Category Archives: Satire

Prophylactic War and the Choice Doctrine. Hmmm, Could it work?

Mutual Assured Destruction (MAD) was posited on the premise that the USA and the USSR were both uncontrollably vengeful.

We’re all crazy, and if you nuke any of us we will kill everyone in your country, even if the process of retaliation and counter-retaliation makes your country and ours wastelands forever.

Of course the means of this mutual destruction was nuclear weapons on ICBMs, MIRVs and other missiles. The result was a balance of terror that maintained the Cold War from 1945 until 1991, when Reagan’s anti-ballistic missile programs to remove the terror of destruction from the American people led to the USSR bankrupting itself and falling apart.

Pre-emptive war as a doctrine is also based on the caricature of the USA as a heavily armed giant with an itchy trigger finger. In other words:

We’re all crazy, and we’re ready to invade anyone who looks at us funny without waiting for them to attack first, so if you want to try us, make my day!

The pre-emptive war doctrine is no more nuts than was MAD. It is actually less nuts. At least we’re not promising to lay waste to entire continents. Only to kill some dictators and station volunteer soldiers in distant hell-holes to help clean up the mess. But prophylactic, pre-emptive war has not been explained in the same way that MAD was explained. Nobody liked MAD either. MAD was so stressful on American schoolchildren, and I expect on schoolchildren all over the world, that it spawned the peace movement that taken over the American and European left and turned it into the anti-American and anti-European left. But it was well explained and everyone in the thoughtful classes bought into the premise.

Maybe the first step is to re-christen the method “prophylactic war” and call the Bush doctrine the Choice Doctrine? After all, it is our choice to not be nuked or killed in a horrible plague, so we choose to use prophylactic measures to prevent it. It’s kind of like putting on a condom when getting intimate with a dodgy partner. This world is full of countries that are dodgy partners, and the hyperpower has to deal with all of them. Or it might also be said that it is like aborting a failed state that nobody except the crooks in charge wants to keep.

I jest, but some attention will need to be paid to presenting the doctrine to the public in a way that it can be understood. And this is a pro-choice designation that many old-fashioned liberals like me (who are now called conservatives because the Democratic party lost its mind) could live with.

Trackposted to The Virtuous Republic, Rosemary’s Thoughts, Allie is Wired, third world county, 123beta, Adam’s Blog, , Right Truth, Shadowscope, Pirate’s Cove, The Pink Flamingo, Cao’s Blog, The Amboy Times, and Big Dog’s Weblog, thanks to Linkfest Haven Deluxe.

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Global Warming Family Feud

Family Feud was once a television show hosted by the incredibly sleazy Richard Dawson featuring two “families” who competed to match answers that were supplied by “100 respondents to a random poll.” It still exists, hosted now by John O’Hurley. For some people Family Feud was a guilty pleasure. For others it was just a plague on popular entertainment.

This is the scoring for Global Warming Family Feud. In February 2007 a Fox News Poll revealed that

  • 82% of Americans believed in global warming. (91% of Democrats, 84% of Independents, 72% of Republicans)
  • 41% believed that humans are the sole or primary cause of global warming (52% of Democrats, 30% of Republicans)
  • 38% believed that humans in combination with natural climate patterns account for it. (42% of Republicans)
  • 14% believed that natural climate patterns account for all of it. (20% of Republicans)

Let’s play!

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Humbug to yet another a modest proposal

But not funny. Or clever. Or swift. Perhaps it is Swiftean, but then I always thought Swift to be overrated.

A Wall Street Trader Draws Some Subprime Lessons: Michael Lewis

Sept. 5 (Bloomberg) — So right after the Bear Stearns funds blew up, I had a thought: This is what happens when you lend money to poor people.

Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing personally against the poor. To my knowledge, I have nothing personally to do with the poor at all. It’s not personal when a guy cuts your grass: that’s business. He does what you say, you pay him. But you don’t pay him in advance: That would be finance. And finance is one thing you should never engage in with the poor. (By poor, I mean anyone who the SEC wouldn’t allow to invest in my hedge fund.)

“Scrooge” Lewis strikes every wrong note on this piano. If you like watching car crashes, read it.


H/T: Barking Moonbat Early Warning System

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My Confession, by Fake Sir Real Scott Thomas

My Confession
by Fake Sir Real Scott Thomas

I was at the hut by the base with the ghost and Spongebill.

“Clamp em on! Clamp em on!” Spongebill shouted, and I twisted the wires into the alligator clips and attached them to the ghost. It wasn’t a ghost yet, but it would be soon.

“Man I love this,” I said. “They trained us to kill and torture and lie about it, and that’s what we do.”

“Yeah, stupid conservatives,” Spongebill laughed.

I snarled at the ghost. “You better feel lucky, punk, that I’m a liberal and not a conservative. That’s why I’m so freaking nice!” I showed him the Mickey Mouse ears he was going to be tortured and die in.

