Friday, October 29, 2004

More Poetry Ripped cruelly from the Discourse of Scott McClellan and the White House Press Gaggle

Press Gaggle – The Gaggle
from air force one, October 1, 2004

Is there any theme? Did you

learn anything? Did he

talk about the things -- Did he

say last night, about it,

that he felt annoyed,



I'm not asking what he

showed, I'm just asking, did he

tell you that he

felt annoyed while he

was up there? Did you

learn about him,

style or substance? Do you

think the take on who -- do you

think that will change, as we

go on?

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Excerpts of Scott McClellan and the White House Gaggle October 28, 2004

White House Gaggle October 28

Let me begin with the President's day

He placed some calls, spoke with

Reached out.

We continue to work to make good news

I know information

Has come.

Kerry, a reckless disregard for facts


For gain.

Who can you trust on big priorities?

A President can't jump—

Can’t jump.

I think that we will meet him on the ground.
I think we will meet him


Wednesday, October 27, 2004

poetry collected, out of context, from the thoughts expressed by Scott McClellan in the White House Gaggle, often on Air Force One

White House Gaggle september ?

All right, all right, good afternoon

The President today


His usual intelligence

I know he's been riding the mountain bike.

Our thoughts and prayers remain impacted

By the hurricane,

Hurricane Jeanne

White House Gaggle with Scott McClellan

Scott McCLELLAN On Air Force One

Okay, okay let’s see today

The President will focus, pocus

He will make remarks, remarks.

I'm coming to that,

I’m coming back.

We’ll overnight in St. Pete Beach.

the President will have a speech.

Let's see -- a speech, the Wilkes-Barre speech

Today's remarks will outline ways.

And he’ll talk about the five

Commitments, first is stay alive.

The President will talk about, he'll touch upon.

He'll draw some contrasts, undermined by Hollywood.

I'd look at it as differences.

There will be some speeches.

He spoke about how and that's what we need -- he'll talk again, in his


al Qaeda, Hambali, for instance, Jemaah


Khalid Shaykh Mohammed

Hey Ya

Window of time? From early on, when the war began,

up to the more

present times.

And he talked about his strategy, based on fighting the enemy

Transforming the Middle East is key

to defeating the ideology

Where were you the other day?

I said there are no more

week aheads. I said

there are announcements .

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

All Hallow's eve in the Blogosphere

a nonsensical and seasonal ode to weblogs in the vein of carroll

All snoggy twas the blogosphere

Enfogged amid the twiggy babble

When I heard the sound I fear

A-clickety with claws ascrabble

Slipping through the groggy rabble

Avoid the wobby blog my dear!

The blog that creeps and creeping, leaps!

The sluggish vasty webbish seep

All gently bleeping as they near

Amongst the drabby ghoulish pool

Ahaunted in the gibbly orb-world

Gather weblets all a-wobbly

Nibblets newly formed and gobbly.

Nettish in a fevered blog-drool.

O dread the freebly wobby-blog!

That gnaws and chitter-chitter pats

Aclicky-clack with mousy pit-pats

Googly in the gleebish sphere

Atwitter in the ghastly slog.

My dear avoid the wobby blog!

And fear the creepy leaping net-bobs.

All a-goggle in the seeping,

Trembling amid the beeping

Chirruping and gently cheeping

Greedy for a webby feeding, ever needing; ever needing.


Saturday, October 16, 2004

death of the tv

Death of Television

The Death of Televison is a consequence of malice;

recall the veiled derision

with which Bradys treated Alice.

No less the spite of failed lives that Springer found to televise.

Nor Dr. Phil’s hypocrisy pertaining to Hippocrates.

Or Crossfire's partisan hacks—a theatre of heart attacks.

The talking glitterati who believe they’re literati too: O’Reilly, Franken—both expound

in just the way of Ezra Pound

With all the strength of righteousness

that certainty invites in us.

These shows must not be analyzed as separately televised.

The quackery and thuggish hacks of Dr Phils and Bob Novaks

are synchronized.

The cumulative effect of Tucker is to shiver, quail and pucker

All the world over.


