The Jeff Gannon New Beginnings Career School

The Poor Man Institute for Freedom, Democracy, and a Pony has discovered what Jeff Gannon—faux reporter/manwich-for-hire—has been up to these days: helping people like Brit Hume transform from space rocks into rock-hard reporters:

For most of the past 3 billion years, I was a large and unspeakably evil asteroid in orbit between Mars and Jupiter. The foul and hellish blackness of my twisted spirit compelled me to torment and destroy all life, but, despite my powerful gravitational field, I was unable to find any victims in the lifeless vacuum of the asteroid belt. I was lost!

Until I found the Jeff Gannon New Beginnings Career School, that is! They set me up with human-like arms, legs, and a torso, and their crack team of cosmetic experts cunningly papered my black and rocky surface with chicken skin, so that, to all appearances, I was simply a middle-aged man who radiated a palpable aura of malignant cruelty and had a head the size of LA county. Now, as a featured anchor on a popular cable news network, I can satisfy my ancient urge to work awful malice by lying my ass off in order to help ensure that hundreds of millions of people will end their days destitute and alone. I couldn’t be happier, and it’s all thanks to Jeff Gannon!

There's much, much more hilarity to be had, in print and via Photoshop. Read the whole thing.

Top Ten Tuesdays: Why are we confirming John Roberts?

10) Not as dreadful as the Dread Pirate Roberts, way more into oral than Oral Roberts.
9) Keeps his Coke can free of stray hairs.
8) Channeled an M. Butterfly complexity to his role as Peppermint Patty.
7) Got a peek inside his legal briefs and were very impressed by his habeas corpus.
6) Fell asleep when he was droning on about case law and accidentally landed on "confirm" button.
5) He's a good Samaritan who always lends a helping hand to his fellow man.
4) Thought he showed a lot of moxie when, no matter how much we begged, he refused to answer any hard questions.
3) Seems like the kind of guy who would ask nicely before seizing control of a woman's reproductive freedom.
2) Unlike the FEMA director, CIA director, cabinet secretaries, attorney general, UN Ambassador, and all the other incompetent, bootlicking, harrumph-giving boobs that keep getting nominated, Roberts seems kinda qualified.
1) It'll hurt a lot less if we just relax and let Bush get it over with.

Available Television Reserves at Emergency Levels

FOR THE PRESIDENT'S EYES ONLY

Agents from Operation SNOW SCREEN warn that recent developments in television broadcasting indicate the available supply of useable, refined television could run out within 5 to 7 years. This could lead to widespread panic, a wave of domestic violence, and, most alarmingly, a deterioration of much-needed voter apathy.

BACKGROUND

The current crisis has its roots in the 1970s, when two major television-production-related-activities occurred. First, there was a rapid proliferation of spin-offs. Responsible programmers followed international safety standards for spin-off refinement, resulting in successful transitions to new shows (e.g. Laverne and Shirley, The Jeffersons). However, due to a spike in demand for recurring characters, broadcasters began producing crude, unrefined spin-offs that wasted creative resources and in some cases seriously endangered the health of viewers (most notably The Ropers, Flo, and Joanie Loves Chachi, which triggered the first television-related security alert in 1982).

More significant was the introduction of cable television. Cable was originally designed as a nude-scene transportation mechanism, running failed R-rated movies ad nauseam. However, it quickly moved from pumping daily reruns of Friday the 13th Part 2 and started siphoning traditional sources of TV programming: news, sports, documentaries and, ominously, original programming. Instead of three suppliers controlling production, 109 rogue broadcasters began doing anything to acquire Nielson points. This triggered a run on creative juices that led to networks rushing low-grade programs to air with little regard for viewer safety.

The next emergency occurred during the previous Bush administration with the debut of America’s Funniest Home Videos. At the time, due to a lack of solid human intelligence in the field, our analysts failed to foresee the near-catastrophic development of programming based on content from viewers. “Battle stations” were ordered and the government began stocking reruns of Cheers to prevent a panic.

Thankfully, the discovery of Must See TV averted disaster. The MSTV products Seinfeld, Friends, and ER provided free, high yield comedy and drama. However, this also produced a false lull as many experts predicted that premium creative juices would remain plentiful and affordable. When Seinfeld inexplicably ceased production in 1998, subsequent efforts to mimic the formula could only produce about 60-65% of the same laugh output (See Tab A: "Why Everyone Doesn’t Love Raymond as Much as Seinfeld"). ER confused viewers by introducing 57 new characters, leading viewers to think the show had actually gone off the air. CSI has temporarily filled the drama gap, but attempts to reproduce that show have met with mixed results (See Tab B: "The Limits of CSI Spin-Off Technology"). Romantic relationships between the characters on Friends repeatedly and blatantly violated the Sexual Tension Act of 1989, more commonly known as the Moonlighting Act, eventually causing the show to be removed from production.

THE CURRENT SITUATION

In 2000, the breakthrough discovery of the Survivor field was prematurely heralded as a fresh, unlimited source of cheap entertainment that could bypass the traditional challenges of refinement and production. This sparked a reality-TV race among the major television powers. While the Survivor field itself remains stable, producers have been unable to find a Survivor-based derivative that doesn’t decay within one season.

Other areas have not yielded any long-term solutions. American Idol is dangerously over-drilling the same area that Star Search did. The Discovery Channel, History Channel, and Learning Channel have likewise exhausted all known sources of documentaries on nature and Hitler. The Home Box Office field, while producing high octane entertainment, remains very expensive to distribute and suffers from a high rate of profanity byproducts. In addition, there are several pressing situations that could result in severe, violent blowback:

• We could face yet another deep recession triggered by public reappearance of Donald Trump’s hair.
• Excessive deregulation of the production of reality TV has produced several new pollutants, most recently Tara Reid.
• We are already T+18 months past critical Jim Belushi mass.

Using our customized BLACKOUT simulator, we have predicted the social consequences of TTVF (Total Television Failure). We have factored in numerous circumstances such as: gun ownership, economic and educational levels, and PTTSB (Proximity to the Super Bowl). The results:

• 57% chance of widespread rioting, with violent civil confrontations over the last DVD copies of Lost and The Sopranos.
• 43% chance of complete ennui. Millions of Americans will simply sit, immobile, in front of blank television sets, unable to go to work or interact with others.
• 17% chance for a dramatic increase in movie attendance. However, the simulator predicted a corresponding 72% chance for widespread rioting after viewers leave these movies.
• 2% chance that peace, productivity, and the collective intelligence of citizenry will increase, which would have incredibly dangerous political consequences.

RECOMMENDATIONS

We immediately recommend implementation of the following actions, taking all covert precautions and ensuring plausible deniability of the government’s involvement:

• Creation of a new channel, TerrorTV. This would provide live feeds from current military operations and/or Arab-owned convenience stores.
• Hybridization of genres. One example would be a political talk/game show called, "Where in the World Is Vice President Cheney?"
• Develop new issue-based situational comedies that, while inane and unfunny, could inflame viewers enough to conceal the lack of entertainment. We have three prototypes in development: "Tax and Spend," "That Homosexual Agenda Show," and "We Gotta Hire a Black Guy."

Finally, if all else fails, we have one final “nuclear option”: we may have to force books on the general population.

I wish my jokes could be this short

...and I swear someone bugged my house.

The love between a husband and wife from Dooce.

“It’s really hot out here.”

“Then why do you have jeans on?”

“Why are you ending sentences with prepositions?”

“Why do you have jeans on, motherfucker?”

For reference, I'm the motherfucker.

Back with more fresh jerking tonight or tomorrow.

Hollywood's pro-corpse-eating-pig agenda

I am kind of on a television kick this week and happened to come across World O' Crap's dissection of Townhall's Emmy predictions. For those of you that don't know, Townhall is the kind of place that can write, "Alan Keyes is running for Senator" without giggling.

The Townhall author, Megan Basham (how appropriate), pretty much decided that only the most vulgar, agenda-driven shows would win because the entertainment industry is just one giant Hate-America Fifth Column. Case in point: her prediction of why Deadwood would win best drama.

It’s amoral, features plenty of nudity and foul language, and depicts white settlers engaging in every kind of reprehensible activity while oppressing an array of innocent minorities--everything the Academy could wish for. It even boasts human-corpse-eating pigs. That plus the fact that nobody watches it makes “Deadwood” a shoe-in.

Of course, as we all know, it was actually the minorities oppressing white folks in the Old West.

Was she right? Is Hollywood corrupting our children via Caucasian-eating pigs on premium cable stations? As WOC points out:

So, Megan ended up correctly predicting two winners out of seven -- proof that Hollywood hates conservatives, the flag, and everything that is good and decent.

Next up, Megan will disucss why The Weather Channel hates George W. Bush.

Top Ten Tuesdays: How did we wind up on a reality TV show?

