Dub Not Dubya

Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Three times a week, you could be reading things like this:

Obviously, there will be a point at which you stare into the near space after reading an item like this, blinking not at all, mouth open just a tiny bit, this creepy feeling of total elation intermixed with hardcore funky depression flooding your nervous system and battling it out and finally agreeing just to let it all lie, like a big oily lump, this raging hyperdimensional comatose thing that you are no longer part of, really, because your consciousness has said, you know, screw this, and unmoored itself and is adrift like a canoe in Jell-O, wondering when that giant pitcher of Strawberry Kool-Aid is gonna bust through the asbestos and terrify the dog and dance around the pool like some giant sugar pig, with you all like, oh my god, someone was in that costume, all those years, someone had to wear the Kool-Aid costume and I wonder where the hell s/he is now, and what sort of scotch s/he pounds to numb the savage karmic pain.

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Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Remember Bush's poem to his wife? Well, Whitehouse.org has an even better one.