| Friday, August 8, 2003 |
12:16 - Fey Unabomber
http://timblair.spleenville.com/archives/003686.php
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Great Fisking over at Tim Blair's joint of that bizarre Mark Morford rant.
Because there is more meaning and content and depth and significance in a lover's moan and in a drop of wine and in a dog's wag than in anything you can conjure in your homophobic faux-cowboy Lynne Cheney-thick dream, honey. Get over yourself. We are on to you. We know you are made of nothing but spin and frantic gesticulations and scowls. Poke a finger into you and out pours only sawdust and sighs.
Poke a finger in Morford (wear gloves) and out pours this stuff. Lucky we’ve got some sawdust.
Here is my porn collection. Here are my divine sex toys and my lubricants and my leather strappy things and my collection of happy open-minded perversions and my active account at Blowfish.com and my tattoos and piercings and love of massage oil and vibrators and things that go ooooh in the night. Come on over, Mr. Ashcroft, I have something to show you.
If I was reading this in 1973, and if I was an elderly woman, I might be mildly startled by that paragraph.
Hear, hear. You know, I hope Bush read Morford's column, because I'm sure he would have laughed his ass off.
I get enough of people simpering about how they're in favor of happiness (emphasis on the last two syllables) and The Man is for Christianity and Dour Evil in my non-blog life, thank you. How come some people just never, ever grow up?
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