10) Stopped acting polite, started being a contrived asshole.
9) Quit smoking dope and beating wife long enough to sign development deal.
8) Started doing David Puddy impersonation at the salon
7) Paired head for business with head of monkey’s hair.
6) Discovered the ideal career for an opinionated English twat.
5) Used money from the sex tape to pay for college.
4) Was big, fat, and onboxious.
3) It was the Seinfeld convention circuit or ballroom dancing.
2) Found that perfect blend of Paris Hilton and Anna Nicole.
1) Got lost while looking for Cousin Larry.

"Because you govern like Billy Joel drives"

I have always had a love/hate relationship with Bill Maher. He strikes me as P.J. O'Rourke's younger, more obnoxious brother, but he also can hit one out of the park on occasion. He got the fat of the bat on Bush during a monologue from a few nights ago (thanks to TLB and Sarah W. for the tip).

America must recall the president. That's what this country needs. A good, old-fashioned, California-style recall election! Complete with Gary Coleman, porno actresses and action film stars. And just like Schwarzenegger's predecessor here in California, George Bush is now so unpopular, he must defend his job against...Russell Crowe. Because at this point, I want a leader who will throw a phone at somebody. In fact, let's have only phone throwers. Naomi Campbell can be the vice-president!

Now, I kid, but seriously, Mr. President, this job can't be fun for you anymore. There's no more money to spend. You used up all of that. You can't start another war because you also used up the army. And now, darn the luck, the rest of your term has become the Bush family nightmare: helping poor people.

Yeah, listen to your mom. The cupboard's bare, the credit card's maxed out, and no one is speaking to you: mission accomplished! Now it's time to do what you've always done best: lose interest and walk away. Like you did with your military service. And the oil company. And the baseball team. It's time. Time to move on and try the next fantasy job. How about cowboy or spaceman?

Now, I know what you're saying. You're saying that there's so many other things that you, as president, could involve yourself in...Please don't. I know, I know, there's a lot left to do. There's a war with Venezuela, and eliminating the sales tax on yachts. Turning the space program over to the church. And Social Security to Fannie Mae. Giving embryos the vote. But, sir, none of that is going to happen now. Why? Because you govern like Billy Joel drives. You've performed so poorly I'm surprised you haven't given yourself a medal. You're a catastrophe that walks like a man.

Herbert Hoover was a shitty president, but even he never conceded an entire metropolis to rising water and snakes.

On your watch, we've lost almost all of our allies, the surplus, four airliners, two Trade Centers, a piece of the Pentagon and the City of New Orleans...Maybe you're just not lucky!

I'm not saying you don't love this country. I'm just wondering how much worse it could be if you were on the other side. So, yes, God does speak to you, and what he's saying is, "Take a hint."

Republicans Express Longing for Clinton’s Penis

WASHINGTON, DC—After watching President Bush's approval ratings take a dramatic dip in the wake of the problematic response to Hurricane Katrina, some Republicans are expressing wistfulness over a prominent member of the opposing party.

“Gosh, what I wouldn’t give to have 'Bill Clinton’s penis' coming out of my mouth,” said Ken Mehlman, chairman of the Republican National Committee. “I wish I was listening to some poor woman describe its shape as the President advanced on her, or discussing what shot out of it onto an intern’s dress. Anything related to his phallus would be music to my ears.”

“No matter what was being talked about, no matter what was happening in the country, you could change the subject with Clinton’s penis,” said Dr. Bill Frist, the Republican Senate Majority Leader. “It was like a magic wand. After what’s happened to President Bush over the Katrina disaster, I wish I could wave Clinton’s penis all over the airwaves right now.”

The genitals of the forty-second president regularly sprang from the headlines during the 1990s. From the pre-election leaking of the Gennifer Flowers scandal, to the up-and-down proceedings of the Paula Jones harassment suit, to the ultimate climax with the Monica Lewinsky imbroglio, Clinton’s penis seemed constantly in the face of the American public.

“It was an exciting time for me,” said Fox News analyst Sean Hannity. “We would spend hours in the production meeting talking about how we were going to handle Clinton’s penis. This is funny, but I really miss it.”

Such a reversal of emotions—from disgust and hatred to longing and desire—are not surprising, says Dr. Melvin Myron, professor of political science at Johns Hopkins University and author of Hard Target: How Clinton’s Penis Ravaged the GOP. “Bill Clinton’s genitals represent a seminal moment for Republicans. Their political fortunes rose with it. They were able to blame everything on it. But once Clinton pulled out of Washington, the Republicans were left with a huge mess on their hands. They discovered that they had, in fact, become Clinton’s penis.”

Post-Clinton, the GOP attempted to make a transition to another prominent Democrat’s genitals. “Ted Kennedy’s have been pretty well used up,” said Mehlman, “and Lieberman’s are too clean cut.” Mehlman adds that the Republicans tried switching genders by targeting California Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi, but had very little success with their “Pelosi’s Vagina” campaign.

Still, despite the headaches that have followed their insertion into the White House, Republicans remain hopeful that a new Democratic penis can be found. “We’re already gearing up for Hillary in 2008,” says Melhman. “We’ve started our focus groups on the ‘Clintoris.’ But really, we’re hoping the Democrats nominate a penis we can all get behind.”

Top Ten Tuesdays: Why did we get fired resign from FEMA?

10) Our talents were slightly better suited for the Federal Emegency Polo Association.
9) Got the high score in the blame game.
8) Became mixed up and thought Superdome was immune to everything except kryptonite.
7) Even more unqualified for the job than the big boss.
6) We were portrayed as being uncompassionate about the local rabble.
5) Swirling media controversy coupled with rising public outrage mixed with stagnant response led to a perfect Category Five shitstorm.
4) Would have gotten away with it if it hadn't been for you meddling journalists.
3) Rove asked which kind of "fall guy" we'd like to be while dangling us from balcony.
2) Budget cuts didn't allow us to get ark built in time.
1) We resigned? We haven't been informed of that.

Bush to Investigate Self

Breaking news from Opinions You Should Have:

Speaking of the incredible force of the hurricane and the government's ignorance about the need for quick action in its aftermath, Bush said that there were many questions that needed to be answered.

"What did I not know and when did I not know it?" he said.

It's funny 'cause it's true.

The Corrections

In its story yesterday, “The Real Face of Divorce,” the Times identified Mrs. Smith as the editor’s wife. She is actually the editor’s ex-wife. The Times regrets the error.

In its correction yesterday, the Times said that it regretted the error of identifying Mrs. Smith as the editor’s wife. In fact, the Times has had six months to use the correct label and is playing playing more mind games.

In its correction of two days ago, the Times identified Mrs. Smith as the editor’s ex-wife. Due to an printing error, the full description should have read, “the editor’s vengeful, home-wrecking, pool-boy-shagging ex-wife.”

The Times erred when it said that Mrs. Smith loved her husband. She in fact never loved her husband and only married him to get back at her mother.

Adding to the previous correction, Mrs. Smith was only married for her money.

The article, “The Real Face of Divorce,” identified the editor as a father of two. The story should have said he is only a father of one.

The Times would like to add that Mrs. Smith is a filthy, lying, no-good whore.

Following up on “The Real Face of Divorce,” Mrs. Smith clarifies that the editor must be color-blind, since he didn’t notice the second child’s red hair.

The Times confesses that the paper was a fool for believing Mrs. Smith would never sink so low, and that those walks on the beach or picnics in the park or the surprise trip to Aruba must not have meant anything to her.

Previously, Mrs. Smith was quoted as saying she did not love the editor. She now retracts that statement.

In the aforementioned story, the Times noted there was no hope of reconciliation. That prediction, while still possible, can no longer be labeled as a fact.

The Times omitted a quote from Mrs. Smith saying that in order for there to be any chance of reconciliation, there needs to be some major changes in the division of labor around the house, child rearing approaches, and mating habits. The Times regrets the omission.

The Times accepts the previous correction. The full story, “The Real Face of Divorce,” has been retracted and replaced with a new one, “The Happy Face of Marriage Counseling.”

The Times was also correct in stating that the editor has two children. The earlier correction was just lashing out.

I bow down before The Daily Show

While I respect The Onion, no one brings the funny quite like The Daily Show. This bit between Jon Stewart and Ed Helms about Katrina cuts like a Ginsu. My favorite:

STEWART: Why is he building a dam in Arkansas?

ED HELMS: Because he's going to fight the water there.

I dream of being half this funny.

Jesus Christ Files for Separation From President Bush

Republicans object, claim Christ trying to score “political points”

WASHINGTON, DC—In a move unprecedented in the 2,000-year history of Christianity, Jesus Christ has formally sought to separate from one of his followers: President George W. Bush.

