For an analysis of what all this campaign suspendering and town halling means, we turn to The Most Trusted Name in Gleeful Apocalyptic Commentary. Take it away, youse Who Is IOZ…

Imagine if you are Vladimir Putin. You do not drink or smoke, and aside from occasionally fucking your gymnast nymphette into catatonic submission while a 10,000 piece orchestra plays Gimn Sovetskogo Soyuza outside your window, you do not carouse. Your life is occupied with grim, atavistic fantasies, which are just now coming to fruition, and as you nurse your bloody dreams in the Siberian expanses of your glittering, Satanic soul, you flip on the teevee and see the only force on earth with any capacity to foil or retard your ambitions rapidly consuming itself in an orgy of abject ridiculousness, a Marx-brothers comedy of political ineptitude so baroque in its Vaudevillian slapstick that it melts, for just one moment, the crimson popsicle that is your KGB heart and from your mouth, for the first time since you traded your soul for life eternal and a thirst for blood one thousand years ago, you let out one brief, delicious: Ha!

Olberman’s gonna need a few hundred billion to get outta the hole when this thing’s all over…

When Senator John McCain selected Sarah Palin as his running mate, Cindy McCain’s first thought was… well, no one’s sure what the whole first thought was, but it ended with, “…and if he thinks he’s going on the campaign trail alone with that little hussy…” Cindy knows how he do.

But millions of people, myself included, had another thought: “Huh? WTF? Who?” And that’s fair, because many Americans can’t name the governor of their own state, so knowing who rules Alaska at any given time is a stretch. But we’re learning more and more with each passing day, as the press gets around to the vetting McCain’s campaign was too busy to undertake. I thought that I’d be a good citizen, and a good neighbor, by providing you, gentle reader, with an introduction to the Moosinating Hockey Mom (and soon to be Gramma!) from far, far away.

You’re welcome!

(h/t John Cole)

Dennis Perrin is watching the Democratic Convention, and makes a valid point in the midst of all the Blue Lovin’.

I’m happy that Michelle Obama found success in her life and loves her family, but why the fuck should I care? Her husband presumes to exert state control over me and mine, spending my tax dollars for expanded war in Afghanistan, continuing misery for the Palestinians, narco-war and repression in Colombia, among other wonderful projects, and I’m supposed to melt because his wife can read hackneyed, Hallmark copy from a teleprompter?

Today marks the third anniversary of The Big, Big Wedding. It’s an odd anniversary for us, since we have so many. We met 16 years ago in Seattle, broke up a year and half later, and wouldn’t be together again (except for a brief visit at a friend’s wedding) for another 10 years.

We made contact again in 2002, threw sparks over the Internet, fell in love again over long late night telephone calls, kissed again on Memorial Day. I took an Amtrak from Baltimore to New York, watching the Mid-Atlantic speed by as my stomach flipped over again and again. We spent a few beautiful days swimming blissfully in our togetherness, and then I returned to San Francisco to consider what had just happened.

You came out to visit, and we spent another week tangled up in each other, happy and anxious, eager yet apprehensive. For 6 months we crossed the continent to be with each other for short, intense bursts. We filled the time apart with phone calls that spanned hours, and we talked about what should happen next.

In the Fall, on my 33rd birthday, I left San Francisco with 3 bags of luggage and moved into your studio apartment on Eldridge St. in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. We fumbled and struggled and got to know each other’s boundaries, occasionally by crossing them, and learned how to live together again in the smallest, densest, most intimate space possible. We had magnificent brunches on the rooftop and dined in bistros all over town. We had the joy and privilege of getting to know some truly remarkable people, the good fortune to host friends from everywhere else. We held hands, and walked all over New York City.

We already knew we would be together, and I’d already secured Gramma’s engagement ring, when we found out we would soon be parents. On Mother’s Day of 2004, with your Mom and mine brunching on the roof, I snuck up on you, ninja-like, and asked you if you loved me. And then I got on my knee, pulled the ring from my pocket, and asked you to marry me. You replied, eyes wide, grinning, and with a slight crack in your voice, “Of course I will, stupid!”

Ruby joined us in the world of the breathing on November 22, 2004, and spent much of the winter wrapped and bundled inside our coats. Spring came, and then summer, the offer of work in Los Angeles, the promise of family on the West Coast and year-round sunshine took us west. And all the while, the planning continued. I still can’t believe that, in the middle of that maelstrom, you created your wedding dress by hand.

On August 20, 2005, in Santa Cruz, California we stood in front of more than 300 of our friends and family, I whispered my vow to you, close to your ear, and you leaned in to mine and whispered yours. The words of our vows stayed between us, carried the weight of our years together, of our love for each other, of our commitment to spend our lives together. We left the altar, together, to the wild cries and cheers of so many of the folks we love.

And then, behind the stunning effort of so many friends and relatives, we threw one of the best parties I’ve ever been to. Barbeque! Square dancing! Horsehoes! Cotton candy! All those flowers and smiling faces and promenades, the tent city and the music, the wine and the guests decked out in suits and kilts and country dresses… it was so lovely and so much fun. I never wanted it to end, but when it was over we were exhausted and knew it had gone off better than anyone had imagined.

My life has never been more vivid, meaningful, and filled with well-being than it has since I said, “I do.” And every year we’ve been together is better than the last. I still can’t believe how blessed I am to be with you, or how lucky we are to have these amazing children together. It feels strange to say “Happy 3rd Anniversary” after so much time and so many miles.

Happy Anniversary, Rebbie. I love you, so much.

So that’s what it’s like to be part of a money bomb. Neat. I wasn’t a Paul supporter so I didn’t get to join in the fun before.

So there’s a money bomb type thing happening today at the AccountabilityNow PAC, which is dedicated to challenging elected officials who don’t think that defending the Constitution is important. Specifically, it’s a collaborative effort between some of the Ron Paul folks and a some liberal die-hard civil rights blogger activists to stand up to the shitbags that pushed the FISA compromise, letting the telecoms get away with violating America’s civil rights, and giving the Bush administration a big thumbs up for violating the 4th Amendment. Bipartisan and opposed to the surveillance state? I’m good with that, so I threw ‘em a few bucks. Feel free to chip in if this kinda thing’s important to you.

But maybe it’s not, and you’re becoming more and more anxious as election season progresses, fearing that you’ll end up in a discussion with someone passionate about some candidate, party, or issue that you just couldn’t give less of a rat’s ass about. The good folks at Today Now! addressed this very topic a few mornings ago, I figure it’s only neighborly of me to post the segment.