Wankers of the Week: Free Pussy (Riot)!

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Crappy weekend, everyone! Well, how about them Russkies? Imprisoning three harmless punk rockers for wearing neon tights and balaclavas, singing a song critical of ol’ Pooty-Poot and his nekkid man-boobs, and doing the can-can in a cathedral? It’s almost like Soviet times all over again. Only this time, it’s the church persecuting the Bolsheviks. Too bad all the Czars are dead, else the circle would be complete. Everything old is new again, and some things never change. Including the following, several of whom you are surely not seeing here for the first time:

1. Karen Fucking Handel. You know that mean little kid who, as soon as the bullied victims hit back, screams the loudest, so that every adult in earshot thinks that the victim is to blame? This woman was that mean kid. And by the sounds of the petulant title of her parvulum opus, she never grew the fuck up. Here’s hoping that paper turd hits the remainder tables fast and hard.

2. DeWitt R. Fucking Thomas. Since when is racism a religious freedom? Even in Texas, where stupid lies as thick on the ground as meadowmuffins and crazy is as much a part of the landscape as derelict oil wells (if not more so), that excuse won’t fly. And no, you won’t catch the Black just because some “negroidal” dude packed your groceries. It’s not a fucking germ, dumbass.

3. Pamela Fucking Geller. On the other hand, bigotry IS a disease. And this fucking idiotess is doing her best to make sure San Francisco catches it.

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4. Mitt Fucking Romney. Hey everybody, he loves pussy! Ha ha, just kidding. Mittens is anti-choice, and so’s his brand-spanking-new running mate. (Girl cooties — ewwwww.) So, ladies, you don’t have to lock down your genitalia. Your mangoes, on the other hand…

5. Ramesh Fucking Ponnuru. You’re not a working woman. STFU about their so-called “choosing” to earn less. And don’t give me that guff about women not wanting (or worse, not being SUPPOSED to want) equality. Dude, you get paid extra just for having a penis and requiring fewer wardrobe options. You are the beneficiary of institutional sexism, which DOES exist regardless of what stupid shit you say (and, I suspect, BECAUSE of the stupid shit you are PAID by the big whore media to say). Put a fucking dull-colored sock in it already!

6. George Fucking Boedecker. When you’re drunk off your ass at the side of the road and the cops come to bust you, yeah, sure, go ahead and try to talk your way out of it. Forget about that “right to remain silent” thing, as it doesn’t apply to millionaires. But don’t try blaming Taylor Swift, she’s practically shacked up with a Kennedy and you’re old enough to be her father. (Also, your shoes are uglier than shit.)

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7. United Fucking Airlines. Yes, the entire company. Why? Well, if you’ve ever seen The Corporation, you’ll know that US law regards corporations as “persons”. And that the personality of a typical large US corporation, based on its deeds, is that of a psychopath. So, extrapolating from this latest caper, in which an unaccompanied minor was treated with gross irresponsibility, we can logically infer that United Fucking Airlines, which is already known for breaking guitars and kicking dogs, is a really, REALLY massive fucking wanker.

8. Bryan Fucking Fischer. Not only does he advocate kidnapping children of gay parents (to “save” them), he also advocates that kidnappers illegally flee the country. That’s aiding and abetting a crime, as well as vicious hate and bigotry. It’s only a matter of time now before this one is caught buggering a boy.

9. Dave Fucking Mustaine. The only thing dumber than a “massive federal conspiracy” theory about a gun nut’s murderous rampage is the sort of person who believes in such things. Case in point: Homophobe, Santorum endorser, conspiracy whackjob, and douchey disgrace to metalheads everywhere, Dave Fucking Mustaine.

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10. Cliff Fucking Stearns. Oh, delicious irony: the Religious Reich’s point man got elbowed aside by a teabagger who’s even more fucking insane. I would feel sorry for him (and sorrier still for the stupid-ass voters in Florida who elected the teabag), but he’s the guy who started the whole Planned Parenthood/Susan B. Komen Foundation dominoes rolling. And now that he’s dunzo, that “investigation” will likely stall. So I’ll just say So long, Cliff, and don’t let the door hit you where your mama done split you!

11. Barry Fucking Cooper. Endangered animals and global warming are figments of the imagination, but “rich hippies” who ruined Alberta’s big crapitalistic dreams are real? So says this Cowgary poli-sci prof, who apparently indulges in some mighty fine figments of his own. Like, for example, the idea that a tar-sand pipeline through the rockies wouldn’t leak and poison every fucking thing downstream, thus leaving all of BC — “rich hippies” and otherwise — unfit for any life form, real (like the endangered animals) or imaginary (like capitalists who actually give a fuck).

