Just pimping my old material. A hit-piece on Michael Moore seems topical, so I figure, what the heck, re-post the whole damn thing.

It might be a couple of months old now, but the central truth of this post remains as true now as it was when I first wrote it: Michael Moore is a big fat sack of fat.

He's also a lying anti-American terrorist-symp, but that's a topic for another post.

Mike's Message

Hi, gang. Michael Moore here. I had an interesting encounter in a diner and I thought I'd share it.

So me and Joe Palooka are sitting around at Mavis's diner talking.

Joe looks at me. His eyes are wet with anger.

I push a large joint of mutton down my enormous feeding orifice. The bones crack and pop like July fireworks as my massive tusks rend the meat and work the bone into a thick paste.

"How could they do this?!?" Joe wants to know. His hands tremble, as if palsied. "How could these rotten bastards push Saddam Hussein out of office?!"

It's a good question, no doubt. I wish I could answer it. I wish I could answer another question-- How can I eat this cheesesteak, this Monte Cristo, and that four-gallon tank of pork lard simultaneously, when I have only two hands?

"Saddam Hussein was just an innocent genocidal madman," Joe sniffs. "He never did any arm to anyone. Or, at least, not to anyone I know." Joe's a sensible man. That's a rare quality these days-- sense.

I'd like to tell him I respect his common sense, but I can't speak, as I currently have my entire ginormous freakhead stuffed into the rib-cage of dangling cow-carcass. I make animalsitic noises and rend with my powerful, overdeveloped jawmuscles, bulging and rippling like those of a sabre-tooth tiger, as I ponder my friend Joe.

I slice through bone and tendon and tough cartilege with my wickedly angled, sharklike incisors, sending bone-bits and glistening black puddings of coagulated intestinal blood sailing across the diner with each feral bite.

A pack of Guatemalan-Indian boys come into the diner, speaking Spanish. Or gibberish. Who can tell the difference?

They walk over to me and ask me to lift my t-shirt.

"What's this about?" Joe wants to know.

I lift my shirt and the boys begin scraping along the insides of my luxurious rolls of corpulent fat with old playing cards. One boy gently lifts my massive man-titty and collects a big dollop of a yellowish substance that resembles spoiled soft cheese.

"Oh, I'm just doing my bit to help a downtrodden minority," I explain to Joe. "The Indians have discovered that the pungent, semi-toxic munge that collects on my unwashed body is a powerful psychedelic drug of some sort. Ingesting my creamy sweat brings them to death's door, but it assists them in reaching the proper mental state for dream-quests."

"Sort of like peyote," Joe offers.

"My munge-cheese kicks peyote's ass to hell and back," I say with some degree of pride. "They call it La Mantequilla del Diablo-- The Devil's Butter."

The boys end up filling an emptied grout-bucket with my powerful psychotropic man-filth. They thank me profusely, and then leave. They'll be having some powerful dream-quests tonight -- I can smell that I'm especially rancid today.

"It's the least I can do in George W. Bush's Amerikkka," I modestly explain to Joe.

"I don't even recognize America anymore," Joe sniffs.

I wipe a turkey drumstick from the corner of my eye. "It's all right, Joe," I say, or rather that's what I attempt to say. My words are interrupted by the squawkings of a live chicken which somehow manages to escape my all-consuming maw.

"There will be an election in November," I console Joe. I have now sprung to my feet in order to seize the escaped chicken. The fat ripples along my elephantine haunches as I coil to leap, lethal energy gathered to spring in a frozen moment, like the cocked hammer of a gun. A really fat gun.

"Never give up hope," I advise Joe as I leap over the assembled humanity in the cramped diner, my claws sprung out and shiny-deadly, my lard-dimpled jowls flapping in the indifferent April breeze.

The chicken dodges a slash from one of my mammoth fore-limbs. It dives beneath the seat of a six year old boy, a ruddy-cheeked, haystack-haired, gap-toothed reminder of what this nation is all about.

The boy is inconveniently providing cover for the miscreant fowl, so I snatch him up with one sweat-drooling meat-paddle and I drop him, alive and screaming in abject terror, down into my waiting throat.

My roiling gastric acids will take care of the kid. I've got no time to chew him.

The chicken runs.

