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The Public Blogging of Pomosexuality, Homotextuality, Homophobiaphilia, and Drear Theory (aka Career Theory) [aka Gay4Pay]. We also read the Corner and OpJournal so the right buttock will be punished as well.
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To all temple slaves of the cult of true crime and the subsect of bad cop schismatics I say, and need only say, three words, mob hitman cops: Two retired New York City police detectives, onetime partners who had long been suspected of ties to organized crime, were charged by federal prosecutors yesterday with taking part in eight murders on behalf of the Mafia - most while one or both were still active members of the police force.
...Both men joined the force in 1969, a year in which the city, with abbreviated background checks, hired an unusual number of officers who were later arrested or fired. Mr. Eppolito had relatives in organized crime - his father, Ralph, was called Fat the Gangster and his uncle, James, was known as Jimmy the Clam. But Mr. Eppolito did not disclose any of that on his police application.
He went on to serve as a patrol officer and detective, working in the Brooklyn Robbery Squad and in South Brooklyn. And after he retired, he wrote, with Bob Drury, "Mafia Cop: The Story of an Honest Cop Whose Family Was the Mob," in which he chronicled what he said were wrongful accusations brought by the Police Department that he sold information to the mob.
...One of the killings involved a case of mistaken identity. Mr. Casso, eager to avenge an attempt on his own life in 1986, asked the two detectives to track down a Gambino family soldier named Nicholas Guido, according to prosecutors. But when Mr. Caracappa used a Police Department computer database to find an address for the man, he retrieved the address for the wrong Nicholas Guido, according to prosecutors, and instead turned over the address of an innocent man who officials said was mildly retarded.
Mob killers found the wrong Mr. Guido outside his home on Christmas Day 1986. They shot and killed him.
Even Without, Even Within
Clicking through links in various stories about the sad, mad man who killed the federal judge's mother and husband, I came to the homepage of White Revolution. It's pretty much a blog by the White Rev's go to guy, Senor Billy Roper. A nice looking blog too, with its clean layout and its brief and well-illustrated posts. Highlights of the day in jew, black, gay and immigrant hatred never looked so good. I must remember to go back now and then. Especially since Mr. Roper does point to a quite funny moment on NPR:
Old Reliable, Mark Potok, will be on National Public Radio's Day to Day, Wednesday March 9th, to basically do what jews do best--slander, exaggerate and misquote everyone in the White Nationalist movement...
...Click here to listen to the audio preview which starts out with the hilarious line, "Even without an official Darkie Day here in the US..."
If you do indeed click there (and how can you not) you will hear just what Billy describes, and even better you'll hear what Billy doesn't describe, the patented pulpit style of NPR ceremony. The printed word does not adequately convey the moment's mellow, non-sequiturial greatness. The NPR dude calmly inflects, pauses, proceeds, pauses, inflects, subdues and hands off with the best of them. He may very well be the best of them. He may very well be all of them, since his seems to be the voice I always hear doing this same quaker minuet every time I land on NPR by mistake.
Much as I'd rather not, I have to give Tina Brown credit for recalling the pajama don, Vincent "The Chin" Gigante, in her Washington Post piece about Michael's trial. She speculated that Michelangelo "The Chin, Nose and Skin" Jackson might be wearing the same kind of magical, crazy-slippers as that wily faker Vincent G., and she did it in an edition that hit the web the night before, and the streets the day of, MJ's very own slipper-shod and PJ-bottomed perp-walk.
Surely some nighttime pin-striped or flannel-hearted warblogger should have beaten Tina B. to the pajama drawer. My only excuse is I type in my underwear (when I can find it), so the whole pajamahadeen thing seems like overreaching affect to me. And slippers are what you take back for cash or credit the day after Christmas.
I smell a Kentucky Rimbaud. I, of course, stink like a Philly Verlaine:
(Lexington, KY) A George Rogers Clark High School junior arrested Tuesday for making terrorist threats told LEX 18 News Thursday that the "writings" that got him arrested are being taken out of context.