12. Donald Fucking Trump. Rich bitch, please. Even the Repugs are groaning at your latest — and LAMEST — stunt. Go the fuck away!

13. Stephen Fucking Baldwin. And in other lame-stunt news, the lamest Baldwin Brother is talking out of both sides of his mouth. AGAIN. But hey, he’s right about one thing: politics IS a nasty business. Thanks in no small part to the likes of him, of course.

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14. Pat Fucking Robertson. This week, Patwa doesn’t want to see disadvantaged kids adopted, because they’ll grow up “weird” (so he says). And this is a reflection on their adopters HOW? I’d say such sentiments are more of a reflection on Patwa…and not a good one, either. Some man of God HE turned out to be!

15. Tony Fucking Perkins. How best to deflect criticism of your hatemongering? Point the finger at the critics and call THEM hatemongers, killers, etc. Yeah, that’ll work.

16. Andrew Fucking Shirvell. He stalked and hounded a gay man on his hate-filled blog, photoshopping pictures of him next to a Nazi swastika (pot, say hi to kettle!), calling him “too radical” for putting forward a very un-radical proposal (gender-neutral student housing), and now he claims he “had no hate” in his heart? Yeah, he’s about as sincere as a three-dollar bill.

17. John Fucking Boehner. It’s been a while since I’ve listed the orange-skinned Weeper of the House. But this week, Boner finally managed to worm his way back into my bad books by praising Paul Fucking Ryan with faint damns. Then he promptly started blubbering, and big orange tears started to roll down his cheddar-colored cheeks.

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18. And speaking of Paul Fucking Ryan, how do you like Mittens’ new running mate? I think they go together just fine…both being flipflopping hypocrites to the fucking max. PS: Ha, ha. PPS: And if you’re gonna go around screwing seniors, leave your mother out of it.

19. Rick Fucking Santorum. Meanwhile, in the Land of Failed Presidential Precandidates, a sulky, pouty little ne’er-do-well, whose name is now synonymous with the ooze that follows anal sex, has crowned himself pope and declared the practice of holding private insurers responsible for full coverage to be a sin. The habemus novem papem signal, in his case, is not black smoke or white from the Vatican chimney, but just a big gust of hot sticky air emanating from his quivering lips.

20. Vic Fucking Toews. Some Minister of Public Safety he is, if he can’t — or rather, won’t — attend a forum on the matter, simply because it’s being held by unions. Public safety clearly takes a backseat to right-wing ideology where Icky Vic is concerned. And if he’s appointed judge in Saskatchewan, as some anticipate, don’t anyone look for real justice from him. He wouldn’t know it if it leapt up and bit him on his adulterous crotch.

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21. Tim Fucking Hudak. Elsewhere in union-busting and ideological stupidity, the unprogressive Conservative leader of Ontario is trying to “modernize” the workplace…by scrapping whatever benefits unionized workers worked hard to give us all, early in the modern era. Thus decimating the middle class, and sweeping us all back to the Gilded Age of Robber Barons. With Labor Day just around the corner (a holiday, incidentally, first celebrated right here in Ontario!), the irony of all that naturally escapes him. As does the fact that, as the son of two teachers, he is a direct beneficiary of union-scale wages. Ooooooooo, more irony!

22. Alice Fucking Cooper. Yes, this makes two metalheads in this week’s wankapedia. The genre is clearly on the decline when these aging (and apparently, senile) guys are all getting born-again, supporting Dubya (WTF???) and joining the Teabagger Party. Kiddies, stay away from drugs; do you need more graphic evidence that they rot your brain over time? And of all the people to NOT take job-search advice from, this one surely takes the biscuit. Hey Stoopid, don’t write any more op-eds. For EVER.

23. Joshua Fucking Treviño. Remember the Gaza Flotilla? Remember the vile death threats levelled by Israel and its supporters against those peace activists, many of whom happened to be Jewish? I do, like it was yesterday, because I got pro-IDF assholes on here wishing ME death, too. But apparently some fucking idiot at the Fucking UK Guardian does not, because they hired this vile little troll who openly tweeted that it was all right by him if innocent people got killed. No doubt in an effort to look more pro-something. Pro-what? Your guess is as good as mine. This guy is a slimy opportunist. He’s not pro-anything, except maybe pro-MURDER.