"I'm hoping Wesley Clarke joins the ticket," I tell Joe as I bite out the throat of the boy's mother, who has, as you might well imagine, sprung to her feet to protest my devouring of her sparkled-eyed tyke. I slurp her still-pulsating gizzards down my slavering maw. "That would give us two candidates with combat experience, which our Idiot King Dumbya of course does not."

The chicken scampers over the well-worn hospital-green tiles of the ancient diner. It ducks through the doorway and exits to the street as a truck-driver enters the place.

Angry at the clumsiness of the truck driver, I snap at his head with my yawning pink vortex of saliva-drooling death, severing his head and neck at the clavicle. His body spews a riotously crimson fountain of blood at the ceiling, like he were some liquid roman candle.

The hot blood splatters on the diner's windows and steams.

"But November is such a long way away," Joe calls after me, but I'm on the street now, waddling like an enormous Sumo wrestler with a wedgie, my dainty-tiny feet pounding into the cool asphalt like fleshy jackhammers.

I hear the telltale whine of jet-engines-- F-15's, I'm sure. I've heard them before. I hear them everytime I go out on a citywide rampage.

I'll hear the rumbling of National Guard troop carriers soon enough as well-- a platoon of "mercenaries" out to chill my right to dissent. And my right to feed on human flesh.

"November is virtually tomorrow," I call back to Joe as I stoop to the ground to bite the mid-body out of a policeman's horse. Intestines ooze and slither out of the gaping wound like wet, grisly Slinkees. "It's just tomorrow. Just plan, and organize, and don't stop thinking about tomorrow!"

The F-15's scream down from the sky as they begin their attack run. My brunch with Joe will have to wait.

I leap into the cool, slimy waters of the East River as the air-to-ground missiles slam into the cityscape behind me.

The filthy river greets me like an old lover. A murky, green lover that smells of cabbage, burnt engine oil, and feet. It smells like... freedom.

The chicken has escaped.

But George Bush will not.

Washington DC is only a few days' swim from New York.

And I am hungry.

....

Hat Tip to Nick Kronos who originally wrote the Jimmy Breslin parody this is a variation of. He also tossed me the best line in the whole thing, "miscreant fowl."

Posted by: Ace at 10:13 PM | Comments (14)
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Down near the bottom of the sidebar are links to some of my better stuff-- the Paul Anka stuff, the Top Tens, the stuff which is neither Paul Anka stuff nor Top Tens.

If you're new to the site, check some of it out.

Or don't.

There's really nothing I can do to convince you. You're your own person, and you'll just have to make your own decisions.

And I've come to peace with that.

Blogroll update coming tomorrow.

Posted by: Ace at 09:21 PM | Comments (5)
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Amporphous steel might "revolutionize" steel industry and engineering:

New York, NY, Jun. 24 (UPI) -- U.S. scientists have made amorphous steel, which has molecular bonds that resemble those of a liquid more than a metal, and a hardness and strength more than double the best ultra-high-strength conventional steels.

...

Compared with crystalline counterparts, amorphous materials usually show superior mechanical and temperature properties and corrosion resistance. On the other hand, amorphous materials can cost about $100 a pound, "much more expensive than the crystalline materials," Lu said.

...

Now, after nearly a year of work, the team believes it has found a way to make amorphous steel in bulk economically with traditional, drop-casting methods. Its cost should be comparable to that of conventional steels, Lu said.

The researchers presented their findings in the June 18 issue of the journal Physical Review Letters.

"In a nutshell, the key technological impact is that the invention of amorphous steels can potentially revolutionize the steel industry," said Joseph Poon, a materials physicist at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, who was not involved in the research.

...
The key was adding just a dash of yttrium.

I hate to say this, but had they asked me that, I could have told them that.

Pretty much I add a dash of yttrium to everything these days. It's the Miracle Element. For my money, it's even better than Wulfram.

The rare-earth metal helps frustrate the onset of crystallization even as the liquid steel approaches its solidification temperature -- about 2,500 degrees Fahrenheit (1,370 degrees Celsius). The steel then can be shaped with conventional melting and casting techniques. Poon noted the steels could even be processed like plastic.

I like that this guy's name is "Poon."

Thanks to Free Republic for the catch.

