And at first it makes me sad, because the first time I read it I skipped the video of souped-up VW bugs, but this time I watched it, and thought about my first bug, a '65, and how it was stolen by a stranger—and right after I'd converted it to 12-volt, dammit. And my second one, too: a '69, that my brother gave me, but my mother stole (and she also took the first gun I ever owned [a S&W Chief's Special] the nasty 70-year-old thief—I only hang out with her these days because of her cute, pretty, smart pit bull).

But there are three notable things about Iowahawk, these days: (1) he makes me want to read Garage Magazine, which is a terrible thing, because this in turn leads me to those Big Newsstands that have almost everything while I poke around looking for it. And then I buy a bunch of magazines, and have you looked at the price of cool alternative print media these days?

Yet I'm obviously going to the wrong ones, because I still haven't seen Garage—which I get the feeling neither John Dianna nor Primedia (God bless all of their commercial, quality-be-damned little hearts) had anything to do with.

(2) He has the most scintillating right-hand sidebar in blogger history, because under the heading "blurbs" there lies a series of quotes about his blog and his persona that are almost as creative as the stuff he writes himself.

(3) If Tammy Bruce ain't reading his blog, she should be: after all, she likes hot chicks and hot cars (that's my inference, since she drives at hot car, and she once posed for a picture with me . . .).

My life's mission is now to be published on Iowahawk's sidebar. Not to see one of my crime novels in hardcover. Not to reach the best-seller list with either of them, or with my memoir. I must write something about Iowahawk that is almost as funny as something he would write himself. And, unfortunately, I ain't the funny person in this household.

So here's my first volley:

Iowahawk's the kind of guy you'd want to run into in that alternate universe. You know: the one in which no one is married, and the bars stay open all night.

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. . . has been labeled a "professor of Zionism," and mentally ill by Thomas R. Pochari of the Joo-Patrol. Oh, yes—and David's probably an "alcoholic," too. I'm honestly trying to get mad, but I'm giggling too hard to be the true-blue loyal friend I want to be.

If you want to know the truth, the bothersome thing about David is his very lack of any sort of mental illness. He's always upbeat, never depressed, relentlessly productive, and . . . in short, the sort of person whom deeply flawed people like me would be terribly tempted to envy and resent, if he weren't always feeding us coq au vin and letting us drink his single-malt Scotch—there's that cunning, clever Jewish bribery at work!

I've never seen David lapse into a "victim" mentality—not even once, and we were all teenagers together—most of us moody, horny youngters with a lot more brains than common sense. Except David, damn him. (Well. I'm sure he was just as horny as the rest of us. But he sure was a good deal less of a drama queen than anyone else I knew.)

Ah, but back to the Vice-President and Jews: Ace calls this potent combo "the mother of all storms." Most of the rest of us just collapse into laughter at the idea that Jews supported the U.S. invasion of Iraq in disproportionate numbers. Unless by "the Jews" we really mean Bill Kristol and Jonah Goldberg, in which case it all sort of hangs together in a beautiful—albeit racist—way.

I would love to worry about "the Jews." (Please note the definite article, because it's somehow always perfectly clear which Joooos we're talking about.) However, I'm way too busy worry about the kiwis. Are you blind to the subtle messages in Peter Jackson's movies? Do you not see what the New Zealanders are up to? I once saw Dick Cheney talking to someone from New Zealand. Wake up, Sheeple!

As for Professor Linden, check out his blog. Homework assignment: read his book, and see if you can find the hidden Zionist messages within! Careful, now—it's subtle stuff! For instance, when he talks about "neural pathways," it's a parable for "committing acts of aggression against Arab and Persian children."

You just need the Zionist decoder ring. I think they're free right now, in Rice Krispies boxes, though. Good luck, kids!

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. . . for my husband? It'll change his life. Or, um . . . someone's life.

I've tried the second desk option. Unfortunately, the other member of my household had to set limits when that turned into a third and fourth desk.

I've also been told that, no, we can't just get another house to be the "neat" one that people are allowed to visit.

Via Insty, who is apparently a member of the clutter underground.

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Ace has just converted to Islam. Though one gets the idea it isn't just love of Allah that made him see the light.

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Over at Instapundit.

Rock the VOTE!

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Mostly, I just like to watch.

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Well, then: I'll share the wealth.

And what wealth it is:

Though, really—does anyone expect Prof. Althouse to be unseated anytime soon?

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A little touch of Insty, of course. The man is a force of nature:

Now if only he'd give my deep, profound and downright brilliant analyses the same attention he gives my throwaway lines . . . .

Posted by: Attila Girl at 10:55 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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But how much time does Chris Muir spend looking at women's bodies?

Chris, my man—I meant that in the good way.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 10:26 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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Seriously: I've got some business correspondence to catch up on, and lunch with a friend/media contact.

Then I'll be working at Ye Olde Nonprofit into the evening.

So the Political Joy will be back on duty sometime over the weekend.

In the meantime, please check out this site and discuss among yourselves.

I'm all for respecting intellectual property rights, myself, but when royalties go up to the point that an entire industry will be decimated by it—and most of the artists themselves are on the other side of the issue—things appear to have gone sideways in a serious way.

Yes, this entire discussion comes under the heading of "does the mainstream music industry have a death wish?" Perhaps they don't, though: after all, once you've secured a government-enforced monopoly on the main avenue through which new music is desseminated, you've got a chance of survival—by killing the competition.

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. . . and gone to conspiracy heaven.

Via Christophe.

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