“Yeah, they’re the real hard-asses, I mean lard-asses,” Spongebill snorted. We just about fell over laughing.

Then the laughing stopped forever.

The door was open. There was a hard man in the doorway. The ghost jerked with an electric shock and a bloody flower bloomed in its forehead, then an inch below its eye. I heard the bang bang of the Glock and in the silence that followed the ghost rattled and fell. There was a stinging in my throat.

“Beauchamp, you’re in a hell of your own making,” the man said. He was a soldier or a mercenary or something. I couldn’t tell what his uniform was on account of the lizards and spiders crawling all over my skin. My brain melted down my throat and I threw up.


“All right, what have you been up to in your own little mind, Beauchamp?”

That’s when the torture started. Those conservatives had a field day torturing me. I held out as long as I could. It must have been days. They must have waterboarded me five or six times for more then eight hours until I gave in. Finally they stuck a pen in my hand and told me to sign or they’d drown me for real. Last chance. No kidding. I signed my name where they said.

And now you know why the Weekly Standard says this.

THE WEEKLY STANDARD has learned from a military source close to the investigation that Pvt. Scott Thomas Beauchamp–author of the much-disputed “Shock Troops” article in the New Republic’s July 23 issue as well as two previous “Baghdad Diarist” columns–signed a sworn statement admitting that all three articles he published in the New Republic were exaggerations and falsehoods–fabrications containing only “a smidgen of truth,” in the words of our source.

Only I fooled them. I signed my name wrong, with only one “t” in Scott, and if you look at the signature you can see it for yourself. I’ll get out of this in trial. I’m certain of it.

Spongebill is too stupid to get away with it. Tough for him.

Stupid conservative wingnut chickenhawks. You can’t catch me. I’m too slick. You see, I really am awesome and that’s why Germanian chicks dig me!


H/T: Baldilocks

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Undercover Ambassador: First Meeting

Undercover Ambassador: First Meeting
by “Joe O’Hair”

“This coffee tastes like crap!” I said, and scowled. I wrote down MEETING on the top of the page in my notebook. Then I wrote BAD COFFEE underneath.

“Florida does the best she can, Joe,” Princess Valiant said. “She comes from a deprived background.”


“Kept down by the man,” I empathized. “Fight the power.”

“Fight the power!” she murmured. “Poor downtrodden minority.”

“Downtrodden like gravel under the man’s boot”, I agreed. I sipped the bad coffee again. “Still tastes like… Hey guys, I’m glad you’re here.”

The door swung shut and two desk spooks sat down at the conference table. They glared at me with inscrutable expressions. One was her boss. He looked like a low level spook boss. The other was just another desk spook. Neither one had as good hair as mine.

Her boss said, “So you’re Valiant’s husband.”

“Yeah, I’m a lucky man, maaaaan,” I replied suavely.

She gave me one of those dreamy looks that convinced me to marry her in the first place. She’s such a foxalicious fox of the foxy tribe of foxes. She added, “and an ex-ambassador with experience in Niger.”

“I guess you know what we need. Right, Joe?” he asked.

“We need to find out if Saddam bought any Uranium in Niger.” I responded. “I heard Darth and Der Fuhrer are trying to lay a frame-job on him.”

“Yeah those dillweeds,” he said. “They think we aren’t doing our jobs, and we have to cover our asses or we’ll have to go back into covert work. And I like coming to work at Langley everyday.”

“Me too,” agreed the other spook.

I wrote DILLWEEDS in my notebook.

“Me three,” said Princess Valiant.

“Me four,” said the boss spook. He snorted with laughter.

I laughed. And they laughed. We all laughed. Man we laughed, slapping our knees, bumping foreheads on the table, crying tears of bemused amusement. I laughed, leaning back in my chair until I lost balance and fell backwards on the floor.

“Hoooo haw, tee hee hee hee,” I snurfled. The howling in the room was probably loud enough to wake the dead or even a working class person sitting down the hall and doing whatever the little people do all day when they’re at their jobs.

The deprived lower-class wage-slave secretary opened the door. “Suh, ah y’all all right?” She purred. “Do y’all need your Lithium Suh?”

“No thanks, Florida,” the boss spook blurted. The he started laughing again. She closed the door and tiptoed away.

We exploded in new gales of guffaws, hurricanes of hilarity, cyclones of silliness, until the tittering grew tiresome.

I wrote ME FOUR in my notebook. I put a smiley face next to it.

“It shouldn’t be too hard, Ambassador,” boss spook said. “There are only two exports from Niger. One is yellowcake Uranium. The other is goat urine. All you have to do is find out if Saddam’s guys were looking. And we don’t care about goat urine.”

“No goat urine.” I replied. “No goat urine.” I wrote NO GOAT URINE in my notebook.