“I know he accepted me as his personal savior, but I can’t take it anymore,” Jesus said. “I don’t think he understands how to really love me, or work in my name, and frankly I’m tired of trying to show him how.” The deity spoke through his father’s press secretary, the Burning Bush (no relation to the president).

The Messiah cited Bush’s response to the Katrina disaster as the final straw. “When he picked up that guitar, that was it. I’ve made it pretty clear: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. When the Samaritan found a man left for dead by robbers, he didn’t sing him a song.

“I even told him to just get me to New Orleans, give me a couple loaves and fishes, and I would do the rest. But he patted me on the head and told me that we shouldn’t give them fishes because they would never learn to fish on their own. I had to double-check that he wasn’t speaking in tongues.”

However, the Son of God quickly pointed out that the hurricane response was only the latest in a long line of differences with the President.

“I kept saying, over and over again, blessed are the peacemakers, George. We all know how that turned out. Then there was the time I reminded him that it would be easier for a camel to enter the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. The next day, he drastically lowered the upper tax bracket. So screw it, he’s on his own for salvation.”

Representatives for the administration have disputed the legal grounds for the Divine Separation, claiming that Bush merely has to accept Jesus Christ into his heart to be saved. “The President has abided by the rules of evangelical conversion,” said Scott McClellan, the White House spokesperson. “Christ should do the honorable thing and reciprocate.”

White House political advisor Karl Rove disputed that Christ had even been speaking to Bush about matters such as Iraq and tax cuts. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call the King of Kings a fibber,” said Rove. “But I’ve been with the President during every important decision of his administration. I guarantee you the only voice he’s heard is mine.”

Conservative commentators were even more blunt. “Look, with all due respect, can we afford after 9/11 to listen to a guy who says we should turn the other cheek?” asked Bill O’Reilly on his show, The O’Reilly Factor. “Why doesn't Christ just paint a big bullseye on America?”

“I have heard from two administration sources that Mary Magdalene was actually a secret employee of MoveOn.org,” wrote columnist Robert Novak in The Weekly Standard. “I’m not suggesting that Jesus is evil, but his words and actions appear to be influenced by those who would harm America.”

Despite the outcry over the separation, the Lord does hope there will be a peaceful settlement. “I’m very open,” said Jesus. “I’ve told him that he’s free to see other saviors, and that he can keep all of his material possessions. I just want out of this relationship.”

Top Ten Tuesdays: Excuses the government is making about Katrina

10) When we were told the poor didn't have the means to evacuate, we thought they meant "in style."
9) Media's early stories about potential levee breaks were just liberal bias.
8) I tried to run back to Washington as fast as I could, but I had blisters from my new heels.
7) Figured the underprivileged would enjoy the free upgrade to refugee status.
6) I didn’t see the people in the convention center because Katrina’s gales blew my head up my ass.
5) We have very little experience dealing with roving bands of armed individuals in a chaotic urban situation.
4) Look, taking care of the poor, tired, and huddled masses is her job.
3) You try coming up with a coherent evacuation plan after five weeks of vacation.
2) Mistakenly assumed that whites would do the honorable thing and also evacuate their servents.
1) Don't blame me, I learned how to respond to these things from my dad.

Maybe we could get some government intervention if we had some anthrax

by Ray Nagin, mayor of New Orleans


Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what do we have to do to get some government action around here? We’ve got floods. We’ve got starvation. We’ve got gunfire. We’ve got fire fire. I guess the one thing we’re missing is some anthrax.

If we had anthrax, we’d have 150,000 troops here before I could finish my muffuletta. If we had even some mustard gas—the old WWI stuff, not even the new and improved mustard gas—the freaking Delta Force would swoop in and whisk these asshole looters to Cuba or Egypt or some other place that, before Tuesday, looked like a shithole to me instead of a great place to live. Instead, all we got was a song.

And sarin gas? Don't fucking tease me like that. I can only dream of the government action we’d get down here if we had some nerve agent. We might get a rifle brigade on Canal Street and some airlifted MREs. But without even a drop of blister agent, I don’t have a spiderhole to piss in.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: how would a municipality get its hands on some WMD so it could attract the proper federal emergency response? Well, that’s where we really fucked up. We could have gotten intensive, overwhelming government action without owning the actual weapons! All we’d need is a blurry photo of an ice cream truck and a jittery informant and—BOOM—suddenly we’ve got mobile bioweapon labs and an armored escort to the Astrodome. Maybe they'd even let us eat cake.

It’s my fault, really. I was naïve. I always thought that, in the event of a natural catastrophe, or widespread criminal activity, or famine, or disease outbreaks, or all of the above, we’d get a helping hand from Uncle Sam. But now I know: the only way you can get the attention of Washington is if you pretend you can blow it up.

"And Neal, I might add that, constitutionally, these folks only count as 2/3 of a person."

(Via Tappped)

In analyzing the complex, nuanced role of the federal government toward the victims of Hurricane Katrina, Fox News turns to none other than...a community college professor.

Here is the insensitive cunt face finder of lost Constitutional arguments himself, Jack Chambliss:

[T]he founding fathers never intended, Article One, section Eight of the Constitution, never intended to provide one dollar of taxpayer dollars to pay for any disaster or anything that we might call charity. What we now have is the law of unintended consequences taking place, where FEMA has come into New Orleans, a place where, ecologically, it makes no sense to have levees keeping the Mississippi River from flooding into New Orleans, like it naturally should.

Hmm...ol' Jack reminds of someone from a movie I once saw:



"Dang that was lucky. Doggone near lost a four hundred dollar handcart."

I'm ready to fight America's greatest enemy, nature

As if New Orleans didn't have enough problems, guess who's rushing back to Washington to lend his rebuilding expertise to the situation?

I was reminded of another fearless leader arriving on the scene of an emergency.

Gorman: "Hicks, meet me at the South Lock. We're coming in."
Hicks: "Roger."
Hudson: "He's coming in. I feel safer already."

No Top Ten Tuesday today

I attempted to write something funny about Hurricane Katrina -- in the "laugh so we don't cry" mode -- but after seeing some more footage of the devastation, I changed my mind. I hope everyone there can put their lives back together, especially good friends PJKM and her trusty ghostwriter Middy.

Comedy messiah Charles Nelson Reilly was unavailable for comment

World O' Crap, the spectacularly snarky sniffer-outer of right-wing silliness, uncovers this headline:

Rock legend shreds Cindy Sheehan's peaceniks.

Who could it be? Bruce Springsteen? No wait, he hates freedom too. Janice Joplin? No, she's dead. It must be Ted Nugent, he hates peace almost as much as he hates green veggies.

Music and acting legend Pat Boone is blasting the peace message of Cindy Sheehan and other anti-war activists, claiming their rhetoric is making the U.S. more vulnerable to future terrorist attacks.

If I was making a list of 10,000 music legends, it would look like this:

1. Keith Moon
5. Jimi Hendrix
23. Stevie Nicks
93. Aimee Mann
4,571. Night Ranger
9,999. Glass Tiger
10,0000. (tie) Pat Boone and Billy Ray Cyrus.

A currency of kittens

The Poor Man, who is rich with biting commentary, notices a trend among many of the "professional wingnut class": they have positions at a variety of think tanks, places like the Center for American Happy Thoughts and the Institute for Advanced Liberal Nut-kicking.*

He also has a useful six-step plan to creating your own think tank. One of the things you have to have is a crackpot economic theory (e.g. the rich are being squeezed to death by the death tax). The Poor Man's theory caught my attention:

"America must adopt the kitten standard, making kittens the standard unit of account.

The advantages of using kittens as currency are endless. Kittens can be used to create more kittens, which will encourage saving. A first world economy based entirely on unneutered kittens can expect to achieve an average growth rate of 900% per year, which far surpasses anything possible under the current system. If you try to steal a kitten, it will scratch you."

Kittens -- the new silver standard.

*Not to be confused with the left-leaning Institute for Liberal Nut-licking. The New York Times always gets them mixed up.

Top Ten Tuesdays: What have we been doing since we got to college?

Special freshman fifteen edition!

15) Getting to know new roommate.
14) Getting away from new roommate because he masturbates when he thinks we’re asleep.
13) Getting drunk with cool junior across the hall.
12) Getting high with even cooler RA.
11) Getting together with cute girl down the hall.
10 Getting into an argument with the cute girl down the hall who knows all about destructive behavior because her father was a substance abuser and her mother was an enabler and...can’t remember the rest because of the blackout.
9) Getting together with cute girl’s much easier roommate.
8) Getting to the clinic for some free penicillin.
7) Getting Fs on all our midterms because we neglected the “education” part of “higher education.”
6) Getting on hands and knees and begging professor to give us another chance.
5) Getting embarassed when realizing we’re not in that professor’s class.
4) Getting so drunk we wake up pantsless in the quad. At noon.
3) Getting expelled for challenging dean to a “swordfight” after waking us up in the quad.
2) Getting little brother to move his shit out of our old room.
1) Getting used to delivering pizzas in 30 minutes or less.

