Finally, a Plan For Victory! Oh, sure, the GOP may not have any real plan — and the Democrats may be even worse — but at least the Bushites have the good sense to put up big signs all around the stage reading “Plan For Victory” whenever President Chimp gives a speech. All the Democrats have is Howard The Duck, living in a party he never made.

Seriously, the Bush Regime flacks must have assumed Americans are even stupider than they actually are to serve up that old Reagan-era bromide “Stay The Course” when, in fact, there were a goodly number of us who remember that load of bullshit from back when it was still fresh and steaming. The war in Iraq is shaping up to be a Fail even more epic than Vietnam, and all President Chimp can think of is to say “Stay The Course”. What was that old Pete Seeger song… “waist-deep in the Big Muddy, and the big fool says…”

In 1989, one Dr. Francis Fukuyama penned what had to be one of the most conceited loads of triumphalist blathering ever, The End Of History, in which he claims that the fall of the USSR and its satellite regimes in Eastern Europe heralded the end of the struggle between Good and Evil (aka Capitalism and Socialism, or the absurdly distorted, simplistic media images thereof). What I found especially laughable was Fukuyama’s treatment of the USA as a state that was somehow immune to collapse and above it all, the “winner” of the aforementioned struggle when, in fact, even as US politicians and pro-capitalist idealogues celebrated the victory of “freedom”, the first rumblings of the collapse of the USA could be heard in the form of NAFTA and George I’s initiation of renewed imperialist adventurism in Panama, Iraq, and Somalia.

The end of history? No, sorry, Dr. Fukuyama, what you heard in ’89 was just the first shoe dropping. Seriously, Dr. F, didn’t you realize that if a regime the size of the USSR could end up as historical roadkill, it could just as easily happen to the USA? Jeezus, what is it with these goddamn’ Harvard jerks?

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Here’s another one of those gags that pretty much drew itself. On hearing the news that New York City would have the dubious honor of hosting the 2004 Republican Convention, this image slammed into my head like a runaway train and refused to go away:

This was my part towards inspiring locals and visitors alike to hit the streets and give the GOP a good old-fashioned New York City welcome, and to let the Bush Mob know that the people of NYC weren’t going to allow themselves to be cast as “extras” in a fascist corporate infomercial (which is basically what the Republicratic and Demopublican Conventions had become by this time).

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Am I the only one here who was totally gob-smacked at the spectacle of politicians, freelance guardians of public morals and the Federal Communications Commission Board all simultaneously crapping their drawers at the reports of Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl Halftime Show baring one nipple in an instant so quick, so fleeting, that the only way you could really see it was to watch the super-slo-mo replay? Am I the only one here who’s more than a little bit annoyed at seeing all these people howling over a nipple being exposed for one one-hundred-thousandth of a second while our manuafacturing jobs are being sucked away by China, our IT service jobs being siphoned off by India, our Bill Of Rights being shredded, and the US is up to its armpits in an illegal imperialist war of aggression in Iraq? Am I the only one here who’s more than slightly disgusted at all the hypocritical shrieking about obscenity and sexuality at the Super Bowl Halftime Show while our airwaves and cable are flooded with Desperate Housewives, Real Housewives, Sex And The City, and beer commercials full of frolicking hotties — not to mention the supreme irony of scantily-clad NFL cheerleaders prancing on the sidelines during the actual Super Bowl game itself? Is there not one woman in this country who’s tired of being driven insane trying to live up to the US entertainment and advertising industries’ official standard of feminine beauty, i.e., emaciated stick insects with visible ribcages and silicone-injected ta-tas big enough to choke a horse?

Well, consider this cartoon a call to action to every woman who’s tired of being told by advertising that her body is inadequate, and told by the Federal Communications Commission that her body is just plain dirty, to write her favorite brief, simple, elegant, dissident message across her chest and take it to the streets.

At every protest, at every media event, get your average, non-beer-commercial-like body into the streets and flash your message at every opportunity. Going to the IMF/WB/Pro-Choice actions in DC this spring? Cruise the streets, look for remote live TV news crews, manuver your way into the near background, and bam, let ’em have it, your message about censorship and media hypocrisy, emblazoned across your entirely non-Swedish Bikini Team-like bare chest — or, if you’re the shy type, mix up the ol’ paste bucket and hit the streets with this provocative poster while leaving your shirt on the entire time.

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The George II re-selection campaign is kicking off with a bombshell (so to speak) — they’re ditching Dick Cheney for a guy who knows how to use both sides of his face: that long-time Washington insider himself, hanger-out with Don “Rummy” Rumsfeld – Saddam “Saddam” Hussein! The media, of course, is always on the lookout for some meager shred of good news out of Iraq; NBC presented us with a free GOP political ad in the form of their “Saddam Captured Marathon” spanning the entirety of NBC’s Sunday morning blabfest programming.

President Junior may have been abjectly stupid, but once in a while had those rare flashes of brilliance — like using the head of state of an “enemy” nation as his unofficial running mate, just as his old man tried to do in ’92. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the Donkeycrats — weak-assed and dickless, as usual — ran a phone-in campaign with a nominee that made Lurch (from the “Addams Family”) look positively scintillating by comparison, thereby cementing the Donkeycrats’ reputation for being craven dive artists.

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