. Meanwhile, before the delivery or shipment will take place, you are advice to RECONFIRM to us the following data  mention below:

1.Your Name:........
2.Full Address:..............
3.Age:.............
4.Sex:...............
5.Telephone:.........

The above requested information will enable us deliver your parcel correctly without any mistakes on delivery of your parcel.

NOTE : No charges should be made before delivery except the stamp duty fee which is just $65usd. Delivery would be made to your door step as soon as we receive your payment, no problem about the delivery fee because the company has paid for the delivery fee.

Furthermore, you might be asking yourself how come this parcel, Anyway this parcel was brought to our office to be delivered to you by lottery officials.

Note: This fee is not for delivery but for the stamp duty, this company has spent out of its income in the process by recovery back your parcel? so dear customer we once again appreciate your patronage in our favor. Without hesitations you are to pay for just the balance left of $65 by your sender before it accumulate a demur-rage after one week only,as you know your parcel is not just an ordinary parcel but with a vital document and we think you understand what we mean by accumulating a demur-rage

Yours Faithfully
Mr. Frank Mario
+277 993 960 55
FEDEX COURIER MANAGING DIRECTOR.

Sigh. Will these people ever take a hint? 

As we can see, the typical tactics of ye olde Homo Spammeritis Irritatingus.  An African locale (not the usual Nigerian spammer tool, but still), capitalized letters where there shouldn't be, incorrect punctuation and grammar, overly formal wording, and promises of a large sum of money that's mysteriously coming my way for just a small handling fee. Oh, sure, right, and if you expect me to believe that, are you going to be selling me a bridge in Brooklyn too?

Of course, I get them in my blog folders as well, but the Anonymous feature usually sorts them out nicely into spam folders where they belong, never seeing the light of day as a comment. If I look at my stats and where visitors have been seeing my posts from in a given week, no doubt the visitors from Malaysia may account for a good number of spammers hawking Louis Guitton bags, or time shares, or whatever the hell it is this week. Periodically there's spam with Russian lettering. I know that'll be coming from Russian spammers, because let's face it, while that country is often in my top ten of countries visiting my blog, they can't all be looking in on the way I skewered Vladimir Putin. Hi, Vlad, if it happens to be you looking in, do me a favour. Go to the mouldering corpse of old Lenin and give him a great big wet sloppy kiss. 

Come on, Vlad, just do it. I promise, I won't laugh, or make necrophilia jokes. Well, maybe one.

Oh well. The spammers will never, ever give up. I've said it before, I'll say it again. We need a biological weapon designed to only take out spammers and scammers. They'll be gone and we'll be happy. In the meantime,we'll just have to make use of other measures to combat the plague.

Rover will do nicely.

The Last Full Measure Of Devotion

Before getting started today, have a peek over at our joint blog for a different kind of review of Thor: The Dark World. And leave us a comment!

Now then, there's an anniversary of sorts to mark for our southern neighbours tomorrow, so that's what I'm doing today....

He arrived at the dedication service for the National Soldier's Cemetery on a November day in 1863, months after the terrible battle that transformed a quiet Pennsylvania crossroads forever. His invitation was almost an afterthought, and he was not the keynote speaker. Yet his short address would come to be thought of as his greatest speech, this from a man who had such an innate skill at speaking.

Abraham Lincoln came to Gettysburg, in the midst of a bloody civil war that set American against American, tore the country apart, with casualty rates that shocked people at home and abroad. At stake was the very meaning of freedom, and the future of the country. From 1861 to 1865, Americans killed each other in large numbers, and the President faced a crisis the country had not seen before or since. The Battle of Gettysburg in July had been the biggest ever fought on the American continent, a bloody victory for the Union, and the battleground would now house a cemetery.

Lincoln sat quietly on the platform among the guests, surrounded by soldiers and civilians. He seemed ill on the trip to and from Gettysburg, and was observed to seem sad and drawn. The keynote speaker that day, November 19th, was a politician and clergyman, Edward Everett. He went on for two hours in an oration, which oddly was a common thing for cemetery dedications at the time. Then it came time for the President to speak.

There are five different copies of his remarks today, with slight differences. The one that we treat as the standard bears his signature, and consists of ten sentences, a brief set of remarks that took him a couple of minutes to recite. The audience response to the remarks was minimal, to say the least. But in those ten sentences, he summed up the entire war.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. 

We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.  The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion, that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Through sheer force of will, he held the country together through bloody civil war. He stands today as the greatest American President for that achievement. One hundred fifty years ago tomorrow, Abraham Lincoln gave his greatest speech in a career of  great speeches at this quiet cemetery, and his words live on. They are memorized today by schoolchildren. They are carved on his memorial in Washington. They are recited by speakers in his own country and beyond. It is a fitting legacy for the Great Emancipator.