Thursday, October 14, 2004

Delay discomfited by brow blubber

Tom Delay Cannot see the Forest for the Eye-fat

Some shock was felt when Tom excised

the excess flab around his eyes. In truth the flab

was drab and Tom

wished for a brow with more aplomb

A surgery of vanity from watching too much Hannity?

The one on Fox whose curly locks and steady gaze leave Tom a-daze

And in the night all pitter-patter, lumpy throat,

a-twitter with the joyous hope

That soon his peepers—sort of fishy—might begin to look more dishy

As for so long Tom’s been wishy

The trick Delay was soon to find

Was how to pay for eye-fat suction

For advice he rang up Sean—

Himself just done with butt reduction

Though muffled by the bandages

The voice of Hannity rang clear

And Tom Delay rejoiced to hear

The comfort of his badinages

“Of course now Tom, said Hannity

You realize these nips and tucks

These belly pinches, loose neck plucks

And flabby bottom vaccum sucks

Are not just free—they cost some bucks”

Says Tom, I think I get your thrust. And mused awhile, proud brow curled

Great Man in puckish thought enfurled.

I’ll tell you though it ain’t quite just…a gummint man is what I am

…and holder of the public trust.

For such a man as me this op should surely be for free!

A vital sight-impediment reduction – That’s my sentiment.

A simple tax deduction justified by liposuction!

Soon after in his post-op bed

Did Tom Delay and his new head

Recover from the surgeon’s knife

The TV on—Tom welled with pride

When seeing how in Iraq’s strife

our troops had died. He sighed, and whispered to the floor

Its them boys who I’m fighting for -- for them each day I go to war.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

A Public Plea for Electoral fairness and Honesty to the Honorable Glenda Hood, Florida Sec’ty of State

Oh me oh my oH Glenda Hood

Dear Glenda Hood, I write to ask if Florida
, in Oughty-five

Will look back on another year of politics and voter fear

Of ballots lost, and voters tossed by vigilante Highway cops

Of less than scrupled agent men engaged in special voter ops

O if it should! O Sakes alive! I pall to think about the stink.

Our erstwhile president, Jimmy C has raised the issue publicly.

Jimmy's voiced a call to honest Americans one and all

To monitor your stormy state, where electoral mischief may await!

I know this comes non gratis, but Glenda do you grasp the grief

When folks of lesser status cannot cast their choice for Chief?

These days your office pulls out stops to jettison Black voters

With a rigor rivaling Castro’s skill at ousting Cuban boaters!

Dear Glenda, Jimmy says to keep our eyes on ballot boxes;

For in these modern times we see the slyest electoral foxes,

Surpassing simple sabotage involving voter debitage. The crux is:

Hackers now with code can push

“Ralph Nader” out, and put in “Bush”!

Now Glenda, sadly Jimmy notes Republicans enjoy your votes.

This preference for names like Jeb and Herb and Dwight,

Has spawned among some Democrats a sneeze-inducing fright

That you hold a bias rivaling that held by Harris!

She who once besmirched your post! Yet, other data troubles most:

A willingness to lose the ballots cast by certain voting classes,

Older folk, for instance, who must peer through inch-thick glasses;

Indeed, so many Hurricanes have pummeled Florida with rains—

These recent storms might fog the panes of spectacles and visual aids!

What’s worse are waves of legalese directed at minorities

Especially, it sadly seems, at those registered as “Democrat”

Which indicate you still wear “R” emblazoned on your party hat;

A beacon for approximately half of your electorate.

A close adherence to the rights of Rights is only one-half right!

For Florida’s own politicos have wrote the law, and so it goes:

“If any soul now fraudulates or commandeers and agitates

the voting in relation to the next inauguration, well,

We’ll charge ‘em of a felony, with prejudice, in third degree!

Dear Glenda, three short weeks away. And watching is the USA.


Tuesday, October 12, 2004

An essay (condensed here) on the Throwing of Hos upon the tender Mercies of Fate by the Sinclair Corp., just so Rove can Spread more Feeble Lies

A sad event for Sinclair Co. They caught their chiefest CEO

negotiating with a ho.