Winchester police say William Poole, 18, was taken into custody Tuesday ...
...He claims that what his grandparents found in his journal and turned into police was a short story he wrote for English class.
"My story is based on fiction," said Poole, who faces a second-degree felony terrorist threatening charge. "It's a fake story. I made it up. I've been working on one of my short stories, (and) the short story they found was about zombies. Yes, it did say a high school. It was about a high school over ran by zombies."
..."It didn't mention nobody who lives in Clark County, didn't mention (George Rogers Clark High School), didn't mention no principal or cops, nothing," said Poole. "Half the people at high school know me. They know I'm not that stupid, that crazy."
Illustrate a story about one thing with a baffling and very tangentially related picture about another thing, in this manner.
I'll get the contest rolling with my entry (and mind you, I have no interest in seeing any entries but my own). It is 3 AM and all the nepotismic bastards in management are long ago asleep and dreaming of their cocktail lunches later today, while I am trying to breathe a little visual life into the stinking carcasses of sporadically grammatical, and only accidentally accurate, wire stories that are stacked on my desk in a loathsome pile. So I will epitomize this story with this image.
There's Something I Would Like To Get Off My Chest
Couple a Kiwi birds took their mamselles out and pointed them in the general direction of Mr. Camilla Parker-Bowles. All versions of this story are great, but The Soft Headlight Award for prepositional excellence goes to this headline nip tickler:
All the titerations of the AP photo of the blessed event that I could find are cropped just so. Which would lead any normally disgraced schoolboy to assume that the unfinished sentiment must surely read Get Your Ya Ya's Out, instead of the correct and more entercational Get Your Colonial Shame Off My Breasts*. Shame on the breasts of the Associated Prudes for leading the world's youth into this unnecessary misapprehension.
Apparently the thoroughly colonized blokes of Nuevo Zealand are fine with the royals having their imperial mitts all over their moisty aucklands since there are no reports, or pictures, of any similarly sensible protesting by the less-chested ones.
*Flow interrupting bonus joke: Is that colonial shame on your breasts or was I just happy to see you?
Update: I received an email from Undertoad, the amphibious, webbed-foot proprietor of Undertoad Hall and of the Cellar's Image of the Day. Toady has located a picture of Miss Colonial Shame 2005 in all her ragged glory (while Charles is taking his shame off her subjugated jugs, she might consider getting her ass, and the heroic hip-huggers that hold it, onto a Stairmaster.) The uncropped pic is via the French, which is an unsurprise of entirely precedented proportions. Scroll down this page to see her. But you'll want to examine the picture at the top of the page, too. It documents another encounter from Prince Chasming's recent official walkabout way down under. Note the lack of colonial shame.
A mashup I dreamed last night (ok, I lied, this afternoon.) It's that sanforized and ancient vibe that gives it its special magic.
Groove Armada appropriated the melody and first two lines of Patti Page's (I mean Rothrock, Yakus, Jeffrey's) Old Cape Cod for their fin de siecle dance hit At the River, a track that derives almost all of its considerable charm from that borrowing, though the late 90's synth shimmer and new trombone line were estimable additions to the soft, seashore glow of the original. Armada's version would have been a wormhole hit in 1957, too. It might yet be one.
Patti meanwhile is doing the retirement condo circuit in Fla. I would have loved to have seen one of these shows. The 65 year minimum cover charge at these kind of gigs is pretty steep, I'm afraid (though I come closer to being able to afford it every damn day):
February 18, 2005 Bonaventure, Ft. Lauderdale, Florida Private Performance
February 19, 2005 Century Village, Pembroke Pines, FL and Rainberry Bay, Delray Beach, FL Private Performance
February 20, 2005 Century Village, Boca Raton, FL (2 shows) Private Performance
February 22, 2005 Lucerne Point, Lake Worth, FL Private Performance