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Posts Tagged with ÔpoliticsŐ


NEOCON LIKE ME:

November 4th, 2010 by
HOW I SPENT A YEAR IN IRAQ TEACHING WITH THE BUSH-CHENEY CRAZIES
BY JOHN DOLAN
(This piece was originally published at Alternet)


The hero of this story is the $100 bill — or rather, the wad of $100 bills. My first meeting with those lovely $100 bills came at the end of my interview for a job teaching English at the American University of Iraq Sulaimaniya (AUIS). At the end of the interview, the Chancellor, Joshua Mitchell asked me what my travel expenses had been and pulled out a wad of $100 bills. He peeled off 11 of them — the cost of my ticket — and slapped them down on the table, snarling, “There, that’s how I do business!” (more…)

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Black & Godless in Philly, Harlem and D.C.

October 22nd, 2010 by

Or Richard Dawkins, Other Africans Reveal Radical, Atheist Afro-genda at Howard University

BY IAN “WHITE PRIVILEGE” MURPHY


THE NORTH AMERICAN WILDERNESS—Used to be a time when a white man could put a black lawn jockey or Carl Paladino sign out front of his summer home, and feel a sense of pride, because race-hate was moral in God’s book. And black folks appreciated the white man’s sins because the same book taught them that to suffer on the oppressor’s cross was divine. Those were the “good old days,” as candy bars only cost 5¢ and the gays knew their place.

But no more. There’s a black POTUS. Black atheists meet out in the open. Even my girlfriend is black! What has happened to my country? (more…)

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This is Howie do it

October 17th, 2010 by

The BEAST Interrogates NY Green Party Gubernatorial Candidate Howie Hawkins

BY IAN MURPHY

howie

You don’t get a lot of press compared to Cuomo and Paladino. Why is that, and have you ever considered threatening a reporter or forwarding equine pornography emails to get more of the spotlight?

We don’t need stunts to get attention. Our Green New Deal speaks for itself: (more…)

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Whore More Years!

September 22nd, 2010 by

The Manhattan Madam’s pointless run for NY Governor

BY IAN MURPHY

DAVIS-HEADER
BUFFALO–So I’m on lunch the other day, covered in sawdust, specks of paint and your general blue-collar grime, when I notice what appeared to be a prostitute and her diminutive pimp posing for photos in Niagara Square. He’s pinstriped and wearing a fedora. The hooker’s a spray-tan…woman with collagen-duck-lips, long bleach-blond hair, caked-on-makeup, leg tattoos and enough silicon on the top floor to caulk an entire mansion. I’m just eating my shitty gas station sandwich on a bench, wondering what & why? (more…)

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i haz a meme

September 9th, 2010 by

Delusional bigot draws massive crowd of delusional bigots

AN EMBEDDED REPORT FROM GLENN BECK’S “RESTORING HONOR” RALLY BY TYLER BASS

bass=beck
AUGUST 28, 2010 — As America declines, so does its sanity.  The crazy has coalesced alongside the Tidal Basin and the Lincoln Memorial, DC. A delusional, racist demagogue has drawn about 200,ooo delusional, racist idiots, for a “Restoring Honor” rally. It’s a historic day in America. It’s an historic day in Britain. It’s the first time since Martin Luther King Jr. gave his inspiring “I have a dream” speech in ’63 — on this same day, in this same spot — that a white man has had the unashamed bigotry, cognitive dissonance and unchecked megalomania to squat over that inspiring dream and take a massive, steaming shit.

Those who camped out  for Glenn Beck’s  jingoist revival were not lucid dreamers. They are an uneducated and devastatingly stupid sect of the white majority, who fancy themselves existentially threatened by some swarthy other. To them, our president is counted among that melanin-rich horde of ill-defined evil. Squeezing my way through the lawn chair pews, I felt like I was inside the film Jesus Camp.

Going into this situation with a beard and long hair made things really interesting, but I wouldn’t try it again. One guy I met, Chris, who would stress to me the importance of removing the tax burden from the highest-income tax earners, and who called himself a Christian, told me that I was likely to get more interesting answers if I looked like some radical hippie freak. In hindsight, I agree. (more…)

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Ted Talks

September 4th, 2010 by

IDEAS WORTH DREADING

(The unauthorized interview of Sharron Angle’s husband Ted)

BY IAN MURPHY


Ted-Talks-2


“But I would have you know, that the head of every man is Christ; and the head of the woman [is] the man; and the head of Christ [is] God.”
- Corinthians 11:3 (The Bible) (more…)

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Hitchens Exposed!

June 3rd, 2010 by

Christopher Hitchens reveals all in disturbing BEAST exclusive

BY EDWARD CONE

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When I arrived at the ground floor of Christopher Hitchens’s apartment building the doorman who greeted me was wearing a maroon jacket stained wet near the collar and he smelled of alcohol. “I’m here to see Mr. Hitchens,” I said. He nodded and pointed to the large stain. “He got in ten minutes ago.” Thirteen minutes ahead of schedule, I hung around and chatted with the kind soiled doorman before making my way Hitchensward.