Now Sinclair seeks to stage a coup at the behest of W.

By fiddling with local air

Time prior to November Two.

Insidious nefarity! Another Faux News charity?

No, no, its ABC this time – but don’t forget the real crime

The Co. that brought us Dinosaurs is siphoning from precious funds

That hookers now rely upon—to help with Rove’s political wars!

Sunday, October 10, 2004

A Week in the Life of Bob Novak, as written in His Diary by Himself, an Epic Saga told in Thirteen Parts

Day 2: Second Debate ruminations: Confronting Megalomania

Breakfast: Waffles, cream, a cherry. Things are hairy now with Kerry.

As I munch I cogitate upon the late evening debate.

Don't tell a soul, dear diary, but truthfully we all can see the full extent of lunacy.

A madness measured out with bombs and Abu Ghraibs, not cups of tea

At the start george looked quite smart, and only really fell apart when queries

came in twos and threes like turbothrusted buzzy bees,

Diminishing his sense of ease and ruining the luster of his furi-ocious bluster.

Darn those pesky town-hall forums! Leadership's not built on quorums.

These folk were flustering W's filbustering. Erratic grew his posturing, and some imagined: pasturing.

Although quite small, our George stood tall with expectations low

Advering in a fevered fervor that Iraq led the attack

Upon the U.S. in September. Much like a gardner with his rake he sought to rake up yellowcake--that fake cake I once helped him bake.

George waded in, was getting warm, aided in debating form

By shocks administered remotely, aimed to spur the thoughts inchoately

Murmuring unfully-formed in spits and spurts

From probes emplaced below his shirts.

This simple pocket ticker helped our Georgie to deliver licks without too many facial tics.

The shape observed on George’s back was not a special ear device

Or other wiring implement for Rove-to-president advice. Instead the goal was,

just in spots, to trim and splice the jumbled thoughts

Which, moving South from brain to mouth might lose their way amid the draughts.

A simple D-Cell battery propelled the nicest smattering of Kerry anti-flattery.

A litany of Kerry faults were thus impelled with sturdy jolts. And who's to say
that politics are less electrical, today?

Its true, a time or too George lost his glue.

Made too much of timber, body parts all agitating,

Got all pokey, shoulder-jerky, slap me down and call me smirky

Hearkened back to Scott, Mein Gott!

How poorly can we use the dead,

To mangle what Dred Scott once said?

Saturday, October 09, 2004

A Day in the Life of Bob Novak

A Day in the Life of Bob Novak, as Written in His Diary by Himself,

A Saga Told In Thirteen Parts

Day the First; Friday, Morning of the Second Presidential Debate

Two a.m., bad Plame dream’s back.

Got up sweaty, had a snack.

A glass of bourbon helped to ease

My horrid fear of guilty pleas.

Five a.m., woke and jotted down

My goals today in terms of lies for CNN to televise

As well as fictions meant to twist

The truth in ways that would surprise

A seasoned Fox News journalist.

Six a.m., Rove’s on the phone.

Debate tonight, he wants the loan

Of my best secret microphone.

For God’s sake Karl get it right!

On W the wire goes

Somewhere it won’t show through his clothes.

Since Judith’s fall that’s Rove’s fourth call.

(I think he’s keeping tabs on me

in case I blab to NBC).

Nine a.m., I’m out the door and rockin’ to the soulful croonin’

Of my favorite Ashcroft tune. I’m almost late;

For coffee—my first date with Peggy Noonan.

Leggy Peggy digs the verse where Ashcroft’s mighty Eagle soars

Across the sky, so free and high; that’s cool but I just dig the chorus.

Ten o’clock, my nerves are freakin’, out on Pennsylvania walking

Damn its Wilson! Since this weekend, clever bastard won’t stop stalking

This time he’s got a goatee and a little French Beret

What I get for f_ _ _in' with the U.S. CIA.

Now I’m feeling ill at ease, take a tipple from my flask

Carrying the Bush campaign alone is such a thankless task.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

WTF is Dr. Phil (on CBS) a Doctor, Still?

