Don’t abuse the sausage, Paddy

A little breakfast music from the Parish of St. Alfonzo for your listening pleasure this morning.

Stick it out

Independent Bernie Sanders is on a tear on the Senate floor, filibustering the prez’s tax-cut bargain old-school style — by speaking at length. And I do mean at length. He’s been at it since this morning, railing against the capitalists and for the working stiffs, and shows no signs of running down.

“It is a proposal which gives much too much to people who don’t need it,” he says, and more than once, too. “I think we can do a lot better.”

From your voice to God’s ears, Bernie. Let’s just hope He’s not hanging around with the Appliantologists down at Joe’s Garage.

• Late update: Aw, too bad — Bernie finally yielded the floor … after more than nine hours. Chapeau to the man from the great state of Vermont.

Who you jivin’ with that Cosmik Debris?

Every now and then, when it seems like the entire country is trying to piss on his wingtips all at once, you just know the prez thinks to himself, “Y’know? I could make more money as a butcher.”

Incidentally, to all you Senate Repugs who keep wiping your bloated behinds with gay troops, the unemployed and 9/11 workers — 9/11 workers! — you’d better pray there is a Rapture, and that it’s coming soon. *

Jeebus may own your black, shrunken soul, but while you’re down here among the plebes, your ass belongs to us, if there are any of “us” left. It’s a helluva note when Americans have to look to the Limeys for lessons on how to kick ass.

* And yes, I’m saving the “Jesus Thinks You’re a Jerk” link for later.

My friends tell me, I’ve been such a fool

With the pounding he’s taking from left, right and center over his tax-cut deal with the Elefinks — a deal that may never even get done — the prez must feel like he’s been tied to the … well, click on the video and enjoy.

Yippie ki-yo-ky-yay

I’m not moving to Montana soon. Too many dental-floss tycoons cluttering up Big Sky Country, with their zircon-encrusted tweezers and pygmy ponies.

But Frank Zappa was thinking about it, and said as much during a concert in Stockholm in 1971. Open your little umbrellas and rejoice, O my fellow Zappatistas.

The torture never stops

I was up until 10 last night posting ’cross goodies at VeloNews.com, then dragged ass out of the sack at 6:30 this morning to crank on some World Cup stuff. The lads in Igorre all wound up looking like chocolate Easter bunnies, or maybe Zappa on the cover of “Joe’s Garage.” Didja get any onya?

Zappy Zappadan

Give him your dirty love on this, day 1 of the 2010 Festival of Zappadan.

Pop round to zappa.com for a holiday message from The Central Scrutinizer and relive those glorious days of yesteryear with a video mashup from A Modified Dog via Ketchup Is a Vegetable.

Then shed a tear for the kids of today who must endure what Tom McGuane calls “their stupid fucking tuneless horseshit.”

The faithful among you need no reminders as to the deeper meaning behind the Festival of Zappadan, but for the noobs, Frank Zappa was taken from us on Dec. 4 and subsequently born on Dec. 21. According to Blue Gal, The Aristocrats designated this period Zappadan — “the days of the year between death and birth, that ethereal time when there was no Frank, so we must celebrate him to keep his spirit safe until his birthday again. Or it’s just a great excuse for a party that has nothing to do with the greed and debt festival known as Christmas in America.”

This year the festivities seem largely confined to other blogs and Twitter. But that doesn’t mean we can’t all be happy together.

Happy winter solstice

Today is the shortest day of the year, though for a man condemned to keeping a cycling website interesting in the absence of actual news it could be considered one of the longest.

It’s also the conclusion of the annual Festival of Zappadan, which as all good Zappatistas know runs from the date of Frank Zappa’s death (Dec. 4) through the day of his birth (Dec. 21). Thanks and a honk from the Chrome Plated Megaphone of Destiny to Fried Green al-Qaedas for emceeing this year’s festivities. Burnt weeny sandwiches in lumpy gravy for everyone! But stay the hell away from that yellow snow.

Dog Breath, In the Year of the Plague

Herself and I got out and about for a bit yesterday, checkbook in hand, for a bit of the old ho ho ho.

We wrote checks to the Marian House soup kitchen, the Care and Share food bank and the Humane Society of the Pikes Peak Region (way too many puppies and kittens spending the holiday season in the joint). Then we treated ourselves to an orgy of consumerism in Sparrow Hawk Gourmet Cookware, buying a new Wüsthof chef’s knife and 12-inch non-stick Emerilware skillet, Emerilware basically being All-Clad Lite.

Back home, I whipped up a tureen of posole, Herself assembled a salad, and we watched an episode of “Dexter” using our new-used Sony Blu-ray player, because nothing screams “Happy holidays!” like pork products and serial homicide. Good night, Uncle Meat, wherever you are.

Holiday dancin’ foolishness

Your Saturday Zappadan Miracle: The public-radio show “Wait Wait … Don’t Tell Me!” used Frank Zappa’s “Dancin’ Fool” to close out a segment this morning. So here for your holiday entertainment is FZ performing that very composition: