Wakey, Wakey! Poll Crashing Time!

Tristero needs our help:

I know that online polls are silly, biased, and prove nothing. Still, as PZ Myers’ efforts to zap creationist polls by sending his blog readers to vote the pro-science choice demonstrates, it’s always fun to skew them in our favor.

NOW at PBS has an especially silly poll:

Do you think Sarah Palin is qualified to serve as Vice President of the United States?

As I write this at 4:11 AM (don’t ask), it is running 54 Yes to 44 No, and that can only mean that the lunatics on the right are playing games. In the spirit that the right should get away with nothing, ever, no matter how trivial, because nothing is trivial when it comes to fighting the right:

Think we might be able to do something to make that poll better reflect reality? Oh, and tell yer friends.

An hour later, that fucking thing hasn’t budged. I need you, my darlings.

Go. Destroy. Spread the word!

Wakey, Wakey! Poll Crashing Time!

Oh hell, morning already?

So Dana says to me “How would you like to do some guest blogging?”
And it’s Dana, so I know I won’t have to come up with material on “Militant Emu-Hating Nihilist and Funny Hat Blog” or “Robotic Erotica: Probing the Cybernetic Depths of Uranus” or the like. And that’s good, because there’s only so much emu-hating and android fetishism a man can handle in a year (though I never get really tired of the funny hats). But I know she’s already vivisected the comedy of errors that is the current political climate of America and she’s launched the missiles of indignation and angst in response to the endless torrent of human stupidity raining down on us like a divine shit storm.

So, I’ll stick with what I know; surrealism and chaos, whisky and the kind of cynicism that borders on epic poetry, and yes, I will talk about cigars and the cat who is trying to kill me and quite possibly all the hours I’ve wasted at work, imagining a zombie apocalypse that ends with me opening my own Cannibal Fast Food stand.

My name is Cameron Lee, and no you haven’t heard of me. And if you have, you were likely too drunk or distraught by emotional turmoil to remember the experience. I get that a lot.

Thanks to a new training routine I started last week, it’s physically impossible for me to bend my arms right now, and this has at least been partially typed by my cat. Actually he’s just swatting at the keyboard, fascinated by the clicky sounds it makes and trying to kill the demon which lives inside, but between the beer he managed to pilfer out of my glass and having been subjected to Aphex Twin’s “Who’s Your Daddy” about fifteen times in the last two hours, he’s actually managing to put words together. I may just keep the bastard.

He’s trying to kill me, you understand. Not out of malice, it’s just that I’ve taken his spot in the bed. Protocol dictates either I move to the couch, or he rips my warm, moist soul from my nasal cavity. I wake up with him on my chest, paws kneading away at me, staring down at my face with a too-thoughtful expression that says “Nothing personal, mate, but you’re holding me back. Now just go back to sleep, and this shouldn’t hurt too much.”

You get weird dreams with a cat trying to mind-rape you in the night. And now that I can’t bend my arms, I can’t push him off. There’s at least a 30% chance the next blog will be written by him exclusively.

Right, back to business. I’ve been out of this game for a bit, but I find it appealing to jump back in. I do so love subjecting people to my personal chaos. Once the arms have healed and are properly functioning again that is, and assuming I still have a soul come morning. Also, since she invited me, you’ll have to forward all your complaints, hate mail, and cease and desist orders, et al., directly to Dana. This is her playground, I’m just here to trick the kids into trying to do backward flips off the swing.

Oh hell, morning already?