WTF is Dr. Phil (on CBS) a Doctor, Still?

I think I know enough of Phil to say that

For the ruining

Of kids whose heads aren’t on quite straight

Phil does just great, and makes me ill.

A week ago on CBS the Doctor’s guest, a boy of nine

Had certain problems of behavior. Enter Dr. Phil, the savior

Not of kids, but CBS, whose ratings have begun to sag

And plummet since the final sonnet of the awful “Jag.”

Astutely Dr. Phil attended to the boy’s internal damage

Casting with his trenchant eye upon the lad, expression sad

And noted in his gentle way that for the boy a violent rampage

Inevitably waits; its just a question now of dates.

As clear as day the reason why, intoned Phil with a heartfelt sigh

Within this lad—inside his head, beneath the surface charmer—

There lurks the darker spirit of the killer known as Dahmer

Thank goodness Phil has got the moxy to expose this Dahmer proxy!

In terms of score its Phil with ONE

And Jeffrey Dahmer junior, NONE

The D.C. Post at least has said that Dr. Phil should have his head

Examined with a probe of sorts, that goes in deep and really hurts.

They say that Phil and CBS could not have helped their young guest less.

And argue that great shame must rest on Dr. Phil and Les Moonves.

On TV, I submit that Phil looks less than well and may be ill.

His flappy lips, his shiny pate, his every tic and jerk suggest

That inner trouble agitates, and medication would be best.

Perhaps some leeches like they used to use in Ancient Rome

Could be affixed to suck upon the Doctor’s balding dome

For leeches, such a massive pate would surely be a roomy home.

A theory recently put forth by agents from the FBI

Suggests a darker reason for the Doctor’s “crazy eye”

Apparently his egotistic manner--call it “windy”

For pomposity of bluster’s only matched by Teddy Bundy

If it was me, its Phil I’d worry Felt like eating me with curry.

Dr. Phil by Jove Must be the Evil Twin of Rove

Every once in a while it is important to take some time off from bashing Karl Rove and focus on his evil twin, Doctor Phil. Hence the preceding post.

Monday, October 04, 2004

Karl Rove as Friend to Large Mammals

Karl Rove, Pet Owner

It’s long been known by many vets that humans look just like their pets.

Consider Rove, the button man who caps chaps for Republicans.
Rove plods along unswervingly and strikes low blows unnervingly. This M.O. gives us several clues on just what kind of pet he’d choose.

If Rove possessed a snake, perhaps he’d call his pet snake Jake.
And feed him little mice—as many mice as would suffice
To slake the snake; then they’d repair to Karl’s cozy TV lair

And watch the president’s debate—a moderator whom they hate—
There they’d sit a spell together, cursing Lehrer to hell forever.

Sometimes when Karl in his fervor gesticulates too feverishly
Jake slithers off and molts alone, sometimes very peevishly.

But let’s not be too hard on snakes, who must rely on Nature’s breaks.
Instead of well-developed senses Karl has Fox News; and hence is

Well-informed on all the schemes of which his feeble rival dreams.
It could be said that Rove enjoys a lot of help in all his ploys.

Indeed as others much more trenchant have observed,
Rove has a penchant for an inexorable pace. He plods along with pallid face
And never rushes in the chase. So stolid in demeanor—snake-like, but much more meaner.

While his opponents meet their limit with a satisfying thud,
Rove simply chews his cud with care and chooses mud to sling with flair
Perhaps this staid serenity derivates from bovininity.

More merciless than Ming, with whispers gauged to scar and cling
Rove takes his cues and makes his calls amid the moos of cattle stalls.

Saturday, October 02, 2004

Open Poem of Gentle Rebuke to john Ashcroft

October 3, 2004--Highhatter

Open Poem of Gentle Rebuke to john Ashcroft

Dear John, we’ve learned a painful fact. Your infamous Patriot Act

Has failed to facilitate or otherwise improve our rate of catching terrorists, to date.

The news on CBS suggests that few of those whom you arrest

Are genuine Al Qaeda men; and worse, they never go to trial;

Rather, languish for awhile down Gitmo way in hidden cells

Where folksy types like Lynndie E. administer shock therapy.

