Or, if you prefer, one of those “happy endings” my massage-aficionado friends are always going on about. At any rate, responding to this whole Klonopin-related dustup (which, let’s face it, were I embarrassed at all about taking a medication to help me with sudden onset anxiety attacks, I probably wouldn’t poke fun at myself by reproducing private conversations with my pills, something I began doing in early January), Tbogg—one-time darling of the mail-order panties set and current czar of positioning cash registers to maximize retail commerce and flow (just think of him as the Feng Shui master of bar code scanners and touch screen monitors)—weighs in with his typical drollery. I’ll save you from having to click over and just excerpt:
Trevino, who favors the Latinate name ‘Tacitus’ over the more latin ‘Treviño’ (which might get him bumped off of the Malkin’s A Very Unhinged Christmas card list), comes to the defense of Jeff Goldstein and, let’s face it, if anyone needs defending, it’s Goldstein.
This type of intro is practically phatic for Tbogg, who, as part of announcing his progressive bona fides, likes to include in nearly all of his posts some implication that any conservative not white as a nun’s ass is necessarily ashamed of his or her cultural heritage—the kind of blinkered bigotry that makes people like Tbogg parodies of themselves. For Tbogg, there are no individuals on the right. Only the rich, the oppressor class, the greedy, the bloodthirsty—and the Uncle Toms and Aunt Jemimas who desperately desire their acceptance.
Which is why the left must swarm, in orchestrated unison, to fight these odious monsters. Because they hate the lockstep groupthink of the right. Ahem.
Sure, the logic is a bit strange, but hey—they get to call Malkin a slanty-eyed cunt or suggest that Josh Trevino is a traitor to his Latin-sounding heritage and not have to worry about being branded racists. Because unlike real racists (like those who favor color-blind policy initiatives), they are just “making a point.” Which, how cool is that?
But back to tblog:
I’m not finding much in the way of anybody making fun of Jeff taking a few of Mother’s Little Helpers (how stunningly appropriate is that?)
— Because I stay home with my son, get it? Mother’s little helpers? Pay attention now: you can’t blink with this guy or you’ll miss the subtle genius of his Rickles-esque humor—
in those halcyon days of the drunk jokes , the dogporn and the latent humilation fantasies. In fact, all we ever said was that Jeff was stupid. Paste-eating stupid. One might say that we came for the stupid, but stayed for the drugs. Kind of like a Creed concert.
…Which justs goes to show you how backward-thinking some of our political opponents are: because for me, it was always about coming for the drugs, then, when the stupid started (“you know what this country needs, man? To crack the edifice of the theocratic fascist police state? Is socialized healthcare. And, like, a serious tax on Rethuglican speech”), taking my leave—usually by pretending I was going on a Cool Ranch Doritos and bean dip run.
As for this “paste-eating stupid thing”… Well, not everyone can be as blindingly brilliant as those college drop-outs who’ve mastered the ancient art of making sure a couple of shipping warehouses are stocked (but not overstocked: this being key) with Satin floral soft cup bras. And this, coupled with the fact that Tbogg took a bunch of undergrad English classes and has a passion—a PASSION!—for books? On top of his mastery of both underwear inventory and the trade secrets of cash register placement? Well, really. Is it even fair to expect anyone to compete?
But I’m digressing again, sorry. I blame it on the drugs.
Let’s continue:
I could care less about Jeff Goldstein taking medication. A lot of us are on some medication or another for whatever ails us. I personally am on 20mg’s of Lovastatin for the shame of high cholesterol and, although I only weigh 158 pounds soaking wet (which is the standard for weighing people I guess),
— I think I just squirted a little pee!—
this has kept me from scaling Mt. Everest and, believe me, there is a sherpa in Nepal who could really use that seven dollars.
Well, a couple of things. First, the best way to show that you “could care less about Jeff Goldstein taking medication” is not to post about it—in lieu of engaging in yet another passive-aggressive attack post in which it is mentioned prominently. At least, that’s the tack I might take (although admittedly, it was almost worth it, if only for that bit where you wield your rapier progressive wit to suggest that men who stay at home with their kids are, well, kind of woman-like—the irony of this coming from a guy who spent years of his life counting bra clasps and pawing through crates of chiffon peignoirs notwithstanding).
