Asked about his time with Harper at the National Citizens Coalition, Nicholls said: "I worked with Stephen Harper for five years and never once did he in that time eat a baby."
Another nondenial denial in l'affaire Stephen Harper Eats Babies. And the Brits think they've got scandals! Bloody amateurs, that's what I call 'em!
Courtesy of the Heather —-s Blog . May contrain traces of soy products, gluten, nuts and editing:
It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not the same person as when I started —–ing you. I have loved the time we spent together. Your —– is strong yet soft. You are lithe and attractive. There is nothing wrong with you. It’s just that I am in a different place now.
No, it’s not only that I’ve been spending time with Bjerk, and I truly wish that you’d stop saying “that B-Jerk.” I’m fairly certain it’s pronounced like Bjork but with an “erk.”
I spend time with Bjerk because I don’t want to hang around the house all the time anymore – I’ve been enjoying getting out and I can’t take you anywhere these days, what with your being in pieces and your ends all hanging out. When we were spending all that time at home in front of the TV, that was one thing. But I want to be free to move around!
I’ve worked hard on this relationship, and I’m not giving up now. You know that I’m committed: We’ve been through thick and thin, unraveling, bumps, twists, and 190 dang b—–s! But something has to change. You can’t accuse me of cheating just because I swatched Bjerk when I should have been working on your shoulders, or every time I —- a couple of —- with Bjerk in my hands. Yes, Bjerk is beautiful…
But so are you, in a different way. Neither of you is better or worse. I love your b—–s, Bjerk doesn’t have any of those. And you have such a lovely —– (no, I did NOT say d—p!). Just because Bjerk is slightly more youthful and elastic doesn’t mean anything.
OK, you’re right, maybe I don’t know how to handle your edgy ——-, but I’m willing to learn! I can improve, I know I can! Once we work through that, I’ll be able to take you with me everywhere.
It’s just that. Well. You’re right. I probably will never be able to be completely exclusive.
Just set me free and I will come back to you. Stop with the guilt trips. Wait patiently and the novelty of Bjerk will wear off (at about 2 3/4 inches, when Bjerk tells me to use — ———, and I say no because I don’t have any on me).
Okay, so maybe money can't buy you love. But, as any moderately successful capitalist in the world can tell you, it sure can rent it!
China's getting the hang of this capitalism thing, and no wonder: they pretty much invented it. Restaurants? Invented them. Money? Yup, invented it, including the paper it was printed on. And throughout much of Asia, when you hear about violence against the prosperous middle class, it's pretty much indistinguishable from violence against the Chinese, who form the bulk of the merchant class throughout the region. Is this racism, or revolution?
Sometimes the protest can be very subtle indeed. This week the dreadfully-named Guardian arts blog Culture Vulture features really very good reporter Jonathan Watts at Beijing's Dashanzi International Art Fair. You won't find any bombastic revolutionary types there; they were rounded up a few weeks ago and, frankly, carted off to the void. But you can still see social criticism of a more restrained nature.
Cash is used for political ends by veteran artist, Huang's Rui, whose "Chairman Mao 10,000rmb" spells out Cultural Revolution slogans with banknotes. The same material is exploited by young artist Wang Sishun, who has cut and folded a giant 100rmb note into the shape of a vagina. "Before you couldn't buy anything in China. Money was useless," he explains. "But now it can buy anything, even sex."
It's charming and, I suppose, heartening that we live in a world where there are people who still find that noteworthy. So to speak.
I'm not loving the blond, looks grey in this Youtube vid, and Daniel Craig should shoot the director for allowing that closeup. In the final shot of this French Casino Royale trailer, Bond looks as if he's going to fucking mew. Bond would not mew. Bond would smile knowingly and then shoot me through the heart.
The music, however, once again kicks 99 kinds of ass.
I mean, how can you not love a guy like this, eh? He's a political leftie, an author, a brainiac, he speaks fluent Maritimer, and he's a dead hottie to boot.
…a previous Conservative government made Conrad Black a Member of the Privy Council. It is somehow fitting that if Conrad goes down in a nasty prison brawl over a carton of cigarettes, the flag over the Peace Tower will fly at half mast. A nation will mourn the passing of a guy who voluntarily gave up his Canadian citizenship so he could play dress-up party in England.
I can see that, while he's not a daily blogger, nor yet a desperate famewhore such as myself who has to hit it several times a day or go mad but that's neither here nor there, he's already caught onto the old blogger's trick of getting other people to supply content. Way to take a month off, eh?
