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Thursday, October 30, 2003
 
Moderate, My Ass

I was visiting Little Tiny Lies when I came across THIS POST. Steve H. makes a very good point about "moderate" (yes, those are sneer quotes) Muslims: namely, that they don't exist.

Virtually all of our enemies are male Muslims. We are idiots if we don't acknowledge that. There's a difference between segregating lunch counters and alerting airport security to focus on the people most likely to harm us.

We also need to let go of the myth of moderate Islam. A lot of "moderate Muslims" hate our guts. Look at the people who are spying on us these days. A moderate Muslim Army chaplain. A moderate Muslim translator. Sure, there are patriotic Muslims in the U.S., but on the whole, we have to regard adherents of Islam with healthy suspicion. Given their behavior to date, we have that right and that obligation, and a patriotic Muslim should accept it. It is completely natural for people to place their loyalty to God above their loyalty to country, especially in a nation people many people come to solely for economic opportunity. If we don't acknowledge that simple truth, our blood is going to run in our streets, and after that, racial profiling won't be an issue, because vigilantes will drag Muslims and people who sort of look like Muslims out of their homes and kill them.

Like any good Capitalist Oppressor, my soapbox happens to rest on the shoulders of giants. Thanks for the boost, Steve.

A moderate Muslim is one who may have no desire to personally strap on an explosive belt and detonate him/herself in a crowd of Jews or Americans, but it sure doesn't upset them if someone else does. Even those Muslims who might privately detest such actions will not protest them too vociferously - they don't want to lose their Arab Street cred.

It's kinda like the inner-city black kid caught studying for the SAT by his peers. He might harbor dreams of one day becoming a lawyer, a doctor, or God forbid, an accountant, but he isn't going to share those dreams with his peers. It's "punk," it's "pussy," it's "selling out" and it may very well get his ass beaten. In most Muslim countries, "selling out" Islam means a charge of apostasy, and under Islamic law it carries a penalty of death.

Blood in, blood out, holmes...

So how does one become a "moderate Muslim"? Witness this gem from the latest meeting of the Organization of Islamic Crazies:

The enemy will probably welcome these proposals and we will conclude that the promoters are working for the enemy. But think. We are up against a people who think. They survived 2000 years of pogroms not by hitting back, but by thinking. They invented and successfully promoted Socialism, Communism, human rights and democracy so that persecuting them would appear to be wrong, so they may enjoy equal rights with others. With these they have now gained control of the most powerful countries and they, this tiny community, have become a world power. We cannot fight them through brawn alone. We must use our brains also.

Of late because of their power and their apparent success they have become arrogant. And arrogant people, like angry people will make mistakes, will forget to think.

They are already beginning to make mistakes. And they will make more mistakes. There may be windows of opportunity for us now and in the future. We must seize these opportunities.

Hmm... sounds familiar.
I'll bet there were plenty of moderate Nazis, as well. I'm sure those Germans who disagreed with the rounding up of the local Jewish population and their deportation to then unknown fates salved their consciences with the fact that they were just minding their own business. They weren't involved. Guess what? You don't have to pull the trigger to be complicit in murder. The silence and inaction of the German citizen gave tacit approval to state-sponsored mass slaughter.

Here's a simple litmus test for you. The next time your hear the usual tired platitudes about "true Islam" and it being a Religion of Peace, substitute Nazis and fascism. It'll sound something like this:

Listen, schweinhund, ze National Socialist Party is a Party of Peace. Zose extreme Nazi fundamentalists are not practicing true fascism. Und besides, zey are only Juden.

So how is Islam moderate? They favor the humane extermination of the Jews? They plan to stone women to death with Nerf rocks from now on? How can you be moderately crazy?

Maybe my wife is just moderately pregnant.







Friday, October 24, 2003
 
Upright Citizens: 1, Homeless Vikings: Nil

There was a righteous shooting yesterday in New Orleans, not too far from a hotel at which I used to work. The gist of it is that some bum tries to carjack a young lady and got two slugs in the chest for his trouble.

A Boutte woman shot a man twice in the chest after he allegedly tried to force her to give up her Jeep Cherokee on Thursday afternoon in the Warehouse District, the New Orleans Police Department said.

Thorlief Thorbjornsen, 42, who is homeless, was listed in serious but stable condition Thursday at Charity Hospital.

