Friday Funnies 1: Republican Debate Hosted By Donald Trump?

   This will be the one debate that I will not miss and you can bet that his comedy will not need a laugh-track. Speaking of laughs.

It's On!! Donald and the 7 Dwarfs Get Ready to Rumble!    Thu Dec 08, 2011   by cassandracarolina

Question: What’s the difference between Donald Trump and the Pope?
Answer:  You only have to kiss the Pope’s ring.

The Donald is once again jonesing for relevance and ratings. Undecided on his next course of action, he’s torn between the roles of Kingmaker and King. If only there was some way to do both. Now, as the “moderator” of the upcoming debate on December 27th, The Donald has found the answer! He can do both!

As if the GOP campaign had not already degenerated into  a gladiatorial spectacle, it’s about to take a turn for the more absurd as The Donald sets the stage for a verbal brawl with the 7 Intellectual Dwarfs. In this race for the lowest of common denominators, we’re headed for the Marianas Trench. Follow along below the curious life-form of the deep for more on each of our contenders.

Michele “Squeeky” Bachmann, doubling down on her hateful pronouncements, has declared that yes, gay people can marry! Hallelujah!! Oh… wait. They have to marry someone of the opposite sex! Well, that kind of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? I mean, who in the world would enter into a marriage like that, where one (or both) of the participants was clearly not committed to that sort of a heterosexual “lifestyle”? You’d have to be batshit cra… Oh. Sorry. Well, at least she can rely on her sham spouse for fashion advice. Judging from her recent debate outfits, it looks like he’s been playing a cruel joke on little Squeeky. No worries, though. She puts on a good face (a colorful one, anyway) and soldiers on.

Newt “Meanie” Gingrich has dashed the Christmas hopes of many a child with his Dickensian vision of child labor as a pathway to continued poverty. No gifts for you kids! In fact, Christmas morning, since school’s out, it’s the perfect time to get down on your bloody and bruised hands and knees and give those school floors the thorough scrubbing they deserve. Then back home to your miserable hovel for some macaroni and cheese for the big day. Meanwhile in a mansion far, far away, Stepfordian wife-du-jour “Blingy” will try in vain to force her Botoxed face into some semblance of a smile as she unwraps Newt’s holiday appeasement gift from Tiffany’s.

Jon “Smarty” Huntsman has wisely declared that he would not kiss the ring – or any other portion – of the Donald. Smarty knows that there’s nothing to be gained by bringing a supercomputer to a knife fight, so he’s diligently working the Granite State retail politics circuit in hopes of a strong showing with the denizens of Dixville Notch. 

Ron “Grampy” Paul, the voice of reason in this field of policy lightweights, continues ambling along with a respectable showing, particularly among young people (with the promise of legalized marijuana) and aging adherants of Ayn “Icy” Rand, who see in this quirky septuagenarian the chance to get all those young people off their lawns, once and for all.

Rick “Goofy” Perry continues reminding late-night comedy audiences of his aw-shucks inability to remember more than two things at a time. His latest stream-of-unconsciousness advertisement equates gays in the military with the demise of school prayer. In his spare time, he’s studying his own team’s polling, which shows him with a “nice path” in Iowa. Turn the paper around, Rick. His latest gaffe: referring to the New Hampshire primaries as “caucuses”.  Um, Rick… it’s the “Granite State”, not the “take it for Granite State”.

Mitt “Floppy” Romney, no longer clinging to his low-profile “prevent defense” strategy of remaining aloof as other contenders fall by the wayside, has kicked his campaign into second gear. He has even deigned to meet with (gasp) Fox News and other lower life forms to endure insipid interviews, where he has allowed the “real Mitt” to emerge: an irascible, petulant man, seething at the growing probability that he is not actually the “inevitable” nominee despite nearly a decade of campaigning.

Rick “Creepy” Santorum`remains concerned, very concerned, that America’s moral values are falling like glitter off a cheap Christmas card. He, and he alone, stands between American families and the horrific prospect of people sharing the holidays in some unnatural way with their – gasp! – loved ones. He’ll continue his campaign until conditions improve or he runs out of cash. Can you guess which will happen first?? Good for you!

In Memoriam:  Herman “Gropey” Cain has dropped off the radar and through the trap door of oblivion, recovering somewhere from his pivotal meeting with Gloria, and probably in hiding away at a rehab clinic for people addicted to inappropriate workplace behavior. With the onset of winter, he’ll at least be able to keep warm burning the now-useless copies of his epic autobiography.

Originally posted to cassandracarolina on Thu Dec 08,

Also republished by Community Spotlight.

