Come for the politics, stay for the snark.

Come on, man.

We are aware of all internet traditions.

Usually wrong but never in doubt

The willow is too close to the house.

A sufficient plurality of insane, greedy people can tank any democratic system ever devised, apparently.

Red lights blinking on democracy’s dashboard

Insiders who complain to politico: please report to the white house office of shut the fuck up.

Why did Dr. Oz lose? well, according to the exit polls, it’s because Fetterman won.

You cannot shame the shameless.

I was promised a recession.

A dilettante blog from the great progressive state of West Virginia.

“Everybody’s entitled to be an idiot.”

Republicans don’t want a speaker to lead them; they want a hostage.

JFC, are there no editors left at that goddamn rag?

Presidents are not kings, and Plaintiff is not President.

Perhaps you mistook them for somebody who gives a damn.

My years-long effort to drive family and friends away has really paid off this year.

Fuck the extremist election deniers. What’s money for if not for keeping them out of office?

No one could have predicted…

Come for the politics, stay for the snark.

Tick tock motherfuckers!

I’d hate to be the candidate who lost to this guy.

Teach a man to fish, and he’ll sit in a boat all day drinking beer.

If you’re pissed about Biden’s speech, he was talking about you.

You are here: Home / Archives for Betty Cracker

Florida woman, boxer wrangler and football hooligan currently deep-fat frying something in a humid swamp somewhere.

Betty Cracker has been a Balloon Juice writer since 2012.

What If Matt Drudge Accidentally Told the Truth?

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My Rumproast co-blogger StrangeAppar8us used to do an occasional series on One-Scoop Wonder Matt Drudge. I thought of Strange when I saw the OOGA BOOGA headline below, so I decided I’d revive Strange’s regular feature.

Here’s the story it links to, which covers Mittens’ NRA speech. In that speech, Mittens regurgitated the NRA’s own paranoid fantasy about Obama, which goes something like this: Obama does fuck-all about guns for four years as part of a fiendishly clever scheme to lull gun owners into a false sense of security and win a second term. And then, just as quick as his hand leaves the bible on his Second Inauguration Day, Obama orders jack-booted ATF agents to go door-to-door to forcibly disarm the populace.

Of course, Mittens himself was all for sensible gun control measures when he was running for and serving as governor of Massachusetts, and unlike the president, Mittens has actually signed gun control legislation. If the NRA were a bipartisan interest group, it would support the president over Romney for that reason.

But the NRA is actually a dismal, dishonest collection of Republican hacks and barrel-stroking, pinwheel-eyed lunatics who believe open-carry permits are required to protect them from rogue turkeys, so it’s entirely in the bag for Gun-Grabber Willard.

As for Mittens himself, who the hell knows what he really believes on the gun issue. He believes he should be president, and he believes there’s no lie too shameless to utter in pursuit of that goal. And his lies will be swallowed, digested and excreted as truth by fellow liars and hacks like Drudge, and the resulting turds will be polished to a high gloss by bottom-feeders like Halperin.

[X-posted at Rumproast]

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“Do You Live in a Barn”? (Open Thread)

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Well, kind of. This facility — with the darling little Poulet Chalet surrounded by a spacious, well-protected and partially shaded chicken run — is the future home of my seven hens:

Right now, they are living in my office. Until their feathers come in. And you know what? Animals are gross!

Whoever it was who said when my adorable little chicks got older, they’d suddenly exude clouds of dust and feathers? You were right, my friend. There ain’t enough canned air at Staples to blow all the crap out of my electronics. And speaking of crap, when I went in to check on the chickens awhile ago, I noticed one of them had taken a fresh dump right on the feeder.

After delivering a short lecture on etiquette and basic table manners, I whisked the offending barnyard equipment out of the room to wash it. The chicken turd was fresh enough to slide off the plastic surface, and my two boxer dogs leapt over to lick it up the moment it hit the floor.

Jesus H. Christ, I’m catatonic with disgust. Can dogs get salmonella? This isn’t as bad as the present Tunch gave John last night, but fuck, animals are gross…

[X-posted at Rumproast]

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Babysitt-AHGH

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One thing that’s always bugged the shit out of me is when a man says he has to “babysit” his children. It would annoy me if a woman said that too, but I’ve never actually heard a female use that term in reference to her own progeny.

I bet Mittens would have said it, had the situation ever presented itself. I can imagine a scenario back in the 80s in which the entire Romney Nanny Army was simultaneously stricken with food poisoning while the Missus was astride an Austrian Warmblood at some dressage (fancy horse-dancing) event and the kitchen staff, livery crew and gardeners all pretended not to speak English, leaving poor Mittens to “babysit” all five lads.

