Ukraine metablog

Here's a list of blogs covering what's going on in Ukraine.



If you want to understand what's going on in Ukraine, here's a blog from Kiev. Good background on the situation, too, that you don't get much of in the US. For pics, go here. Oh, and the Russians might be coming...

Election Suicide

Now here's someone who knows how to use suicide to make a statement. Pathetic, yes. Bombastic, yes. And it's a total waste. But it's still a kind of performance art.


Finally, a Nice Bed of Nails to Lie on

The dominatrix down the block moved to L.A. last week, to further her career in the pain-inflicting arts. The week before she moved, she started leaving decor and pieces of furniture on the sidewalk for us poor, misfortunate bastards to cart away. My girlfriend and I stopped by to check out the inventory. Although we were disappointed in the quality of the rugs she'd left, my girlfriend expressed a great deal of interest in the bed of nails resting by the front door. It was about 3'x3' and made of thick, rough plywood. A wide white cross had been spray-painted on it, with a pale red spot at the end of each arm of the cross. She thought it would look great on her wall. We toyed with the idea of calling or emailing the dominatrix about it, but in the end decided it would be more fun to steal it.

The night we did, my girlfriend's mother was in town and had just taken us to dinner. On the way back to my apartment, she pointed out the bed of nails to her (obviously cool) mother. She was amused. When we got inside, my girlfriend introduced her mother to the dog and the kittens while I went after the bed of nails. When I got to the dominatrix's house, I noticed that my girlfriend had followed me. She and I looked over the fresh loot the dominatrix had put on the sidewalk that evening. In addition to the worn rugs, there were two huge syringes and a wheelchair—a boon.

My girlfriend acting as lookout, I snuck around the side of the porch and lifted the bed of nails over the railing. It was surprisingly heavy. Once I got it back down to my level, near my face, I realized why she'd left it on the porch.

It reeked. Of piss.

But I wasn't about to put it back. So I ran home, my girlfriend running behind me, pushing the wheelchair. It's not easy running while carrying a large, heavy object that you don't want to let slip for fear of impaling yourself. But I managed. When we got home, we showed it to my girlfriend's mother and then put it flat on the porch, behind some plants, so it would neither attract attention nor stink up my living room.

If anyone's interested in purchasing a solid wheelchair at a good price, let me know....


Irate Savant

Irate Savant's blog is, shall we say, well off the beaten path. And since it got mentioned on Vodkapundit, it's seen a spike in traffic. What's surprising isn't the tortured genius that is Irate Savant but the amount of abuse some readers heap upon him...


Fun for foodies!

Now that Regime Change in America has failed, it's time for the fun to begin. I know you're thinking that only Republicans and their labotomized brethren are enjoying themselves right now--and you're right. But O Ye Bitter Partisans, relish the rich meal that is coming: a four (or more) course meal of richest scandal.

1. Soup. Yellowcake: You thought the pilot was good. Well, this season's episodes promise to be better. Coming soon: the continuing investigation into the Plame Affair (sorry, no sex), with the dogs sniffing at Cheney and Feith's doors for leaking to douchebag Novak that Joseph Wilson's wife was a CIA operative.

2. Appetizer. Just around the corner are revelations about the forged Niger documents. Remember those? Saddam? Niger uranium? Sixteen words? Who forged the documents and why? And who's that crazy Italian dude who keeps cropping up (see Talking Points Memo for details)?

3. Entree. From the bowels of Bruckheimer, it's Abu Ghraib II: Guantanamo. Now I'm pre-enraged that it happened at all, that we treated prisoners this way, even if some of them deserved it. But think how disheveled Our Beloved Leader will look after the tropical shitstorm hits. And now that OBL (Our Beloved Leader) has been elected (finally!), one wonders how he'll treat Rumsfeld, Wolfowitz and Feith. (Care to start a betting pool, anyone?)

4. Dessert. Report on the White House's use of prewar intelligence, witheld until after the election. A delicious variation on creme brulee. Tap the crust on top with your spoon to reach the creamy center.

So while you're fretting about the damage to the national interest, our interests abroad, the military, the environment, ethics, education, the justice system, and reality itself, remember to make reservations for this fine meal served for a short time only at The Second Term.