Category Archives: Operation Orwell

A Few Good Men?

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Spy you didn't read the magazine, now don't buy the book

Well, more like A Few Men/Women/Undecided/We’reNotFussyAtThisPoint.

Seems the CIA is, as they periodically are, hiring, and as a specialized and important service, they have specialized and important expectations for their applicants, and thus they are marketing themselves to specialized and important people, like the legions of newly-“retired” Wall Street Former Masters of the Universe.

That’s right; in a Perfect Storm, a maelstrom of malevolently strategic males, the CIA is recruiting investment bankers.

Gawker charts the shocking congruence. Go read it. Hamilton’s done better with this than I ever could, so check out the snippet and then go to Gawker and read the whole thing and you’re welcome.

CIA: Did cocaine with Colombians and spent all night partying with hookers in a drug lord’s villa. It was a mission.
Bankers: Did cocaine with Colombians and spent all night partying with hookers in a Murray Hill co-op. It was Tuesday.

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Banksy vs the Streets

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Longtime readers of the ol’ raincoaster blog are familiar (perhaps too familiar) with my adoration of Banksy, the Birmingham Bristol street artist who is #1 on my list of “men whom I have no idea what they look like but, whatever, they could have me anyway. in daylight. on Sunday.”

And they are equally familiar with my fondness for mashups and radical YouTubeification, so the fact that I’m posting the following video, which combines all of the above, should come as no surprise to anyone but nOObs, and they should just hang out and read and watch what I tell them, dammit!

Banksy vs the Streets remix

everything you wanted to know about Canada but were afraid to ask

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Yep, that’s pretty much exactly it: everything you wanted to know about Canada but were afraid to ask, delivered by the funniest man Canada has ever produced, Rick Mercer.

Any questions?

Eavesdropping at the Ovaltine

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The Ovaltine, yoSee, this is why I need a laptop. So I don’t have to snarf the last half of my meal and RUN home, desperately trying not to jostle my brain and let all the golden eavesdrops fall out.

More or less verbatim, heard from my perch on the highly prestigious “booth side” of the Ovaltine, coming from the less-prestigious but more collegial Stud Row otherwise known as the “counter side” where all the old men sit.

In an unmistakably Black American voice:

Seventy-three years old. SEVENTY-THREE YEARS OLD! Know what they told me? They told me I have Diabetes. DIABETES! I need diabetes at seventy-three. I need it like I need a hole in the head. I’m gonna die anyway, hell, I’ve been dead for years. Been through four wars, got two bullets in my back. I died twice! Saw the lights and everything. A white South African brought me back last time, which just goes to show.

What? It shows you!

I was in four wars. I was in Vietnam. I was in Vietnam twice. It started back in the 1800’s. The south part of Vietnam is 98% Buddhist. 2% Catholic. The Catholics tried to take over the country.

God? God didn’t have nuthing to do with it. God? What’s God? I’ll tell you. I’ll TELL you what God is.

God is a crazy old white woman!

What wars was I in? I was in Vietnam. I was a Canadian sergeant in Vietnam, I knew who my friends were. I’ll tell you that. I knew. I was in the dirty war in the Congo in… what? … 66. In 66 I was in the dirty war in the Congo. Died there. And I was in the dirty war in Brazil.

I’m a career soldier. Seventy-three years old. I got one foot in the grave and diabetes.
The highly prestigious booth side
Halifax? Hey, no – why would I want to go to Halifax? My people were black Loyalists, we came to this country in 1776. We’ve never been slaves. My mother was a Jew. If your mother’s a Jew, you’re a Jew. It don’t matter who your daddy is. Everyone knows who mama is. Nobody knows for sure who Papa is. It’s smart. I was born in Labrador City. Moved to Montreal when I was eight. I was a bad boy, so my mother sent me off to Chicago to live with my uncle. I was so bad, they gave me a choice of join the army or go to prison, so I joined the army.

I’m the worst kind. A career soldier. Seventy-three years old.

Montreal? MontREAL? No Halifax, I’ve never been to Halifax. Why would I go there? Why would anyone want to go to Halifax. No jobs, no people, no nothing. No, I’m from Montreal.

Ever seen the Fleur de Lis? You know what that is? It’s got six points. It’s the Star of David! I’m telling you, it’s the Star of David. Six points. Count ’em. Three up and thrThe O, yo!ee down. Star of David.

Cuz the first kings of France, they were Mary Magdalene’s people. A Tribe of Israel. They were Jews. So that’s the Fleur de Lis. The Star of David.

Wouldn’t it be something if the coalition government was headed up by the head of the Bloc? That would be something!

Seventy-three years old! I’ve been dead for years.

I must warn you…

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dog

I must warn you that I’m going on about forty-five minutes of sleep since two days ago, have consumed nothing but caffeinated beverages, a turkey sandwich, two oranges and a bag of chocolate chip cookies today, and have another blog post to do over at Ayyyy before I crash, so this could get weird.
Oh yeah, and I worked on the election all day, as a polling clerk in a mobile poll. And it’s a full moon tonight, Hunter’s Moon, Blood Moon.
I was absolutely crushed not to be in charge of the polling place at the city jail, but oh well, you can’t have everything! How would you keep it fresh? Polling at two assisted-living communities and a women’s shelter were interesting enough to fill the day. It’s not every day you meet a fellow who was in the Normandy invasion (not the one in 1066, the later one, going in the other direction).
Not in the women’s shelter.