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24. Fucking NBC. First they fucked up the Olympics coverage (cutting out a terrific, surreal Kate Bush song from the closing ceremonies? Unforgivable!) Now, they’re planning to air a “reality” show glorifying war, and showing celebrities (or whatever passes for such nowadays, which, believe me, is not saying much) “earning stripes” playing army. At this rate, the network will be no better than FUX Snooze, and it’s already only slightly better at the best of times. Is this a race to the bottom, or what?

25. Coley Fucking Mitchell. Srsly, dude, you’re just lucky none of those monkeys you got naked and drunk with decided to mistake your dick for a banana.

26. Phill Fucking Kline. This is the way the crusade against Planned Parenthood (and other abortion providers in Kansas) ends: Not with a bang, but a whimper. The fact that it began in the first place is the wank; even if the case was unwinnable, Smear Job Accomplished!

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And finally, to the Fucking Russian Orthodox Church. First Pussy Riot are “hooligans”, and now that three of them have been sentenced to two years’ imprisonment, they’re forgiven? My, how Christian of you. I guess that if they got sent to Siberia and died of cold and hunger there, they’d be instant martyrs. Whatever happened to turning the other fucking cheek? Oh yeah, that’s what Jesus said to do. But that’s not what the Czar’s spiritual shock troops do, is it? Nooooo, it isn’t. This is the same Orthodox band of brigands who gave the world a very interesting Russian word: POGROM. And now that you’ve run out of Jews to persecute in Russia, you’ve set your sights on a bunch of harmless women who dare to exercise a little glasnost without your authorization? Let it never be said that Stalin truly died. Seems to me that he’s been reborn…in the shape of some patriarchs who will never accept gender equality, freedom of speech, or anything smacking too strongly of real reform. It’s almost enough to make one wish that Russia would try communism again…and this time, for realz.

Good night, and get fucked!

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Festive Left Friday Blogging: In which one fine-ass dude disses a smarmy git

This is Tom Morello. Like Barack Obama, he’s part Kenyan. Unlike him, he’s a bona-fide, actual Marxist. And he takes hilarious exception to a certain vice-presidential candidate who is clearly missing something in the sense-of-irony department:

I wonder what Ryan’s favorite Rage song is? Is it the one where we condemn the genocide of Native Americans? The one lambasting American imperialism? Our cover of “Fuck the Police”? Or is it the one where we call on the people to seize the means of production? So many excellent choices to jam out to at Young Republican meetings!

Don’t mistake me, I clearly see that Ryan has a whole lotta “rage” in him: A rage against women, a rage against immigrants, a rage against workers, a rage against gays, a rage against the poor, a rage against the environment. Basically the only thing he’s not raging against is the privileged elite he’s groveling in front of for campaign contributions.

There you have it, folks. Quote of the day. And a gentle reminder to pay attention to those lyric sheets that come with your CDs.

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Ahem.

Notice anything here?

That’s right, Your Humble Scribe is now a published translator, as well as author, poet, blogger, and general nogoodnik. And my genial publisher, Richard Grabman, is looking for people to review this work. We’re hoping to get people from all over the world interested in Lupita’s memoir, and reviews into major publications all across the globe. E-mail him for further details.

Here’s the backstory on the book (and my small role in it), from Richard’s own blog, The Mex Files.

And for those looking to buy the book, here’s where to get it: Amazon.ca, Amazon.com, and IPG. The last link also deals in e-books.

Happy reading!

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Quotable: Plato on apathy

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Clip ‘n’ Save: Nope, no government help here!

Rugged Individualism FTW.

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Alvaro Uribe: “Not enough time” to be a war criminal

I have a terrible confession to make: After Colombia’s bombing attack on Ecuador in March 2008, I had this indelible impression of El Narco, Alvaro Uribe, as a nasty little hot-headed shit who had no respect for national boundaries, and who was recklessly willing to go to war against his own neighbors. This report from La Radio del Sur doesn’t exactly do much to dispel that impression:

Former Colombian president Alvaro Uribe admitted on Monday that during his term in office (2002-2010), he had intentions of perpetrating a military operation in Venezuela, supposedly against guerrilla encampments, but he didn’t do it “for lack of time”.

During a speech in the Autonomous Latin American University in Medellín, the former president recalled that due to denunciations of a supposed presence of insurgents in Venezuela, he had thought of a military strike against the neighboring country.

“We obtained evidence of guerrilla camps in Venezuela. We had three options. Denounce them, stay quiet, or the third option, to stage a military operation in Venezuela. I didn’t have enough time,” said Uribe.

