It has been reported that Senator David Vitter, R-Lousiana, was fond of being diapered by prostitutes he hired from the call-girl operation run by Deborah Jeane Palfrey, otherwise known as the DC Madam.

Now, when I first heard that another Repube had been caught in a sex-scandal, I thought it inconsistent with what is known about the modern Republican Party: the prostitutes in question were neither (a) male, nor (b) underage.

But then I heard about the diapers and it all fell into place. 

And here are some of his ads from a few years ago,  reminding us that the Senator is an All-American Family Man. The first ad is particularly appropriate. Thank you, Talking Points Memo.

*Disclaimer: I did not photoshop Vitter's face onto a picture of Karl Rove's body here. Rove is much fatter and whiter. 

I don't know the story behind this photo essay. A friend sent it to me. I colorized it. The soldiers are giving the little pig Kagor, a sweet red wine. The auto-translation from the Russian wikipedia reads thusly:

Kagor (from the French. Cahors), a sweet wine, cooked red varieties of grapes, cultivated near the town of Cahors, partial fermentation or deliver content and then adding alcohol.
They differ spify temno-rubinovoy colour, the completeness, soft, velvety, fine cocoa-chocolate tones in taste and bouquet.  These are prepared in many wine regions. The main characteristic of this type of cooking wine-cooking. 

They differ spify temno-rubinovoy colour? I like that.

 

Beyond that, I know only that I look at this sequence of photos several times a day. I hope you will find as much pleasure in looking at it as I do.

 

BTW, did I mention that I have launched the first social networking site for pot-bellied pigs?

Yoshi's These Little Pigs Website. 

 

I still have to pretty it up, but if you know a pig, or an animal that likes pigs, please direct said beast to  These Little Pigs so they can make some new friends!

 

And, let us drink a toast, at last, to the brave little pig the commies shot into space. 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

 The Commander-In-Chief circa 1974

The early seventies: all things permitted. 

The revolution was over.

We had lost.

Party time.

We were doing mountains of blow (coke not yet addictive—cause for celebration), drinking, clubbing.

O my fellow sprouts, I did the mandatory twig infatuation with Burroughs' thousand wounded galaxies on the nod, heroin, every single layer and cell of my being down to the Core perfect, perfect, humming, buzzing, fuzzy and gleaming.

I quit abruptly when I realized, wisely, that morphing into junkiehood would seriously screw up my drinking.

The key to successful living is in one's intention.

I studied the Physicians Desk Reference, concocting pill cocktails. My basic rule of thumb was to note the maximum dosage recommended for a given drug and not exceed that amount by more than a factor of two or three, on the maiden voyage, anyway. Black beauties+valium+rum: good for drinking lightyears into a blackout. Cocaine+mushrooms+brandy: intergalactic shuttles landing in North Beach earthport. Alpha Ralpha Boulevard.

Friends began dying.

Car crash. 

Suicide.

Overdose.

Mr. San Francisco reigned over the city.