Standing in front of the door, I knocked four times, mimicking the opening notes to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, notes employed by the BBC in World War the Second because short-short-short-long was Morse code for “V,” and thus victory. I was sure Hitchens, a collector of historical miscellanies and a board-certified literary genius nourished as a boy on the BBC, would catch the reference and perhaps commend my command of historical bric-a-brac. I was disappointed by my error. “Enter,” came the reply, and so I did. Christopher Hitchens was sitting with a bottle of scotch in each hand at a small wooden table in the center of a large bare room almost entirely bereft of expected furniture and decoration. There was the table at which he sat, some chairs and hundreds of books lining the walls, shelved carefully and stacked haphazardly under the windows. Elsewhere, bottles of booze arranged artfully and stacked many feet high.”Well,” said Hitchens, drawing out and slurring that interjection often used by intelligent men to preface some profound statement. None came. I stood there waiting as Hitchens, hunched over, eyes half closed, sat staring at me in stuporous silence. I thought I noticed a spot of drool beginning to form at the left corner of his mouth. All around the man an archipelago of drying pools of vomit caked the floor, mapping out his drunkenness. Had he no caretaker?

“I’m here for the interview,” I offered, hoping to prod him out of his torpor toward less awkward realms of human interaction. “I’m with The BEAST.”

“Well,” he said again. Not another sound for two minutes. I feared he was having a stroke and would soon be dead and I would somehow be blamed. The situation was perilously close to spiraling out of control. Then: “Please sit down.”

What follows is the near-complete transcript of my interview with Christopher Hitchens, journalist and polemicist extraordinaire, darling of the establishment, anti-theist Debate Champion(tm), sometimes-socialist, scourge of the left, right, center and fringe. For reasons soon to be made appallingly clear, portions of the interview have been necessarily excised for brevity.

CONE: You’ve been publishing effective journalism and skewering public figures since you were five years old, but this is your first memoir. What did you find different about the writing process?

HITCHENS: (surprisingly coherent, his words free from slurring) In his imperishable and brilliant and beautiful treatise on the plight of young Afghans savaged by the abhorrent Soviet invasion of 1980, Midnight’s Children, my dear friend Sir Salman Rushdie has created, it must be said, a framework on which all my work past and present and future would rely. I owe my every manner of success to my dear friends Sir Ian McEwan, the aforementioned Sir Salman Rushdie, and Sir Martin Amis, whose father Sir Kingsley Amis was a mentor of mine at Oxford–

CONE: I don’t think all those people are really knights.

HITCHENS: –the Troubles in Northern Ireland, where I had my first and last experience of journalistic comity. This is not to say, rather, that I was free from all influence thereafter. Only the recorded existence of the supposed Jesus of Nazareth is less true. So, quite the opposite. Sir James Fenton, the noble Nobel poet laureate whom I proudly count among my various friends, initially made my acquaintance at a protest in London, February 1968, not long before the whole world was to erupt in righteous protest. Sir James instructed me in the ways of the radical and in his own inimitable poetical way was successful in bringing about the ruin of capitalism in at least one corner of that great city. We joined a group of radicals in sitting outside a laundromat that would not open its doors on Thursdays to the masses’ unwashed clothing. It was our solemn goal to bar from entering into that degenerated and bigoted establishment every fascist capitalist who wished to further grease the gears of the machinery of oppression. We stood for hours, arms locked and forming an impenetrable heroic human chain, until the tools of what I then believed to be our capitalist slumlords, arrived with batons in hand. We resisted but in the end they arrested all of us. Two hours later, upon exiting jail, I returned to my rooms at Oxford and typed out in three minutes a 2,000 word story on the events of that day. It would later be printed in the New Statesman. To be a soixante-huitard is not a birthright but–

CONE: Did you just say retard?

HITCHENS: –dear departed close chum and sometimes-advisor Sir Sidney Blumenthal, at whose funeral I considered it a privilege to act as pallbearer and eulogist, was fond of remarking upon the unlettered scene of American letters and–

CONE: I’ve heard your relationship with Blumenthal, again not a knight, rather soured after you accused him of perjury. Also, I’m fairly certain he’s still alive.

HITCHENS: –it is Milton, truly, who provides for us the best example. That this example came before us nearly 400 years ago never fails to inspire awe and astonishment in the minds of thinking men and reasoned women. Forgive me any error for I quote this from memory:

Hail holy Light, offspring of Heav’n first-born,

Or of th’ Eternal co-eternal beam

May I express thee unbalanced? Since God is light,

And never but in unapproached light

Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,

Bright effluence of bright essence increate.

Or hear’st though rather pure ethereal stream,

Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the sun,

Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice

Of God, as with a mantle didst invest

The rising world of waters dark and deep,

Won from the void and formless infinite.

Thee I revisit now with bolder wing,

Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detained

In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight

Through utter and through middle darkness borne

[...]