Uribe also said that he told the president-elect, Juan Manuel Santos, about the appearance of these new “proofs” of guerrilla encampments in Venezuela, but he did not say whether or not Santos supported intervention.

“Santos knew of the presence of FARC rebel camps in Venezuela,” Uribe commented.

Following the denunciations of Uribe over the presence of insurgents in the neighboring country in 2010, the government of Venezuela countered that this was not proven, and broke off diplomatic relations with Colombia, considering the allegation to be defamatory.

Just days after the government of Juan Manuel Santos took office, Colombia and Venezuela re-established bilateral relations.

This Monday, the current president of Colombia, Juan Manuel Santos, assured that his Venezuelan counterpart, Hugo Chávez, ordered the mobilization of two army brigades against FARC insurgents, who allegedly killed twelve Colombian soldiers along the border.

In a speech from the Bogotá military airport of El Dorado, Santos asserted that Chávez had reassured him that he would not tolerate the presence of guerrillas in Venezuelan territory, and that he would continue to advocate for the security and defence of the entire region.

Translation mine.

Astute readers of this blog will note that about two years elapsed between the bombing of Ecuador over a FARC encampment on its soil, and El Narco’s stated intention of bombing Venezuela for similar reasons. Personally, I think it’s all a crock, this “no time” excuse. He had two whole years to bomb Venezuela; he was probably planning to do it around the same time as he bombed Ecuador. The disgrace of broken relations with not one, but TWO crucial neighbors was what stopped him, not the so-called lack of time. (Remember, Rafael Correa got pretty righteously indignant over this violation of national sovereignty, too. And Chavecito backed him up, as did most of South America. There was even a chant that was popular at the time: “Uribe, gonorrhea/The people are with Correa!” I’m told it was also a big thing in Colombia, of all places.)

Recall, too, that one of Chavecito’s first postings, as a young Venezuelan army officer, was to the Colombian border region, where his job was to hold off guerrilla incursions from you-know-where. He actually saw people murdered during that time, humble Venezuelan peasant farmers who had nothing to do with any insurgency, but who got caught in the crossfire between the Colombian army and the rebels. So he’s not exactly eager to harbor the FARC on his turf, however much ideological sympathy he might hold.

And if El Narco had had the common courtesy to ASK that Rodrigo Granda be handed over, rather than just sending Colombian agents in to stage a kidnapping raid, Chavecito might well have co-operated, and there wouldn’t have been a diplomatic rupture then, either.

But nooooooo, El Narco had no respect for Venezuelan sovereignty. He never had any, and he still has none. As is quite obvious in his very telling silence about the other side of the sordid equation, namely Colombian paramilitary mercenaries on Venezuelan soil, working as hired assassins for the Venezuelan opposition. They always seem to get more active when there’s an election in the offing.

And as luck would have it, there’s another one coming up in October — a presidential one, no less! And guess who’s leading by a wide margin in the polls. Psychic Swami Binananda predicts that we’ll be hearing a lot more frothings from El Narco about an alleged FARC presence (unproven, of course) in Venezuela, and an equally loud silence about his own AUC compadres and their illicit presence in that same country.

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Music for a Sunday: A dead-end world

For those suffering from post-Olympic hangovers (or just plain fatigue), a slice of a less glammed-up, more believable London:

Just you wait till I get YOU home.

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Wankers of the Week: LollapaLOSERS

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Crappy weekend, everyone! Well, the Olympics are just about over, but mega-music-festival season is revving into high gear. And if all that bores you, maybe you should just be thankful that you’re not being “entertained” by any of the following:

1. Liz Fucking Trotta. Jeez, Ms. Twatta — if you love Mittens so much, why don’t you marry him? Oh yeah…he already has a wife. Who is apparently just as big of a twit as you. But she’s a much richer twit, onaccounta she got there first. And she got there first because she was already a rich bitch to begin with. Her attitude is pure “Let them eat cake”. So, you’re envious…and you’re projecting your envy on all those other women journalists, who all happen to do better work than you? Makes sense. I seem to recall you used to be somebody before you started working for FUX.

2. Pat Fucking Robertson. Uh, Patwa? Sikhs aren’t atheists, and they didn’t get shot because they “hate God”. And the last time I looked, most of these US neo-Nazi skins who want to kill anyone who’s not one of them were not atheists, either. They’re lousy fucking humanity-hating fake Christians, like YOU. And your opportunism is frankly fucking disgusting.

