Why Thank You, Lori Ziganto!

Blago has a crush right back at you.

And at sexy, I mean S. E., Cupp.

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Worst Progressive Douchebag in the World: Chrissy "Enemy Camp" Matthews

In a display of vapidity unseen since the last time Larry King adjusted his suspenders, Chrissy "The Tingler" Matthews today called West Point "The Enemy Camp" for Obama. May Chrissy now and forever be known as Chrissy "Enemy Camp" Matthews.

Hey moronicus maximus. He's the effing Commander in effing Chief, you quasi-brainless stupido-pundit! In a development that would only surprise a progressive, the Keith Olbermann Memorial Worst Progressive Douchebag in the World Award goes to Chrissy formerly "The Tingler", now "Enemy Camp" Matthews!

What a dishonor!

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Douchebag in Chief marks worst terrorist attack on US soil since 9/11 with a board game weekend at Camp David

So after Nidal Malik Hasan went all sudden jihad syndrome at Fort Hood and after shouting 'Allahu Akbar,' killed 13 while wounding 28, we got to see the difference between class and a douchebag. The Douchebag in Chief covered all his political bases with the Interior Department at a speech for 2 minutes before even mentioning the Fort Hood shootings. He warned people against jumping to any conclusions that the killer was an American Muslim who had decided to go to Jihad terror war with his own country. Then he went right back into the politicking.

Turns out that Obama did not go to visit Fort Hood, though he will appear there for the memorial service, which will be heavily covered by the Pravda press. But there was another who visited Fort Hood already, in the dark of night, directing that the press not make a big deal of it. He and his wife were there to comfort and commiserate with the military and civilian personnel at Fort Hood, and not to run an interminable political campaign.

In the meantime, the Douchebag in Chief relaxed at Camp David.

Barack Hussein Obama is a lucky guy that he doesn't have to worry about Jihad, huh? Why would that be now? Just asking...

Thanks to Clarice Feldman and Dan Riehl.

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Dear Ashley, pay your own rent, you leech

This letter from a grand-dad to his grand-daughter is so effing smug and funny I leaned back in my chair, lost my balance, and cracked the back of my head open on the counter. Now I'm bleeding all over my mop of hair and I still can't stop chuckling, even while scrubbing blood off the nkdfapafgm.v keyboard. And the collar of my shirt too.

Sweetheart,

I received your request for assistance.

Ashley, you know I love you dearly and I’m sympathetic to your financial plight. Unfortunately, times have changed. With the election of President Obama, your grandmother and I have had to set forth a bold new economic plan of our own…"The Ashley Economic Empowerment Plan."

It gets way better. I always like to see another progressive douchebag face the reality behind the veneer of fauxery in their progressive Matrix fantasy world. The only thing better would be to see young Ashley suddenly realize what a cad her Adolescent Crush President was. I know he isn't going to pay her rent, her car payment, or her gas money, no matter what the idiots believed before the election.

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Worst Progressive Douchebag in the World, Inaugural Edition

Shorter Jason Linkins.

How does Keith Olbermann [still] have a job?

And for your years of striving, Keith Olbermann, he of the chin that fits so naturally between his thumb and forefinger, of the glasses to signify his intelligence, of the ponderous syntax, stentorian voice, and the adolescent man-crushes on Murrow, Cronkite and Obama. Yes, that Olbermann. The male Ann Coulter, only with half the balls. That Olbermann. Keith, we are pleased to be able to present you with the inaugural copy of the award you inspired.

With no further ado, ladies and gentlemen, give Keith a hand for deservedly winning the Worst Progressive Douchebag in the World Award!

Mr. Olbermann, it couldn't have happened to a bigger douchebag. I believe that all the way down to the very bottom of my heart.

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Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, the future's not ours to see, but you're not marrying a carnival ride you twisted freak

When Amy Wolfe was young and asked who she would marry her parents might have quoted Doris Day to her but I am certain neither they nor she expected que sera, to actually sera.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

Miss Wolfe is planning to marry an amusement park ride, and it isn't even a roller coaster like the Phoenix at Knoebels (one of the top 10 roller coasters in the US). She is in love with a wussy ride. She likes to ride it and kiss it on every surface she can reach when she's riding. She keeps spare nuts and bolts from it and keeps a photo of it on her ceiling. The presumably lucky ride, named "1001 Nachts by Weber" makes his residence in Knoebels Amusement Park in Pennsylvania. The blushing ride-bride-to-be, who plans to take the ride's last name of Weber, says she loves him as much as all women love their husbands. Perhaps. But not likely.

One thing we do know is that they do not need to read this flowchart to tell if they are going to have sex.

Shit. I can't go on. This is stupid.

She is nuts! And anybody who encourages her insanity by pretending it's acceptable is doing harm to her.

