Yoo so fine
Today at Boalt some non-students walked into Professor John Yoo's class dressed as Abu Ghraib prisoners. They were in orange jumpsuits, and one was hooded with a rope/leash around his neck. According to Gavin, one of the protestors, they asked Yoo to hold the leash. Yoo left the room. The students in the class were pissed that it was interrupted, but the class was almost over anyway. Then the demonstrators hung out in our lobby, passing out flyers, and one student got into a shouting match with the hooded guy. Many cops came and cited some of the demonstrators, and took pictures and video of all of them. A few students got into debates with them and each other. I skipped all but 10 minutes of my class that hour.
Later in the afternoon I overheard a tiny bit of a conversation about it outside the hallway. One person excitedly told the other: "They literally were all in his face!"
Then, in a comment to Armen's post (see above) by Joe Shmo: "...the executive branch office with the greatest legal authority to do so declared that Yoo's legal analysis was wrong. This means Yoo was literally advising his client that it was legal to engage in behavior which was in fact illegal."
Later in the afternoon I overheard a tiny bit of a conversation about it outside the hallway. One person excitedly told the other: "They literally were all in his face!"
Then, in a comment to Armen's post (see above) by Joe Shmo: "...the executive branch office with the greatest legal authority to do so declared that Yoo's legal analysis was wrong. This means Yoo was literally advising his client that it was legal to engage in behavior which was in fact illegal."
posted by aubra at 6:13 PM
2 Comments:
My ass hurt today so I shit in the far corner of the living room by the South Forest of the apartment. I know Tony and Shelly will find it, but I thought, fuck them, let this little pile of turds torture them all day till they buy me a new package of goddamn catnip mice.
I rolled in the middle of the living room carpet. Tony vacuumed yesterday -- I'll need a concentrated week of barrel-rolling to thatch the rug again with my gorgeous fucking hair.
I was confused. Would the mound of turd-logs really torture Tony and Shelly? Sure, it felt great to squat and evacuate a load right there on the hardwood floor -- haven't done this in months! -- but did this action rise to the level of torture? I thought I might get an answer if I rearranged the logs in a pyramid and posed for photos next to it.
Nothing helped. I called John Yoo, who knows a lot more about the definition of torture than I do. He said, "Shimmy, this is a delightful question. I could spend hours on it. For shitting in a hidden apartment-corner to constitute torture, it must inflict pain that is difficult to endure. Clandestine defecation amounting to torture must be equivalent in intensity to the pain accompanying serious waste cleanup -- as when you had diarrhea that time back in 1998 in Boston and Shelly covered the entire living room with newspaper, you poor thing."
"But my ass really hurts," I said.
"You must remember, Shimmy, that pain amounting to torture must be equivalent in intensity to the pain accompanying serious physical injury, such as organ failure, impairment of bodily function, or even death. When your stomach cramped and you squatted in the corner of the living room by the South Forest of the apartment, you undoubtedly suffered bowel pain. I think, however, your actions do not amount to torture, nor were you yourself tortured by sensations that I readily admit were painful. Perhaps you simply pooped in the corner because you didn't want to sully the delights of your litter box with any painful associations whatsoever."
"My ass is redder than the Martian plains. Fuck them. Let this little pile of turds torture them all day till they buy me a new package of goddamn catnip mice."
Shimmy, if you mail me some of your turds (in a plastic baggy, please), I'll deposit them on John Yoo's classroom podium just before he arrives for his lecture. It would be even better if you would dress your turds up in little orange jumpsuits.
Sorry about your ass.
Aubra
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