TV News LIES

The billionaires who pass out the right-wing Kool-Aid are desperately trying to push the fantasy that they are going to act out Ayn Rand's novel, and leave us all to starve if we allow that Kenyan Socialist to raise their taxes by a couple of points. That's not what it's about of course.

These people will still have more money than they could ever burn if they tried. They're really afraid that the middle class will realize they've been screwed and start wanting their country back.

Sometimes we make it a lot harder on ourselves than we have to.  This is where the acronym KISS comes in handy -- Keep It Sane and Simple.

There are other variations on that acronymic theme, of course.  Many of them even contain no rough language whatever, surprisingly, when referring to our stalwart national stewards, aka members of Congress.

The point, although it seems especially prone to idly wandering away today, is easy enough to re-grasp:  Sometimes the answers for our most difficult challenges and problems are right in front of us, jumping up and down, waving like mad, trying to be seen and heard.

The loose chatter of Romneysiacs is idling upward, as the gabblers feel their Wheaties, and are feeling especially well-armed with a bad case of Sore Loseritis, made worse by the brain-disengaging disease, Secessionist Fevers, aka Separation Anxieties.

In a word, give or take some Romney-voting states, the Old South wants O-U-T.

My first impulse is to be just as reckless in return, suggesting that all ten states, and all 100,000 petitioners in this idiot cause, be given a small, hyphenated phrase in blunt reply.  (No, I was not thinking of a biological impossibility, but that would be a most excellent guess.)  I was in fact thinking of this one:  Buh-bye.

With the exception of flag officers having ego management problems, no veteran ever alive has expected to come home down a red-carpeted aisle.  Confetti, cheering crowds, and marching bands were never in the daydream, either.

But, then -- a backhanded cuff, a knee to the groin, and a karate chop to the jugular wasn't supposed to be part of the plan, either.

It's not quite what we do, and have been doing for decades, but it's figuratively close.  Of course, it gets worse than that, too.  Far, far worse.

Consider the plight of aging garments separated into heaps:  this one for fixes, this one for donation, this one for auction in Beverly Hills...

The signature dress worn by Judy Garland in the film, The Wizard of Oz, has been auctioned, bringing $480,000.  If that raises an eyebrow, consider this:  A similar dress, worn only in tests, last year brought almost twice that -- $910,000.

How are your eyebrows now?  Still holding up OK?  Think they might un-arch and relax by New Year's?  The explanation raised for the price difference is that only a couple test dresses were made, while there were at least seven made for use in the film.

No matter how much we would like it to be so, not every news story in the known world can be about the entire nation bounding off budgetary bluffs and buttes, en masse.

Every once in a while, the news universe requires a massage of more than one or two of the Four Humours.  Take the lesser known of these, Potty Humour.

Oh, I know -- but it's been a dreadful week, reeking of stale politics, dank backroom deals, and damp gym shoes from being on the constant run.  So, kick back, let your socks air out, and give vent to a short, spleeny foray -- what the hey.