Second, that you are unable to find much in the way of people making an issue out of my taking pills gives me pause. After all, you claim to have a passion—A PASSION!—for books, so one would think you’re able to read. Which means that your inability to locate the various posts and comments on sites you likely frequent that attempt to explain my politics by tying them to insanity (the proof being that I use prescription drugs, which “explains” my frequent moods swings, my tendency to project substance abuse problems onto others, my proclivity for writing 15,000 word treatises in defense of poor comprehension, my MENTAL ILLNESS, my curious, glaring personality tics, my increasing incoherence, my violent fantasies, my genocidal ideation, and my being but a nudge away from a nervous breakdown) is either disingenuous or shows a stunning lack of comprehension.
Or maybe it’s just more of that famous nuance you folks are always allowing yourselves: nobody was really “making fun of me” for taking drugs, the argument goes. Rather, they were simply explaining how taking drugs has made me into a paste-eating idiot with a strange desire to see brown children churned into applebutter by tank treads.
Which, if one can come to develop that kind of subtle, plausible interpretive deniability simply by hanging around Unitech MSR206 Magnetic Stripe Credit Card Readers or bustiers and baby doll nighties, I might have just have to stuff the kid into daycare and go for the gold myself. Tell me, do I pick up an application through you? Or should I just pop into the GAP?
After all, I have a passion—a PASSION!—for understanding interpretative paradigms, even those that mimic the sycophants of a certain famed naked emperor…
Oh. And just because I’m a completist, I should mention here that I am a General of the 101 Fighting Keyboardists and a reknowned chickenhawk who, instead of holding a fundraiser, really should be hauling my bloodthirsty ass off to an Army recruiting center.
Because from what I understand, the Army is looking for a few good crazed, pill-popping, paste-eatingly stupid killbots.
BUT WE SUPPORT THE TROOPS!
There. I’ve just saved you the trouble of having to write your next post, T. You can thank me by putting in a good word for me with the Old Navy folks. Or dropping some money in the fundraising jar.
****
update: Another free-thinker running with the herd—though to hear him tell it, he actually invented this genius idea that the wingnuts just might be “tetched”. I eagerly await “The World Cup of Candyass” to appear in its final, annotated form, in the American Journal of Psychiatry. I’ve been looking for a reason to re-up my subscription.
By the way, I link this only so that Tbogg is certain to find it. He seems unable to locate these posts, which leads him to say embarrassing things (like, for instance, that he is unable to find much in the way of people making an issue out of my taking prescription anti-convulsives).
And I’m a giver.
Please don’t tell my Brigade Commander that I haven’t eaten any paste in weeks. I’ll make up for it by popping some pills and killin’ sumthin’…
I’m constantly amazed by the left’s ability to attack people for things they claim are either no one’s business or salutory!
The blog fights tend to get old after a while, in my opinion, as I am sure they do for you. But I must say, Jeff, that was freakin’ classic. Thanks for the laugh and please keep up the good work!
Jeff, get ahold of yourself, man. Do you realize how many electrons you just killed to denigrate a man who openly admits to admiring Mark Morford??? Dude! Mark. Morford. The man who thinks the secret to happiness is a fabulous collection of buttplugs. There’s no denigrating someone like that; you need merely to shake your head sadly and turn decently away.
He also admires the Body and Soul blog. Last (and first) time I was there, they were debating seriously whether BushCo’s unceasing bloodlust was due to his/their/its stunted sexual development.
We don’t mind you doing drugs, Jeff. IBut it pisses us off when you go all greed-heady and refuse to share!
Not cool, man. Not. Cool.
SB: kept
to himself. He was always a quiet boy, nobody expected him to freak out like that and start chopping the heads off of parking meters…
I just wish you and Ace would call off this nasty blood feud, Jeff.
Your eloquent post filled my head with images of naughty nymphs prancing around in their dainties to the sweet cha chings of cash registers.
…..just can’t decide which gave me the boner.
The real shame was that TBogg took those pills rectally for three months before consulting his doctor.
Force of habit I guess.
Jiz is high in cholesterol?
Some of the snobbier adhesive consumers apparently have their own magazine and club.
I’m an old-fashioned Elmer’s man, myself.
Damn, I just dropped my irony sensor and it broke.
