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Friday, January 21, 2011

Unity in Levity

Posted by on Fri, Jan 21, 2011 at 12:19 PM

Dennis Dale's daughter purchased the right for him to post on Slog for a week through our annual holiday auction Strangercrombie, which this year benefited neglected children and the homeless. More info about our charity auction here. The views expressed in Dale's editorials on Slog are his alone and have not been edited based on ideology.

The Internet is too fast for me, and I rue the fact that once a news story demanding satire comes along I can be sure by the time I see it all the obvious angles have already been exploited, along with a few not-so-obvious. It's so bad you can never be sure someone else hasn't gotten there first, no matter how novel your take may be.

Dick Cheney's present Tin-man conundrum comes to mind; maybe on day one or two I might have been able to peck out the obvious gag about surgeons opening him up to find a black void (or, as the forensic scientist opening up the cranium of an alien in the under-appreciated Tim Burton satire Mars Attacks, nothing but green slime).

A friend last night suggested if he was to get into a car accident anywhere near Cheney's hospital, he would plead to be taken anywhere else or left to fend for himself on the road. Probably a good thing to put off even routine procedures until the coast is clear.

"I'm afraid you're terminal, Mr. Dale."
"What? I came to have a boil lanced."
"It's very unfortunate. We need to talk about end of life planning."
"No, we don't."
"We're very enlightened here; we offer euthanasia services to spare you a long, painful decline. Death with dignity. But we don't have much time. Let's get some formalities out of the way now. You wouldn't happen to be an organ donor, would you?"
"What? What's the hurry? You said long decline. I feel fine."
"Oh dear; he's already experiencing dementia. Guys, would you restrain Mr. Dale?"
"Please, God, aaagggh!"

I'm already over the limit for film references, but picture Rock Hudson thrashing away in terror at the end of Seconds.

Below the fold is a similar piece from back in those simpler, if no less scarier, days of 2008. A somewhat bowdlerized version appeared in The American Conservative at the time. Please to enjoy.

In the Bunker with Barney, Laura, and Me.

"I will not withdraw even if Laura and Barney are the only ones supporting me."
George W. Bush

The following diary fragments were found by rebel forces of the breakaway American states near the ruins of President George W. Bush’s secret bunker at the close of the Second Civil War in May of 2008. The author is unknown, signing only his initials, “D.D.”

Various explanations abound for D.D.’s identity; all of them entirely speculative, some wildly fanciful, such as the legend that he was an obscure “blogger” (a phrase for dilettante as well as professional writers, political activists, exhibitionists, and others who used the Internet for self-publishing before the Consolidation and Control Act of 2020 solidified the Second Republic's absolute control over the media, ushering in the Long Repression of the mid-21st Century).

According to this legend, after abandoning his early opposition to the Administration D.D. became a fervent supporter in its last days and somehow, with the zeal and determination of a convert, managed to insinuate himself into the upper echelons of the Administration just as it descended into confusion and madness.

Whoever he was, all indications are that his role was that of a domestic servant. The diary entries make obvious that the other residents of the bunker considered him an insignificant dullard. This likely explains why they were unguarded in his presence, allowing him to witness and record this invaluable insider’s view of the bizarre death throes of the Bush Regime.

April 5

I think the stress is starting to take its toll on the president. Earlier today I went to clean his quarters; I was surprised to find him standing before a full length mirror, practicing his oratorical hand gestures and muttering under his breath.

I should have got out of there immediately, but I was so shocked I just stood there watching him for a moment. Hearing the sound of a muffled cough, I looked to see the first lady sitting across the room watching, sullenly taking long drags from a cigarette. She smashed her cigarette out violently in an over-full ashtray with disgust and, turning to withdraw another, caught sight of me. As she turned that glare on me a chill went up my spine, as it always does. Pretending that I’d just walked in I said:

"Mr. President? I found that copy of Rebel in Chief we've been looking for."
He didn't seem to hear, but when he caught sight of me in the mirror he said:
"How long you been in the service, son?"