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3. Michael Fucking Leisner. Oh, if only ALL bigots could set fire to themselves while engaging in demonstrations of their bigotry. And, not to cast aspersions or anything, but…oh, what the hell. He makes my gaydar go boop boop boop! Which just makes his whole demonstration kind of a “Bitch, PLEASE” moment, don’tcha think?

4. Ashley Fucking Gill-Webb. Nothing you say, do, or toss can stop the World’s Fastest Man from winning his race AND setting a new world record, you drunken fucking tosser. Also, how do you like getting beaten up by a Dutch lady judoka?

5. Kanye Fucking West. Look, I get it that in some circles, bitch = girlfriend. (Or fucktoy.) But in the case of Kim Fucking Kardashian, I think it’s better to stick with the original derogatory meaning. Either way, is that vain, empty-skulled twit worth a song, even one so ineptly titled? Given the subject matter, I think it’s safe to say that said song will suck.

6. The Fucking Phelps KKKlan. Yes, all of them. Why?

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That’s why. They’re praising God for “sending” a fucking neo-Nazi to kill Sikhs, people. I think they’ve pretty much let us know that they consider Adolf Hitler to be the Second Coming of Christ. Also, they are assholes, pure and simple.

7. John Fucking Schnatter. Oh great, another crap-food chain to boycott — Papa John’s Pizza. Add them to Domino’s and Chick-fil-A. They’re planning to pass on Obamacare costs to the consumer to protect their fucking shareholders, so go on, people, and don’t eat pizza. Make those fucking shareholders SCREAM!

8. Sarah Fucking Palin. You are NOT Supergirl. In fact, you’re not a super-anything, except maybe a super-idiotess. As evidenced by those tackissimo shoes.

9. Conrad Fucking Slimak. Trying to steal an 11-year-old girl’s beachball at Lollapalooza, and then punching her when she won’t hand it over? Dude has a great future as a right-wing politician, is all I can say.

10. Mitt Fucking Romney. Yo, Mittens? It’s SIKH, not “sheikh”. And learn to apologize for your mistakes, you look like a fucking autocrat already. And at least as stupid as Dubya, if not more so. PS: Covering up the blood on your hands won’t make it go away, either. PPS: Ha, ha.

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11. Jim Fucking Roddey. Obama supporters are not “retarded”. But your calling them that, even in unfunny “jest”? Mentally challenged, to say the least. Maybe YOU should start putting a disabled sticker on your minivan, old man.

12. Walt Fucking Wawra. Lemme see if I got this straight: You wanted to pull a gun on two guys (turns out they were promoters) just because they asked you if you’d been to the Calgary Stampede yet? And you were miffed because you couldn’t bring your gun (and your moronic gun culture) into Canada? Oh, you poor baby. Let me hand you a whole box of Kleenex. Stay the fuck out of our country from now on, ‘kay?

13. and 14. Sheldon Fucking Adelson and Alan Fucking Dershowitz. The former for being a sue-happy yutz, and the latter for being a waaaaambulance-chaser. And I wouldn’t put it past either of them to be living off the avails of prostitution in Macau.

15. Bryan Fucking Fischer. Hardly a week goes by that he doesn’t wank, but this week it’s a real doozer. Seriously talking about bducting children of gay parents to “save” them from all that love and excellent child-rearing, just in the name of furthering a crap ideology based on superstition, hate and lies? And calling it an “Underground Railroad”? I hope some descendant of escaped slaves bitch-slaps him straight into the next century for that.

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16. Joe Fucking Walsh. There goes the neighborhood — Joey-boy wanked again. He really needs to get a life himself. And stop being such a bigoted, racist little piece of shit. Otherwise, his career will hit the Rocky Mountain Way.

17. Larry Fucking Craig. That “wide stance” just keeps getting wider. Now the closet case is claiming that his airport bathroom come-ons were “official business”? More like disturbing the other guy who was just minding his own business. And is anyone surprised that Wide Stance Larry misspent over $200,000 in campaign money on his legal defence for that, too? No? All righty then. Toilet cruising is now Official Business, y’all.

18. Bobby Fucking Jindal. Here’s an idea unlikely to be endorsed or pursued by the governor of Louisiana: Spending public school money on public schools that teach actual facts and don’t discriminate, instead of wack-ass charter schools that teach bunkum and force girls to get pregnancy tests (and expel them if the test result shows positive).

19. William Fucking Jenkins. Worst son in the world? Yeah, I’d say anyone who rubs freshly laid dog shit in his own mother’s face just for not giving him vodka is a strong candidate for the title.