The 32-year-old woman told police she had left work and was getting into her vehicle at a U-Park lot in the 800 block of Camp Street about 5 p.m. when Thorbjornsen approached her, indicated he had a handgun and demanded she get out of her car.

Instead of complying, the woman reached into the center console of her Jeep and pulled out a 9 mm pistol. She shot Thorbjornsen twice in the torso, said Capt. Marlon Defillo, NOPD spokesman.

Thorbjornsen collapsed behind the woman's SUV, Defillo said. He did not have a weapon.
.

Stupid Viking bum. It helps when you bring a gun to a gunfight. Like Ted Kennedy at Chappaquidick, I guess he figured being armed with Keith Richards' median blood alcohol level would keep him safe, and it did. That plus being shot with teensy 9mm rounds.

Kudos to our heroine - who kept her head and put steel on target in a highly stressful situation. I only hope she has a backup piece, as hers is guaranteed to sit in the evidence room for the next few years.




Wednesday, October 22, 2003
 
VRWC Footwear Now On Sale
Analog Kid at Random Nuclear Strikes was kind enough to post the order form for the most advanced pair of hippy stompers American footwear manufacturers can create. I owned a pair of Matterhorns in my army days, but they were for cold weather, not crushing dissent. I may have to shell out the two and a half beans for these beauties.



Tuesday, October 21, 2003
 
The Shape of Things to Come

I'm STILL awaiting the birth of our child. How long do you cook an infant? I swear, this kid better be potty-trained by the time he or she drops in.

As I wait, I've been doing a lot of reading and there are two current fads that I hope and pray are out of style by the time my child is a teenager.

The first fad is the rejection of manliness for sissyhood, if not outright homosexuality. IT IS NOW COOL TO BE GAY. And if you want all of the stylish trappings of homosexuality without the size 14 butthole, you can become a metrosexual. Hardly a day goes by without MSN trying to pound this stupid new word into our lexicon with a checkered-steel buttplug. Why do we need a new word for effeminate, style-obsessed men who are not gay? Such a man used to be called a dandy or a fop. Being manly crude and uncultured, I always used the old standby pussy.

So explain this to me - if the ultimate goal of single heterosexual males is to attract and win a mate, AND IT IS, then how does affecting homosexual mannerisms and trappings further that goal? Enough of this namby-pamby shit! Act like a man! The survival of the species demands it! And more importantly, it pisses me off! I'm going to raise my son (should I be so blessed) to be A MAN. Those fucking sissies had better get used to the idea that MEN are IN.

They can have my bottle of Bud when they pry it from my cold, dead fingers.

Another trend that deeply disturbs me is the prevalence of atheism in public life. It's no longer an issue of whether prayer is allowed on state property - the very mention of God is enough to trigger a lawsuit, usually promulgated by the ACLU.

This nation was founded by God-fearing men. It is populated by God-fearing men and women. Atheists are in the minority, but they have almost monopolized mainstream media and continually use it as a bully pulpit to harangue us imbeciles. No one is safe, be they Christian or Jew.

No, I did not forget Islam, the Religion of crazy cocksuckers Peace. Those cults religions that favor the killing of Jews and Christians (i.e. Islam) be they elderly or infantile, amazingly never seem to be vilified by these same atheists. America-hating makes for strange bedfellows, kufr.

Take Christopher Hitchens, for example. I read his book, A Long Short War and was impressed that even a snotty leftist effete British transplant like Hitchens could put two and two together and conclude that Saddam Hussein brought this asswhupping on himself. And then this elitist bastard has the nerve to fisk the Ten Commandments!He concludes with this self-righteous tripe:

It's obviously too much to expect that a Bronze Age demagogue should have remembered to condemn drug abuse, drunken driving, or offenses against gender equality, or to demand prayer in the schools. Still, to have left rape and child abuse and genocide and slavery out of the account is to have been negligent to some degree, even by the lax standards of the time. I wonder what would happen if secularists were now to insist that the verses of the Bible that actually recommend enslavement, mutilation, stoning, and mass murder of civilians be incised on the walls of, say, public libraries? There are many more than 10 commandments in the Old Testament, and I live for the day when Americans are obliged to observe all of them, including the ox-goring and witch-burning ones. (Who is Judge Moore to pick and choose?) Too many editorialists have described the recent flap as a silly confrontation with exhibitionist fundamentalism, when the true problem is our failure to recognize that religion is not just incongruent with morality but in essential ways incompatible with it.