Before I could reply he returned to his muttering, delivering a one-liner and mustering a sickly version of his familiar chuckle. It was frightening, seeing him like that. I hurried out, feeling the first lady's eyes on the back of my neck. I’m beginning to suspect that things aren’t going as well as the President says.

April 9

Today Rove caught me, again, as I tried sneaking past his quarters.

“D____. Would you come here for a moment please?” He said in that unctuous voice he uses when he wants something. I braced myself and went in; I was appalled to find that awful green silk bath robe—all he’s worn for days now—was left open, revealing what had to be a thong. He was covered in oil and reddened from lying in his tanning bed.

“I wonder if you might help me; I need to apply this lotion and I can’t quite reach…”

“I have to feed Barney.” I stammered. "Mrs. Bush—I mean the first lady—will kill me if I don’t—"

“Women.” He said, shaking his head, advancing on me. “Why do we bother? Well, the dog can wait. Barney I mean, not Laura." He gave that creepy little laugh he uses when he thinks he's said something clever. "You won’t tell that I said that, will you? Our little secret?” He said the last part in a low, conspiratorial tone. As he came near I backed away, bumping into the wall; I slid sideways until I fell out the open door.

“Gotta feed the dog.” I said nervously over my shoulder as I hustled away. “Gotta feed Barney.”

“Okay then, maybe later.” He said casually, pretending not to notice my obvious discomfort. Damn that guy’s persistent.

April 12

As I was passing the conference room this morning the president called me in.

“D____. C’mere. Check this out.” He said, sounding surprisingly upbeat. I allowed myself the hope that he was going to say we'd be leaving the bunker soon. “Have I shown you this?”

He had been leaning over a scale model of a city. He stepped back and smiled proudly, spreading his arms in presentation.

“What is it sir?” I said, dutifully disguising my disappointment. The room was a shambles; it appeared as if everything had been hastily tossed to the walls to make room for the model, which occupied a place of well-lit preeminence in the center of the squalor.

“It’s Baghdad.” He said, delighted.

“Oh, of course.” I said, still feigning enthusiasm.

“See, here’s the airport; here’s the road to the airport; see the cars? Everything’s safe and secure. See the people? They’re voting.”

“What’s that sir?” I was sorry the moment I asked, but the futuristic structure on the outskirts of the city was clearly out of place, clumsily cobbled together with what appeared to be the modified parts of a child’s toy.

“That’s the Bush Freedom and Liberty Mosque.” He said, his enthusiasm quickening. “It's going to be open to Muslims and Shiites alike. Let me show you—“

“George!” The First Lady called sharply from behind me. The look of a chastened boy came over the President’s face. I instinctively came to attention. I shifted to the side and, careful not to make eye contact, excused myself with a mumble.

I hurried down the hallway before stopping in my tracks. Rove’s door was open; a muted, down-tempo R&B beat and the scent of marijuana emanated from his room. I turned about on my heel. Too late.

“D____!” It was the Vice President. “Get in here.” He motioned at me from the other end of the hallway.

I had to pass Rove’s open door to reach the V.P.'s quarters. I studiously avoided looking, but out of the corner of my eye I could see him leering tauntingly at me through the dim resolution of the black-light. Worse; I thought I saw Bolton’s white moustache glowing in the darkened recess behind him, over a constellation of glinting studs that would have to be one of his leather-get ups. This was bad. They would be at it all night. I would have to spend the night hiding in the pantry again.

“C’mon. Double-time!” The V.P. barked impatiently, going back inside.

When I came in I saw General Pace and General Casey standing at attention before a folding table covered in maps.

“See this idiot?” The Vice President said, pulling me into the room with what felt like a claw. The two stared straight ahead. “Look at him!” He thundered. The two sheepishly complied. There was an awkward, embarrassing moment as we stared dumbly at one another. The room felt even colder than it usually does. For a moment I thought I saw steam coming from Casey’s breath.

This moron can do a better job than you two!” He gave me a rough shake. “In fact, he’s about to replace you incompetent bozos! What do you think of that?” Pace began to speak, and then thought better of it.

