Chick-Fillet Employee Hated By Alleged College Professor At Drive Through...I Am Just Stunned By Petty Assholes...

[Brant Gaede]

Sex trumps politics every time, so far as I'm concerned.

Ghs

That would make a brilliant essay.

Just go read recent British history starting in and around 1960.

--Brant

they do the sex and we do the money (scandals)

[Selene]

Sex trumps politics every time, so far as I'm concerned.

Ghs

That would make a brilliant essay.

Just go read recent British history starting in and around 1960.

--Brant

they do the sex and we do the money (scandals)

Profumo jumped to my mind and I found a Vanity Fair article that addresses your point perfectly!

February 2007

Scandal

Why Are British Sex Scandals So Much Better than Ours?

Comparing Washington sex scandals with those of Britain's political class is enough to cause any red-blooded American to blush with shame. The fabled Profumo affair and The Spectator's recent game of musical beds make Clinton's desperate urges or the leering emoticons of Mark Foley look, well, limp.

by James Wolcott

When I read the flirty e-mails and instant messages from Congressman Mark Foley to assorted cuddle buns of the male denomination, I was embarrassed, truly embarrassed—not only for Mr. Foley, but for myself, as an American. This is the best we can do? This is what it's come to? It was bad enough when the cheesy details of President Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky's bobble-head ministrations leered from the pages of Ken Starr's report, and we learned that the former intern resuscitated the commander in chief up only to the point of release, whereupon he withdrew and finished himself off in a bathroom sink, like some unhousebroken Martin Ami's character. The president of the United States masturbating into a sink—it doesn't get more plaintive than that. Or so I believed. But the Mark Foley congressional-page scandal took the Washington sexcapade to its ultimate dry point of diminuendo: It was a sex scandal without any actual sex. It unfurled almost entirely in the phantom zone where fantasy and virtual reality overlap.

What could be more tacky or poignant than a middle-aged sad sack quizzing a former teenage page if he had spanked his Oscar Meyer that weekend—"it must feel great spirting on the towel" (further evidence of how cyberprose degrades spelling ability)—and mooching kisses from another playmate before a vote on a war-appropriations bill? When a grown man traffics in smiley-face emoticons, it's time to fold up the cot. From Bill Clinton seeking body warmth in Lewinsky's pillowy embrace to Foley batting his eyelashes online, to poor old jowly chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee Wilbur Mills making a ripe fool of himself with stripper "Fanne Fox, the Argentine Firecracker," the high-profile Washington sex scandal is marked by desperate lunging, not lusty abandon. A hot flash of male menopause, it's more of a cry for help and a prelude to rehab than a yelp of pleasure. Washington should steal a tabloid page from its closest and horniest ally, Great Britain. When it comes to whipping up a political sex scandal into a donnybrook, the Brits have us beat—they really know how to make the bedsheets billow. British sex scandals, like ours, are often rooted in a dolor of middle-aged malaise, but they're also animated by spite, spicy details, vanity, revenge, bitter comedy, and bawdy excess—the complete Jacobean pantry.

Nearly half a century later, the Profumo scandal still retains its smoky intrigue and fascinating lore. It is, in the words of The Sunday Herald reporter Barry Didcock, "the yardstick against which all other political scandals are measured." The man whose name and political career were permanently nailed into notoriety was John Profumo (the Tory secretary of state for war under Harold Macmillan), who was forced to resign after lying to Parliament about his brief involvement with Christine Keeler, a teenage topless dancer and call girl who also made herself available to a K.G.B. agent and Soviet naval attaché. Given the nature of the Cold War (it was 1963), such fraternization was an impermissible breach. But what made the story fixating was the periscopic view it provided of high society consorting with the demimonde: the wealthy Profumo, who was married to the actress Valerie Hobson, first eyed Keeler emerging from a swimming pool at Lord Astor's Cliveden (the satirical fortnightly Private Eye, then in its infancy, published "a spoof National Trust brochure for the house, highlighting the best places to find people having sex," recalled the Daily Mail). Keeler and her pal Mandy Rice-Davies took part in posh orgies pimped out by a well-connected osteopath named Stephen Ward, who would later commit suicide during his trial for living partly or wholly on the proceeds of prostitution (unlawful under the Sexual Offenses Act of 1956) and leave tantalizing questions unanswered as to the scope and clientele of his alleged prostie ring. In the blaze of flashbulbs and howl of headlines, the men in the Profumo scandal crumpled and the women seized pop-star status. It was Rice-Davies who, upon hearing that Lord Astor had denied doing the dirty with her, bequeathed to posterity the snappy rejoinder "Well, he would, wouldn't he?," and it was Keeler who furnished one of the most iconic and imitated poses of the 60s when she was photographed by Lewis Morley straddling the back of a chair in the imperturbable nude. The original print is enshrined at the Victoria and Albert Museum, its inclusion certifying its historical-pictorial value. It's difficult to imagine Monica's blue dress ever ending up at the Smithsonian.