I'm quite sure Hitch is mightily pleased with himself. He can exhibit common sense in worldly matters, yet still keep his lefty street cred by bashing Christians.
Then there's THIS ASSHOLE who is so filled with self-loathing (and free time, apparently) that he fisked THE ENTIRE BIBLE!

Atheists are no longer content to agree to disagree - they're on the attack. If you believe in the Judeo-Christian God, you're not exercising your First Amendment rights, you're SUCKERS. Brainwashed rubes praying to an invisible man, fleeced out of your money weekly in the longest-running confidence game on the planet. The only moral compass that atheists have is their own smug sense of intellectual superiority; matters of FAITH are for the ignorant unwashed fanatics of the "religious right," who seek to club your child to his knees and force him to pray against his will.

This culture of moral relativism and the decay of right and wrong has got to reverse at some point. I just pray that it's sooner rather than later. I don't expect a world that agrees with my religious beliefs. But I demand a climate where I can teach my child Christian values without interference from atheists who seek not to co-exist, but thwart and obstruct. It's my right. My relationship with God has vastly enriched my life - I'm not sure what He get's out of the deal, other than my eternal gratitude and praise. But I would never force my beliefs, or lack thereof, on anyone. I hate debating matters of faith - you believe or you don't. But for your sake, you atheists had better pray hope you're right, and that there is no God.

Because if there is, He's not going be amused.





Friday, October 10, 2003
 
The Garbageman Trilogy Concludes

Episode III: A Blur of Misery

I arrived at Truck 42 only to find that there was already a driver and two "hoppers" on board, which was one person too many.
"Hi, I'm assigned to this truck," I said.
"That's bullshit!" one of the men in the front seat said. "I always ride this truck!"
"Yeah, The Man With The Clipboard needs to see you about that," I said, gesturing over my shoulder with my thumb. He jumped off the truck and stormed over towards The Man With The Clipboard to register his displeasure. I grabbed hold of the door handle and swung myself up into the cab of the truck, slamming the door behind me.
"Okay, let's go," I said to the driver. He looked at me, shrugged, and pulled out of the yard.

As we rode towards the beginning of our route, I shook hands with "Shorty," who would be my fellow Garbageman on the back of the truck. On the way, I asked him to teach me the finer points of garbage collecting.

"Goddamn, white-boy! Just put the fuckin' trash in the back of the truck! Shiiiit!" he told me. I explained to him that my name was Jeff, not White-boy, but that it was okay, since I apparently closely resemble somebody named White-boy. "Happens all the time," I assured him. That got him laughing, and we had no more tension after that.

We arrived at the start of our route and I was relieved to see that we were in Fat City, a section of town I was well-acquainted with, being comprised mostly of cheap apartment buildings and drinking establishments of the variety that stay open 24 hours a day. Shorty and I dismounted from the cab of the truck and hopped onto our perches on the rear of the truck.

Then we were off! I was doing it - I was standing on the back of a moving vehicle! Unfortunately, it was 4:30 in the morning and there was no one on the streets to witness my triumph.

Three minutes later, we backed up to an apartment building and we got to work, slinging bags into the semi-circular well in the back of the truck. It had rained the night before, making the bags heavier than they appeared. I smelled the familiar odor of crawfish, beer, and red beans and rice. Someone had obviously had a party the night before.

"Since you new, Jeff, I'll work the blade," Shorty said.
"Blade? What's that?" I asked.
"It pushes the bags back in the truck. Watch," he said.
I watched as a gleaming panel of steel lowered down into the well on two hydraulic arms. Cool, I thought walking around the back to get a better look. I arrived just in time to see the scything blade cut into the middle of the pile of trash bags...

and got squirted from the knees up with crawfish guts, stale beer, beans and other susbstances too foul to identify.

"Hey man, don't stand behind the truck when I'm workin' the blade," Shorty said. I just nodded and tried to clean myself off. We got back into our rythm, slinging bags into the truck, then trotting to the next pile. I was starting to work up a sweat. This continued for about twenty minutes until we pulled up in front of one of Fat City's 24-hour bars.