“Go ahead, Miss, let’s hear what you have to say.” The V.P. growled.

“I—we’ll try harder sir; we just need another six months to turn this thing around.” Pace’s voice quavered on the verge of one of his legendary crying jags.

“Get the hell out of here.” The Vice President said without looking at me, shoving me back out the door.

I'm starting to wonder what I've gotten myself into.

April 15

When I went to clean the conference room today I found Ledeen bent over the Baghdad model; using one of Goldberg's Star Trek toys he was pretending to strafe and bomb the city, spraying the besieged streets with spittle as he made explosion and gunfire noises, interspersed with the anguished cries of his imaginary victims. I managed to slip back out before he saw me.

April 19

I sneaked out into the garden today, against the V.P.’s orders, just to escape the relentless drone of the ventilation system. It was shrouded in silence and a cool mist; an incredibly peaceful contrast to what was going on inside. It was so still there that for a moment I actually believed that the war wasn’t real.

The impulse to desert came over me with such a sudden severity that I was sure I wouldn’t be able to resist. Then I heard something: barely perceptible, but clearly the sound of a hushed, urgent voice. I followed it, my accelerated heartbeat sending a hot pulse through my temples. I thought the enemy had found us; I half-expected to find a commando whispering into a headset, setting up a raid.

Then I heard a phrase I recognized. Following the voice I came upon the president, bundled against the chill and reclining in a lounge chair. He was facing away, revealing his profile. He was speaking just above his breath, reciting the programmed phrases that had been the boilerplate of his speeches to the nation, in a maniacal, urgent tone. He spat the words out as if to purge himself of them. Occasionally he would punctuate a sentence with an exaggeration of one of his stock facial expressions; now gross caricatures. Like before, I couldn’t help watching; it was only then I realized how lost we were. I turned to go.

“Not exactly what you signed on for, is it?” He said.

It was a voice that I didn’t recognize; it was relaxed, unguarded, natural. I turned back to face him. He was looking at me over his shoulder. He looked different, wearing an expression I’d never seen before. The mask that was the man I thought I knew was now revealed in its absence. It wasn’t that he was no longer himself, but that he had finally returned to himself. I was only now meeting the man. He had the look of a penitent wearied of resistance and peacefully, even gratefully, resigned to a dire fate. I came closer so I wouldn’t have to speak up.

“No, I don’t think any of us signed on for this, sir.”

He smiled appreciatively.

“Well, sorry anyway.” He turned away. Just as I was about to leave he said, “You know, I was almost baseball commissioner once.”

“I know.” I hesitated a moment. “You would’ve made a good commissioner, Mr. President.”

He faced me, grinning a wan thanks, before looking down into his lap, lost in thought. He broke off suddenly, as if catching himself, then looked up and said with jesting bravado:

“No, I would’ve made a hell of a commissioner, D____.”

I straightened up and nodded, forcing a grin.

Turning around I was confronted by the First Lady, very nearly walking right into her; I stiffened and started to excuse myself. She silenced me with a light hand on my shoulder and brought her face before my lowered gaze. Her look had softened. She had been listening to our exchange.

“Thank you, D____. For everything.”

It was the first time she addressed me by name.

“Yes ma’am.” I said, embarrassed. “I better get back inside.”

“Be careful.” She said. “Dick is chewing out the guys from The Weekly Standard. You might want to steer clear of the conference room. Or, if you want a glimpse of something you don’t see every day, I think Kristol is about to throw himself at the Vice President’s feet.”

"I'll pass," I said, "I saw that last time he was here."

April 20

Everyone is gathered in the conference room. It’s the V.P.’s birthday. I can hear them singing a forced and shrill Happy Birthday right now. I know exactly what the V.P. looks like at this moment: his thin, mirthless grin as he revels in the fear betrayed by their voices; I can see his beady eyes as they furtively scan back and forth with reptilian satisfaction, obscured behind the reflection in his glasses of the terrified, contorted faces of the false revelers.

Well, this is it. Now's my chance; I’m leaving the bunker. Barney has come in; he looks miserable, wagging his tail plaintively. He seems to understand. No, I'm sure he does.

