What’s the Warren equivalent of Nancy Smash!?
And the Lord said, whack ye all the serpents which crawl on their bellies …Post + Comments (184)
Sarah, Proud and Tall wrote at Balloon juice from 2011-17.
by Sarah, Proud and Tall| 184 Comments
This post is in: NANCY SMASH!, Open Threads, Assholes
What’s the Warren equivalent of Nancy Smash!?
And the Lord said, whack ye all the serpents which crawl on their bellies …Post + Comments (184)
by Sarah, Proud and Tall| 108 Comments
This post is in: Dog Blogging, Music, Open Threads, Assholes
It’s a pleasure to be back in this den of Republican Lite neo-liberals.
I arrived home in Sydney from Marrakech at 6 o’clock this morning after a 36 hour slog that was only enlivened by lashings of first class bubbly, and a knee trembler in the dunnies at Dubai airport with Bob Hastings, an insurance executive from Reading.
I spent the whole day today trying not to sleep in order to avoid the jetlag, then left it too long and have passed into being so tired I can’t sleep, so I’m not so much drunk blogging as “have been drunk, insomiac and constipated since the Kennedy administration” blogging.
And tormenting the dog with a tiny, tiny fez, apparently.
So what have I missed, aside from all of you turning your back on the true Democrat party to support some woman who isn’t even a Democrat but is just using the Democratic primary process for her own nefarious purposes?
No, wait. I’m confused. Where’s that fez gone?
Dog Blogging – Jet Lag edition (now with bonus earworm)Post + Comments (108)
Anyway, I also have Halsey’s “New Americana” on a permanent loop in my head, apparently because my ipad got stuck playing it over and over for six hours while I tried to sleep on the plane. There are worse fates, so I’m embedding it in both dance remix and live versions for the purists at each extreme.
by Sarah, Proud and Tall| 43 Comments
This post is in: Music, Open Threads
by Sarah, Proud and Tall| 123 Comments
This post is in: Hail to the Hairpiece, Open Threads, Go Fuck Yourself
Friday night drinks with my sweetheart. Two Caipirinhas – slightly more tart than I like, but just what I needed after an arsehole of a week. Sweet vermouth (Punt e mes, I suspect) on ice with an olive and a slice of orange for me, and a London Calling for him. A Gretzel with beer and cheese sauce. Tuna crudo with fermented chilli, onion, dill and flat bread. Shots of Tapatio Reposado to celebrate Gregory’s birthday. Some concoction with Poor Tom’s gin and who knows what else whipped up by Jamie, the adorable Scottish bartender. Two perfect replications of a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish, except crunchier and cheesier and oh-so-much-more-Filet-O-Fishier. An Old Fashioned made with rye, and a Red Hook. Two chocolate chip cookie and blackberry ripple ice cream sandwiches. Whisky from some damp and peaty god knows where, and a spectacular rum from Guyana that tasted of brown sugar toffee, even though we were just a little bit drunk by that point, because Jamie did the sexy eyebrow thing. One taxi home for special snuggles.
Don’t mind if I do, thanks.
Drunk posting on Balloon Juice very late at night and oversharing while giving your local a plug.
Life could be worse.
Happy Friday, kiddies. How have you all been?
I should inset some witty comment here about how the evil squirrel that lives in Donald Trump’s hair and controls him with little levers connected to steam-driven pistons has been huffing antifreeze and getting his Mexican birth certificate rape babies on, or how our entire political system is even more fucked than Jeb!’s chances of securing the Republican nomination.
But it’s time for bed – or maybe another drink.
Seriously though, come to Sydney. Come and see my friends Gregory, Naomi and the rest of the team at the Gretz. They’re lovely. And Gregory’s American. So you folks will understand what the fuck he’s saying.
This is your open thread.
Much love, and fuck you all.
Sarah
P.S. The real me is somewhere in the photo above. It’s like Where’s Waldo if Waldo was a grumpy, fictional old lady with impulse control issues and a pottymouth.
by Sarah, Proud and Tall| 59 Comments
This post is in: Music, Open Threads
Hello all.
Thanks to the adorable Tommy for getting me back on board, and for responding calmly when confronted by a confused 92 year old muttering to herself and demanding the keys to the blog in between swigs from a hipflask.
The blog looks great and I can’t imagine the work that has gone on in the background to make that happen and, frankly, if there weren’t some hiccups you fuckers would be sad because you missed out on the chance to piss and moan about it for months.
Point out problems and issues to the developers all you want – I think the Categories (or tags, or whatever the hell they are, should go at the bottom of the post where they have always been – but be nice to the people who are fixing this free blog so you can access it better and in a more attractive way, for free.
What did I miss while I was away?
Right, let’s see what this baby can do….Post + Comments (59)
by Sarah, Proud and Tall| 44 Comments
This post is in: Music, Open Threads
Like A Version – Jebediah cover The Chemical Brothers ‘Go’
Robyn & La Bagatelle Magique – ‘Set Me Free’
Cosmo’s Midnight – Walk With Me (feat. KUČKA)
by Sarah, Proud and Tall| 55 Comments
This post is in: Hail to the Hairpiece, Open Threads, #notintendedtobeafactualstatement, Shameless self promotion
Why has Donald Trump not released his long form American birth certificate?