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20. Marc Fucking Smirnoff. Speaking of vodka, this former magazine-editin’ dude’s name is full of it…and apparently, so’s his brain. Sexually harassing an intern (who is still in her teens, ahem, and 30 years his junior!) and then claiming it was all “nonsexual” or “acceptable to her in that moment” and expecting others to believe it? You’d have to be drunk off your fucking ass.

21. Grover Fucking Norquist. Well, at least Bathtub Boy is honest about why the teabags chose Mittens. They want a puppet who will rubber-stamp their “already prepared” legislation. Is there any better reason NOT to vote for him than that?

22. Michael Fucking Coren. Once again, Canada’s Oldest Neo-Nazi Skinhead shows his style and wit and class…by trashing Jack Layton, who can’t defend himself onaccounta he’s been dead for a year. And projecting his own mediocrities onto him. Charming!

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And finally, to Larry Fucking Klayman’s little sockpuppet on the tweeter, who called me an “anti-human rights activist”. Well, you know what they say…to be damned by the devil is to be truly blessed. And goddamn it, I’m blessed, all right. Blessed with the sense to know a good president (Chavecito) when I see one, and also a shitty shyster who never misses an opportunity to make an ass of himself. Like, oh, say, Larry Fucking Klayman, about whom nobody would give a damn if nobody made fun of him. (You’re welcome, Larry! And please, keep wanking!)

Good night, and get fucked!

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Festive Left Friday Blogging: All out on the campaign trail in Venezuela

Look who decided to show up and show some support for Chavecito in the run-up to the October presidential election:

Big-league baseballer Magglio Ordóñez and Formula 1 racer Pastor Maldonado turned out on the ‘Cito’s side. Sport is just one of the many things that have been on the up-and-up in the land of Bolívar since the revolutionary president was first elected in ’98.

And speaking of sports, I’d be remiss if I didn’t post this:

Venezuelan fencing champion Rubén Limardo got special honors from his president in addition to his Olympic gold medal: a tricolor sash and a replica of Bolívar’s sword. A treasure the epée virtuoso is sure to cherish!

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Why Amanda Craig should be ashamed

Maeve Binchy, sadly missed by your humble scribe, who has several of her lovely, warm-hearted books on her own shelf.

Dear Amanda Craig:

A few days ago, I heard (via Jezebel) that you decided to pick on a recently deceased (and much better known and loved) sister novelist.

I was a bit surprised to hear that Maeve Binchy, whom I’ve been reading with pleasure since the late 1980s, had no children; seeing as she hailed from oh-so-Catholic Ireland, where childbearing is all but compulsory for women (unless you’re a nun, or the Blessed Virgin Mary sees fit to spare you the blessings), it was a little unexpected. Not the usual course of an Irish woman’s life, but not something that anybody had the right to judge her on, either. But you went and judged her for it anyway.

And worse, you decided to do it when Maeve Binchy’s body was barely cold, and she was no longer able to defend herself against the sly, unspoken insinuations that she was selfish and privileged, because look at the life she chose to lead!

Of course, you completely missed the irony of that, as evidenced here:

All working mothers are familiar with the double toll of raising a child while earning a living, and when you consider that only a handful of published authors can survive economically purely by writing, there is the added stress of trying to write creatively while doing another job too. Some do as P.D. James, a mother of two, did, rising at 5am to write for an hour before going to the office. Most create their books in what Helen Simpson calls “the interstices of our lives”.

This is news? FYI, Amanda, all women writers do this — mothers and nulliparae alike. I, who am child-free by happy choice, do this. (In fact, I’m writing this very entry that way, right now!) As did Madeleine L’Engle and Ursula K. Le Guin, both of whom wrote excellently and with great intellectual clarity in spite of the constant demands of children and husbands on their time and brain cells. And the same is also true, significantly, of all my unchilded favorites from university English Lit (the Brontë sisters, George Eliot, Virginia Woolf, et al). ALL WOMEN AUTHORS DO THIS, BECAUSE THE WORLD EXPECTS WOMEN TO FIT THEIR LIVES AROUND OTHERS. WOMEN ARE NEVER ALLOWED TO BE KNOWN ONLY FOR THEIR BRAINCHILDREN, AS MEN ARE. (Sorry for shouting, but it had to be said at full volume.)

And that’s not the only irony I see. How about this?