Did Tbogg admit that he actually likes Morford?
And that he weighs 158lbs. wet.
Jeff, if Glenn is right and you do, in fact, crap bigger than Tbogg, then I’m impressed.
If you have a good pair of hip waders, take a stroll through the comments here for a up close look at this phenonenom.
Jiz is high in cholesterol?
I guess it is if you have a cup with every meal.
Those whole fucking thing is giving me a low-level anxiety disorder. Is the ‘Frothing Left’ (as Ace so accurately describes it) coming for me next? What have I admitted on my blog that they might use against me? What if they find out where I work and ruin my career for things I said, but that they can attribute new intentions to?
Good Lord, if anyone needs me I’ll be under the bed nibbling on a salt-lick sized tablet of whatever Goldstein’s on; sweating and mumbling incoherent daily affirmations to myself.
The Far Left, making life miserable since ‘68.
Jeff, I think Armando has a crush on you. Does he know you’re married, you bad boy?
“Who is TBogg, and why is he wearing pantyhose?
Actually, as Tacitus laments, the army won’t allow pill-popping in prospective “paste-eatingly stupid killbots”. And due to recent developments, severely autistic individuals are no longer desired, either.
http://www.oregonlive.com/printer/printer.ssf?/base/news/1146882329307730.xml&coll=7
We take you now to Ballon Juice, where it seems the ENTIRE WORLD is in an uproar after it is discovered that telecomm companies keep source/destination/time records of EVERY CALL made on their systems! A nefarious little plot we in the “bidness” like to call “billing”…
http://www.balloon-juice.com/?p=7002#comments
SB: seem
upset
You missed an opportunity here, Jeff. I have, in fact seen and even met, a black nun and several brownish ones. Now I don’t know for sure that the black and brown nuns do not have white asses…but the blacks and browns I have been priveleged to observe, so to say, in the flesh did not have white asses. Of course they were not nuns.
Anyway, I think a better descripter would be something like, “….any conservative not white as Robert Byrd’s sheet is necessarily…” That way you could have worked in the racist, bigoted, KKK bit a little more. Just saying.
I did appreciate how you worked the “ass” into the whole undergarment theme, though I was somewhat disappointed in the lack of reference to the “milky white breast”…can’t have everything.
Oh, I really don’t think it is very sporting to be shooting minnows in a tea cup with a 12 ga shotgun. I think a slingshot probably could have done the job this time.
Jeff, you said something about Teabag breaking out the funny. Where is it? I mean, you pointed it out, I think, but I still see no sign of it.
Geez, mojo, I really do admire your willingness to just jump right into the sewer that is the comments section at Cole’s site. (Or maybe not his site anymore, now that Tim Falsie is posting)
I do wish that you would decontaminate yourself before you come in though. There are tons of unhealthy diseases over there.
I surly do admire you though and I thank you for your sacrifice.
But if he didn’t post about it, you’d never know just how little he actually cared about it. See how that works?
Me neither.
First, the best way to show that you could care less about TBogg is not to post about him . . . oops.
No, it’s (to swipe shamelessly from…someone or other):
I’ve passed kidney stones bigger and sharper than you.
I’m always impressed with anyone that can piss gravel.
Come on now…that “interview” has to be a spoof – No married man (even ones that weigh less than one of Ted Kennedy’s legs) would ever say something like this – about another man!
“Kevin isn’t that tall, but he has really really blue eyes that can look deep within your soul. I saw him do it. It was cool…”
Sounds like something out of Tiger Beat! magazine from a breathless Ryan Seacrest fan…He actually saw him look deep within a soul? But not his own, apparently? How could he tell that those “really really blue” eyes were doing actual soul-gazing?
I guess Arrested Development ain’t just a cancelled TV show.
Happy ending? I thought it was referred to as a Costner nowadays?
I used to think that you responded to these types of blogs only because you were thin skinned, Jeff. Now I think I understand the real reason. It’s a comedic goldmine. Kind of like tossing a bag of marbles onto the track at the special olympics, but without the guilt.
Ah, 158 pounds. So, in a paring with Kos, Tbogg is the ‘big’ guy. Much like Markos’ constantly getting his ass kicked in high school (I know, shock), that sure explains a lot.