"I gotta go, pal. Take care of yourself." I tell him, surprised to hear my voice cracking with emotion as I pat him on the head. "Don't worry."

The grim, insincere singing; the dog's helpless, imploring eyes: I have no choice.

"Oh alright." I say. "Come on boy, let's go home."



Comments (54) RSS

Oldest First Unregistered On Registered On Add a comment
Good god.
Posted by Mike in Olympia on January 21, 2011 at 12:25 PM · Report this
Canuck 2
One. more. Body shot for the last one...
Posted by Canuck on January 21, 2011 at 12:27 PM · Report this
stinkbug 3
What was the winning bid?
Posted by stinkbug on January 21, 2011 at 12:31 PM · Report this
TVDinner 4
I think I'd rather eat the couch than read this.
Posted by TVDinner http:// on January 21, 2011 at 12:31 PM · Report this
drunkengeebee 5
What is?

I don't even.
Posted by drunkengeebee on January 21, 2011 at 12:35 PM · Report this
cressona 6
There should be a special Slog category for these Dennis Dale posts, "$#*! My Dad Says."
Posted by cressona on January 21, 2011 at 12:36 PM · Report this
Jello shot!
Posted by gloomy gus on January 21, 2011 at 12:38 PM · Report this
For next year's Strangercrombie you should threaten to let Mr. Dale post again if we don't pay up. Guaranteed moneymaker.
Posted by Never Again on January 21, 2011 at 12:41 PM · Report this
meowmeowkitty 9
Mindless babble. My eyes crossed after the first paragraph.
Posted by meowmeowkitty on January 21, 2011 at 12:44 PM · Report this
jeez louise. if this dude got paid by the word, he'd get bush-era tax cuts.
Posted by Adrian Ryan on January 21, 2011 at 12:46 PM · Report this
aardvark 11
diarrhea ppp ppp
Posted by aardvark on January 21, 2011 at 12:50 PM · Report this
Canuck 12
@6 & @gus.......yes!!!
Posted by Canuck on January 21, 2011 at 12:52 PM · Report this
Fifty-Two-Eighty 13
I'm sorry to be the one to break the news to you, but you, sir, have absolutely no abilities as a writer whatsoever.
Posted by Fifty-Two-Eighty on January 21, 2011 at 12:53 PM · Report this
This is your last post, right? You never made a damned bit of sense. Not once. Did you even try?
Posted by elm+1character on January 21, 2011 at 12:53 PM · Report this
Posted by planned barrenhood on January 21, 2011 at 12:55 PM · Report this
Fnarf 16
It's a shame you can't harness this gift of yours into writing books, because then I could ignore them.
Posted by Fnarf on January 21, 2011 at 1:11 PM · Report this
heywhatsit!? 17
I'm gonna go take a dump. What comes out of my ass in the next few minutes will be more interesting than anything you write. Good day, sir!
Posted by heywhatsit!? on January 21, 2011 at 1:12 PM · Report this
It's nothing short of lovely, Dennis, to watch you reduce the pseudo-educated ignorati of Seattle to gibbering imbecility with a mere few thousand words of actual literary content. It's more fun than giving acid to a PTA mom.

Don't worry, kids. This will all be over soon. If you start to feel slightly queasy, the bathroom is right down the hall. Bring that tattered copy of Rita Dove you've had since freshman gender studies. Relieve yourself copiously. Lie down, take a Xanax and turn on "This American Life." In an hour or two your old reality will come right back. Thank god for those little blue pills!
Posted by Mencius Moldbug on January 21, 2011 at 1:16 PM · Report this
It's nothing short of lovely, Dennis, to watch you reduce the pseudo-educated ignorati of Seattle to gibbering imbecility with a mere few thousand words of actual literary content. It's more fun than giving acid to a PTA mom.