The driver and Shorty dismounted and started walking toward the entrance. I grabbed Shorty's shoulder.
"Shorty, don't they have to put their trash out?" I whispered.
"Just shut up and watch," he said. Following his cue, we went inside the bar. The place was empty except for the female bartender and a single patron, passed out face down on the bar. Shorty and I emptied all the trash cans inside, heavy with beer bottles, and made trip after trip to the truck with cases of empty liquor bottles. After ten minutes of this, I was getting pretty annoyed. This was going to take all day!

Then I spied Shorty and the driver at the bar and it all became clear. I walked up to the bar and Shorty handed me a Long Island Iced Tea - 24 ounces of it - in a big plastic cup. The bartender also put six hot dogs and a six-pack of Budweiser in a plastic bag.
"For lunch," she told us.

I remounted my Garbage Steed a hero, taking a mighty chug of my extremely potent drink, draining about half the cup as the truck pulled off, me hanging on with my left hand. What an awesome job!, I thought as we rode down the street, enjoying the view and my fresh buzz.

And then the smell from the truck hit me.

I immediately leaned forward and threw up into the back of the truck. I tried to wash my mouth out with my drink, but the smell and taste of it made my nausea even worse and I pitched it, along with the rest of my cookies into the garbage well.

I am the scummiest piece of shit alive, I thought to myself, weakly gripping the handrail. Shorty was furious at my waste of a perfectly good drink.
"I'd of finished that, why'd you throw it away?!"

We pulled up to our next stop. Shorty quickly ran to the cab and retrieved the hot dogs and beers. He offered them to me; I shook my head, feeling my gorge rise again. He wolfed down three hot dogs and four beers in five minutes - "Gotta finish these off 'fore anybody see us." I stumbled over to my side of the truck, where I witnessed the painful death of...

Garbageman Myth #2: you get to ride on the back of a truck. Although I didn't know it yet, I had taken my last ride on the back of the truck. For the next ten hours, I would be running alongside it. We had reached the residential neighborhoods, miles long streets lined with thousands of garbage cans.

The rest of the day was a blur of misery, staggering from house to house, trying to keep up with Shorty's merciless pace. He may have been only 5'4" tall, but he was built like a little black action figure. And he seemed to be enjoying himself! He was singing songs, and I was struggling to lift giant trash bags full of wet grass clippings over the lip of the truck. The dispatcher radioed us three separate times with complaints that I was carelessly hurling empty trash cans onto people's lawns, instead of replacing them at the curb.
Good, maybe I'll get fired, I thought, praying the misery would end soon.

I was getting furious at how cheap people are when it comes to garbage bags, especially those used for grass clippings. More than once I would lift a clear, two molecule-thick bag stuffed with grass until it was about the size and weight of a Shetland pony, only to have it split open at the bottom, leaving a perfectly formed bag-shaped pile of grass standing for a brief second before tumbling apart. This was when I learned what the brooms and shovels on the side of the truck were for.

The only brief respites came when the truck had to be emptied. Fortunately, this was the driver's responsibility and he dropped us off at a McDonald's near the landfill. I watched in horror as Shorty ate the rest of our hot dogs, drank the remaining cans of beer, then devoured two Big Macs inside.

Not once did I see him wash his hands. He also put paid to...

Garbageman Myth #3: you get to keep all kinds of neat stuff. People don't throw away neat stuff - they throw away GARBAGE. If there's any neat stuff, it must be under the dirty diapers, coffee grounds, rotten fruit and eggs and used tampons. You can look for it yourself.

Shorty did keep some stuff, though. He kept a mostly used stick of deodorant - "Hey man, there's still some in here!", a discarded comb - "Now I don't got to buy me one!", and the remnants of a bottle of ketchup - "It's still good." I won't describe the horrors I saw him sift through to procure these treasures.

Like all good things, all bad things must come to an end as well, and finally we were through. I wearily looked at my watch, which confirmed the death of...

Garbageman Myth #4: you only work in the morning. I had been running behind that truck for over twelve hours.

Exhausted and smelly, I made my way home. Mom, this is all your fault.



Thursday, October 09, 2003
 
The Garbageman Saga Continues...

Episode II: The Wages of Stupidity

The hour was ten 'o clock. The ad said to report to the main office at 2 a.m. Sensing that I would need my strength for the ordeal to come, I started ingesting carbohydrates, notably barley and hops. They say there's the nutritional equivalent of a fried pork chop in every can.

