Posted on 02/26/2007 4:38:04 PM PST by wagglebee
I think it's because it is stretched so tight. Someday his face is going to pop open and the new algore will come out. Kind of like a cicada or a snake.
He has to use all that energy for his Manbearpig tracking devices, DUH!
It's very tough work finding Manbearpig, but Algore is bent on saving the world from the threat of Manbearpig.
Not to mention he wears more eye-s*it than Shepard Smith....Makeup just doesn't help some folks.
I could care less how much electricity, gas, or water a person is consuming, AS LONG AS THEY AREN'T TELLING THE REST OF US HOW MUCH WE SHOULD USE.
Yes, that was what I was referencing :)
I think pot growers have a better understanding of basic economics than Al. The Gores just have to run the AC all the time due to the hot air proceeding from his mouth.
Absolutely, but telling the peons that they are causing global warming when he is living that lifestyle is deplorable in my opinion.
We used 791 kilowatts in December in NW Montana! We have gas central heat, but upstairs it's electric heat.
The hypocrisy of the Al Gores and Arnold Schwartzeneggers just astounds me!
That needs to be said over and over again......
Modern 'environmentalism' is yet another chapter in the eternal struggle between those that are for live-and-let-live and those that know-it-better-for-everyone. Modern 'liberals' should be reminded that it was mostly 'dead white men' and Christians who were the first to promote the inherent value of the individual and the right of every man to rule himself. Western Civilization, and especially America, is an aberration in the world when it comes to the recognition of individual autonomy.
Use Google Earth to obtain the satelite image of the Gore residence. It ain't no cabin in the woods.
His address is easily obtainable through resources like this: http://www.fundrace.org/neighbors.php?search=1&type=loc&addr=312+Lynnwood+Blvd&zip=37205
Speaking of communists, I was just reading a book on Mao and it seems that he was pretty explicit with his view that the annointed communist elite should have special privileges over regular folks. After all, they are tirelessly working for the best of all mankind.
The elite pigs deserve the milk because they're smarter, and their brains have to work harder.
THE WILDERNESS CAMPAIGN
Al Gore lives on a street in Nashville.
by DAVID REMNICK
Issue of 2004-09-13
Posted 2004-09-06
"Hey, Dwayne? . . . Dwayne?” “Yes, Mr. Vice-President?”
“Could I have some more coffee?”
“Yes, Mr. Vice-President. Coming . . .”
“Thanks, Dwayne.”
It was ten in the morning in Nashville, a quiet weekday, with most of the neighbors off to work, and Albert Gore, Jr., sat at the head of his dining-room table eating breakfast. His plate was crowded with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. His pond-size mug had, in a flash, been refilled by Dwayne Kemp, his cook, a skilled and graceful man who had been employed by the Gores when, as his boss often puts it, “we were still working in the White House.” Freshly showered and shaved, Gore was wearing a midnight-blue shirt and gray wool trousers. In the months after losing the battle for Florida’s electoral votes and conceding the Presidency to George W. Bush, on December 13, 2000, Gore seemed to let himself go, dropping out of sight, travelling around Spain, Italy, and Greece for six weeks with his wife, Tipper. He wore dark glasses and a baseball cap tugged down low. He grew a mountain-man beard and gained weight. When he began appearing in public again, mainly in classrooms, he took to introducing himself by saying, “Hi, I’m Al Gore. I used to be the next President of the United States.” People looked at this rather bulky and hirsute man—a politician who had only recently won 50,999,897 votes for the Presidency, more than any Democrat in history, more than any candidate in history except Ronald Reagan in 1984, and more than half a million more votes than the man who assumed the office—and did not know quite what to feel or how to behave, and so they coöperated in his elaborate self-deprecations. They laughed at his jokes, as if to help him erase what everyone understood to be a disappointment of historic proportions—“the heartbreak of a lifetime,” as Karenna, the eldest of his four children, put it.
“You know the old saying,” Gore told one audience after another. “You win some, you lose some—and then there’s that little-known third category.”
Gore has since dispensed with the beard but not the weight. He is still thick around the middle. He eats quickly and thoroughly, and with a determined relish, precisely like a man who no longer has to care that he might look heavy on “Larry King Live.” “You want some eggs?” he asked. “Dwayne’s the best.”
This has been the first election season in a generation in which Al Gore has not pursued national office. He ran for President in 1988, when he was thirty-nine; for Vice-President, on Bill Clinton’s ticket, in 1992 and 1996; and then again for President in 2000. Having decided that a rematch against Bush would be too divisive (or, perhaps, too difficult), Gore has made an effort not to brood on the sidelines. Instead, he used words like “liberated” and “free” with a determined conviction to describe his inner condition. He was free of the burden, free of the pressure, free of the camera’s eye. At home in Nashville, the phone barely rang. There were no advance people at the door, no aides at his shoulder. He could say what he wanted and it hardly made a ripple in the media. If he felt like calling George Bush a “moral coward,” if he felt like comparing Guantánamo and Abu Ghraib to islands in an “American gulag” or the President’s media operatives to “digital Brown Shirts,” well, he just went ahead and did it. No worries, no hesitation. True, at noon at the Belcourt Theatre, he was to deliver a speech to a group called the Music Row Democrats, but the only cameras were likely to be local. He jokingly outlined the speech on a small notepad with just two words: “war” and “economy.”
When Al and Tipper Gore had recovered from the initial shock of the 2000 election, they spent $2.3 million on the house they live in now: a hundred-year-old Colonial on Lynwood Boulevard, in the Belle Meade section of Nashville. They still own a place in Arlington, Virginia—a house that was built by Tipper’s grandfather—and a ninety-acre cattle farm in the Gore family seat of Carthage, Tennessee; but Arlington was perilously close to Washington, and Carthage was too remote for a full-time residence, especially for Tipper. Belle Meade, which resembles Buckhead, in Atlanta, or Mountain Brook, near Birmingham, is a prosperous redoubt for businessmen and country-music stars; it encompasses a neighborhood of broad, sloping lawns, and houses with magnolia trees and “estate” driveways up front and glassy modern additions and swimming pools out back. Chet Atkins used to be a neighbor; Leon Russell still is. Some of the features of the house, which the couple expanded with the help of an architect, are distinctly Gore-ish: Tipper’s full drum set, in the living room (complete with congas); Al’s grip-and-grin photographs with the Clintons and world leaders, along the walls. There are fewer books and more televisions than you might expect. When the architect was designing the rear addition to the house, Gore asked him to curve the walls inward in two places in order to save several trees. “The trees weren’t anything special, nothing rare or anything,” he said. “I just couldn’t bear to bring ’em down.” In the back yard, around the patio and the extra-long pool, where Al and Tipper do laps, Gore also installed an anti-bug system that sprays a fine mist of ground chrysanthemums from various discreet sources: a tree trunk, a patio wall. “The mosquitoes just hate it,” he said. Other features of the house are less environmentally correct. A 2004 black Cadillac, which Gore drives, was parked in the driveway. A ’65 Mustang—a Valentine’s Day gift from Al to Tipper—was parked in the garage.
Gore finished his eggs. He walked to a covered patio on the side of the house and settled into a soft chair. Dwayne brought his coffee cup and refilled it.
(snip)
http://www.newyorker.com/fact/content/articles/040913fa_fact?040913fa_fact
"OMG, he tweezes his eyebrows!"
I'm sure his stylist does that for him. Probably flies the lad in from Europe on such special occasions on a charter jet.
What was going on in the Gore home last August that would cause energy consumption 20 times the average?
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