Technorati Tags: Newt Gingrich,Donal Trump,Michele Bachmann,GOP,Debates,Ron Paul,Herman Cain,Mitt Romney,Current Events,An American Gothic,Politics

A New York Spider Gave Me an Insight into US Private Healthcare

Published on Sunday, December 4, 2011 by the Sunday Observer/UK

Written by Laurie Penny

Occupy Wall Street is right – a rash of bites showed me how private healthcare keeps Americans cowed and compliant

It started with a spider. Someone with a taste for narrative justice might call it retribution, but there's really no moral correlation between the wisdom of absconding with a relative stranger after a party and waking up the next morning in Brooklyn with a rash of poisonous bites on your arm. When the angels of sexual continence want to punish you, they send crabs not spiders.

I assumed, at first, that the maddeningly itchy marks were the work of common-or-flophouse New York bedbugs, but 12 hours later, with my right arm swollen to the width and purplish color of a prize turnip, my friend identified the hallmarks of the brown recluse spider, and uttered words I had hoped never to hear on this side of the Atlantic: "You should really get that checked out by a doctor."

I first came to New York to write about the emerging social justice movements associated with Occupy Wall Street. Through my conversations with the protesters in Zuccotti Park, I began to understand how profoundly the stranglehold of American private healthcare keeps ordinary people cowed and compliant in the land of the notionally free.

It's not just the 59 million Americans living without health insurance and unable to access treatment for everyday maladies without crippling expense. It's the millions more who dare not risk a dispute with their boss for fear of losing their medical cover, who expect to remortgage their homes in old age to meet the costs of failing health, or who live in fear of bankruptcy should they develop a chronic condition or have an accident.

The notion of a society that sanctions companies to profit from sickness feels barbaric enough, without then forcing ordinary people to choose between medical treatment and the financial future of their families. President Obama's attempt to reform the system in 2009 roundly failed to remove healthcare as a source of perennial anxiety for most American citizens, or to lighten the dead hand of the market on medical provision in the US.

Socialized healthcare is in my blood but, unfortunately last Wednesday, so was a hefty dose of spider venom and several billion extra bacteria – the unfriendly sort that make an infected limb sweat and swell like a rotten root vegetable. I had travel insurance, but no idea if it stretched to the snacking habits of urban arachnids. So I uttered the words familiar to any uninsured or precariously insured American: "I'll just wait for a little bit and see if it gets better."

Had I waited another 24 hours, I might have lost my arm. By the time I was persuaded to go to the emergency response unit at Beth Israel hospital I could no longer move the limb, which was developing worrying purple track-marks. The triage nurse sent me straight through to ER, where I was given a bunk next to a groaning man in his mid-30s who, like me, had been so worried about the cost of treatment that he had allowed an infection to spread, in this case from a rotten tooth. He was already missing several teeth. He told me he was a postal worker with no health insurance, and that he wouldn't have come for treatment had his girlfriend not driven him to hospital when he collapsed with a fever.

Compared to the accident and emergency unit at my local London hospital, the waiting period was civilized; it was a mere hour before a stern-looking registrar arrived to take my money. He explained the covering clauses of my travel insurance and showed me where to sign on several complicated forms. When I explained I was unable to do so because my arm wasn't working, he gave me a look that suggested I'd have had to find a way to sign even if I'd come in with all four limbs off. I signed with my left hand.

After that, the service was exceptional. I was whisked off to intensive care for intravenous antibiotics. I was put in a quiet bed near a window, with no cracks or mildew in the walls, and brought cool water and a clean towel. And when, in the middle of the night, I went into near-fatal anaphylactic shock, the staff's reaction was swift and efficient. I felt, in other words like a valued customer. But it also meant that, at 2am and thousands of miles from home, I was already wondering how I would afford the prescription for all the antibiotics I needed.

This is the difference that social medicine makes to the fabric and quality of life in a civilized country. When I finally wobbled out of the shiny lobby of the Beth Israel, clutching a bag of drugs, follow-up advice and complimentary hospital toiletries, I understood what it really means to be without means in America. Those who are wealthy enough to afford decent healthcare have their needs met in relative luxury, while those who are poor live in fear of getting ill, worrying that one misadventure might leave you with yet more debts to pay off.

No amount of fresh towels and edible breakfasts can make up for the feeling that your health is less important than the capacity of your checkbook. Which is why children and pensioners are still standing in Manhattan's financial district with placards telling the world they cannot afford healthcare, as police patrol the perimeter. And why, when I got out of hospital, I went straight back down to Liberty Plaza to stand with them.

© 2011 Guardian/UK

Laurie Penny is a journalist, author, feminist, reprobate. Lives in a little hovel room somewhere in London, mainly eating toast and trying to set the world to rights. Drinks too much tea. Has still not managed to quit smoking.

Technorati Tags: Occupy Wall Street,Health Care,Current Events,An American Gothic,United States