I know, I know, that’s Abu G., but Major General Geoffrey

(That’s Miller) led both posts, and taught them all to catch a killer—

An easy task—a dog, some hoods, a skillful captor griller—

Like Frederick, the SSG who found his inner harmony coercing sexuality.

Dear Freddy, from Iraq he’s back and ready to employ his skills;

His scheduled mission’s intel, but his posting now is in hell.

At any rate I deviate. The powers that such Acts approve

—To wire-tap and infiltrate—seem not to notably improve
Our capture rate, at least of late.

Remember Edgar Hoover—He adored interrogation! How he beamed with adulation

As McCarthy’s best informers filled his drawers with Cold War rumors!

Accruing secret facts appeased

His hate of Blacks and Kennedys.

Ah me. So worrisome—not one year, three—and still Osama B. is free,

Smoking fine Afghan poppy, hoping for a bumper crop he

Needs to buy a bomb and blow us all to Kingdom Come.

Its hard I know to cogitate on where the terrorists might wait.

Yet since one tried to bomb us with explosives in his Converse,

They’ve seemed to all just dissipate.

Not one has justified the tricks of Lynndie E. and Fredericks.

Many now have come to wonder if a massive legal blunder

Has been made post ipso facto with your Patriotic Acto.

Perhaps you’ll capture one or two, so that we can remember

What you looked like, when you’re out of here the Second of November.

Friday, October 01, 2004

Gladhanders Posted by Hello

In the Sixties, a poetic rebuke of the Swift Boat attack ads

In the Sixties

In the Sixties, certain classes skipped the war and flew in Texas.

Air Guard planes were highly sought—luckily, they could be bought.

Soon famous names from privileged sets were spared the war and offered jets.

Dozens of the oil elite who had cold feet were found a seat!

Thus in the Guard a spot was got for George, despite a lengthy line

A product of the family forge, George took the spot, and served his time

He says in Alabama’s where; (one problem: no-one knew him there).

Its sure that if John Kerry’d asked, he’d probably’ve got a pass.

His options at the time were varied: certainly he could have married

Or have stated, as did Chaney, “Ach, the jungle’s much too rainy.

My priorities are other. Instead of me, please take another.”

Instead he went, and saved a life, although as Brooks now claims,

The life he saved was clearly staged for his political aims.

The Right now fumes! Thick smoky plumes emit from Coulters, Roves and Humes

And Novak! How he huffs and puffs, with anger that will not abate! It seems of late

That Novak’s prate lacks anything apart from hate; and so he lays his victims low

And leaves them in the wind to blow, or simply leaks their secret name

(His latest victim Wilson’s wife, whom we all know as Valerie Plame)

The central question hovers still; Why stewing mad is Crystal (Bill)?

And why is Brit in such a snit? Why throws Gigot a prissy fit?

Why blusters Hannity at length on matters that are not his strength?

And writes long books which seem to call for topping liberals one and all?

Ben Ferguson, a pimply brash, with sharpened tongue does Kerry lash;

“The purple heart could not be fair; for where is Kerry’s wheelchair?”

Where does this venom come from, and the sneaky way with slanders?

(By Jove, just think if Karl Rove’d use his wits to help, like Landers)

Here's my guess of why they cry, why Bill O'Reilly's eyes get styes;

Their heros, in a moral perve, call loud for war but never serve.

What nerve? Demanding newer wars with fierce and fiery metaphors!

Cool veterans of a fight that rages here and there on public stages.

It seems that many don’t quite care, but still the truth cuts quick,

For those who’ve always been the ones with medals three rows thick.

And so we see Bob Dole applying classic Rovian tricks.

(For Bob its simply politics; nothing more than stones and sticks).

“We’re pals,” he says, “Except, you know, I bled much more at Anzio.”

A funny thing; it seems that those who dared to go in Sixty-nine

Are cautious in approaching strife, and doubly of the loss of life;

While those who chose to stay talk loud, of sarin gas and mushroom cloud

Demanding war, a fast attack - we don’t know who – lets hit Iraq.