Saturday, March 01, 2003
RESISTING WITH PANACHE
I chanced upon the coy and understated fuckfrance.com while marinating one of the neighbor's flock for my Sunday cous-cous in a barrel of "Chateau Saddam" Iraki crude nouveau, (low in tannin!).
Spend some time chez FF: It's a feast!
...now what should I do with the rest of that mouton...
A DIEU, BLEU-BLANC-ROUGE
It's greener on the other side of the Franco-arab street
100% islamo-degradable! Uses galore: a handkerchief, snail bib and a welcome mat...
Feel islami-dextrous! A must-have for journeys to the Muddled-East WC (or Paris suburbs)--when you'd rather not use your left hand...
Friday, February 28, 2003
JINGOISM (from Cambridge Internat. Dictionary of English)
√ The extreme belief that your own country is always best,
√ which is often shown in enthusiastic support for a war
√ against another country.
FRANKENBLOG -RECOMBINANT HTML #2
For the last two days it's been a pastel root canal. The archives are THERE, but the link is on the blink.
Now, where'd I leave that pick-ax...
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
"NO" YOUR ENEMIES
Thumb your nose
Feel free to add the logos below to your own site, posters...or the whine or brat-worst shelves at your local stores...
Monday, February 24, 2003
FRANKENBLOG -RECOMBINANT HTML
Blogger Width-out Borders
Hours and hours spent finding and Photoshopping Michelangelo's Jeremiah, finding the right font and "aging" it, and then the real "fun" began...
Going into the blog template to find where to insert the thing--squinting and tweaking...and then the table cell for "text" ran over the right border.
REQUEST: Would some kind soul who knows HTML and wants to "view source" and tell me how the heck to align the text border with the banner?
Thanks in advance, and apologies for the carpal tunnel syndrome excessing scrolling may cause you--if you've that much patience...I'm all out...
Sunday, February 23, 2003
"NO" YOUR ENEMIES!
See Aaron's Rantblog for maps and list of the moral flat-liners supporting Iraque. And then scroll down to see the folks who DO deserve your ear and your respect.
CAPTAIN SHORE-WREQUE'S SWAN SONG IN BEAST MINOR
Anthem of the Franco-African Nadir
"If we could talk to the animals, learn their languages
Think of all the things we could discuss
If we could walk with the animals, talk with the animals,
Grunt and squeak and squawk with the animals,
And they could squeak and squawk and speak and talk to us."
(from "Dr. Dolittle" - Lyrics: Leslie Bricusse/Oscar, Best Song 1967)
MUGABE MOUNTS THE ARK IN TRIOMPHE
France pulls more savage fauna from the deluge
France--that Marie Celeste of Old Europe morality--which stowed-away such odd birds as Khomeini, Baby Doc, and the emperor penguin "Kid Kannibal" Bokassa...
France--that Kursk of socialist accountability--which kenneled Nazi lap-dogs such as Barbie and Papon, and anger-manages its rabid Is-lambs by giving them the run of suburban steerage...
France--that Titanic of international diplomacy--which is filling its hold with the blood-red dust of Bonaparte's sarcophagus, emptying its ballast of memory, and auctioning its rudder for scrap...
...has now sunk low enough for Mugabe--agrarian apocalyptologist and carrion crow, perched on his high-horse Famine--to slither aboard.
Joque Shore-wreque, the Great Helmsman of the floating minimum-security Bastille, has out-yesed Noah.
The good Captain may not know a gosling from a quisling, but he sees that "dictatatorus napoleonus wannabus" tops the endangered specious list. While America and its "vassals" round the Cape of New Millennium, in hot pursuit of the jihadi piranha, the slime-eel conspirator and their bottom-skimming larvae, Shore-wreque beach-combs for driftwood in the stagnant tidal pools of colonial France to shelter the brig-worthy of all flags.
The once mighty galleon is now a gilded garbage scow...capsizing in a puddle of villainy.
This spectacle is holy-canon fodder to the death-enamored armchair feyadeen of Franistan, whose bon appetit for displays of the inhuman rite of Saddamy grows gomorrah and more each day.
But hark! When--forty days hence?--the troubled waters recede, and when blowing his own trumpet no longer fills his sales, Shore-wreque will find himself high-and-dry-docked in the vast terra incognita of the New Europe--where "there be tygers".
And hearing the peal of the dinar bell wafting on the mid-east trade winds, this Captain, unhindered by Dreyfusian honor, will cast his minions adrift, shovel the tyrant-droppings from their stalls, tie himself to the weather vane, and gaze across the shining sea...to America.
Whither he will send his bedraggled dove, Shipwright de Veal-peen--white tail feathers between his legs--to hawk the eggs benedict of fair-weather friendship...a sliver of the true olive branch wedged firmly in his beak.
...and America shall clean its teeth with it.