On April 15, 2011, I mentioned, in passing, that Trump was not eligible to become President of the United States of America, by reason of:
(a) having been born in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico to my friend Mary Anne ‘Bitsy’ MacLeod Trump – a single, unnaturalised Scottish immigrant mother engaged in a bigamous marriage with Donald’s father, an American man called Frederick Christ Trump; and
(b) therefore, being either British or Mexican-born.*
This lead to a flurry of correspondence with lawyers; the sending of a laxative-laced fruit cake which cleared out the entire litigation group of Jarndyce and Jarndyce for about a week and a half; a futile threatening visit from two large men with too many knuckles and Carhartt tattoos (seen off by two randy pugs, a limpy chihuahua and several madwomen with canes and dodgy colostomy bags); the jogging forth from my aged memory of an anecdote about Bitsy Trump’s Christmas party and a quite lovely story in which Donald gets chomped on his ample balls by a pissed off pekinese called Frou-Frou; and further and extensive legal correspondence, culminating in the execution of a Deed under which I promised not to tell you all about the time that Donald was trapped in a steam room in Aspen with Joan Collins and her flatulent Burmese hairless, and Donald made me a small payment of damages that I blew on three weeks in Bermuda, a parking lot attendant named Juan and a kilo of blow.
The subsequent quiet, if uneasy, truce has been sullied only by my bribery of Donald’s maids to slip a few blueberry and ipecac muffins into the breakfast buffet every couple of months.
Just the other week, however, I received a call from my lawyer. He just wanted to note that the deed which Donald and I signed contained strict terms under which neither of us were ever to discuss Mexico or anything that ever happened there, up to and including the very existence of Mexico itself. Interestingly, my lawyer added, the fact that Donald has spent the last few weeks suggesting that all Mexicans want to come here and steal our women and fuck our jobs means, under the old legal maxim feci coram eo feceris,, that I can talk about whatever I damn well want.
Birth Certificate Watch: Day 1566Post + Comments (55)
Now some people would tell you, if you allowed them to speak to you despite the stench of BO, flopsweat and Cheeto they emit, that my friend Bitsy Trump was naturalised in 1942. They would show you a signed naturalization receipt for one Mary Anne Trump, dated March 10, 1942 and issued by the US District Court in Brooklyn. They would say that it doesn’t matter if Donald was born in Mexico to an unwed mother, because that mother was an American citizen at the time.
The truth is that Bitsy’s mother hated Americans with the passion that good Scottish women usually reserve for the English – a nation, she would say, of hoors, scousewits and tammany men, and not a one of them worth piss – as a result of her having been swindled out of her family’s meager fortune by an American gent in the Great Orkney Oatmeal Bubble of 1889. Although she knew she couldn’t force her daughter to stay at home, Mother Mary had extracted from Bitsy, on the eve of her departure for America, a promise sworn on the blood of the Holy Virgin and her blessed womb that come what may Bitsy would never become an American.
Fred had in fact raised the issue in about 1942, but Bitsy said, “I’d as soon you rip the heart out of me”, and that was that.
Years later though, when Fred had recovered from the palaver of Bitsy and Donald’s return from Mexico and his quickfire marriage to Bitsy, not to mention the rather considerable drain on the Trump fortune from bribing dozens of immigration and airline staff, he set about carefully papering over the cracks.
Even then, he thought Donald could become President. “Look at the nuts on him, Sarah,” he would say. “A man with balls like that could rule the world.”
Donald was smuggled in the back door of the Jamaica hospital in New York, shortly before Bitsy was stretchered very publicly in the front door, clutching at her pillow-swollen abdomen and shrieking at Fred and Jesus at the top of her lungs. Bing bang boom, mother and baby trundled out the front door, to all appearances legitimate and (in Donald’s case at least) American.
There was a short outbreak of arson attacks in San Miguel – the Registro Civil, the local doctor’s house, a building where two nurses shared an apartment, a couple of banks and restaurants for camouflage, a couple of unfortunate deaths. Fred didn’t mind buying silence when it was a white person though, so I lived off the proceeds of that one for several years. I also swore blind to Fred that there were no surviving copies of Donald’s Mexican birth certificate. Nice and neat, he said.
Now, Fred was a businessman, unlike his son, and a good one. He liked things nice and neat, and his Mary being Scottish was the last thread poking out. Still, he loved Bitsy very much, so he compromised. He got her naturalized retrospectively, but never told her he had done it. Lucky for him, Bitsy didn’t much care for handling her own paperwork.
Now, as I said in my original post, I’m sure Fred had no trouble obtaining an American birth certificate for young Donald. Still, my lawyers would rather like to see a copy so they can check the kerning.
More to the point, this raises the question: If Donald Trump is a Mexican-born foreign citizen smuggled illegally into America in a handbag, and all Mexicans who come to America illegally are crime- and drug-addicted rapists, what does that make Donald?
* My lawyers are still unclear on this point. Apparently, I am told, it “depends upon the answer to a rather tricky question on the interpretation of Magna Carta in the context of Mexican law as the inheritor of Spanish Imperial jurisprudence”. I interpret this to mean I may have to hock a few jewels to pay the bills this month.