He raised an eyebrow. “Keep it under your hat, Ambassador,” he said. “I hope your wife is right about you, O’Hair.

“I ran my fingers through my hair, then shook my head to let it settle down into luxuriously hirsute perfection. “I’ll do right by you and The Company,” I mimed quotation marks with my fingers when I said The Company.

He stared at me.

“What kind of gun do I get?” I asked. “Do I get a code number like James Bond?”

He stared.

I winked and nodded. “Never mind. Joking.” Like I thought, the conference room was bugged. The gun was going to be in the diplomatic packet. Probably a nickle-plated Beretta M1 9mm. That’s what all the spies use when they go out into the field against the international forces of the corrupt capitalist empire. No blood for oil!

“I’m doing this because I trust Valiant,” he said. “Do right by her.”

“10-4 Roger Wilco,” I grinned.

He stood up and walked out the door without so much as a by-your-leave. Spook junior followed him nervously.

Valiant grimaced and wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Whew! I’m glad that’s over.”

“What a dillweed,” I smirked. I stood and smoothed my hair as I looked at my reflection in a painting on the wall. “You knocked it out of the park, you handsome devil! How does my hair look, Valiant?”

“Even better than John Edwards,” she cooed. Then she turned me around and pressed against me like a long drink of cool blonde water.

I’m a lucky man.

Editorial Note: “Joe O’Hair” and “Princess Valiant” are pseudonyms. The author has requested the use of a pseudonym to avoid repercussions and recriminations from the Nazi Chimp Rethuglicans who stole the Amerikkkan elections in 2000 and 2004.

For more satire making fun of the three-ring Scott Thomas Beauchamp “Shock Troops”/New Republic/Franklin Foer circus, check out the comments at Villainous Company.

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Must Read: Red Primer for Children and Diplomats

Genius political cartoons that savage the history of failure that is the saga of Communism in the 19th and 20th century. Important reading for all Guevaristas and Castronistas and all the other leftover rejects of the Summer of Love who still buy into the Big Lie of Communism. And it’s important for everyone else to remind us and give us a picture of what these somewhat abstract ideas mean when they turn into real policies. Read it all!


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Every one of us is unique, just like everyone else

I was reading Scrappleface and found this piece of surreal genius.

Hate crime laws address the proven fact that a victim feels greater pain when he or she suffers as a representative of some downtrodden minority group, rather than simply as a person.

However, nothing in federal law extends special treatment to a person whose attacker has mixed feelings about the victim’s race, gender or degree of sexual disorientation.

As a semi-fictional, pseudonymous creation I am not like everybody else. I am the only worker who works in a mine on Titan, mining Titanium, which is the most plentiful material in the core of Titan. Is there anybody else on Earth who can say that? I am an artist at my craft. I am blue. And I sing the song of the asteroids, mutely shouting into the glorious interplanetary vacuum. I am not a dog on the Internet. But I am unique. Just as everyone is. I am a minority of one. Thus, if I am attacked, do I not bleed in a manner uniquely deserving of pity, are my nerves not uniquely sensitive, are my claims of excruciating pain not uniquely to be respected? Well of course they are, to a unique degree, and so are yours, at least if you are as unique as I am.

In fact, as the U.S. Progress Congress has noticed, those who are less unique are not as sensitive as those who are more unique. Those of us who are semi-fictional and pseudonymous, as well as those who are legendary or mythical, are more unique than those of us who are simple meat puppets. For is not imagination purer, more ethereal than base matter? No question at all that imagination is a fair bit more unique than reality. I am more sensitive to your hate than you are to mine. My hatred is immaterial because I am imaginary. But to me, because I am imaginary, your immaterial hatred is very, very material. It is of the same kingdom of matter as am I, the imaginary kingdom of imagination, and as your hatred is as imaginary as I am, it wounds me to the quick, a sword or halberd or yea verily even unto a nuclear bomb of hatred to wound my imaginary soul. Your hatred could kill me in a microsecond, a nanosecond, or less. Do you understand why your hatred, or the hatred of anyone who is material, is so dangerous to we who are imaginary? We don’t have material existence like you. All we have is our imaginary existence, and your hatred will destroy us. Well, me, actually.

Hate me not. Pity me. Pity the Easter Bunny. Pity the monster in the closet, or the other one under the bed. Pity the Tooth Fairy and all the other fairies. Pity King Arthur and Charlemagne waiting in their mountain caverns. Pity the imaginary.

Protect us from hate crimes that would tear us asunder. We deserve all the protection your laws can provide.

Progress Congress, I beg of you, pass a hate crime law that prohibits hate against me and other fictional, imaginary beings and punishes it with the death penalty. That would be justice, because only by passing from life to death can the living being disintegrate and approach the status of immateriality that I already instantiate.

We need that hate crime law. Because every one of us, imaginary and real, is unique, just like everyone else, but I am more unique than you. Protect me first.

Thank you.

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