From the New York Sun (I know, may as well have been written by Bill Kristol on a sheet of two-ply toilet paper and edited by the ghost of Jeanne Kirkpatrick) comes this rather lengthy op-ed from Nibras Kazimi, ominously titled (if you happen to be, say, Barack Obama) “Turnaround in Baghdad”.  Allow me to excerpt at length: There has been a flurry of press reports recently about insurgents battling

Overheard in the parking lot of the Good Times Hamburgers off exit 229 in Brighton, 12:24 PM First guy in Chevron hat: ”Two double guacamole burgers?  And large fries?  That’s like a major coronary wrapped in wax paper, big guy.” Second guy in Chevron hat: “Maybe so.  But at least when they do the autopsy they won’t find any kind of pita and alfalfa sprout wrap in my stomach.” Second

Scott Burgess seems to have mislaid a portion of his soul, and requires your help to reunite him with it. This chick’s site is excellent.  She comments here from time to time.

I found the following bit from the Weekly Standard’s “Scrapbook” on the impending end to Ken Tomlinson’s tenure as chairman of the Board of Broadcasting Governors nearly perfectly on point, so I’ll reproduce it here, with minimal interpolation: Last week, with neither hype nor headlines, Ken Tomlinson asked the president not to resubmit his name for another term as chairman of the Broadcasting Board of Governors (though he will serve

The Prince of Moon-Pies Call the slapper of bismol bards, The muscular one, and bid him lash In pasty posts their putrescent words. Let the lurkers dawdle in such dark As they are used to wear, and let them all Make comments on today’s hot topic. Let trolls once be seen for their lies: The jackass complete is the Prince of Moon-Pies. Shovel the pile of crap, Written by Sadly,

I lived for a year in Mexico City, helping establish a business down there.  Many millions of people densely packed into the plain encompassed by mountains on three sides, the only place in the country, then, where you could count, somewhat, on the American-style amenities that enable complex business transactions.  A city of refugees from the countryside, hoping to improve their lot, and often suffering worse on their arrival.  Families

When I was a boy, I wanted to be like Dash Riprock.  When I found out that he was just a made-up character, and was really Jethro, I cried and cried.

“Left along with big fat Fanny, she was such a naughty nanny, heap big woman, you made a fat boy out of me.” Whatever floats your boat, neighbor.  Anyway, I thought you were, you know, gay.  NTTAWWT. Answer ghosted here->“Fat Bottomed Girls,” Queen

I saw a TV ad today for one or another of TheraFlu’s products. This guy’s been out chopping wood—or maybe murdering the neighbors, all I know is he’s walking home with an axe over his shoulder—and he comes home a ghostly apparition because he’s been out in the cold for hours. His wife, taking pity upon him and hoping he doesn’t turn the ghost axe on her, fixes him a

. . . an observation from my father-in-law, a Pole who has lived in the English-speaking world since he was 16, who has as one of his hobbies freelance Freudian analysis: “Soccer football is typical of the Europeans, because it is all about defending the mother. This is why it has never really caught on in America, also Canada [and, I would add, Australia], where you have the American-style football,