A Day In The Life Of A Cat

Before we get started today, some blog links for you to check out. Go on over to Norma's blog, where this week she marked what would have been the hundredth birthday of her father. A sad event has taken place as well, the death of a young man whose passing was noted by two bloggers I follow, at E.J.'s blog as well as over at P.K.s' blog. Go on and check out Krisztina's sideblog  for some tasty treats. Have a peek at a whole pack of canines (plus one cat) at Parsnip's blog, and since we're getting into cats today, say hello to the esteemed and fierce Audrey.

Time to get into the point of view of this feline overlord....

7:15 AM. Waking up. Had dreams of an endless ball of yarn to be unspooled. I dragged it through everything between here and Timbuktu and still didn't get it all unwound.

7:20 AM. First glance out the window. Oh, this will not do one bit. It snowed last night. We've got a layer of it all over. 

Who authorized winter to start without my express permission?

7:30 AM. The staff is downstairs. Staff, did you allow winter to start? I have expressly told you in the past that seasons may only commence at my leisure.

7:35 AM. The staff pours me a bowl of field rations. I am dismayed, staff. One of these days I'll just have to bolt the locks so you can't get back in.

7:50 AM. The staff is out the door, off to that silly work place she goes to.

As opposed to spending her day catering to my every whim.

8:05 AM. Sitting on front windowsill. Even through the glass, I can hear the sound of that annoying mutt barking out in the fields. 

Dogs are so very stupid....

8:15 AM. After much reluctance, I decide to eat some of the field rations the staff has left me.

Perhaps I should have gone out. Mrs. McIntyre is always good for spoiling me rotten.

10:25 AM. Waking up from my first nap of the day. Checking the clock. The staff won't be back for hours.

10:40 AM. Patrolling house. Looking for any sign of stray yarn balls to unwind. No sign of them. Oh well...

11:05 AM. Stop at scratching post. Feel like exercising my claws for a bit...

11:06 AM. My claws have unleashed residual smells of catnip in the scratching post. I am obliged to go cluster-crazy for the next twenty minutes scratching away. It's a cat thing. Humans wouldn't understand it.

11:30 AM. Coming down from the catnip rush. Feeling sleepy. Time to take a nap.

2:55 PM. Waking up. Good long sleep. Snowing outside. 

Examining calendar in kitchen. We shouldn't be seeing snow like this for at least another month...

Something tells me it's going to be a long winter.

4:10 PM. Impatiently waiting for staff to return. Despite my returning to the front window every five minutes, still no trace of her.

How long do these "work" things take, anyhow?

5:25 PM. Finally! Here she is, coming up the driveway.

And here I was about to do the unthinkable and hire a St. Bernard to go out in the snow with a keg of brandy searching for her.

5:27 PM. The staff comes in. Well, it's about time. Did you bring me something delicious for dinner?

5:40 PM. The staff is busy unpacking some groceries. Unfortunately one item happens to be more of the field rations. Staff, we really have to discuss my meal preferences post haste.

6:00 PM. While the staff is busy making dinner- I smell bacon pancakes- I'm watching the news.

That boor of a mayor is on again. The ogre who drinks and does drugs. When he's not making an ass of himself.

Even for a human, this guy is pretty dimwitted.

6:03 PM. The drug addled buffoon starts yelling at reporters. Mayor Crackhead, you need intensive therapy. For the next sixty years.

6:05 PM. It's like watching a train wreck. You can't help but keep watching. 

I'll say this for my staff. She might be foolish enough to keep feeding me field rations for breakfast, but she has the good sense to think Mayor Crackhead is a joke.

6:10 PM. Checking on staff. She's busy making pancakes. Staff, a thought if I might? Cats already informally rule the world. It's time to make it official.

We'd have that Mayor Crackhead and his supporters set adrift on an ice floe inside ten minutes.

6:25 PM. The staff and I settle down to dinner. She has the good sense to give me some pancakes. Very good, staff, but I must say, you really must work on your morning meals, because you're seriously falling behind in that respect.

8:35 PM. Looking out into the darkness while the staff is reading. Still snowing. What is it the Vikings believed? The world will end in a blanket of snow?

11:00 PM. National news starts with Mayor Crackhead getting perp walked after an arrest at a hockey game. He's incoherent, as usual. Does this guy realize it's time to give up?

Probably not. He strikes me as very, very stupid. 

11:10 PM. The staff tells me she's glad Mayor Crackhead isn't her mayor. Yes, well, why don't we talk about appointing cats to all positions in government?

The staff turns off the television and heads for the stairs.

Hey, wait a minute, staff. I wanted to watch what that Daily Show guy has to say about all this. He strikes me as very funny. For a human being.

Staff? Staff? Come back here!

She's not coming back. 

Oh well. Tomorrow's another day. I'm sure tomorrow will see more instances of Mayor Crackhead putting his foot in his mouth.