Say it with Republicards!

New from Hallmarque!

Want to send a special thought to your favorite conservative? Then say it with Republicards^TM. Choices include... (click image to see larger size)

And introducing our new Just for Democrats^TM line...

Age is a state of marketing

One of my dear friends and New Zealand’s greatest literary treasure, PJKM, has a special birthday today. I wanted to send her a very special birthday wish (a Gary Larson-esque inside joke).

I also wanted to remind her that many others believe that life begins at her age. Even better, some others believe that life begins at this age, which means both that PJKM hasn’t even really been born yet nor has she reached her prime writing age.

However, when many people reach PJKM’s age, they have what’s known as a mid-life crisis. Penis-enabled members of humanity are especially susceptible to this disease. Symptoms can include sports car purchases, the appearance of a trophy-wife-shaped tumor, hair dye, and the resumption of the fetal position and/or bedwetting.

But when considering age milestones, I follow the only complete, absolute truth in our society: marketing demographics. The good news is that PJKM's mid-demographic crisis is so five-years ago. The bad news is that mine begins in two weeks. Here’s how life truly breaks down, marketing-style.

Conception: The Old Navy Years (0-15)
I really like Shrek cereal, it tastes like Shrek! But Mom, all the other kids wear Nikes! They’re going to make fun of me. I don’t want juice, I want Capri Sun. It is not the same. We went to see Finding Nemo four times, then I got the DVD for my birthday.

Birth: The Abercrombie Years (16-24)
Omigod, you guys, Duece Bigalow 2 is even better than the original. Hey, did you hear the new 50 Cent? I just downloaded it off i-Tunes. I know, who buys CDs anymore? Dude, look at you, you gotta pull those pants down. Swing by early, we’re going to play some PlayStation hit that kegger—they’re getting Coors Light. Hah, hah, “...and twins”—yo, I love that commercial.

Prime: The Banana Republic Years (25-34)
Check out this new Kenneth Cole shirt. It goes great with these flared black pants. Just gotta throw a little pomade in my hair and I’m good to go. I’m going to pick up my date and see Wedding Crashers, then grab some Smirnoff Ice and hit that condo party. 401k? Relax, I’ve got plenty of time to save. Hey, there’s a sale at the Virgin Megastore, you should get the new 50 Cent. It’s kickin’. Seriously, I just bought the CD, I’ve got it in the Acura.

Change: The Dockers Years (35-44)
Yeah, that’s a really, really nice shirt, but you know, with the mortgage and all, I shouldn’t. I have my 401k maxed out, I really should have started saving as soon as I got a job. I did hear about that movie, the one with Vince Vaughn. But I’ll probably just rent the DVD. Besides, I’d rather stay home with a glass of chardonnay and watch Survivor. Yeah, that was rap coming out of the minivan, my stupid kid brother left his 50 Cent CD in there. Now the new U2, that’s a great disc.

Slide: The Haggar Years (44-64)
My kids bought me one of these MP3 players. I can fit all my Crosby, Stills, and Nash albums on there, and still have room for something kind of heavy like Springsteen when I’m fast walking. Unbelievable, I still remember how cool it was to have a Walkman. Of course, I can’t hook the damn thing up to the computer without the kids’ help. I wish they knew as much about pulling up their pants as they do about these gadgets. Speaking of, I’ve got to get to Sears to get some new slacks. Can you believe how much it costs to fill up an SUV these days?

End: The elastic waistband years (65+)
See these pants? Buy 2, get 1 free. They only had two colors, but you can never have too many navy pants. Music? It’s all terrible, these guys just talking and swearing. Give me a little Tony Bennett any day of the week. I like to sing along in the Lincoln. The movies are crap, too. My kids bought me a DVD player, but it’s too much work. I have to change the TV to some setting, and I can’t remember if the DVD label goes down or up, and then when I do get it to work, it’s just two hours of profanity and sex. So I usually just fall asleep watching CBS. Or I just watch whatever the grandkids watch when they come over. They like this cartoon about a fish....

Top Ten Tuesdays: Gaza relocation strategies

Israel is currently taking a large step toward Middle Eastern peace by relocating settlers from the Gaza Strip. How is Israel convincing settlers to leave?

10) Sending Jews for Jesus door-to-door.
9) Proposing e-settlements as a convenient alternative to hurled-brick-and-mortared settlements.
8) Announcing Ariel Sharon will remove one item of clothing for each day settlers remain.
7) Revealing a new translation of the Torah that says actual Jewish homeland is in Miami Beach.
6) Helping settlers save 15% or more on their car insurance if they switch from Gaza.
5) Playing keep-away with their yarmulkes until they agree to move.
4) Feeding settlers metallic lox before sweeping area with giant magnets.
3) Shutting off their cable.
2) Having Taggert and his gang work up a number 6 on them.
1) Appealing to their rationality, nationalism, and goodwill, then, when that fails, turning on the fire hoses.

Why Elephant Supporters Aren't Funny But Ass Lovers Crack Us Up

A Circle Jerk editorial
(and our own attempt at a conservative joke at the bottom, if you could give a rat's ass about our opinion)

The editorial staff members of CJatSD believe that laughter knows no politics. Yes, this blog tends to do things like turn Karl Rove into King Kong. However, that's not so much because we hate unscrupulous Republican kingmakers, but because we think monkeys are funny. So despite the amount of side-splitting freedom hatin' that takes place at this Blogspot dive, we welcome anyone who can make us laugh, regardless of whether they believe hot gay action should be allowed openly in society or discretely relegated to the nearest diocese.

In fact, before the set-up sperm met the punch-line egg that conceived this blog, we tried to find some Internets conservatives who made us laugh. Clarification: who intentionally made us laugh. We found bupkis.

So we took special interest in a heated debate that recently sprung up about who brings the funny on the goose-stepping conservative side of the blogosphere. Fables of the Reconstruction began the GOP-funny-bone-tickling with a post, Where Are All the Funny Conservative Bloggers? He asked this question:

Is there a genetic link between humor and political outlook? Is there just some birth defect that prevents right-wingers from being funny?

Seeing as we have always been funny, even when we were brown-shirted Reagan youths in the 80s, we initially believed the answer was no. But then we read this rebuttal from the "humorous" conservative bloggers at IMAO:

The only thing I've seemed to notice as a key difference between liberals making jokes about politics and conservatives making jokes about politics is that conservatives seem to be able to laugh at themselves more. I poke fun of my own beliefs all the time here. Yet, I've never seen a liberal making fun of the common liberal beliefs he or she holds dear - even with all the material that's available! (Just think of Howard Dean alone!)

Hah hah, Howard Dean! Nothing says "zing" like GOP talking points. And everyone knows that Dick Cheney is famous for being able to take a joke.

IMAO also provided this comedy gem of how the other half laughs:

WHAT IS WRONG WITH DEMOCRATS THESE DAYS?

* Just don't demagogue like they used to.
* Too many carbs.
* No sense of humor.
* Only ones with sense of humor. Really! You only think you're laughing, you stupid conservatives!
* Needs more cowbell.
* Everyone is dumb except for them.
* Everyone has sense except for them.
* Too much fear of the reaper.
* Bush looks like a chimp and you can't compete with chimps because people love chimps!
* Thought of them taking on terrorists is laughable.
* Actually, being called a Democrat is more an insult to one's manhood than having it insinuated you're gay.
* And charges of Demophobia aren't shaming people.

IMAO reminds me of the guy in Roxanne who tries to insult Steve Martin by calling him Big Nose. At least we agree on the chimp part.

But surely, there must be funny conservatives, right? Scrappleface was another one that was suggested. It's a lot like The Onion, if you surgically removed the Onion's sense of humor. These people should be voting for Hillary in 2008 because they're clearly out of material.

We visited Iowahawk, who seems to be the Feldman to our Kramer. On the one hand, we appreciated him trying to write something funny about the terrorists. We've tried to do that, but have failed because we clearly love terror too much to mock it. At the same time, we also get the same vibe from him that we got from annoying uberdork Gabriel Koerner in Trekkies. Maybe we would laugh if he had pointy ears.

Furthermore, nothing we found on the "funny" conservative blogs was nearly as funny as what some of our favorite Al-Queda-run blogs said about why conservatives have trouble being funny. Sadly No! showed that you're in big trouble when your jokes make one long for the comedic stylings of Kenny Banya (Ovaltine, Jerry!). TBogg makes a good point that, like everything else in life, the answer involves sex.

But if there's one thing we at CJatSD love only slightly less than an effortless cakewalk, it's a challenge. Can we put ourselves in the shoes of those we mock? Can we bring the comedy pain from the other side of the aisle? Can we make Mallard Fillmore look like fois grois?

