President Douche

Can you believe what that dipshit, asshole, nincompoop president of ours said this time?

By using the word "appeasement" in denigrating anybody who isn't the warmonger he is, he deliberately tried to paint himself as a 21st Century Winston Churchill, the lone voice in the wilderness against Neville Chamberlain in pre-WWII England.

Well I've got a hot flash for Dubya. He is NO Winston Churchill. He never was and he never will be.

My greatest hope for our current president is that he lives out his days, peacefully and quietly, back home on the ranch in Crawford, Texas. Unloved, unremembered and consigned to the dustheap of history. And I really hope he can't raise a single dime from public appearances, either. That he will be such an enormous embarassment to politicians on both sides of the aisle that he never gets invited anywhere, nor consulted on anything.

That's my hope for him.

What a dolt. What a jerk. What a self-aggrandizing, egotistical megalomaniac!

How do the kids phrase it?

Oh, yeah. What a douche.

Best Headline Yesterday (9/11 Anniversary)

"The only thing flying around the Pentagon today is bullshit." Wonkette

There was a time, many eons ago, when I wanted nothing more in life than to be outfitted with a Hasselblad camera (2x2 format) and sent into the jungles of far-flung places by the National Geographic Society. That time was called "High School" and I don't have many fond memories of it (I doubt that few actually do), so jungles sounded like a fine idea to me. Needless to say, God and my family had other plans.

The other thing I wanted was to be a big Broadway star. That didn't happen, either.

However, I did manage to become a big fish in a small pond at the University of Delaware between the summer of 1973 and the spring of 1976. During that time I managed to finagle my way into over 19 productions, everything from big "main stage" flapdoodles all the way down to teensy shows at the Student Center cabaret named Bacchus (after the Greek God of wine and alcoholism).

The other day I posted a picture of myself in our summer theater production (1974) of "Damn Yankees."

Today, for your edification, I post the above photo from our Winter Session (U. of Del. - January, 1974) production of Mr. Oscar Wilde's "Lady Windermere's Fan," "fan", so-called because I have the hots for her.

It's a Victorian fluff of a nothing about, well, about Lady Windermere and her fan. Well, actually two fans. One is a literal fan which she inadvertently leaves at the home of a bachelor gentleman (me) who is her "secret fan."

It's loaded with high-falootin' English talk, tons of famous Wilde bon mots ("My dear, the only thing worse than being talked about is NOT being talked about!") and ravishing costumes, as evidenced above (that's me on the right) decked out in the height of 19th Century Evening Foppery.

The gentleman to the left, whose name I do recall (and he was actually quite a looker under all that makeup) shall remain anonymous. However, he is a famous chef these days somewhere in the East and you may have actually seen him on TV at one time or another. And that's the end of that. Don't bother pressing, I shan't say another word. My lips are sealed.

Besides, I don't think he's out to his mommy yet. Or anybody else.

Anyway, I hope you get some sort of perverse kick out of watching me cruise down memory lane.

G'day, Possums!