Senses and judgment properly dulled, I arrived at the office. It was on Airline Highway, the same seedy stretch of road that saw the downfall of Louisiana Senator Earl Long, portrayed by Paul Newman in the movie Blaze. A generation later would see television evangelist Jimmy Swaggart brought low by a $35 hooker at the Sugar Bowl Courts, a no-tell motel located a mile down the road, also used as a set in Newman's movie.

Obviously, I had come to the right place.

Once in the office, the manager, a pudgy, bespectacled troll in a tie and dirty short-sleeve shirt asked me if I was sure I was in the right place. I assured him that I was. The interview completed, he gave me the standard tax forms to fill out. After I had completed them, I inquired as to how much per hour I would be making on this job. It was then that the office troll shattered

Garbageman Myth #1: Garbagemen make lots of money.
I would be earning MINIMUM WAGE!
"But, but... garbagemen make good money!" I sputtered. He laughed and explained that this was a temporary agency - if I was still on the job after 30 consecutive days, the garbage company would hire me on at union scale, which combined with the amount of overtime required, would indeed amount to a princely sum. To add insult to injury, I was informed that I was to report for assignment at 4:00 a.m., further down Airline Highway. He also told me that if I didn't get assigned to a truck, to report back to this office for another possible job. Fuming at myself for being so stupid, I drove off.

When I arrived at the address I was given, I found myself in a large fenced-in yard, populated by a lone black man sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette. I asked him if this was where you go to be a garbageman. He eyed me up and down for a full five seconds before replying, "Yep."

I sensed an instant rapport between us and sat down on the bench. I asked him if he thought I would get assigned to a truck. He stared at me for another five-count and said, "Hell, no, white-boy."
My new friend explained that when "The Man With The Clipboard" came out of the building, you had to "get in his face" and get him to write down your name. Unspoken was his doubt of my ability to assert myself. Over the next hour, as the yard filled up with over 100 burly black men, I began to think he might be right. The new arrivals looked at the white kid like you might view a parrot in a supermarket: sure, you've seen one before, but what the hell is it doing here?

And then, pandemonium as The Man With The Clipboard strode into the yard. Swept along with the crowd trying to "get in The Man's face," I was jostled from side to side like a soccer mom in a mosh pit. Lucky to keep my feet, I finally broke free into some open air. A hush fell over the crowd as they realized that they had inadvertently pushed me directly in front of The Man With The Clipboard. (later I began to suspect that they had done it on purpose). Time stood still as The Man blinked with astonishment at me from behind thick glasses.

"Write your name down here, son," he said finally, handing me the clipboard. I scrawled my name in one of the few empty slots left on the sheet, next to Truck 42. The crowd parted silently as I went to meet my crew. Well, silently except for some more pushing, shoving, and polite entreaties to "get the fuck out the way, white-boy!" But I barely noticed, as one thought repeated itself in my mind...

Oh my God,I'm a Garbageman.



Tuesday, October 07, 2003
 
I Was a Teenage Garbageman

Okay, I was twenty, but "I Was a Twenty Year-Old Garbageman" makes me sound unsophisticated, n'est ce pas?

When I was a young boy, my mother would continually ask me and my brother what we wanted to be when we grew up. We always replied, "Garbageman!"

Think about it: to a kid who is constantly bombarded with "Sit down!", "Put on your seatbelt!" and "Pull your brother back in the window!", what would be more liberating than standing on the back of a moving truck, perched on a one-foot square platform, one hand lazily gripping the grimy handrail, the other giving jaunty little waves and salutes to kids like me, imprisoned in the back seats of drab brown Oldsmobuick station wagons with imitation wood-grain paneling? Sure, you were picking up garbage, but garbagemen make lots of money, plus they only work in the morning, you can keep all kinds of neat stuff that people throw out, and most importantly, you get to ride on the back of a moving truck! We'll see how my expectations stacked up to reality a little later.

In August of 1993, I was twenty years old, had just joined the Army, and would be leaving for Basic Training in a month. To physically prepare for the rigors of Infantry training, I was chain-smoking cigarettes and consuming large amounts of alcohol nightly. One night, while sitting on the couch in a semi-soused stupor, I was cruelly jarred from my meditative state by my mother's snickering as she shook the newspaper under my nose, an ad in the employment section encircled and underlined boldly in frenetic slashes of blue ink. To this day, I can still close my eyes and see what sent a cold spike of fear through my heart that night: a help wanted ad for Garbageman.