This is EXACTLY what is wrong with America. People know fucking well that it is WRONG to have feelings for an amusement park ride, let alone marry it, and they aren't doing or saying a single goddamn thing. They play along like the 33-year-old Miss Wolfe is just eccentric. She isn't eccentric or troubled, she is bat-freaking-shit insane! The reason we don't send illegal migrants back across the border is this refusal to say some things are just wrong. There are wrong things. We all know that. Murder and theft and slander are wrong. But the first instinct of many Americans is to defend crooks against accusations, no matter what. That's why we don't execute serial killers in America until they have burned through millions of dollars of taxpayer's money in court costs. That's why we are giving fucking terrorists captured on the battlefield on the other side of the world Miranda Rights as if they were stopped for a busted tail light on Main St. They are not Americans. They don't get Miranda Rights. We Americans do all sorts of other crazy things too, all because we don't want to take a fucking stand and say THIS IS WRONG.

We give newts, beetles, and minnows rights to property before the human owners of that property. We let hippies sue manufacturing companies to death for environmental excuses and drive them out of the country, then we wonder why the fuck we have so many factory workers who can't find jobs. Americans know how to run an economy that makes everybody wealthier than anyone except kings and queens in other countries, yet we vote in politicians who promise they will dismantle our wealth producing economy and replace it with mandatory paid volunteer jobs, whatever the fuck that means. We have seen communist economics fail again and again and we don't stand up to communists and tell them THEY ARE WRONG before chasing them out of positions where we grant them authority over us and our families. We don't hold our own elected officials responsible and vote them out of office when they betray us. Why not? Are we pussies or what? We pretend it's right for a woman to marry a woman, or a man to marry a man, and it is not. Marriage is for the production of children, who will be the future. That is its purpose. And a man marrying a man is never going to hear the patter of little feet who are of him and his "partner." Two men can't get together and create life. Not yet, at least. And don't even get me started on cloning.

So are we going to stand up like men and say it's wrong? Or are we going to sing ourselves to sleep with Que Sera? As if we were little girls suckling our mama's teat...

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here's what she said to me.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows, day after day
Here's what my sweetheart said.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, what will I be
Will I be handsome, will I be rich
I tell them tenderly.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

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Happy Belated Birthday, Sultan Mubarak Hussein Milhous "X" Obama Jr.

#IAMTHEMOB with a Happy Belated Birthday wish for the man whose parents, both committed Communists, met in a Russian Language class in 1960. Listen to the dulcet tones (snort) of Glenn Beck, one of America's real anchormen, go on and on with warning bell after warning bell until you wonder why it didn't sound like you were trapped up in a bell tower with 20 full sized bells ringing the carillon before the 2008 elections.

And this is the way they ring
the bells in Bedlam

(from Ringing the Bells by Anne Sexton)

Well, watch it again and again. It never grows old.



Though the people's love of the regime of Sultan Obama may grow old long before his term ends.

And this is the way they ring
the bells in Bedlam
and this is the bell-lady
who comes each Tuesday morning
to give us a music lesson
and because the attendants make you go
and because we mind by instinct,
like bees caught in the wrong hive,
we are the circle of crazy ladies
who sit in the lounge of the mental house
and smile at the smiling woman
who passes us each a bell,
who points at my hand
that holds my bell, E flat,
and this is the gray dress next to me
who grumbles as if it were special
to be old, to be old,
and this is the small hunched squirrel girl
on the other side of me
who picks at the hairs over her lip,
who picks at the hairs over her lip all day,
and this is how the bells really sound,
as untroubled and clean
as a workable kitchen,
and this is always my bell responding
to my hand that responds to the lady
who points at me, E flat;
and although we are not better for it,
they tell you to go. And you do.

(Ringing the Bells by Anne Sexton)

Happy Belated Birthday, Sultan

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Chris Matthews still smitten -- it's okay. We understand

It's almost sad, really. The way you were begging her, Chris; pleading for Barbara Boxer to assure you that, yes, those mean people protesting the President's plans were simply a part of a scam. A put-on run by the Pharmaceutical and Insurance industries. There couldn't be any real, normal people who disagree with Obama. He's—why, he's perfect. He's The One.

It's okay, Chris. We've all been in love. Blind to those faults pointed out by others. Ready to fight to the death anyone who dares besmirch the name or reputation of our Beloved.

How it must astound you, Chris, that there could possibly be people who cannot see Barack for the warm, wonderful leader he so obviously is. That they could be anything but stunned by the beauty and confidence he radiates.

But you... you can see Him as He is, can't you, Chris? As he stands there, the very essence of power and authority. And then his voice. Oh, if you could still get it up, how that Voice would send you over the edge!

Ah, but how right this secret love feels. The sidelong glances. That knowing, warm smile. You pay your own tributes, do you not? As you sit in your dressing room, you know you should be preparing for your show, but, after all, the President's Weekly Prime Time address is about to begin. And the lights go down. You light the special candles. Box of tissue on your right -- just in case. And when the President speaks, you close your eyes and imagine. The world fades away, and he's talking to you. Just to you. That familiar tingle runs up your leg, and in your minds eye, you are with Him alone, at kneeling at His feet. He talks that wonderful, beautiful talk, and you, in tribute ... — but for now the fantasy will have to do.

At least you have your dreams, until that day finally comes. The day when you finally throw caution to the wind and work up the courage to put on that blue dress, that dark beret, and knock, ever so gently, on His door.

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