Although the tawdry particulars of the Profumo affair may appear quaint to our jaded palates (the 1989 film Scandal, starring Joanne Whalley as Keeler, Ian McKellan as Profumo, John Hurt as Ward, and a miscast Bridget Fonda as Mandy Rice-Davies, had the musty look of an old humidor), the publishing and entertainment industries can't let go. Last fall, David Profumo, son of the late John Profumo, brought out a memoir based on his parents' diaries and letters, and interviews conducted with his father (who died in March 2006), called Bringing the House Down. Promoting his book, David Profumo ascribed the enduring hold of the saga of his father's disgrace and banishment from public life to the spiky array of angles to the case. "It did seem to have pretty much everything—except rock 'n' roll. It had sex and drugs and class and color and espionage and intrigue—and at a particularly explosive time." And now it may gain rock 'n' roll as well. In late January–early February, a racy musical based on the Keeler story, called A Model Girl, is slated to be staged at a fringe theater in London, "complete with nude romps and new theories about conspiracies and cover-ups," according to the advance press. Compared with the barefaced deceptions of the countdown to war in Iraq by the Blair government, the conspiracies and cover-ups of this burlesque can only look like child's play.

In 2002, the London dailies feasted on the contents of Edwina Currie's parliamentary diaries, wherein she dropped the tidy bombshell that she and a pre–prime minister John Major had carried on an adulterous affair. Who was this saber-toothed man-eater showing off her former trophy? Currie served as the junior health minister for the Tory government in the late 80s, and her keen craving for media attention ("[My husband] likes to watch TV; I like to be on it," she once said) established her as a minor, unavoidable celebrity annoyance, much like our Gloria Allred. She claims she and Major would whisper like conspirators in the chambers of the House of Commons, conversing in code ("Could we have a word after the vote tonight?") before sneaking out for a bout of hokeypokey at her flat. What made Currie's kiss-and-tell so jaw-dropping was that it overturned the engraved perception of John Major as a department-store dummy with all the charisma of aspirin. Recall that when Major succeeded Margaret Thatcher, after she had been buffaloed out the door by rebels in her own party, he offered a respite from her regal bossiness. Major was a leader of probity, modesty, modulated rhetoric, and conciliatory manner—his relative dullness was a virtue after the combative psychodrama of the Thatcher regime. So to discover that this bland placeholder wore big blue underpants, had shared a bathtub with Currie, and acquitted himself in the sack with commendable zeal ("I wish he could have been as good a Prime Minister as he was a lover," she told an interviewer from The Sunday Telegraph) played mischief with everyone's editorial-cartoon mental picture of Major. It painted racing stripes across his executive persona. "The grey man of Downing Street had suddenly acquired a dash of colour: 'Didn't know the old boy had it in him' seemed to be the general response," observed David Thomas in the Daily Mail on Sunday.

(A similar blush infused a marble figurehead when England's Football Association coach Sven-Göran Eriksson was found embroiled in an affair with Faria Alam, a secretary at the F.A., who described him as being what all men aspire to, a "master of the art of lovemaking." Earlier, Eriksson had extended his mastery in an affair with TV personality Ulrika Jonsson, whose sexual history was scarred by trauma, giving the tabloids more feed for the trough. "In between the Jonsson and Alam affairs," The Scotsman reported, "Eriksson was alleged to have been bombarding a former lover, Jayne Connery, 35, with telephone calls asking for a reunion." Adopting a Juvenal attitude to these antics, FIFA—Fédération Internationale de Football Association—president Sepp Blatter—now, there's a name—mused that the sex imbroglio had "enriched the summer non-footballing season in England." With Sven through thick and thicker was his regal girlfriend, the magnificently maned and named Annunziata Dell'Olio, known to the commoners as Nancy, "the first lady of football," about whom Jonsson once wondered in print, "Has that fake tan lotion started to pickle her brain?" Dell'Olio caused a Liz Hurley–esque sensation when she met Tony Blair in 2002 dolled up in a red jumpsuit with navel-plunging décolletage.)

http://www.vanityfai...2/wolcott200702

There are two (2) more pages in the article that are also worth reading...

[Selene]

Allen West's latest hilarious move with the Congressional Black Caucus:

Look At What Allen West Did To Tick Off The Black Caucus!

Rep. Allen West (R-FL) is someone I really like. I like that he says what he thinks and doesn’t mind if it ticks off the left. Apparently he made a nice gesture of providing free food for the Black Caucus. Instead of the Black Caucus being thankful that someone else provided food for them, they were offended. Why? Because what Rep. West sent them were Chick-Fil-A biscuits!

Rep. Alcee Hastings (D-FL) said that it was a deliberate attempt to offend the members of the Congressional Black Caucus.

“We have a rotation in the Congressional Black Caucus where every member provides the lunch one of the weeks when we meet,” Hastings told Huffington Post on Monday.

“We have fried chicken. And we have catfish and BBQ. We do not have watermelon, although sometimes people will have fruit. We serve a full course meal with collard greens. We have Jamaican beans and rice,” he continued. “But West ”sent Chick-fil-A with biscuits. Ok?”

“That was an ‘in your face.’ Every member of the Congressional Black Caucus that was there was offended,” he added.

So let’s get this straight (pun intended, since the controversy over Chick-Fil-A deals with homosexual ‘marriage). Mr. Hastings and his Democrat colleagues are ok with chicken just as long as it isn’t chicken from Chick-Fil-A. they are such thin skinned, little people that they could not respond graciously and thank Rep. West for providing such wonderful food for their meeting. No, they had to go and get their dander up about what brand of Chicken was provided.

Read more: http://freedomoutpost.com/2012/08/look-at-what-allen-west-did-to-tick-off-the-black-caucus/#ixzz233WDPMqu

[9thdoctor]

Here's a friggin' masterpiece: