Lileks is blogging, hilariously, from the Minnesota State Fair.

“Doug From Upland” has a request of Sandy Berger:

Do you think you could take the time to go to the Clinton Library to review all of the documents? If you are able to fit that into your schedule, we will trust your judgment in determining which are most important for the American people to see before the next presidential election.

Because I doubt that the security will be as intense as at the National Archives, I am hoping that you will be able to stuff them into your pants, take them out of the building, and leave them under a travel trailer near the site. I will provide the location of the travel trailer when I hear from you that you will be able to perform this act of patriotism.

When I saw this headline, I wasn’t sure whether or not it was a joke (I’m pretty sure it is).

It reminds me of the old joke about the farmer who had a mule. His barn door was a little short, and every time the mule went through it, his ears would brush against the upper frame. So he got out a saw and cut two notches for the ears to pass through. After his neighbor came over in response to the sound of the barn collapsing, he asked the farmer why he did it. After the explanation, he asked, “Well, why didn’t you just dig a trench through the doorway?” The farmer replied, “It was his ears that were too long, not his legs.”

It’s categorized under “Humor,” but maybe I need a “Black Humor” category. Iowahawk has a special treat: a first-hand report of the British bombings, from one of the Dr. Evils:

So I said fine, let’s draw straws again. Because, hey, what are the odds of me pulling martyrdom duty twice in a row? Guess I should have been a stat major, because there I was holding the short stick again. When Bilal pulled the other short stick, I just went ahead and volunteered my Jeep because I figured the way this day was going it was gonna get blown up one way or the other.

When Bilal and I got back to my house Jumanah had just gotten back from Tesco and was unloading groceries. “I thought you were supposed to be in Paradise by now,” she said, in that stupid irritating voice. “Change of plans,” I said. “We need to head up to Glasgow to blow up the airport.”

Here it came again. The Look.

“Um, and we need to use the Jeep.”

The Look X 2.

“And our faces are all over the TV, so we need you to drive us.”

I won’t even bother trying to describe her face at that point. We loaded up the rest of the explosive cannisters in the back of the Jeep and headed north on the M1 in the middle of the out-of-town holiday rush traffic. Jumanah pretty much seethed the entire way, complaining about the traffic and the gasoline fumes. Needless to say when we finally got to Glasgow and dropped her off at a roadside cafe, I was pretty much geared up for the sweet release of death.

Okay, so Bilal and I get psyched up, check all the equipment to make sure it’s ready for a big boom, point the Jeep at the terminal, and mash the throttle. I’m shouting “Allahu Akbar,” and Bilal’s shouting “Allahu Akbar” and “Go Martyrs” just like the old pep squad days at CJU. And I’m thinking, “oil up them virgins Allah, ’cause Dr. K’s luck is about to change.” BAAAAM! Right into the glass.

I was probably out for a two, three seconds. Bilal and I peeled our broken noses out of the airbags, which meant we were still alive, which meant the goddamn cannisters didn’t explode, again. Maybe we went through into the terminal and killed some infidels, I thought, then I saw we hadn’t made it in more than a couple inches into the terminal. I mean, WTF? The Jeep salesman kept going on about how the Jeep was this awesome unstoppable American SUV that crusader cowboys use to bulldoze their way through mountain forests, with an easy payment plan, and the damn thing can’t make it through a bloody plate glass window. I restart the engine and now the piece of shit just sits there spinning the tyres. “All wheel traction,” my arse.

…and it didn’t take very long. Dogs against Romney.

For things like this:

The rain began. Ten, twenty tentative drops on the windshield, then whoa: angry pounding sheets. All over town, a million ant colonies suffered their own Johnstown flood. Imagine if they were capable of putting up small historical markers. There would be billions of them. They

Treacher and Iowahawk debate how to make The View watchable. I have to go with the Hawk–can’t be done.

In the war on colon cancer, we are all GIs.

The Onion has broken the code for the New York Times’ choice of story subjects.

…or deliberate? You be the judge.

Oh, and if they decide to change it, here’s what it is:

Continue reading Unfortunate Headline? →