The Roberts Hearing Drinking Game

I'm trying to get excited about the Roberts confirmation hearing. The Chief Justice of SCOTUS is an important position and at least deserves a certain amount of lipservice oogling. I'm finding it hard, though, with the level of questions being asked. For instance, here's a gem I found on Wonkette:

COBURN: Right. I'm not asking you about legal significance. Would you agree that the opposite of being dead is being alive?

ROBERTS: Yes.

While I prefer to leave such metaphysical debate to philosophers or at least post-midnight televangelists, I must admit it is comforting to know that, should he be forced, Roberts could probably do very well on the verbal portion of the SATs. Still, I can't help but wonder when the most exciting question concerning the potential appointment of a CJ of SCOTUS is who's the bitch and who's the butch in his secret Gay Homosexual affair with David Souter. I mean, having Roberts' evasive willy bobbing and weaving through his colon is really the only excuse Souter could possibly have for not saying something about Rehnquist's passing.

And even then, he would still have his hands free.

Anyway, to combat the mind-numbing ass-kissery that is the whole of this process, I've decided to turn it into a drinking game. The rules are simple:

1. Drink whenever the soft ball lobbed at Roberts' eerily expressionless head is on par with a question shot at Brad Pitt by Tigerbeat.

2. Drink whenever Roberts tapdances around a potentially hard question with a rhetoric routine that would make Tommy Tune stand up and prance.

3. Drink whenever Laura Bush calls Hurricane KATRINA something other than KATRINA (although this could pretty much be its own drinking game at this point). It's Hurricane KATRINA, you dumb, vaccuous, murdering, bitch of a terrible mother. I know you're not good with names, but make a damn effort.

Just three rules and you can leave the last one out if you like having a functional liver. Play this game and see the hearing Ted Kennedy sees.

Mind you, there are no winners in this game. Everybody loses.

Late to the party

Okay, it's been awhile since I updated my blog. I admit it. Let's chalk it up to a horrific attack of allergies which has basically had me completely off the radar all summer.

The question is where to begin. When you don't update your blog in a timely manner, it seems you run the risk of being perceived as a copy cat. All the hot issues are only tepid and all the opinions have been expressed by the pundits. Anything you say was probably said last week on FOX by someone wearing a more expensive suit than you. It's hard to make people believe, "I thought the exact same thing as Molly Ivans, but her computer boots up faster."

Karl Rove is still wandering around Washington, D.C., a free...well, I hesitate to use the word man, but amorphous blob of greasy evil takes too long to type. Anyway, he's free and this just goes to show that not only is Satan real, his area code is 202.

Katrina has reminded us all that Mother Nature doesn't particularly care about us, one way or the other. Of course, as Bush has shown us it's okay to completely ignore thousands of American citizens trapped without food, water or shelter so long as their either black, poor or both, the real hurricane is the political fallout. Laura doesn't know it's name, G-Dub has gone from telling his buddy he's doing a really good job to trying to distance himself from said buddy faster than a rich fat man fled The Big Easy, and Barbara...oh Barbara. How could you? You were the one saving grace. You were the grandmother, the rock, the comfort, the one redeeming point in a family that's been shown way too many times lying in the gutter, making out with its sister, with its skirt around it's ears and a cigarette dangling from its lips.

I'm crushed, Barbara. Crushed.

Still, you'll be dead soon, so I guess there's no point in obsessing over it.

War on Terror/Iraq. Meh, what's left to say?

So hopefully there will soon be a new scandal. Eagerly I read Wonkette and hope for the best...er, the worst...er, business as usual. Until then, I'll just try to get my allergies under control and pray for a dirtier tomorrow.