All novelists who have had children are acutely aware that the very best of our sex — Jane Austen, George Eliot, the Brontës, Virginia Woolf ­— were childless. We all worry about doing two things badly rather than one thing well. Some novelist mothers, such as Antonia White, have been denounced as monsters of indifference by their children. I myself have a stern rule about not being interrupted when writing unless a child has broken a leg — but it isn’t, of course, obeyed. Even if you wanted to, you can’t ignore screams of pain, rage and misery.

Amanda, what makes you think that women writers without children are somehow magically spared those things? Do you seriously think children are the only impediments and distractions a woman writer could have? Take a closer look at the childless authors you mentioned, and you will see how wrong you are.

Jane Austen seems to be characterized most often, thanks to the assiduous efforts of her family (who burned all her letters) as “good quiet Jane”. If there is any truth in this description, it would allude to the fact that she was a dutiful daughter, and any other aspect of her was hushed up once she was in her grave. And her brother George was mentally ill, disabled, and prone to fits; that much (or little) is known about her life, as is the fact that both she and her only sister, Cassandra, remained unmarried. What hidden world of private anguish lies behind that meagre, yet poignant set of facts? Surely something that makes the light-hearted satirical tone of Austen’s novels seem far less frivolous in retrospect.

The Brontë sisters had to cope with the drunken shamblings of their brother Branwell, the “genius” of the family (by their father’s lights), who sadly fell far short of his sisters from whom nothing artistic was expected (because they were girls, naturally). Charlotte Brontë, after penning such masterpieces as Jane Eyre and Villette, married in her thirties and died pregnant. She was known in life as “the motherly friend and guardian of her younger sisters”, whom she helped to raise after their mother died. Her sister Emily, of Wuthering Heights fame, died of tuberculosis, as did their sister Anne (who was also a novelist), and two other sisters who died in childhood; Charlotte had to write an introduction to the posthumously published second edition of the novel on Emily’s behalf. Do you think that was not a misery for her? Do you think there was no pain or rage in the Haworth parsonage where the sisters grew up in the shadow of their lionized brother, who despite a reasonable talent for painting died an “opium eater”? If you do, Amanda, you sorely lack in the best quality of any writer, namely imagination. (Never to speak of the most basic human trait in the writer’s toolbox, empathy.)

As for George Eliot, she had to take a masculine pen name (the first name courtesy of her unhappily married lover of 20-odd years, George Henry Lewes), in order to be taken seriously as an author. She was not conventionally pretty, and so not expected to have much in the way of marriage prospects. She got a good education instead, only to have to interrupt it at 16, when her mother died and she was needed at home. She kept house for her father until he died; she was then 30 years old. Another dutiful daughter, in other words. When she began to question her religious faith, he had threatened to throw her out of the house. She backed off and went on attending church, doubtless very much against her private wishes. She led a conventional life until she could afford to break free even a little bit. Again: What private anguish attended her through all this and the arch-Victorian social disapproval she reaped once her novels had made her famous?

And Virginia Woolf? Well, she was sexually molested by her own half-brother. Another dutiful daughter, violated. And her own family, prominent in intellectual circles (her father was Sir Leslie Stephen), knew but did not help her. She married fellow writer Leonard Woolf, but remained childless for fairly obvious reasons, and her depression eventually led to her suicide by drowning. She put stones in her pockets before she walked into the River Ouse, not meaning to walk out alive. (Even in death she evinces the expected feminine selflessness; her suicide note to Leonard is a study in it.) But none of this stopped her writing, with great insight and an innovative stream-of-consicousness prose stlye, a number of convincing characters, including her most famous, Clarissa Dallowaya mother.

All these women suffered immeasurably. They, too, wrote in the interstices of those nasty, brutish (and, too often, short) lives. They sacrificed themselves for others, and paid terrible prices on both hands. They got scant respect as writers, and as women. They managed to make great literature, better than that of many men, even when denied an education equal to their brothers’. And yet you, Amanda Craig, would have us believe that they were somehow lesser writers — not only lesser than you, but lesser than men, fathers or not — just because they were not mothers?

There is not an English professor alive who would dare to insinuate that a single one of these distinguished female authors somehow lacked depth and insight simply because she failed to squeeze out a sprog or two (or a dozen). Motherhood = Grand Insight Into the Human Condition? The very premise is laughable. And yet you went there, no doubt thinking yourself very bold and innovative to say this:

Maeve Binchy’s warmth and interest in other people included their families, but I can’t help but feel that her detailed portraits of ordinary life might not have been so predicated on the relationships between men and women had she had a child. “We’re nothing if we’re not loved,” she said in an interview. “When you meet somebody who is more important to you than yourself, that has to be the most important thing in life, really.”