Don't worry, kids. This will all be over soon. If you start to feel slightly queasy, the bathroom is right down the hall. Bring that tattered copy of Rita Dove you've had since freshman gender studies. Relieve yourself copiously. Lie down, take a Xanax and turn on "This American Life." In an hour or two your old reality will come right back. Thank god for those little blue pills!
Posted by Moldbug on January 21, 2011 at 1:18 PM · Report this
balderdash 20
I'm pretty sure there were a couple genuinely amusing moments buried in that avalanche of inanity. Shame.
Posted by balderdash on January 21, 2011 at 1:23 PM · Report this
aardvark 21
@18 This is "more fun than giving acid to a PTA mom". Truly gripping coming right after a post about eating couch foam. You have found our intellectual shallowness and it is such delicious fun. Truly we cannot wrap our minds around the giant turds you so love to polish.
Posted by aardvark on January 21, 2011 at 1:31 PM · Report this
Trollspotter 22
18/19 is Dennis Dale himself
Posted by Trollspotter on January 21, 2011 at 1:40 PM · Report this
OuterCow 23
Posted by OuterCow on January 21, 2011 at 1:48 PM · Report this
cressona 24
I think someone else touched on this, but I'm just wondering what was going through the daughter's mind when she decided to give Mr. Dale this forum. Either she's got a serious vendetta against her father and wants to see him humiliate himself publicly or (the more plausible explanation) she's almost as delusional and utterly lacking in self-awareness as he is.

I think the first commenter on the Dennis Dale post yesterday summed things up quite well with one word, "Loughneresque."

My other favorite Dennis Dale comment comes from Joe Szilagyi:
Dennis Dale: Chastened into enlightenment by yesterday's demands for brevity

Joe: ...immediately followed by 2,089 additional words.

Speaking of irony-free zone, in that 2K+-word post this gentleman said he was offended that the WNBA should foist on the nation its allegedly inferior product (a product that only happens to involve some of the best female athletes in the world), and yet he sees no problem with foisting his bizarre ramblings on the readers of the most popular blog in the Seattle area.

Disclaimer: I did not read the entire post, but kinda hard to look away from.
Posted by cressona on January 21, 2011 at 1:51 PM · Report this
reverend dr dj riz 25
..does this child talk like this ?
.. and what's really twisted was that i kind of looked forward to this post..i had to skim it a few times to get an idea what he might be saying.. dick cheney... blah blah....then gave up figuring i'd get much more from the comments instead.
you guys rule.
Posted by reverend dr dj riz on January 21, 2011 at 1:52 PM · Report this
Sandiai 26
@22 Of course. As was Rhettro.
Posted by Sandiai on January 21, 2011 at 2:03 PM · Report this
@26: no... I sincerely do hope that Rhettro was a buddy of his who came to visit.

Any other prospect is just too too depressing.
Posted by planned barrenhood on January 21, 2011 at 2:09 PM · Report this
I wish I was Mencius. Judging from the comment counts he gets he's got some serious traffic--and he regularly dashes off 5,000+ word columns of such depth and erudition that I realize I'll never catch up, not if I had two more lifetimes. Should've stayed in school.

One serious note on style--the author should force the reader to work a little, to draw him out--and into the text.
Posted by eladsinned on January 21, 2011 at 2:21 PM · Report this
pissy mcslogbot 29
mmmm, a 2000+ word salad full of nonsense croutons and some stale bad stinky cheese; topped with an oozing faux intellectual dressing...

it is the far to overwrought version of this chomsky example sentence: Colorless green ideas sleep furiously
Posted by pissy mcslogbot on January 21, 2011 at 2:23 PM · Report this
I wish I was Mencius. He regularly dashes off 5000+ word essays of such wit and erudition that I realize I couldn't catch up if I had two more lifetimes, and he engages in comment threads that go into the hundreds--and not a "poo!", TL;DR or other such monosyllabic horseshit in the bunch--giving me some serious hit-count envy. Should've stayed in school.

