Because this is a blog that appreciates word play.
… in a collective bad mood because of you know who.
Buttons seen on arriving women delegates.
‘YOU’RE A WOUNDING SON OF A BITCH’
— Louise Bryant
**********************
‘Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.’
— Sylvia Plath
***********************
‘WHAT IF SHE ACTUALLY ENJOYED HER DEBASEMENT?’
— O
Dentist Who Pleaded Guilty To Tax Evasion Braces For Prison After Sentencing
Nice pun. Deserves a plaque.
Trump/Gingrich: a presidential ticket that would have more infidelity than the collected works of Philip Roth & John Updike combined.
… organizers are working on smoothing out any contradictions between a ferociously anti-pornography platform and a presidential candidate whose namesake hotel hosts the annual eXXXotica Expo.
What? With Bikers for Trump providing security?
V. hard to get the bird to pose.
A bit later, with container ship.
Every week or so, a new high-profile woman (Megyn Kelly, Elizabeth Warren, Ruth Bader Ginsburg) pulls a football out from under Donald Trump.
Like Charlie Brown, he can’t help going for the thing, kicking the air as it’s pulled away and landing on his ass.
UD thinks it’s time for the strategy to go international. Malala Yousafzai held the ball out for Trump last December, but he didn’t go for it because he hadn’t yet won the nomination. UD hopes whoever’s coordinating the LVP strategy thinks to tap Malala again. Whiff time.
But come on.
Price of doing football, America! A bargain at twice the price!
And hey how ’bout that college football, huh?
——————–
If you see me at the football camp
And I cry about an anal cramp
Walk on by, walk on by
Make believe
That you don’t see the tears
Just let me grieve
In private ’cause each time I see you
I break down and cry
Walk on by (don’t stop)
Walk on by (don’t stop)
Walk on by
I just can’t get over the anal rape
And so if I seem like I’ve been in a scrape
Walk on by, walk on by
*************
UD thanks David.
… at the Cliffs of Moher
five minutes ago.
******************
He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself:
—A day of dappled seaborne clouds
The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the grey-fringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language many-coloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man