Posted by: Ace at 06:21 PM | Comments (29)
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Blog Quebecois (don't be put off-- he's on our side) reviews Pi: To 1,000,000 Decimal Places.

Posted by: Ace at 03:10 PM | Comments (19)
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Brett Baier reporting on Brit Hume, twenty minutes ago.

Posted by: Ace at 02:59 PM | Comments (7)
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Bush up 4 in Democrat-leading Wisconsin.

Bush up by 9 in Florida.

By five in Ohio.

Have a nice weekend!

Posted by: Ace at 02:39 PM | Comments (1)
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Re: The Clinton Chronicles

All this might seem silly were it not for the fact that similar scandal-mongering was taken quite seriously during the Clinton years. The notorious 1994 video The Clinton Chronicles tied Bill Clinton to a series of "mysterious" deaths — "Since August 1991, an alarming number of Clinton associates have died of unnatural causes," it said — and helped spawn a small industry of Internet "Clinton body count" lists. Condemning The Clinton Chronicles and tying its unfounded accusations to the mainstream political opposition became a standard part of White House defense strategy in times of scandal. For example, in her famous "vast right-wing conspiracy" appearance on the Today show in January 1998, then-First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton complained about the "mean-spirited give and take of American politics right now," which included, she said, "accusing my husband of committing murder, of drug running." A few years earlier, Clinton operative George Stephanopoulos, speaking to the Washington Post, angrily said of the president's enemies, "They're accusing him of murders. . . . That's unheard of." The paper reported that Stephanopoulos "senses a conspiracy of sorts — a campaign of 'manufactured hate.'" And Bill Clinton himself often mentioned the accusations in an effort to show how unreasonable his opponents had become. "I've been accused of murder and all kinds of things," he said at a 1999 news conference. -- The Weekly Standard

Re: Fahrenheit 9-11

Two Thumbs Way Up!-- Siskel & Roeper

Winner, Palm d' Or-- Cannes Film Festival

It is, all in all, a legitimate abuse of power. -- the dipshit reviewer for the amateur leftist newsletter Slate (along the way he charges "conspiracy!" because the Secret Service were protecting the Saudi Embassy, another case of a movie reviewer assuming he knows stuff because he took twenty credits of film criticism at the Seton Hall School of Communications. He now corrects to admit that, yes, it has long been a Secret Service practice to guard embassies and ambassadors in Washington; but he's still very, very suspicious)

Okay, guys. Explain the distinction. I'm all ears.

Apparently a schlocky, extremist, dishonest "documentary" is bad when it's about Clinton, but good and useful "counterpropaganda" against Bush. Please explain your objective reasons for preferring the latter while subjecting us to ten years of whining over the former.

Posted by: Ace at 02:11 PM | Comments (8)
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Brit Hume played a videotape version of this audio yesterday.

Instapundit says it "sounds genuine." I can confirm the video looked genuine as well, unless the Bush Administration has recrited Industrial Light and Magic to insert a CGI Al Gore into a Larry King town-hall-style interview.

But who knows. Who could tell the difference?

The quote is especially tasty because it features Al Gore attacking the first President Bush on Iraq-- from the right, arguing he wasn't doing enough to end Saddam's alliance with terrorists and his unending quest for an atomic bomb.

And as you all probably know, Al Gore called his internet critics "digital brownshirts" in his speech yesterday.

Do we on the right have any further obligation to refrain from inflammatory attacks on Gore and the liberals generally?

Someone please tell me why the right should refrain from calling the left what it is -- unpatriotic, terrorist-sympathizing, anti-American, and frequently anti-human as well -- when a former US Vice President and candidate for President is now calling those who dissent from his leftist worldview Nazis.

Update: Andunie has A Big Ginormous Post with all of the relevant quotes-- Gore's speech, the 9-11 Commission's statements, links to two important Steven Hayes articles I haven't read yet (oops), etc.

I Know That I Can Get This Dead Horse to Move Through Repeated Blows to Its Ass Update: Bill "City Slickers" Kristol compares and contrasts the Times' infamous June 17th editorial with its June 25th newsreport.

Yeah, yeah. We all already know this. It's still fun.

Posted by: Ace at 01:58 PM | Comments (7)
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Bill from INDC is doing some charitable blogging on behalf of a fallen Green Beret's family.

There are worse things one could do with $20 or $50.

