There’s an Au Bon Pain downstairs that I frequent in the afternoons when I’m feeling peckish and need to top off the tank before the ride home. Nothing extravagant, a small cup of coffee and a little treat, typically.

Yesterday, I was perusing the baked goods and was drooling a little over a creme de fleur, which looks like a muffin-ish confection with 3 buttons of custard on the top, indicating what lies below. That sounds pretty good doesn’t it? But wait, it gets better: it’s actually 3 sections, baked together into a muffin-shape, so that you can actually tear 1/3 of it off, and that little guy is a self contained pastry packet of custard!

Oh man.

I gained some control over my visual appetite, and decided that I’d be better off with a pumpkin muffin. “There’s no need for the triple-cripple custard bomb,” I chided myself, ” when that pumpkin muffin will be very good with a small coffee, and a healthier choice overall.” I was feeling pretty good about overcoming my impulsive, custard-laden first choice, and making a wiser, healthier decision.

Except I didn’t. That goddam pumpkin muffin has 530 calories, 81g of carbs, and almost no nutrional value. By comparison, a Big Mac has 540 calories, 45g of carbs, and 25g of protein, as well as calcium and iron. I’m not saying that a Big Mac is healthy, and I’ve certainly got ethical concerns over the source of a lot of those calories, but there’s no denying that from a nutritional perspective, I’d have been better off with Le Big Mac.

Oh, and the creme de fleur? 490 calories with 57g of carbs. And it’s filled with custard, in each of three discreet sections, like a pastry custard tanker filled to overflowing, the tops shaped like little custard flowers. I think it’s even dusted with powdered sugar.

Stupid pumpkin muffin.

Years ago, I used to play poker with friends every so often. This was well before the current Texas Hold’em craze, so we’d play Draw, Stud, Black Mariah, Low-Hole Chicago, Screw Your Neighbor, what have you. Everyone would buy in for $20, chips would ebb from one side of the table, flow the other way, mass in one pile then split into several, as chips are wont to do.

After an hour or two, we’d end up playing either Guts or Ace-Two-Three for the rest of the night. Both games involved playing for the pot, such that one winner takes the pot, one or more losers match it, and it could grow pretty fast. Inevitably, someone would go in (often with a great hand but not always) and lose a pot that would bust ‘em. If they didn’t have the cash to cover, the table had no choice but to let them write an IOU, otherwise the people that had lost real money wouldn’t have a chance to win it back. So, if the busted player didn’t win their IOU back, someone else would own their paper.

Now here’s the thing about IOU’s on our table. If you had to write one out, well, that was that, you were in the hole and we were okay with that. If you held someone’s IOU, you could sell it to someone else at the table for chips, and the bidding depended on whether or not people thought you were good for it. There were some fairly hilarious scenes where someone watched indignantly as their IOU’s were bought and sold for fifty cents or a quarter on the dollar. In some cases, someone might throw down with “I’ve got twenty Woody-bucks for whoever gets me a beer from the fridge.” Woody’s credit rating was less than stellar.

But under no circumstance was it okay to put someone else’s IOU into a pot in lieu of money. The pot would take your IOU if you were busted, but not until your last chip, dollar, and penny was gone, because everyone else was putting real money on the table. The rare attempts to pull such a stunt resulted in shouting and ridicule, with the offender sheepishly replacing the note with chips or cash.

So here we are, with several “too big too fail” companies, bloated with mountains of IOU’s, trying to force we-the-people to buy them with real money that we get from our I-get-up-every-goddam-day-and-go-to-work-for-a-living wages, at what they say is a fair price. For my family of four, they want us to put up somewhere between eight and fifteen thousand dollars to buy these IOU’s at full face value. And we’re going to have to do this because they took these fucking IOU’s from anyone and everyone, over and over again, and were calling them “chips” the whole fucking time.

These Diamond Jim motherfuckers, these blow-thirty-grand-on-coke-and-strippers Wall Street scum, want my real wages in exchange for their shitty IOU’s. The wages I earn by going to work five days out of seven, fifty weeks out of every fifty-two. The wages from which taxes are taken to keep our roads in repair, to fund my children’s education, to give some relief to folks in a jam and a boost to folks who need a hand getting on their feet. The wages that they all said couldn’t support the tax revenue that might give us single-payer health care, subsidize college tuitions, or build up a respectable transit infrastructure.

Well fuck that. Any bill that comes out of Congress seeking to rescue these dishonest, avaricious sociopathic sons of fucking bitches without getting an equity stake, and without giving me my pound of flesh, is unacceptable. Otherwise, I say we let the whole fucking thing collapse.

I like Bernie Sanders take on it. Too big to fail? Too big to exist.

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)

John McCain, presidential candidate, was hoping that his wife would enter a biker beauty contest! Like this one!

Toby Keith just called Barak Obama an Oreo!

Paris Hilton responded to attacks by John McCain by proposing a reasonably coherent, bipartisan compromise on energy policy!

Yeeeeeeeeeeehaw!!! Note to whomever put the acid in my thermos this morning: that is some first class shit! Thank you! I am tripping balls!