Google him--I would be proud to be able to do that.
Posted by eladsinned on January 21, 2011 at 2:27 PM · Report this
@28, the only problem is you write boring pieces about boring things. Also, you seem to be too stupid to realize how boring and stupid you actually are.
Posted by Avtar on January 21, 2011 at 2:28 PM · Report this
Coming soon to a blog near you: Filibuster!™ with Dennis Dale.
Posted by Proteus on January 21, 2011 at 2:29 PM · Report this
I just wish I had been more clear about the initial gag--Dick Cheney needs a heart transplant, so anyone with a healthy ticker should be careful if they get injured near whatever hospital he is in

On my own blog I would be going back in and editing it compulsively--I usually don't get what I want until I've done something like ten re-writes. Here I have to send in an email--two a day--and it's out of my hands. Thus the cheesy recourse to re-runs of old stuff.
Posted by eladsinned on January 21, 2011 at 2:32 PM · Report this
I take away from the experience a new-found respect for the folks here who work on a deadline, and the discipline has been good for me. Somebody once said a work of art is never finished--only abandoned.
Posted by eladsinned on January 21, 2011 at 2:35 PM · Report this
NaFun 35
I think you just wrote a stunning piece of Bush/Rove/Dale dom/sub slashfic.

My hat is off to you, sir.
Posted by NaFun on January 21, 2011 at 2:37 PM · Report this
Urgutha Forka 36
I'm assuming his final post will be the entire unabridged Oxford dictionary.
Posted by Urgutha Forka on January 21, 2011 at 2:44 PM · Report this
ago 37

"One serious note on style--the author should force the reader to work a little, to draw him out--and into the text."

1. Um, no. Read Strunk & White or the Chicago Manual.
2. Even if this were true, you have to draw people in before you 'draw them out'...the following sentence, the first in the piece, is complete garbage.

"The following diary fragments were found by rebel forces of the breakaway American states near the ruins of President George W. Bush’s secret bunker at the close of the Second Civil War in May of 2008."
Posted by ago on January 21, 2011 at 2:47 PM · Report this
Lissa 38
Mr. Dale's earlier efforts have been, in addition to warped and appalling ……well, let's say opaque. Full of long elliptical sentences overburdened with adjectives a la Henry James on crank. But this post, while not as badly written, is just sad and weird and makes me think of some lonely kid in an attic making up stories to comfort himself. I mean he even gets to keep the dog in the end!
Now as some of you may know I have an over developed empathy gland. For example, I once ate an entire apple I didn't really want because it was pointed out to me that it was Fuji apple, and if I didn't eat it, the apple would lose face.
This post is making my empathy gland hurt! It's making me feel bad for him! Like the Fuji apple!
So yes, between that, and the damage my liver has incurred this past week what with all the shots, for purely medical reasons, I will be glad when this is over. As I am sure will be the Daughter Dale. Ow! My gland!
Posted by Lissa on January 21, 2011 at 2:51 PM · Report this
AmyC 39
@ 10 and 36: excellent.

and now, my dear friends, a little bit of genuinely funny writing to cleanse your palate:…

it's a little long, but i PROMISE you, it's worth every moment. :)
Posted by AmyC on January 21, 2011 at 2:59 PM · Report this
Posted by The Audience on January 21, 2011 at 3:13 PM · Report this
@28 - I don't think you should have any problem tossing out 5,000 word posts. Just keep throwing random adjectives around like you're doing and you'll be there in no time.

Of course, the depth and erudition part...well, I'm afraid that ship has sailed.
Posted by Mike in Olympia on January 21, 2011 at 3:13 PM · Report this
Lissa, I am sad about your gland. Soon Mr. Dale will be just an unhappy memory.
Posted by gloomy gus on January 21, 2011 at 3:16 PM · Report this
Fnarf 43
@28, it's one thing to draw them in, but you don't have to drown them.
Posted by Fnarf on January 21, 2011 at 3:21 PM · Report this
Cynic Romantic 44
Looks like the verbal constipation you had mid week has cleared.
Posted by Cynic Romantic on January 21, 2011 at 3:28 PM · Report this
Sandiai 45
"We're all trained to reproduce these routinized, unreflective mind secretions." (DD, yesterday).