Posted by: Ace at 11:23 AM | Comments (5)
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Actually, they destroyed themselves, but Mr. Andrew "Class" McCarthy documents the self-destruction.

Best bits:

To be clear, the document records that it was Iraq which initiated the contacts, and that bin Laden finally agreed to discuss cooperation only after having spurned previous overtures because he "had some reservations about being labeled an Iraqi operative[.]"

Why does it matter who was enticing whom? On June 17, when, despite having this document, it was trashing the whole notion of an Iraq/Qaeda connection, the Times asserted without qualification that: The 9/11 Commission had found that any collaboration proposals had come from bin Laden's side; all such proposals had been declined by Saddam; and this scenario undermined the Bush administration's rationale for deposing the Iraqi regime. (The Times on June 17: "As for Iraq, the commission's staff said its investigation showed that the government of Mr. Hussein had rebuffed or ignored requests from Qaeda leaders for help in the 1990's, a conclusion that directly contradicts a series of public statements President Bush and Vice President Dick Cheney made before and after last year's invasion of Iraq in justifying the war.")

This document, in the possession of the NYT since April, directly and unambiguously contradicts a central claim that the NYT made on June 17th.

Will there be a correction, Ms. Collins? We know that you don't require Paul Krugman to issue corrections for flat-out misstatements; are you now extending this same, err, liberal corrections policy to yourself as well?

...the reader who has the patience to wade through several paragraphs of the Times disingenuously letting itself off the hook for refusing for weeks to report on this document will learn that what the newspaper really means when it says bin Laden's suggestions "went unanswered." In actuality, "the document contains no statement of response by the Iraqi leadership under Mr. Hussein to the request for joint operations[.]" Translation: Maybe there was a response and maybe there wasn't, but this document does not tell us one way or the other.

Hmmm. Couldn't have said it better myself.

Why is this important? Because it is the continuation of a pattern — another instance of an effective but misleading tactic repeatedly used by the Times, the intelligence community, the 9/11 Commission staff, and all the Iraq/Qaeda connection naysayers. To wit: When they can't explain something, they never say they can't explain it; they say it didn't happen — even if saying so is against the weight of considerable counterevidence.

Best example? The 9/11 Commission staff, as gleefully reported by the Times last week, has concluded that there was not a meeting between top-hijacker Mohammed Atta and Iraqi Intelligence Officer Ahmed al-Ani in Prague five months before the 9/11 attacks. There is an eyewitness (a watcher for Czech intelligence) who says he saw them together, and there is substantial corroboration (including an entry in al-Ani's appointment calendar that he was to meet with a "Hamburg student," a pair of highly suspicious trips that Atta undoubtedly made to Prague in 2000 right before coming to the United States, and the fact that no witness has been found who can say he saw Atta in the U.S. when the Czechs say he was in Prague). Did the 9/11 Commission staff actually interview the eyewitness? No. Did the staff or the Times discuss the corroboration that supports the occurrence of the Prague meeting? No. Did either of them grapple with what is to be inferred from Atta's trips to Prague in 2000? No — not a word about them. Just a flat conclusion that the meeting never happened.

Since it's Clinton week, maybe it's best to put it this way: For the Times and its allies, Iraq and al Qaeda are like the former president's trysts: If there ain't a blue cocktail dress, it never happened. If there isn't a photograph of Atta and al-Ani poring over diagrams of the World Trade Center, we just conclude that they never saw each other, and we see no reason to acknowledge that there's considerable evidence that they probably did.

It's all good. A must read.

And it's good to see Andrew McCarthy getting some work again. I always liked that kid. When he would bug out his eyes on the verge of tears to indicate "inner torment" -- that's what I call acting, my friends.

Update: Andrew McCarthy bitch-slaps the New York Times a second time, this time over its dishonest Abu Ghraib reporting. This bitch-slapping more brutal than his deleted braining of "Duckie/The Duckman" in Pretty in Pink (seen only in the Japanese import "Director's Cut" of the film, titled (in Japanese) Goofy Sillyboy Gets His Head Smashed Open With Hammer By Funny Happy Man Wearing Piano-Key Tie; the senseless, brain-sloshing beating initially earned the film an X-rating stateside).

Posted by: Ace at 10:48 AM | Comments (18)
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