My mom had just called me out.

"DO IT! DOOOO IT!!!" she cackled with evil glee, her hands clapping with sadistic joy.
This was her moment, and she would not be denied. After twenty years of my stock smart-assed reply to her every inquiry concerning my career plans, my day of reckoning had arrived. My brother, traitorous bastard that he is, had conveniently joined the Army and gotten himself stationed in Kentucky two years earlier, leaving me to face the music alone. I was outgunned, outnumbered, scrawny and half-drunk, staring into the eyes of a woman who wanted JUSTICE.
It was go time.

"All right, Mom, I'll do it."


I know this is a pretty Prince Valiant thing to do, but I'm going to have to continue this in a later post. I'll describe every gruesome detail of my ride on the smelly beast, but for now I have to do some family maintenance.

Next: You're going to EAT that?!



Monday, October 06, 2003
 
Is it Possible?

Did someone say something decent about Louisiana politics? Unbelieveable, but true. In THIS POST, Kim du Toit, Professor Emeritus of All Things That Go Bang, has some kind words to say about Bobby Jindal, Louisiana's Republican candidate for Governor, now headed for a November runoff with Kathleen Blanco, a Cajun democrat from Lafayette, the heart of Acadiana.

Jindal is the son of Indian immigrants, born in Baton Rouge and has quite an impressive resume'. At only thirty-two years old, he has been president of the Louisiana State University system, Secretary of the Louisiana Department of Health and Hospitals, and served as a health policy adviser to George W. Bush. He is anti-abortion, anti-welfare, anti-liberal, anti-tax, anti-Hollywood, pro-gun ownership, has never held public office AND I FUCKING LOVE THIS GUY! He plays radio spots where he outlines what he believes, how it contrasts with liberal values (or lack thereof) and lays it out clear: I'm not all things to all people. If you want me to change my views to get votes, I'm not your guy. He's a troubleshooter, a problem-solver.

Kathleen Blanco, on the other hand, is part of the fucking problem. She's been an employee in the whorehouse that is Louisiana politics since 1984. If that isn't a damning enough statement, she's also a Louisiana Democrat, with all the stereotypical backwoods bumblefuck Deep South corrupt behavior that the title implies. When I think of Louisiana Democrats, I think of Colonel Sanders' body with Foghorn Leghorn's voice and Bill Clinton's committment to the institution of marriage. Kinda the good ol' boy shaking your hand while leaning over to kiss your baby and sneaking his other hand around to cup your wife's ass.

So they got a woman this time - big whoop. The fact that she's a fellow Cajun makes not one iota of difference. I want someone who can fix this shithole - I love Louisiana, but I won't stay here forever if our leaders' idea of economic stimulus is to open more casinos while raising my taxes.

I agree with Kim - Jindal is an impressive young man with an extremely bright future. If he does a good job as governor (while waiting to be old enough to run for President), I'd probably vote for him too, assuming he got the nomination. I was proud to throw the switch for him last Saturday, and I look forward to doing it again this November.

Good luck, Bobby!



Friday, October 03, 2003
 
The PuppetMaster Draws Near

I've been in a flurry of activity lately getting prepared for the birth of my first child. The good news is, I think we're almost ready.

Nursery painted: check
Crib assembled: check
Diaper supply for first week: check
Bag for hospital stay packed: check
Mattress for crib: SHIT!

I swear, I look down into the crib and look at the exposed metal wires and springs and I can't help thinking about the second Rambo movie when the Russians had Stallone strapped to the electrified box spring and carved a gouge in his cheek with the red-hot knife, eliciting the immediate distribution of whoop-ass to all and sundry bad guys. I'd mention this to my wife, but she'd just roll her eyes and shake her head at me. You're the only one who understands, Anonymous Reader.

Anyway, I have some good story ideas lined up when I get a moment, such as:

How Jeff spent one day as a Garbageman! (no kidding!)

What Jeff is asking Santa for Christmas!

How This Asshelmet called Rush Limbaugh a racist, got disagreed with by 98% of her readership, then told me to bite her!

Whether or not the PuppetMaster is a boy or a girl, and what will we name it?! (I suggested Lokianoquintihal Obstreporous. My wife made that face again.)

Stay tuned.