Are there any tough-talking lefty bloggers that could actually beat up a girl?
ODub could sit on one.
– RW – You hardly have a tendency to beat up girls when you like to secretly wear their clothes. I mean how would it look to your homies, getting your 153# wet ass kicked by a girl, while in panties and bra. (even if that idea would give your wood a little jolt)
Ok…. whats going on with the width settings….the width settings are fucking up again….GOLDSTEIN!
And, I suppose Talkleft is chiding you for responding to all of this, right?
– Oh….I think I see it….Weblog is not folding long links properly
The width settings are fine, Jeff, pay no attention to your G-man troll-hunter junior, BBH.
Nothing else to add. Jeff won the thread.
If he teams up with Steve Gilliard, she’s a goner, along with any snacks she might have possessed.
I feel really bad for her, no matter what color she is.
Wait a sec. How do the pills absorb if they’re mixed with paste?
Which leads us to the next great Really Deep Question: How many tough-talking lefty bloggers could a five-year-old take at once?
Because of the KLONOPIN!
Does the five-year-old get earplugs?
Verc,
Crusty Dem did it. I saw him.
Circle Jerk
Why is there paste in my popcorn?
Major John—Don’t you have Academy O-1’s who can eat paste for you?
We bottle our own brown children tank tread applebutter every autumn, here in Vermont. And it’s CERTIFIED ORGANIC.
TBogg, like Glenn Reynolds pointed out, Jeff – heck we all – crap bigger than him.
A tempest in a D cup.
Patton (Mrs),
Nah, you have to make O-6 before you get an aide-de-paste…
Judging from the fact that the usual busload of Black Shorts hasn’t turned up this time, it appears that Commandant Spode hasn’t even managed to find this post.
Major John  Hey, don’t ask me. I only managed O-3. It was all I could do to get the sergeant down in the supply room to admit he had the hand receipts for the paste-pots…
You know Dan, if you substiute that apple butter for the veg. oil in your chocolate cake mix, you’ll save about 400 calories and your cake will be just as fluffy and delicious. You won’t tell the difference.
Also, applebutter on a pine cone, hung from a tree can be just the nutrient boost for your wrens and nuthatches to get them through the long Vermont winters. (with all that snow, very Vermonty)
Forgot one recipe.
Take a cup of apple butter and drop it onto the carpet next to your desk and then drizzle the cup residue around your lips and then curl up next to the apple butter spot.
It’s a great “in a pinch” fake-puke that can get you home in time to watch full coverage of the Masters.
One good thing about being deployed – you can basically stock up on all the paste you need. Also, I hear the next generation of MRE will have a small packet for field consumption (probably Elmers).
Elmers is to paste like Shoney’s biscuits and gravy is to real biscuits and gravy. In fact, if they’d put Shoney’s gravy into an MRE, it might more be a closer substitute for paste.
“might more”…well, guess that last cup of coffee didn’t quite push me over the edge into liftoff.
Hey, free applebutter!
Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy:
“If you ever fall off the Sears Tower, just go real limp, because maybe you’ll look like a dummy and people will try to catch you because, hey, free dummy.”
All but one (the one at the bottom) can. They’re all girls.
Y’know, Jeff, your attempt at skewering TBogg by claiming that he used to spend a lot of time with women’s underwear was just pathetic. I mean, really, underwear? That’s the worst, most insulting job you could think of? Not, I dunno, chicken sexer? Wearing a costume and standing on a street-corner to promote some business or other? IRS agent? Prostitute?
You claim to be a highly-educated man, and you aspire to write publishable fiction*, yet you cannot come up with a better insult than “former bulk purchaser of women’s undergarments”?
* Speaking of which, sweetness, Hemingway is dead. Please please please do not try to resurrect his writing “style”; it is unpleasant to read and does you no favors whatsoever.
I see you must be a Tbogg reader, rubus.
Want to know how I guessed? Well, first, you didn’t bother to follow the links, or else you’d have known that spending a lot of time around panties was Tbogg’s old job.
Secondly, you’d know that simply dropping phrases about Hemingway’s style doesn’t impress people who actually know what his style is. You see, “sweetness,” the knock on me from your legion of fellow-travelers is that I write sentences that are too long and involved.