So spake the Seraph Abdiel found,

Among the faithless, faithful only he,

Among unnumerable false, unmoved,

Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,

His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal;

Nor number, nor example with him wrought

To serve from truth, or change his constant mind

Though single. From amidst them forth he passed,

Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained

Superior, nor of violence feared aught

And with retorted scorn his back he turned

On whose proud tow’rs to swift destruction doomed.

That is Paradise Lost, books eye-eye-eye and eye-vee.

I

CONE: Uh–

HITCHENS: –be said that, in a fight, he was the man you would want by your side. Once, on a gray and rainy and dour day some time after the terrible events of September the 11th, 2001 I was walking from the hotel room of my friend and confidante Deputy Secretary of Defense Paul Wolfowitz toward my office in the New School, where I am a visiting professor. (Indeed, it was to a fictional Student X I addressed my correspondence in my 2001 book Letters to a Young Contrarian, a slim volume universally praised and winner of the prestigious Pulitzer Prize.)

CONE: That is a lie.

HITCHENS: –journeys and escapades with the Peshmerga, warriors from Kurdistan, the people for whom I wear on my lapel the Kurdish flag. I have worn it for many years, and in fact I have many such pins, all of which are attached to every garment I own. This, you see, is to avoid disgrace. I do not wish to appear ungallant, and the studious and observant and intelligent reader will agree that I have taken the proper precautions in this regard. De te fabula narratur. This lapel pin has landed me in hot water not a few times, most recently when, in the company of my dear friend and lover Sir Martin Amis, I traveled to Peshawar–

CONE: Not a knight.

HITCHENS: –in a terrible scrap; everyone except the two of us were armed. I had only my pen for protection. When the barbarian third-world Islamofascist crowd of thugs charged us, I with my pen and Sir Martin Amis holding a sack filled with his father’s novels, we did what could be expected from two proud defenders of civilization. I stabbed out with my pen, and Martin crushed heads with his sack of novels, and after not a long while we were covered in the blood of the intolerant, our vanquished al-Qaeda enemies lay perforated all around us. We had gored our enemies; we, quite rightly I think, snorted like bulls and made strange movements of celebration. Forgive me my rude solipsism. It was then I decided to pen my next book using their blood for ink–

CONE: This is deeply disturbing.

HITCHENS: –malodorous Clintons, the pair of them interested only in the acquiring and the exercise of political power. It was with great pleasure that I savaged that fraudulent team, guilty of spewing so much piffle, President Clinton especially, in the pages of The Nation and the Atlantic Monthly and the New York Times and Dissent and the Times Literary Supplement and the New York Review of Books and Vanity Fair and the London Review of Books and all those other distinguished publications whom I allow to pay me for my cherished words, throughout the 1990s. The credulity of the American public can never be understated, as Huneker said, or was it Mencken, or perhaps Eliot — T.S. or George, that intoxicating radical Mary Ann Evans? — and I aim to foster a national culture of enlightenment with its basis in The Enlightenment. There are walking among us today many Thomas Paines and Diderots and Humes and Kants, do not be fooled. It is a matter of drawing them into society. I believe, with some necessary assistance, I am capable of so doing. Indeed, my efforts have borne fruit. After the tragic morning of September the 11th, 2001 a previously unheralded President, thought by many petulant and stupid and cross, made America’s mission, quite correctly I should say, to rid the world of terrorism and tyranny forever. My former comrades on the Left, servile cowards to the end, denounced this heroic decision. I savaged them with a fury they will not soon forget. I recall fondly that President Bush and his team were watching with trepidation these unfolding events, and I am reliably told that Vice President Richard Cheney and my honorable friend Deputy Secretary of Defense Paul Wolfowitz would thumb through issues of The Nation, debating with each other who would emerge victorious from the battle ongoing in those pages, myself or Noam Chomsky. I am pleased to say that both Vice President Richard Cheney and Deputy Secretary of Defense Wolfowitz — men rather near to my heart — came down on my side. I remember Vice President Richard Cheney’s congratulatory phone call one winter morning, describing how pleased he was with my thrashing of Chomsky, and would I please join him the following week to discuss the long-term strategy of the emerging Global War on Terror? ‘It will be my honor, sir,’ I replied, and I remember well his grunting response before hanging up. It was the grunt of approval. The details of those–

CONE: I have been here nearly two hours and you have not answered my only question.

HITCHENS: (warily) Who are you?

CONE: As I said before I’m with The BEAST. You granted this interview in an effort to promote your memoir, and you graciously invited me to your home so that we might talk face-to-face.

HITCHENS: Did Sir Salman Rushdie send you?

CONE: (hesitantly) Yes.

HITCHENS: In his imperishable and brilliant and beautiful treatise…

I left without speaking another word. As I closed the door behind me he was still blathering about Rushdie, sprinkling over his monologue a few words borrowed from the French, used wrongly I think, and something about his “dear friends” Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and Isaiah Berlin.

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