Our attempt at a joke for conservatives
in handy red-state red

Two Arabs walk into a detention center and approach a U.S. Army sergeant and a CIA officer. One Arab leads the other, who has his hands tied behind his back.

The first Arab says, "I'd like to report that this man is a terrorist."

The second Arab raises his head proudly, proclaiming, "It is true. Death to America! I will not rest until I have killed all the infidels in Iraq!"

The sergeant says to the first Arab, "Thank you for bringing this man in. You have saved the lives of my fellow soldiers and your people." He motions for the guards to take the second Arab away.

The CIA officer asks the first Arab, "Would you mind answering a few more questions?" The first Arab says of course, and he follows the CIA officer into a back room.

After about an hour, the sergeant wonders where the CIA officer is and walks to the room. When he enters, he sees the first Arab is chained in a stress position. The CIA officer is sodomizing him with a glowstick and beating him with urine-soaked Koran. "Jesus Christ!" the sergeant says, "What are you doing?"

The CIA agent answers, "Making sure he isn't an accomplice."

See, because all Arabs are terrorists. Get it?

Okay, maybe we do understand the problem now....

Top Ten Tuesdays: Signs your space program is in deep trouble

10) Shuttle sits on blocks in NASA’s front yard.
9) Man in the Moon is looking at you and making chicken noises.
8) To generate more power to the thrusters, engineers suggest shoveling more coal.
7) Astronauts request ground control to play “Take This Job and Shove It.”
6) When battling clouds to land, the score is: water vapor 7, billion dollar spacecraft 0.
5) Cutbacks require replacing onboard computer with Commodore 64.
4) Have to ask the international space station for a jump.
3) Hubble Telescope keeps getting redirected to Jessica Simpson.
2) Re-entry requires a spacewalk from MacGyver.
1) The Russian you invited aboard says, “No thanks, I’ll take my chances with a sub.”

Greatest Hits, Vol. 1

I'm taking the jerking on the road this week, basking in the sunny glow of the beach and hopefully not looking like a tasty floundering seal to the Atlantic's predators. So I thought I would list a few of my favorite older posts, in case you missed any hot, wet, barely legal blogging action.

In chronological order:

Top Ten Tuesdays: Why are we blogging?

Primates Reject Theory of Evolving into Evolution-Denying Humans

The Osbournes Animal Planet

Full Metal Nipples

Spot the persecution

Gene Shalit's parasitic twin reviews Revenge of the Sith

Even I could tell Iraq would be a quagmire, and I lick my own ass

Our very own Aristocrats joke (really, really not work safe)

Official Supreme Court Nominee Questionnaire

Enjoy!

The Tom Cruise Security Advisory System

Due to increased levels of suspicious Tom Cruise activity, the Department of Homeland Security has initiated a Tom Cruise Security Advisory System. This system is designed to target our protective measures when information related to a specific Tom Cruise sighting, release, or engagement is received. This interactive guide combines threat information and illustrations with irritability and incoherence assessments, providing vital communications to public safety officials and E! viewers.

LOW
Low risk of a Tom Cruise attack
Presence of Scientology undetectable. Cruise, while occasionally risky, is affable and charming. Methods for obtaining Oscar gold remain within internationally acceptable guidelines. Personal life content and appropriate.

GUARDED
General risk of a Tom Cruise attack
Cruise still personable and likeable, but behavior borders on irresponsible and nefarious. Attempts to obtain Oscar reach dangerous maudlin levels. First signs of erratic behavior become visible.

ELEVATED
Significant risk of a Tom Cruise attack
Cruise begins to show alarming interest in the military, espionage, and piloting aircraft. May be conducting dry runs to test limits of box office radius. Relationships and personal appearance often inexplicable and bizarre.

HIGH
High risk of a Tom Cruise attack
Scientology extremely likely to be discussed with a straight face. Cruise’s behavior increasingly endangers both himself and those around him. Physical appearance and diet may undergo radical change.

SEVERE
Severe risk of Tom Cruise attack
Cruise has already set in process a multimedia rampage. Behavior becomes extremely aggressive, almost primate-like. Thetan has wrested control of mind and destroyed all logic. May be smuggling WMD in the form of a box office bomb.

Note: During Severe status, Cruise should be considered armed and dangerous.

A Manifesto on the Criminality of Bringing Small Children to Movies Where They Do not Belong nor Are Wanted

Celluloid comrades and lovers of cinema, greetings! Those of us who are serious watchers of film are not usually given to the kinds of passions we observe on the screens before us. We are not often drawn to the physical anger of Brad Pitt in Fight Club, the zealous revenge of Glenn Close in Fatal Instinct, or the histrionics of Samuel L. Jackson in every movie he graces. By our very natures as shadowy, seated theatergoers, we tend to be observers of life’s folly, rather than its participants.

But there comes a time when action is demanded of us, when conflict buys a ticket to our own personal drama and wants—nay, demands!—resolution. That time is when the most clueless, malignant, selfish, and treacherous of humankind bring their spawn to movies where they do not belong.

Do not avert your eyes from these words! Do not pretend to not notice the truth before you, tapping at your leg and sticking its tiny mucous-stained hand into your popcorn. For you know of which I speak. You remember the time you were watching Pulp Fiction, seeing the climactic confrontation of Bruce Willis, Ving Rhames, and The Gimp. You were on the edge of your seat, breathless for the next line, the next action, when next to you, a loud cry emerged, smashing through the Fourth Wall with the force of a wrecking ball: MOMMY, WHY IS THAT MAN WEARING A MASK?

It is a sad spectacle, one that has spun off many sequels, each more horrid than the last. A baby crying over a Will Ferrell punchline in Old School. Two two-year old doing his seat-standing interpretation of Spider-Man. Or the Milk Dud-sucking, syllable-spewing toddler distracting you from critical breast shots in The Wedding Crashers.

And what is our reaction? Harrumphs? Stern looks? Maybe, at our boldest, a hissing “shhhh”? Against the dense, iron skulls of these parents, such civil reactions are akin to hurling stones at the Tripods from War of the Worlds. The time for politeness is over. The system has failed us, and it is only by extreme actions that we can overcome such colossal manifestations of poor judgment. I call you to arms in the following situations:

• The crying baby in any movie—Rather than expel a breath of disgust, stand up! Better to take revenge on your feet than complain from your seat. Move next to the parent of said child, and begin sobbing on their shoulder, squealing and crying until they leave.
• The child asking questions during the adult drama—Do not sit in stony silence, pretending to ignore the queries banging on your eardrums. Instead, ask your own questions of the parent: Did you fail to make it to the letter R when you learned your ABCs? Why did the state not sterilize you? How will you repay each of us in the theater $7.50 plus compensation for mental cruelty because we had to listen to helium-voiced questions from a child that could not follow a Pokemon movie, let alone The Bourne Identity?
• The child frightened by explosions in an adult action movie—If the cries of terror from the orange fireballs and rumbling subwoofers do not wake the sensibilities of the attending parent, then keep up the campaign of psychological carpet bombing. Maneuver behind the child and repeatedly yell “BOOM” as loud as possible, until the child flees in terror, forcing the parent to follow.
• The child frightened by death and disfigurement in an adult horror movie—Follow the same steps as the action movie, but replace “BOOM” with “BOO!”
• The child in a movie for children and adults, but during a show time that is clearly meant for adults—A small child’s presence at Charlie and the Chocolate Factory makes sense at 3:00 p.m. It does not at 10:00 p.m. Here, revenge is dish best served sweet. Help the children in their quest to stay awake by covertly feeding them enough Skittles to keep them (and, subsequently, their parents) sleepless for a week.
• The child who ventures to your aisle seat and asks for candy—Escort the child away from their uncaring parents and offer him or her to a nice stranger who does have candy.

Will these actions change the fiendishly unaware behavior of the parental units who so blindly ignore the misery their offspring inflict on fellow moviegoers? The certainty of that I cannot write. But at the very least, my oppressed brethren, I promise you that these actions will free both of your hands to fight the drooling golem of inappropriate movie attendance by children.

To borrow from the stirring speech of Bill Pullman in Independence Day, “We will not go quietly into the night! We will not vanish without a fight!” And we will not rest until your children are out of our sight!

Top Ten Tuesdays: Why did we get traded?

Special expanded player-to-be-named-later edition!

Major League Baseball's trading deadline is approaching this weekend. Why will some players be on new teams?

11) Said our faith compelled us to follow Jesus Christ to Boston.
10) Confessed our love of long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days to underage ball boy.
9) Club received one million dollars if they let us spend one night with Mr. Steinbrenner.
8) ERA grew faster than America’s GDP.
7) Misinterpreted “Media Day” as “Kick-the-shit-out-of-the-media Day”.
6) Stole a lot of bases, then proceeded to steal bats, balls, and the coach’s Lexus.
5) Threw too many sliders down our throats.
4) Took money to throw World Series without disclosing we were on the Cubs and would never reach the World Series.
3) Players complained that we filled the dugout with that old people smell.
2) Job was outsourced to Asians and Hispanics.
1) Got caught giving the cream to the owner’s wife.