No matter what your experience of adult love, there is nothing as strong as the bond between a mother and a child. One reason why so many contemporary women writers have focused on this is that it is new territory, precisely because the great female writers of the past had not experienced it.

[…]

Yet putting yourself last is one of the best things that can happen to a writer. I make no moral claims for motherhood ­— which can bring out the worst in a person, in the form of vicarious rivalry, bitchiness, envy and even mental illness — but going through the ring of fire does change you and bring about a deeper understanding of human nature.

Binchy, whose first novel was about a 20-year friendship between two women, didn’t need the experience of motherhood to write about love and friendship in a way that charmed millions. But she might have dug deeper, charming less but enlightening more, had she done so.

Well, Amanda Craig, aren’t you the smug one? You think “going through the ring of fire” really is what’s needed to have “a deeper understanding of human nature”? Plug your ears, kiddies, Auntie Bina is going to shout again: MEN DON’T GIVE BIRTH, AND YET NO ONE QUESTIONS EVEN A CHILDLESS MALE WRITER’S CLAIM TO GREATNESS. NO ONE DARES TO INSINUATE THAT A MAN COULD BE LESS OF A WRITER JUST BECAUSE HE NEVER DONATED A SPERM.

And no, Amanda, what you’re saying here is neither new nor unique, nor even insightful. One of my favorite writers is Ursula Le Guin, who happens to be successful in no fewer than three fiction genres, as well as having written a respectable number of books of poetry and nonfiction. She is also a mother of three, a grandmother now, and an award winner several times over, in several fields. She does not claim special insights owing to motherhood (although I do trust her personal knowledge of the subject, as evidenced by Takver’s birth scene in The Dispossessed). And she once wrote under the pseudonym “Mom de Plume” for a short-lived satire mag, as though to throw a barb at all the men who claim mothers can’t write, let alone much or well. Ursula K. Le Guin, writing in the “interstices” of marriage and motherhood, has more than two dozen books to her credit, all of them ranging in quality from very good to superlative. There are countless male authors who wish they could write like her, and many more who bitch about not having the time. So, Amanda, what were you saying again?

Oh yeah, you were slagging Maeve Binchy. The recently departed lady who can no longer defend herself. The one whose robust and heart-warming oeuvre lacks insight, in your eyes, just because she didn’t have children. Well, Amanda, the joke’s on you:

Of course I wanted children. Bright, gorgeous, loving children. I could almost see them. But it was not to be and 30 years ago things were very different.

Fertility drugs were not as developed and adoption was impossible after the age of 40.

So my husband and I went through the sad, disappointed bit and then decided to count the blessings that we already had and ‘get on with it’.

There would be no bleating about it being unfair, no wailing to friends about what wonderful parents we would have made.

In fact we made such a good job of it that many people believed that we were childless by choice.

That was Maeve Binchy, childless woman and woefully deficient authoress, in her own words. Imagine: she didn’t have children because she couldn’t get pregnant! And she wanted them more than anything. Without a trace of self-pity, Maeve Binchy picked herself up and went on, and became a second mother to many of her friends’ children. And she did all this in the interstices of her writing, which gives no hint that she was lacking for a goddamned thing.

This is why I said I was surprised to hear that she had no children. Because some of Maeve Binchy’s most poignant and beautifully realized characters are mothers, or women who would have been mothers if the winds of fate had blown differently, or mothers who’ve lost their children. Kit Hegarty, in Circle of Friends, loses her only son in a motorcycle accident on the day he was to start university; suddenly childless, she must make do by becoming, as Binchy herself did, a surrogate mother to other people’s almost-adult children. Reading that, you ache for her.

And I could cite so many other Binchy mothers (and almost-mothers) who make me want to cry my childless heart out in sympathy, too. Too many to mention here. But surely those women are just flukes, and not the products of a childless woman’s insight, empathy and imagination.

Maeve Binchy may not be George Eliot, and her books may never be ranked up there with those of the Brontës on university English curricula. Her prose style could never rival Virginia Woolf’s, but her capacity for thought and feeling runs deep. And it’s for those reasons that she was popular, and will be remembered for the emotional and intellectual pleasure her books continue to give, even now that she is gone.

And this English major (and child-free, and therefore deficient writer) will gladly attest that she reads and re-reads Binchy with the same pleasure and interest she felt when reading Middlemarch, Villette, and Wuthering Heights, and everything Virginia Woolf and Ursula K. Le Guin ever wrote.

I somehow doubt that anyone will ever say the same for Amanda Craig.

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