SF CHRON - JAN. 29, 2010
Republican Rep. Jeb Hensarling has a reputation as a hard-edged partisan with an abrasive streak that sometimes rubs people, particularly Democrats, the wrong way.
Rep. Jeb Hensarling: Mister Congeniality he ain't.
Well, today, he rubbed President Obama the wrong way.
At the end of a mostly polite question-and-answer session between the president and House Republicans today in Baltimore, the Texas Republican ticked off Obama when, rather than asking a question, he launched a partisan soliloquy against government spending and debt.
"Jim, I know there's a question in there," the president said, interrupting the man he three times called "Jim" rather than "Jeb."
Obama said that Hensarling's harsh attacks — and faulty command of facts — were a large part of the reason why Washington politics is so polarized.
"The whole question was structured as a talking point to run a campaign," Obama told the House Republicans.
The president took exception to two "facts" cited by Hensarling: that the federal deficit each month is as large as it was in the year before Obama took office and that the federal debt would triple over the next decade.
"That's factually just not true and you know it's not true," Obama said.
The president was the guest of House Republican leaders at the congressional GOP issues conference about 40 miles north of the nation's capital. Hensarling, a prominent critic of federal spending who refuses to take government earmarks for his district, was the final questioner at a lively but generally affable session.
Their exchange began tensely when Obama pointed to Hensarling and said, "Jim is going to wrap things up."
"Jeb, Mister President," Hensarling corrected, tartly.
He then launched a critique of the "unconscionable debt" the Obama administration was piling on their "small children."
Hensarling accused Democrats of ignoring Republicans' input on budget issues in 2009 and dismissed Obama's economic stimulus package as bad for the economy.
"Many of us believe it's part of the problem and not part of the solution," he said.
Obama shook his head at some of the budget claims made by Hensarling and eventually interrupted his conservative critic.
"Jim, I know there's a question in there," he needled.
When Hensarling finished his speech, Obama spent nearly as much time talking about his tone than the substance of his comments.
"The point is, at what point can we have a serious (discussion)...in which we're not simply trying to position ourselves politically?" he asked.
The president said that the White House and Congress are "not going to be able to do anything" if the political discourse is dominated by claims that "the other party is being irresponsible."
"We can't start off by figuring out (a) who's to blame and (b) how we can make the American people fear the other side," he said.
After the retreat, Hensarling was diplomatic in his comments about the president but steadfast in defense of his facts.
"I stand by what I said," he declared.
But he praised Obama for his willingness to reach out to the GOP rank-and-file, something he says House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, D-San Francisco, has not done.
"I have great respect for President Obama," said Hensarling. "I am grateful he chose to address the House Republicans - and I give him credit for accepting our invitation. But, again, he didn't answer my specific question on whether he would continue us on a path to tripling the national debt and increasing government spending to 24.5 percent of the economy."
Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/nov05election/detail?entry_id=56294&tsp=1#ixzz0e3ClswA1
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Rush Limbaugh Does Not Want to Live
By Rush Limbaugh (The Onion) January 25, 2010
Rush says "I know there are a lot of people out there who are upset about some of the things I've been saying on my radio program lately. My comments about the situation in Haiti have hurt and angered many Americans who genuinely care about the plight of the Haitian people, and that hurt and anger will likely never go away. Many of you are probably wondering, "What would compel a human being to say things like that?" Well, here's your answer: I am a very bad person. And, to tell you the truth, I don't really want to be alive anymore.
Try to look at it from my point of view. I have no reason to live. In my 59 years, I've made millions of dollars, built a veritable media empire, and accomplished virtually everything that a man of my limited imagination and worldview could possibly accomplish. And yet, at this point, in no way could you refer to what I'm doing as "living," exactly. I just sort of exist. I derive no real pleasure from life. Oh, sure, I talk a big game about what a golf nut I am and how much I enjoy the taste of a fine cigar, but it's all horseshit. Complete and utter horseshit.
I don't enjoy that stuff. I don't enjoy anything. I don't even want to be here. The sadness and regret I feel every waking hour of my life is absolutely unbearable. I am a miserable pig and I do not want to exist.
The irony is that, even if I did die, the hell I would surely be sent to could not possibly be any worse than the bottomless pool of excrement I already paddle around in like some demented, shit-covered walrus. In fact, every time I hear my voice coming through the headphones I nearly gag, and I think, "What the fuck am I doing?" Why would I say that Michael J. Fox is faking his Parkinson's symptoms? Why would I find it funny to play a song called "Barack the Magic Negro"? Why would I tell people not to give aid to Haiti?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I live in constant terror and that terror informs my every word, thought, and action.
See, the thing is, I honestly cannot control the bilious hatred and filth that oozes out of my mouth. I want to—believe me, I want to—but I can't. And every time I speak, a tiny voice inside my head is screaming, "Stop talking, you stupid, insensitive prick. JUST STOP FUCKING TALKING. All you do is spread hate and fear, and the world would be a better place without you, you worthless, amoral, cocksucking fuckface."
What I should really do is just commit suicide. I have this little Sunday ritual I started around the time I publicly compared the torture at Abu Ghraib to a fraternity prank, where I climb into my Jacuzzi and put a gun in my mouth. But I can never work up the guts to pull the trigger. A few times I came close to overdosing on prescription pain pills, but my goddamn doctors were always there to save me. If I had any sense, I would just hole myself up in a Red Roof Inn with a case of Jack Daniel's and slowly drink myself into the gaping maw of death itself.