Coult-ita

by Hannity Hannity

Vol. I of Putting the S&M in Shouts and Murmurs

Loosely inspired (and completely not-work safe) by I Foxed (m)Ann Coulter in the Roger Ailes, Hard


I.

Coulter, commentator of my choice, fire of my loins. My spin, my soul. Cole-ter: the tip of my tongue tripping over two of my terrorist-torturing, traitor-trouncing teeth. Coal. Ter.

She was A, plain A in the morning, standing five feet ten in her size eleven combat boots. She was Ms. Coulter in sensible slacks, Commentator Coulter on the air, and Syndicated Columnist and Best-Selling Author Ann Coulter in print. But when I was in her arms, she was always Ann.

(the whole sick tale)



II.

I wasn’t listening to what Senator Kennedy was saying. I knew of what he spoke, for I know of what his kind always speaks: surrender, sedition, and sexual shenanigans. His bulbous, bobbing head filled the video monitor, connected via satellite to his den of treason in Washington, D.C.

No, I was staring at her. Her long blond tresses. Her red tongue, licking her lips like the cheetah, ready to pounce on the labored, tired, obese Irish Wolfhound before her. And the round lump in her throat, so much like mine, but smoother, more supple, free of stubble. God, how I wanted to touch her.

I heard the buzzing from the senator cease. “You know what, Senator Kennedy?” I said. “You are a Four-Alarm Liar. I should get out the fire extinguisher to put out the blaze in your pants—if you were wearing any!”

A babble of nasally Hyannis Port exasperation filled the canal of my ear, but my auditory senses were drowned out by the sharp, sinewy laugh coming from that heavenly blond mouth.

Alan began to snivel in protest, but I cut him off. “That’s all we have time for today,” I announced. “Tune into Hannity and Colmes tomorrow as we discuss America’s universities: centers of learning, or brothels of the Left?”

The red light went off on the camera. “Jesus, Sean!” Alan whined. “Don’t you think you went a little overboard on Kennedy? The man is a senator, for Pete’s sake.”

I pulled my lips back in a smile. Every once in a while, Alan’s spine would straighten, triggering a complaint, a suggestion, any kind of unsolicited idea. I so enjoyed snapping it back into 1000 pieces. “Alan, whose name is first? Who’s the star here?”

He shook and couldn’t look into my eyes. “All I was saying is I think...”

“You think?” I replied. “You think when I ask you to think, and when that camera’s off, that moment is never.” I leaned in close, so only he could hear. “I make one call, one fucking phone call, Alan, and I’ll have Paul Begala here licking my boots. Capice?”

Alan nodded. As he slinked off the set, Ann leaned over the particle board desk and touched my hand. “I loved the way you handled Kennedy,” she said. “Christ, I hate that Chappaquiddick cocksucker. Too bad he knew how to swim.”

I looked down at her hands. Her fingers wrapped completely around my wrist like the roots of an oak. I could feel the heat from her palms sinking through my jacket, into my skin, racing to my heart.

“Thank you,” I said. It was an effort to speak, I wanted to get to my knees and pant, suck in the breath around her.

“What are you doing tonight, Sean?” she asked.

“N-n-nothing,” I stammered. English failed me. I was an infant, learning to talk, walk, cry, eat. My legs wobbled like a foal’s.

“Let’s blow this taco stand,” she said. “I know a place where we can really get away from it all.”


III.

She blindfolded me on the trip. She insisted I not know the location of her compound until I was “initiated.” “Sorry, Sean, baby, but I’ve been burned before. I’m not going to make the same mistake I made with O’Reilly.”

The sensory deprivation allowed me to focus on the deep rasp of her voice. She was so sure of herself, of her beliefs, of the treason of liberalism. I believed it, too, but there were times—few, but still times—when I felt the bubble of doubt rise. Could we be wrong? Did Alan sometimes have a good point?

“I don’t know why you let that schmuck Colmes talk,” Ann said. “I’d tell Ailes that I’d do a show with al-Zarqwi before I’d partner with a stab-you-in-the-back liberal. At least you know where the terrorist stands.”

“Alan’s not so bad,” I said, “he’s harmless. And sometimes he does a better job of making my points than I do.”

She laughed, then coughed, deep and wet. I heard the whine of the electric window, felt the rushing, pungent blast of turnpike air, and heard Ann spit into the wind.

“That’s my impression of moveon.org,” she said. I laughed, maybe too long, but at least the laughter kept me from saying something foolish and irrevocable.

We kept the talk small for the rest of the trip. Tax cuts, war in the Middle East, court nominations, Michael Moore, and why the First Amendment needed serious amending. She told me why Joe McCarthy was a hero, why Jimmy Carter was a traitor, and why Hillary Clinton would be her dream opposition candidate. I didn’t tell Ann that I knew her arguments by heart, memorized like Shakespearean prose, iambic talking points unrhymed.

The car stopped. She pulled off the blindfold. “We’re here.”


IV.

The ATF would never be able to burn this place to the ground. It wasn’t a compound, it was a castle, a fortress of freedom. The stone walls stood ten feet if they were an inch, forming a perfect circle around a matching manor house that appeared as solid as it did regal. “The house that Slander built,” Ann said.

“It’s...it’s...wow,” I stammered. God damn it, Hannity, I thought, get a hold of yourself. And apologize to God for swearing. “I mean, I feel like I’m in Europe.”

Ann frowned. “Gee, thanks, just what I wanted, to give the impression of unemployed socialist cowardice.”

“Oh, Ann, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I...I...”

“Kidding, Hannity,” she said, punching me in the shoulder. “You have been around Alan too long.”

“No, no!” I retorted. I stood up straight and pushed my chin forward. “Of course I meant Old Europe, when men were men—“

“And the sheep were nervous!” Ann finished. “Good, I was worried you were going Democratic on me there. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who’s soft.”

I swallowed. I stared into her eyes, blue pools of Aryan breeding, too pure to corrupt with my unclean Irish-Catholic genes. I kept up the front, “If there’s one thing I’m not, Ann, it’s soft.”

She smirked. “Come on, I’ll show you the armory.”

V.

She kept her weapons immaculate. Oiled, clean, ready to empty a clip into a government agent or a Muslim terrorist on a moment’s notice. I held a Beretta in my hand, looking down the barrel.

“Confucius say two Berettas in the hand are better than one Robert Byrd in a Bush!” Ann said, handing me my pistol’s twin. “Ever done two at the same time, Hannity?”

I shook my head no. Her unspoken reply told me that she had. “But I’ve fired plenty of guns,” I countered. “Nobody can get a shot off quicker than me.”

She grabbed my free palm and slapped the pistol in it. “The key to shooting, Sean, is control. Especially if you’ve got two hot pieces in your hands.”

She led me to the shooting range, a three-lane field about one hundred yards long. She moved two human-figure targets within pistol distance. “Let’s see you in action,” she said, sitting back to watch.

I took a deep breath and flicked the safeties off. My fingers worked the triggers, bap-bap-bap-bap-bap. I fired controlled bursts at two targets, nailing a dozen head shots. She clapped politely. “Not bad, Sean, for your first time. You should have seen Limbaugh when he tried it. He kept blaming it on the pills!” My ears burned at the sound of another pundit’s name, even if she was criticizing him.

“The real key, though,” she said, unlocking a footlocker next to the range, “is being able to shoot straight without letting your emotions control you.” She pulled out two pictures of Them. Black and white, smiling their deceitful, pseudo-centrist grins. Bill and Hillary. Ann placed them over two new targets, sending them back 50 yards. She moved close to me, her pale lips near my ear, the tingle of breath, the smell of cigarettes and sweet, unfiltered conservatism. “Universal health care,” she whispered. “Somalia. Chinese spies. Whitewater. Gays in the military.” Each word exploded, setting off a fuel dump of rage inside my head. A crimson filter covered the firing range. My blood raced, to my hands, my heart, and into my loins, my anger mixing with desire into a Molotov cocktail of lust.

Ann took a deep breath before one last barrage. “Higher end-of-presidency approval rating than Reagan.”

I let out a howl, my arms flipping up, my fingers a blur. The ends of the pistols were awash in flame. It wasn’t until I heard the click-click-click of empty chambers that I stopped. I leaned over, hands on knees, panting. Looking up, I had landed only a couple body shots on the photos.

“It’s good to feel your hate,” Ann hissed. “To feel your rage. To feel...” Her hand slid over my pants. “...your wants, your needs. But feeling is only half the battle. I’m going to teach you the pleasure of righteous anger mixed with cold-blooded control.”

