the blog quebecois

Big day tomorrow: I'm undergoing what's called a carotid endarterectomy, a procedure to scrape out the gunk in my (left) carotid artery. I was under the impression that it was to be a fairly simple outpatient matter; however, on meeting with the anaesthesiologist, I was told it might be done under a general, with a hospital stay of three or four days.

Well, whatever. If I'm out of commission for the next few days (or for eternity) that's the explanation.

In other news, I understand the Yanks are having some sort of election, so I suppose everyone's waiting on my prediction.

Which is: McCain -- more handily than you'd think.

I don't care what the numbers are. If you'll recall, the "inevitability" of a Gore or Kerry win was trumpeted just as long and loudly by the usual actors. The MSM has embarrassed itself (not for the first time, but hopefully for the last) with its shameless bias and boosterism. Republican voters are more stable and more likely to show up.

And never mind the Bradley effect; Barack Obama is a brass-plated loon. I suspect that that realization is starting to sink in.

What's of real interest to me are the PUMAs. These are the disaffected (Party Unity My Ass) Hillary Democrats who've been tirelessly blogging and organizing behind the scenes. They've been disgusted by the tactics of the Obama camp during the Demo primaries and want to preserve Clinton's viability for 2012. Also I think there is genuine distaste for the over-the-top attacks on Sarah Palin. Take this for what it's worth, but I read somewhere that Obama's internal polling is saying he's lost 30 to 40% of Hillary's voters. If true, and if PUMA can deliver them, those are HUGE numbers -- more than enough to tip critical states to McCain.

Now it could be that my analysis is completely off and that America is on the verge of electing the most unqualified candidate for President ever. But there's also a (very slight) chance that something will go terribly wrong in the operating room tomorrow and the entire election will become (at least for me) a rather moot point.

That's our gnotalex -- always looking for the silver lining!

How deep the cold takes us down,
into the searing frost of hell;
where mountain snows,
unyielding winds, strip our flesh,
bare our bones.

The trembling of uncertain hearts,
scream out to echoes not impressed,
as swirling mists of laughing death,
reach out their fingers to compress.

How white the withered skin exposed,
turns into black and brittle flesh,
and limbs cast out from conscious thought,
still stagger on the arctic frost.

Immobile does the breath extend
as crystal on the mountain wind,
and eyes now fixed in layers of ice,
see nothing through the dawning light.

This road that leads down to the sea,
twists and turns at every bend,
and Chosin's ice that molds like steel,
rains the fire that seeks our end.

The trucks cry out a dirge refrain,
their brittle gears roll on in pain;
upon their beds, the silent dead,
in grateful and serene repose.

Still the mind resists the call,
to lie and die in final pose,
where blood in stillness warms the soul,
and renders nil the will to rise.

The battle carries through the night,
give witness to the dead betrayed,
when frozen weapons fail to fire,
their metal stressed by winter's might.

Still we fight to reach Hungnam,
join in solemn oath and brotherhood,
as every able-bodied man,
will bring our dead and wounded home.

Uphold traditions earned in blood,
break through the hordes that press us in,
depress their numbers to the place,
where waves of dead deny their quest.

And on to the sea...

John Kent

Via Yvonne’s War Poetry

All is forgiven.

1970s Swedish dance bands smash the stereotype that nothing good can come of mullet haircuts and matching leisure suits.

They are simultanously nowhere and . . . everywhere.

Animated .GIF via b3ta

Missing is the hilarious (albeit somewhat bloody) finale, when the robot attempts to install him as a hood ornament on an '09 Cadillac.

Warning: Laughter, sound effects.

Because there's no such thing as a time machine, duh. Not that that stops some people from trying:

One of the bylaws of the International Association of Time Travelers states that you can’t kill Hitler. The problem is, everybody kills Hitler on their first trip. This leaves more experienced time travelers the onerous task of undoing the historical edits of n00bs.

He's unstoppable; unstoppable I tell you.