But what can I say? I guess I'm just too much of a fat fucking pussy to follow through.
You know what? I wish someone would just kill me. I'm serious. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking: "Oh my God, how can you say such a thing? You can't print that in a newspaper!" But see, I don't care anymore. I've cried my tears. I've battled my demons, and I've lost. It's over. It's all over. The only thing left for me to do now is just go away. Have I even once contributed a single ounce of good to humanity? Put me out of my misery. I wouldn't make a fuss. I wouldn't even humiliate myself by saying goodbye. For the first time in my odious, pitiful life, I'd accept my fate with quiet dignity.
Then I wouldn't have to live with my wretched, wretched self. Oh, the release.
I've imagined my death a thousand times over, and it's always the same. In my mind's eye, a serene setting comes into view. I see a funeral procession driving down some small-town Main Street in Nowheresville, U.S.A. On one side of the street, a collection of sycophants and morons are paying their respects in subliterate, sanctimonious tones. Meanwhile, on the other side of the street, I can just make out the faint image of a young boy, his brow furrowed in confusion, clutching the hand of his father. "Who is that man, Daddy?" he asks as the hearse containing my bloated, lifeless body rolls by. "Who is that person they speak of?" The father will then lower his head and say, "There, my son, go the remains of Rush Hudson Limbaugh, the most abominable lump of festering dog shit in the history of American broadcasting. May the likes of him never again soil or tarnish the greatness of our fair country."
Rush says "I know there are a lot of people out there who are upset about some of the things I've been saying on my radio program lately. My comments about the situation in Haiti have hurt and angered many Americans who genuinely care about the plight of the Haitian people, and that hurt and anger will likely never go away. Many of you are probably wondering, "What would compel a human being to say things like that?" Well, here's your answer: I am a very bad person. And, to tell you the truth, I don't really want to be alive anymore.
Try to look at it from my point of view. I have no reason to live. In my 59 years, I've made millions of dollars, built a veritable media empire, and accomplished virtually everything that a man of my limited imagination and worldview could possibly accomplish. And yet, at this point, in no way could you refer to what I'm doing as "living," exactly. I just sort of exist. I derive no real pleasure from life. Oh, sure, I talk a big game about what a golf nut I am and how much I enjoy the taste of a fine cigar, but it's all horseshit. Complete and utter horseshit.
I don't enjoy that stuff. I don't enjoy anything. I don't even want to be here. The sadness and regret I feel every waking hour of my life is absolutely unbearable. I am a miserable pig and I do not want to exist.
The irony is that, even if I did die, the hell I would surely be sent to could not possibly be any worse than the bottomless pool of excrement I already paddle around in like some demented, shit-covered walrus. In fact, every time I hear my voice coming through the headphones I nearly gag, and I think, "What the fuck am I doing?" Why would I say that Michael J. Fox is faking his Parkinson's symptoms? Why would I find it funny to play a song called "Barack the Magic Negro"? Why would I tell people not to give aid to Haiti?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I live in constant terror and that terror informs my every word, thought, and action.
See, the thing is, I honestly cannot control the bilious hatred and filth that oozes out of my mouth. I want to—believe me, I want to—but I can't. And every time I speak, a tiny voice inside my head is screaming, "Stop talking, you stupid, insensitive prick. JUST STOP FUCKING TALKING. All you do is spread hate and fear, and the world would be a better place without you, you worthless, amoral, cocksucking fuckface."
What I should really do is just commit suicide. I have this little Sunday ritual I started around the time I publicly compared the torture at Abu Ghraib to a fraternity prank, where I climb into my Jacuzzi and put a gun in my mouth. But I can never work up the guts to pull the trigger. A few times I came close to overdosing on prescription pain pills, but my goddamn doctors were always there to save me. If I had any sense, I would just hole myself up in a Red Roof Inn with a case of Jack Daniel's and slowly drink myself into the gaping maw of death itself.
But what can I say? I guess I'm just too much of a fat fucking pussy to follow through.
You know what? I wish someone would just kill me. I'm serious. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking: "Oh my God, how can you say such a thing? You can't print that in a newspaper!" But see, I don't care anymore. I've cried my tears. I've battled my demons, and I've lost. It's over. It's all over. The only thing left for me to do now is just go away. Have I even once contributed a single ounce of good to humanity? Put me out of my misery. I wouldn't make a fuss. I wouldn't even humiliate myself by saying goodbye. For the first time in my odious, pitiful life, I'd accept my fate with quiet dignity.
Then I wouldn't have to live with my wretched, wretched self. Oh, the release.
I've imagined my death a thousand times over, and it's always the same. In my mind's eye, a serene setting comes into view. I see a funeral procession driving down some small-town Main Street in Nowheresville, U.S.A. On one side of the street, a collection of sycophants and morons are paying their respects in subliterate, sanctimonious tones. Meanwhile, on the other side of the street, I can just make out the faint image of a young boy, his brow furrowed in confusion, clutching the hand of his father. "Who is that man, Daddy?" he asks as the hearse containing my bloated, lifeless body rolls by. "Who is that person they speak of?" The father will then lower his head and say, "There, my son, go the remains of Rush Hudson Limbaugh, the most abominable lump of festering dog shit in the history of American broadcasting. May the likes of him never again soil or tarnish the greatness of our fair country."
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