She went back to the footlocker, pulling back a false bottom. When she stood up, she held a sleek, mammoth, black dildo, attached to a studded leather harness. “Sean,” she said. “Say hello to the Fill-a-Buster.”

My lips quivered. I wanted to run at first—that was my mind talking. Don’t do it. Don’t give in. But I wanted to give in, wanted to feel what she had to offer. Like the red clouding my vision, desire gripped my necktie and pulled me forward. I couldn’t speak. I only nodded mutely.

“Are you sure?” she asked, a coy finger to her lips. Again my head bobbed up and down, as dumb as a dog begging for a treat.

“Reload,” she commanded, “then strip.”

I slid two fresh 15-round clips into the handgrip, set the pistols down, and removed my suit. The cool night breeze sent lightning bolts across my skin. When I picked up the Berettas, the surge of power and desire stirred me to full arousal.

Ann waited until I was finished before stripping her power suit. Her body was completely blonde, the only darkness on her delicate frame coming from her eyes. She was almost boyish in figure, save for the two tell-tale signs of womanhood. She covered one of those with the harness. The Fill-A-Buster stood out, mocking my attempt to compete. It was if I had just bitten into the apple of Eden, my lustful bravado washed away by a flood of eye-opening self-consciousness. I faltered, mentally and physically.

“Don’t get all soft on me now, Sean,” Ann said. She motioned to a bench. “Place your elbows there,” she said, showing me how to crouch against the bench. “Eyes forward!” she snapped as I felt her cold fingers on my hips.

A wave of sensory input stormed my brain, overrunning my synapses: pain, pleasure, shame, acceptance, fear, longing. I had unlocked the cell, let my true feelings dash up the stairs and stand in the sunlight. I was receiving what I had always wanted, from the person I had always wanted.

“Aim,” Ann grunted. Her breath came out in puffs.

“What?”

“AIM!” she cried. One hand grabbed my hair and pointed my head toward Them. “It’s 2009, Inauguration Day, and there they are again!”

My hands moved with a will of their own. The barrels of the pistols pointed downfield. “Steady,” Ann gasped. “Stay in control, Hannity. Short bursts on my command. Ready? Fire!”

Bap-bap! Head shots.

“Fire!”

Bap-bap! Right through the fake, traitorous smiles.

“FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!”

The shots rang out, Ann’s voice growing louder with each retort. Down to my last two bullets, she could no longer speak the command, just a scream toward the moon as I emptied all of my chambers. She fell forward, her face on my back, hot breath on my cold skin.

“That,” she said, “is how you talk to a liberal if you have to.”

VI.

I sat in my office, dreaming of her. I could still hear her voice mingled with the shots. I stared at the photo on my desk, her sunlight hair forming a halo over the headstone of a fallen hero, Joe McCarthy.

A shadow crossed my thoughts. Alan stood in the doorway. He held a manila envelope in his hands, the paper slightly dark from palm sweat. “Hello, Sean,” he said. “How was your weekend?”

“What the fuck do you want, Alan?” I shot back. “The show meeting’s not for a half hour.”

He stepped—no, strode—across the room, his mouth broad with a look of anticipation. He turned the manila envelope upside down. Three photos fell out. There I was, firing both guns. There was Ann, directing me from behind. Our faces as clear and crisp as the air that night.

“Remarkable that they came out so well,” Alan said, his words pounding in my head like a speeding wave. “The others are a little more...entertaining...but these captured that classic Hannity face the best.”

“I’ll...I’ll fucking...I swear to God, Alan.”

He put his hands on my desk and leaned forward, his eyes level with mine. I could see the wan silhouette of my face in his glasses. “You better thank God that I haven’t released these to the press. And believe me, if some unfortunate accident befalls me, the vast liberal media will get these.”

“What do you want?” I grunted. My chest felt as if it would collapse.

“A little Aretha Franklin,” Alan said with the grin of a hanging judge. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T, you miserable, bootlicking, up-the-cornhole Irish fuck. There’s going to be some changes around here.”


VII
“That concludes our show for tonight,” Alan announced. “Tune in tomorrow when we discuss the Iraq reconstruction: has the President lead us into a never-ending Middle Eastern quagmire? Our guests will be Wesley Clark, Howard Dean, and Hillary Clinton.”

I stared ahead into space. Three weeks of staring into space. Agreeing with Alan. Acknowledging the legitimacy of dissenting views. Nodding in approval when a parade of donkey Senators criticized the second-best president of my lifetime. I was as empty as one of the spent casings on Ann’s firing range.

I shuffled back to my office, looking down at my feet, noticing the way staff turned sideways to avoid any possibility of touching me in the hallway. I closed the door, slumped in the chair, and picked up the phone.

The dial tone challenged and mocked me. Why would tonight be any different? She wouldn’t even answer my calls anymore, not since that first night. I trusted you, I thought you were a better man than that, I wouldn’t put my paycheck ahead of my principles. The dial tone changed into the shriek of having the phone off the hook. I placed it back in its cradle. It was over.

She was right. I should have told Alan to take his pictures to the world. It would have ruined my career, but my career was already sliding toward ruin. Without my knee-jerk reactionary retorts, I was Alan as he used to be, a conciliatory bit of window dressing. If I had come clean, I would at least still have my dignity. I would at least have her.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The air conditioning kicked in, the cold air reminding me of that night. I sat there, shivering and staring at her photo.

Top Ten Tuesdays: New Harry Potter Revelations

Special best-selling expanded edition!

12) Records reveal Harry could not have spent Christmas in Cambodia.
11) Lord Voldemort returns to run on 2008 Republican ticket.
10 Since going through puberty, Harry has trouble controlling his wand.
9) Harry gets caught using performance-enhancing potions during Quidditch matches.
8) The boys discover that Hermoine appeared in a “Wizards Gone Wild” video.
7) Snape spends weekends fronting Nine Inch Nails cover band.
6) Harry now engaged to Katie Holmes.
5) Cornelius Fudge outed Valarie Plame to get discredit Dumbledore.
4) Head wizards secretly reassigned Hagrid to Hogwarts after abuse allegations at several Boston magic schools.
3) Harry and Ron must defeat royalty-seeking ghost of C.S. Lewis.
2) Magic may bring you power, fame, and fortune, but it doesn’t bring you true happiness. Unless you cast a True Happiness spell.
1) Dumbeldore’s fate: death by unga bunga.

"How do you know he's a presidential candidate?"

"'Cause he hasn't got shit all over him."

George "not Rudy" Pataki conducted a little pressing-of-the-flesh in Des Moines (De Monet, De Monet!) this last weekend. Here's how the objective New York Times described the event:

Expertly sidestepping dried dung at a county fair here Saturday night, the tall, tanned man with a big grin and an outstretched palm looked every inch thecandidate barnstorming before the Iowa presidential caucuses.

"Hi, I'm George Pataki, from New York!" he said, raising his voice over the oinks and bleats and neighs in the livestock barns nearby.

"I know you!" cried Todd Parker, standing amid hog-filled pens. "You're a celebrity. I've seen you on Fox News."

I imagine the Times reporter was also expecting Parker to inform Pataki which hogs was for eatin' and which ones was for fuckin'.

Karl Rove Escapes Bonds, Climbs Washington Monument

WASHINGTON - Karl Rove, the White House chief of staff under investigation for allegedly revealing the identity of an undercover CIA operative, fled a press conference today and climbed the Washington Monument.

Rove stormed west of the White House, overturning cars and beating his chest. The rampaging political mastermind stopped at the Watergate Hotel, where he reached through a window and grabbed Valerie Plame, the agent whose identity he is accused of offering to the press. Pulling the screaming Ms. Plame toward him, Rove stopped to caress her blond hair.

Police immediately fired tear gas and rubber bullets, causing Rove to flee eastward, toward the National Mall. Pushing aside dozens of stunned tourists with his giant, hairless hands, he proceeded to scale the Washington Monument, taunting police below with a series of growls and roars. He placed Ms. Plame on the peak of the structure.

President Bush, immediately summoned from a game of hopscotch, faced a dilemma—would he order a military strike against the beast that helped bring him to power? According to sources inside the White House, the President sat at his Oval Office desk, drooling and silent for the next nine hours, while aides awaited orders. The White House dismissed allegations that the President was drooling as “unfounded.”

In the Capitol, Congress furiously debated the situation. Democrats called for Rove’s destruction. Republicans claimed that Rove had not technically broken any laws by climbing the Washington Monument, since it was publicly owned. When Democratic Senator Charles Schumer claimed that Rove was guilty of kidnapping, Senate Majority Leader Dr. Bill Frist said, “I have looked into Valerie Plame’s eyes, and I am convinced that she wants to be on top of that monument.”