Dude, low grade chronic emotional stress (like thinking the government is illegitimate, or the second Civil War is coming, or everyone's against you/don't understand what's obvious, or the government trains our minds by controlling grammar) can destroy those very cells that allow us to have a firm grip on reality*. I'm looking at this essay from 2008 and it's a lot more coherent than your more recent stuff. A lot.

May I recommend that you stop writing on the internet for a while. Just a little while. And start daily taking some omega fatty acids; they're actually brain-protective. Go for walks. Socialize with your family. Try not to think too much about politics. It's not really worth it if it makes a person sick. Science just found out recently that the reparative abilities of the brain are huge, even into old age, as long as you're not damaging it with stress hormones.

As far as the story: it was nice that you saved the dog from the bunker. I was a little confused how there could be a garden in the bunker. Perhaps a little more of a set up description would help to set the scene. Also, you seem to strongly hate/fear powerful women. Why IS that? Neither Laura nor Michelle were/are anything but graceful wives and first-ladies.
Also, Oh-my-god... (going to avoid the acronyms because neither you nor I like them), Was Cheney or Rove hitting on you?! What is up with THAT?

I just wanted to add that you seem to lump all Sloggers together when you make your hateful, bigoted comments about us. Did you know there are several conservatives here? In fact, any reasonable person is welcome and treated with respect. Also (according to "Where are You Reading Slog" from a few months ago), most Sloggers appear to be from somewhere other than the Northwest, myself included. Also, most of us are middle-aged, (not "kids"), and actually-educated (rather than "pseudo-educated", another term that doesn't make sense). I'll tell you a little something personal: My most favoritistic person in the whole wide world is my ex-marine, gun-toting, Republican father. I respect his politics because he's not a bigot and he's not contemptuous of other people or their lifestyles or politics "unless they're a bad person" as he likes to say.

Contempt. That's what you've conveyed well. The fact that your contempt is wide-reaching and apolitical does not change what it is. Contempt for the world or for large swaths of humanity is bad for you. Just saying.…
Posted by Sandiai on January 21, 2011 at 3:36 PM · Report this
Sandiai 46
Posted by Sandiai on January 21, 2011 at 3:38 PM · Report this
Trollspotter 47
DD double post at 28 & 30 prove that the double post at 18 & 19 is the same lunatic.

Sandiai@26 is also correct.
Posted by Trollspotter on January 21, 2011 at 3:42 PM · Report this
Sandiai 48
@39. That was lovely!
Posted by Sandiai on January 21, 2011 at 4:02 PM · Report this
Backyard Bombardier 49
"Mars Attacks!" was a terrible, terrible movie. Tim Burton owes me $12 and two hours.
Posted by Backyard Bombardier on January 21, 2011 at 5:01 PM · Report this
NotSean 50
I kinda liked the warning to stay away from hospitals in the Cheney vicinity.
It could've ended there and been a succesful post. So close.
Posted by NotSean on January 21, 2011 at 5:01 PM · Report this
Maverick Biceps 51
I thought that was really funny & good and I'm actually shocked that all of you seriously still think DD is actually unironically a conservative. Slog should make him a regular contributor.
Posted by Maverick Biceps on January 21, 2011 at 11:44 PM · Report this
@45: You were quoting me and attributing it to Dale.
Posted by Rhettro on January 22, 2011 at 12:01 PM · Report this
Lissa 53
@52: Some people are mixing the two of you up. I think some people may also think that you are a Dennis Dale sock puppet.
Posted by Lissa on January 22, 2011 at 3:58 PM · Report this
DD you have successfully wasted your shot here. rather than using your shot at the Sloggers in an attempt to convince anyone that you should be followed hereafter you rather have populated the net with enough senseless, boring and useless blather that you made sure to seal your fate as an ineffective and forced writer of big words with no big ideas--no value.

Lissa's Organ is suffering and, your daughter now has documentary evidence that you are a baffoon.

maybe one day you will write less and say more. stop wasting people's time with nonsense because you want to show people you know a lot of fancy words or watched a lot of old movies. maybe try movie reviews or something--trouble is you probably couldn't handle that either.
Posted by herbie52 on January 23, 2011 at 9:08 AM · Report this

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