As yet another demonstration of his cool, crisis-free management style, Mittens may have simply lashed Snotleigh, Tagamet, Cumberbund, Fontleroy and Snoodle to the roof of his golf cart and kept his tee time with the Marriotts. This is all pure speculation, of course, but the Romneys provided a glimpse into their family life in a recent campaign clip titled, intriguingly, “Family,” and after viewing it, it’s easy to image such a madcap, screwball comedy ensuing.

Ruth Marcus over at Kaplan does a pretty good job of pointing out how the clip, meant to humanize Romney, might backfire with female viewers since it unintentionally portrays Romney as yet another hyperactive brat the long-suffering Missus had to tame between patronizing pats on the head about the importance of Motherhood:

“His consoling words were always the same: Ann, your job is more important than mine.”

This story is supposed to buttress Mitt’s bona fides as a supportive husband, and Ann is, no doubt, a more tolerant spouse than I am. But every time I hear that patronizing line, I imagine responding, “Great. If my job is more important, then you come home and do it and I’ll check into the nice room at the Four Seasons.”

Anyhoo, Marcus goes on to note that the contrast in styles between the Obamas and Romneys would tend to skew the female demographic in the president’s direction. True enough.

The gender gap has widened into a chasm, and because “Game Change” changed exactly nothing — people like Nicolle Wallace and Mark Salter are still running presidential campaigns — it wouldn’t surprise me if Mittens puts someone like Kay Bailey Hutchinson on the ticket. He badly needs an Ambassadress to Planet Vajayjay.

[X-posted at Rumproast]

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My Version of “The Talk”

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After the senseless killing of unarmed teenager Trayvon Martin in Central Florida, some black people were incensed enough by the prospect of their own progeny being gunned down for walking through a residential neighborhood while black that they revealed the existence of “The Talk” — a conversation they have with their youngsters to help the kids avoid Trayvon’s fate. This didn’t set well with certain white grievance mongers.

After breakfasting on “Birth of a Nation,” masticating The Bell Curve and washing it all down with a 151-proof bottle of Ye Olde Imperial Wizard, NRO’s resident white supremacist, John Derbyshire, vomited up a screed in the guise of his own version of “The Talk,” which ABL eviscerated here. Derbyshire’s column on “The Talk” was overt enough in its racism to attract condemnation from “conservatives” who prefer dog whistles to white linens, a dishonesty that Freddie deBoer ably vaporized here.

I can now reveal the existence of yet another version of “The Talk” — this one a heart-to-heart we liberal white women who are raising daughters in Dixie have to help our children navigate life among ignorant bigots, religious fanatics and Derbyshire-class assholes in the rural South:

1) Some 41% of our fellow Americans identify as “conservative;” this is why we can’t have nice things. By “nice things,” I mean things like universal health care, marriage equality and a sane foreign policy. “Conservatives” believe despite all evidence to the contrary that it makes more sense to invade foreign countries, kill tens of thousands of people and spend trillions of dollars in a fruitless effort to convert Baghdad and Kabul into Arlington, Virginia than it does to ensure that American families aren’t one diagnosis away from medical bankruptcy and homelessness.

2) Despite the fact that “conservatives” and “Christians” have dominated civic life in America for centuries and even today ritualistically require candidates for practically any elected office to declare fealty to Jesus, “conservatives” always behave as though they are the victims of anti-religious bigotry. Even though your entire holiday choir program was devoted to Christian-themed songs (well, I think they did the dreidel song too) and that you and your classmates are free to engage in private prayer the entire time you are at school, “conservatives” will insist that the country is going downhill because radical atheists gave Jesus the bum’s rush. You can point out reality and make enemies or privately roll your eyes. The result will be the same. This is what’s called “an article of faith.”

3) Being able to look down on gays makes “conservatives” feel better about their own dumb life choices and misery. That’s why your aunties can’t get married and enjoy the special tax treatment and societal status your father and I enjoy, even though they’ve been in a monogamous relationship for just as long.

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This Is What a Feminist Looks Like

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She-roic dog “Sierra” tried to keep her master from hobnobbing with the sexist knobs who bar women from the Augusta National Golf Club:

As Russ Berkman understood it, desperate times call for desperate measures.

And when your Swiss mountain dog gobbles up your Masters tickets, that means getting out the hydrogen peroxide and getting ready to sift through your canine’s vomit.

That’s the choice the Seattle resident made after a fit of panic when he realized Saturday night that his beloved canine Sierra had eaten his and his friends’ four passes to the prestigious Augusta, Georgia, golf tournament.

Sadly, Sierra’s act of feminist defiance was thwarted when her master pieced together the puke-sodden shreds of the tickets and persuaded the sexist knobs at Augusta National to reissue passes. Oh well. Nice try, Sierra!

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