Are you up for some Friday Neilage? You can listen to the whole album, streaming right here. (I’ve just started listening and it’s good. “Restless Consumer” is great, and “Shock and Awe” is rockin’.)
And if you can’t wait for it to come round on the album, you can find the lyrics of “Let’s Impeach the President” at (surprisingly) the Fox network.
This essay is definitely worth a look, and then you can go check up on Neil’s latest crusade.
In the first game of the Dumbass Olympics, we have two legendary teams up against one another: Australia vs. Canada. Having just dominated the Commonwealth Games, Australia probably feels like they have this sewn up, particularly when you see their lead Dumbass: a 44-year-old man who stopped to ask the police for directions to Uluru (Ayers Rock). Two problems: he was only 100 metres away from it, and he was drunk.
But not to be outdone, a man in Nova Scotia has been busted for shooting a robotic moose!
We would like to congratulate him for seeing the dangers of the coming robot uprising, but unfortunately, he thought it was a real moose. And it was a sting operation by the Natural Resources Department. And the conservation officers were standing nearby, so he was easy to nab.
Why is it illegal to shoot a robotic moose? It’s not. It’s illegal to shoot the mainland moose because it’s an endangered species.
Round one goes to Canada. The decoy may look pretty real, but the conservation officers should have been a tip-off.
Mitigating factors: The Australian was drunk, and it WAS dark when he asked for directions to Uluru.
Man misses world’s biggest rock | Popping Bullwinkle costs hunter | Moose by sirmildredpierce
Hmm, this is a very topical question. I can think of at least a couple of world leaders in this position.
Unfortunately, you’re well and truly fracked, as they say on the flight deck of the Galactica. (Which is a great TV show, but totally implausible. I mean what kind of intergalactic fleet of cyborg oppression doesn’t have plasma weapons? And I’ve yet to see a single tutu. You can’t fight a proper war without tutus.)
But as your ancient sage, Sun Tzu, said: “Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.”
So, you have to plan to win before you even THINK about going to battle. I learned this lesson the hard way when I invaded Edmontovia XIII without planning on how my army of fruit-loving, warm-weather chimps would deal with the harsh cold. Luckily, I did not commit all my forces, and I was able to retreat to fight again another day.
So that would be my advice. Regroup and fight another day. Or you could try slapping some tutus on your soldiers. That always helps morale.
It’s freakin’ brilliant!
I mean, now when I write my best-selling autobiography (I haven’t decided whether to call it I AM KANG, or APOLOGIA OF A SPACE CHIMP) I won’t have to rub shoulders with the great unwashed masses on my book tour. Of course, at the same time, they won’t be able to partake of my own pleasant and musky personal odor, but this way I’ll be able to scrawl my illegible Kang Hancock on a lot more copies.
Everybody wins! (Well, except for the fans who actually want to meet me.)
The only problem that I can foresee is if the Long Pens become self-aware, and stage a some kind of global insurrection. Atwood should probably install some kind of failsafe device so that the pens can’t start talking with nuclear weapons, convincing the nukes to infringe on our liberties. (300,000 degrees Celsius will certain prevent us from watching Desperate Housewives or Zoroastrian worship.)
If we can prevent that, then probably the worst the self-aware Long Pen will do is try to embarrass the author on the other end by writing things like: “I’m a dreary hack” and “I couldn’t find a plot if it bit me in the ass.”
Your politicians disgust me.
They pander to the lowest common denominator. They lie. They’re corrupt. They are vile, low creatures, worse than a Tregladian Bladder Beast, or even that fuzzy purple stuff you see growing all over dead things on planet Numingar — you know, the crud that smells like ammonia and makes whiny, wheezy noises whenever you try to scrape it off rotting flesh.
Would you want something like that kissing your baby?
If elected I promise to bring integrity (and the pleasing odor of primate musk) back to politics. When I say I’m going to make all of the hominids without hair on their backs second-class citizens, by Vengor’s One Weepy Ocular Appendage, I’ll make them second-class citizens! When I pass a law forcing you to kiss my hairy simian ass or face an afternoon in the Bee Gee tank, you’d better start puckering up!
So, yes. (But only because I don’t have a proper intergalactic army of mutant monkeys to make me your tyrant.)