Senator John McCain immediately stood on top of his chair and ripped apart his suit, tie and shirt, standing naked to the waist. “The time for gridlock is over, gentlemen!” he proclaimed. “We need bi-partisan action to solve this crisis!” Reaching beneath his chair, he grabbed Senator Joseph Lieberman, hopped on an awaiting Harley Davidson motorcycle, and sped off to Andrew’s Air Force Base.

Arriving at the base, the two senators climbed aboard an F-16 and took off for the Washington Monument. As the jet buzzed by, McCain strafed Rove with 20mm cannon rounds, to no effect, while Rove attempted to swat the senators from the sky. Finally, on the third pass, McCain fired a missile at Rove, striking the analyst in the heart. Looking at Ms. Plame with sad, animal eyes, Rove let go of the monument and fell to the ground. He was pronounced dead on impact.

The incident began when White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan had Rove—held in chains—brought out during a press conference on the Plame incident. Rove appeared to grow frightened by the attention, cringing at the flashing camera bulbs and howling when questions were hurled at him. When one reporter shoved a microphone toward him and asked, “Did you try to get back at Joe Wilson by hurting Ms. Plame?” Rove snapped his bonds and began his rampage.

Ms. Plame reunited with Wilson at the base of the Monument, next to the giant body of Rove. “I know that he was a brute,” Ms. Plame said afterward, “but I believe there was a gentle soul buried inside.”

Plame and Wilson also announced that they had struck a book deal about the incident with Harper Collins editor Judith Regan.

Top Ten Tuesdays: New British anti-terrorism measures

10) Unleashing re-animated Winston Churchill.
9) Holding "win a date with The Spice Girls" contest for all non-exploding Muslims.
8) Authorizing James Bond to search all beautiful Arab women for clues.
7) Requiring all tube and bus riders to hug a rabbi before boarding.
6) Asking Hogwarts to speed up development of new spell, Nutter Spotus Promptus.
5) Starting new public awareness campaign: “They really hate Muslims in Ireland.”
4) Improving identification of suicide bombings with nationwide “all nude, all the time” policy.
3) Conducting cavity searches between tea and biscuits.
2) Allowing Prince Charles to declare prima noctae on all virgins waiting for terrorists in Paradise.
1) Giving those terrorist fucks the finger by continuing their daily routines.

An Open Letter to My XBox Controller

[Freshy rejected from McSweeny's.]

Dear XBox Controller,

Baby, I’m sorry. I know I said I wouldn’t throw you again. But you’ve got to believe me when I say it wasn’t my fault. That goddamned cheating whore of a CPU made me do it.

I know you don’t want to hear any more excuses, but just listen. It was the Super Bowl in Madden. I was on my fifteenth season, okay? Do you know how many hours that is? All those heartbreaking playoff losses along the way? And here I was, in the big game, ready to win it all. Up 20-14, less than a minute to play, I just had to run the clock out, and the 2020 Chicago Bears would hoist the Lombardi Trophy. I could taste the virtual champagne.

And then that AI—that lousy, no good, dirty AI—fucked me. Made me fumble, scooped up the ball, broke five tackles, and ran it back for the winning touchdown.

I know it wasn’t your fault. You responded perfectly when I pressed B to sprint and X to dive for that desperation tackle. You just caught me at a bad time. I was blind with rage, baby, I didn’t know what I was doing.

I know, I know, you’ve heard it before. The last level in Halo. The CIA level in Splinter Cell. Every driving game you’ve played with me. I know you’ve talked to my exes, too: the four Nintendo 64 controllers, the PlayStation 2 controllers (the original and that cheap MadCatz tramp), even the old Genesis gamepad.

But you can’t leave me. I’m nothing without you, you know that. I’ll be stuck with demo mode loops. And what about the good times we had? Online deathmatches in Halo 2. That last gold medal in Project Gotham Racing 2. Slicing that guy up with the chain saw in Grand Theft Auto. We’re a team.

So I mean it, I’ll never hurt you again. Next time that bitch CPU starts pushing me around, I’m going to set you down on a pillow—a nice, velvet pillow I got picked out, just for you—and then I’ll go punch a wall.

What do you say? Can I plug you in again?

How to not be a douchebag in the face of awful tragedy

Douchebag
Fucknut News commentator/top Brian Kilmeade and business contributor/bottom Stuart Varney talk about terra in Bri'in (via Media Matters):

KILMEADE: And he [British Prime Minister Tony Blair] made the statement, clearly shaken, but clearly determined. This is his second address in the last hour. First to the people of London, and now at the G8 summit, where their topic Number 1 --believe it or not-- was global warming, the second was African aid. And that was the first time since 9-11 when they should know, and they do know now, that terrorism should be Number 1. But it's important for them all to be together. I think that works to our advantage, in the Western world's advantage, for people to experience something like this together, just 500 miles from where the attacks have happened.

VARNEY: It puts the Number 1 issue right back on the front burner right at the point where all these world leaders are meeting. It takes global warming off the front burner. It takes African aid off the front burner. It sticks terrorism and the fight on the war on terror, right up front all over again.

Not a douchebag
An actual terror victim in Britain

An open letter
to the terrorist cunts who tried to kill me today:
Fuck you. You missed me. Better luck next time.

I love the British.

Official Supreme Court Nominee Questionnaire

FORM F-21-12-U

Please answer the following questions truthfully unless the truth will cause a scandal. Return the completed form to the nearest Executive Office/church/detention center.

I. Demographics

1. Are you:
a) male
b) female
c) a Democrat (skip all remaining questions and shove questionnaire up ass)

2. I am
a) Caucasian (skip question 3 and pat yourself on the back)
b) African-American
c) Hispanic
d) Asian
e) Chief Justice Wahoo

3. As a minority, I
a) believe minorities have the same opportunity to succeed as rich white people if they were no longer rich or white
b) want to overturn the legislation that helped me get my job
c) won’t admit it

4. I am a practicing
a) Christian
b) Catholic
c) Heb, er, Jew
d) terrorist/Muslim


II. Litmus test

1. My gavel is always
a) hard and ready to bang repeatedly
b) out of commission unless discussing the right to sodomy
c) ready to go both ways

2. The Ten Commandments should be
a) in every courtroom in America
b) in every classroom in America
c) tattooed inside the eyelids of every American

3. Abortion is
a) worse than the Holocaust because it kills non-Jews
b) the reason why all liberals should be put to death
c) a right of every woman that I will make sure is revoked

4. During a disputed presidential election, the Supreme Court should
a) make sure the votes of non-felon, non-welfare, non-liberal citizens are counted accurately
b) speed up the process before some “experts” can investigate
c) go out for coffee

5. Gay marriage is
a) wrong


III. Fill in the blank

Please complete the following sentences.

1. Arab-Americans should _________ internment camps.

2. Freedom _______ free, especially for_______, __________, and definitely __________.

3. Sodomy _________ result in stoning.

4. Immigrants must speak_________or die.

5. I wipe my_________with international treaties and rulings.

6. Journalists should be_________until they can’t feel their extremities.

7. When in doubt, _________ the Book of Leviticus.


IV. Judicial analogies

1. Interrogation : torture ::
a) ice cream : hot fudge
b) grass : ass
c) plausible : deniable

2. Coke : pubic hair ::
a) practical : joke
b) frigid : cunt
c) distant : memory

3. ACLU : traitors ::
a) New York Times : toilet paper
b) professors : brainwashers
c) Michael Moore : Stay Puff Marshmallow Man

4. Flag : burn ::
a) Lady Liberty : rape
b) Jesus : crucify
c) Rush Limbaugh : incarcerate

5. Freedom : speech::
a) Fox : facts
b) dreaming : day
c) Fuck : off


V. Essay
Please describe how and why the President should be allowed to do what he wants, when he wants, especially when he needs to preserve freedom by destroying it. Cite relevant extra-legal examples.


The Supreme Court is not an equal opportunity employer. If you don't like it you have the right to let the door hit you in the ass on the way to Canada. All applicants are required to pass a visual examination and correctly identify the hand that feeds them. All appointments are for life, but in the case of judicial activism, accidents can happen. Remember that when you’re ruling on whether Osama bin Raghead is an enemy combatant or a mystery guest of the Department of Defense.

Top Ten Tuesdays: How did we celebrate our independence?

10) Drew up new legislation to curtail civil liberties.
9) Swapped political bon mots with other snarky, powerless liberals.
8) Called up British friend and chanted USA, USA, USA into phone.
7) Made makeshift Roman candles out of detainees.
6) Asked bearded hippie if he was listening to Freedom Rock, then ordered him to turn it up.
5) Begged OPEC to lower oil prices.
4) Told everyone at the barbecue about the real history of psychiatry.
3) Sucked down an eight-ball of funnel cake.
2) Went on patrol after enlistment was involuntarily extended.
1) Covered last bit of free space on the SUV with another fucking flag.