Whereas Hemingway? Known for his minimilism: you know, short sentences, little in the way of exposition… Perhaps you were going for Faulkner? Also dead, and has the advantage of being a southerner as well. ICK!
Christ. You are the second Tbogg reader who has shown up here and gotten everything completely ass backwards. (The last couldn’t figure out that I was an intentionalist, even though I’d linked to a series of lecture notes that started off by claiming that intentionalism was the only coherent paradigm for interpretation).
I can’t speak for Tbogg, but I imagine he’s probably embarrassed that people like you—clearly confused, yet so confident in your own ignorance—are taking up for him.
No, see, I _did_ follow the link. And it has NOTHING to do with mail-order underwear—it is (I believe) a porn site that involves women willingly being doused with various substances of varying viscosity (or willingly wallowing in mud, etc). (You can follow the link yourself, or I can mail you a screenshot if you’re skeptical.)
And having been a fairly regular reader of TBogg for quite a while now, I know a fair bit about his past, but not about that. Your “proof” is (unfortunately) faulty, at the moment, so forgive me if I’m still puzzled as to why this is supposed to be some kind of insult (or…whatever). If I had to choose between becoming a buyer of underwear for a retail chain or being evicted for non-payment of rent as well as not being able to feed myself and my family, well, I know what I’d choose. I think that most people would make the same choice. It’s certainly not like deciding to become, say, a hitman for the mafia or something equally morally suspect.
As for Hemingway/Faulkner/Whoever… I was actually referring to Brautigan Revisited, in which you mention Boone’s Farm wine (strawberry!) about four billion times per chapter. I quit reading it after the third chapter because, like Hemingway, you took something resembling a tic and tried to force the reader to accept it as decent writing. Your nonfiction is about as appealing, which is to say, not so much. Never having read Faulkner (never really been interested in him; I did willingly read Steinbeck but only liked the one short story about the snake scientist guy on Cannery Row), I can’t compare the styles.
I seriously doubt that my dislike of your (fictional) style is the result of ‘complex’ sentences that are “too long and involved”; I myself am capable of reading, parsing, and enjoying long and involved sentences (in fact, I am a fan of Bulwer-Lytton contest entries, which are often as long or longer than this sentence). I am also quite capable of enjoying works that involve ideas and concepts that are nearly completely alien to my current sphere of experience (William Gibson, Neal Stephenson, Neil Gaiman), so I’m pretty sure that my intelligence has very little bearing on it, either. I wasn’t aware that IQ tests are now based on the ability to tell various early 20th century authors apart, but then, according to you, I’m not that bright, am I?
I think that it’s simply that your style is annoying, abrasive, pompous, overbearing, and downright unpleasant and I feel no need to subject myself to it any further. Ta.
Unbelievable. The people associated with that site positively radiate stupidity, it’s how they define themselves I think. They just can’t wait for the next chance to show you what idiots they are.
rubus cordialis —
That was, without a doubt, the absolute most idiotic comment I have ever read. For instance, where did you come up with my being evicted for non-payment and not being able to support my family? There is not a shred of truth to that. Not even a thread of a shred of truth.
How low will you people sink?
As for “Brautigan Revisited”? Shocking, I know, but that mimicked the style of Richard Brautigan. Not Hemingway. Hence the title.
And there was never a “need” for you to subject yourself to my writing. Lord knows I wouldn’t voluntary subject myself to any more of your confused, rambling, defensive, self-important bullshit.
Ta, indeed.
Gaaaaaah. Okay, allow me to clarify and apologize: the bit about rent? That was a poorly-chosen analogy/bit of reasoning. See, I was referring to TBogg having rent to pay and his taking a job that you find demeaning (or whatever). That’s it. When I wrote it, I had completely forgotten about your situation (not that I know any more about it than you are moving; the reasons are beyond my ken at the moment). So, it was not about you at <b>all</i>. I do sincerely apologize for that ill-chosen batch of words.
[…] bulk purchaser of women’s undergarments.” Currently, by day, he may be a “czar of positioning cash registers to maximize retail commerce and flow.” But by night, he runs “TBogg” — a blog sufficiently popular to garner an […]
[…] Boggioni aka TBogg, “one-time darling of the mail-order panties set and current czar of positioning cash registers to maximize retail commerce and flow,” […]