The Amazing Translate-In-A-Bottle!

Hi, Billy Mays here! Are you tired of scrubbing your brain trying to understand exactly what the soundbites of talking hairpieces and politicians actually mean?

Fear these hairballs no more, for with The Amazing Translate-In-A-Bottle, you too can make sense of what these jokers blurt out, all from the comfort of your own home!

Simply spray your television screen with our award-winning formula, and by the time you pop open a cold one, The Translate-In-A-Bottle will already be done!

Just watch!











"Bling blang blung, zabba yabba dabba doo piddly poo. Zingus stingus Tom Daschle wingus dingus. Bargle fargle President Obama boogle foogle. Clanky danky hanky panky Wall Street greet beet peat moss hoss Lou Dobbs. Lou?


















"Middle class gas grass ass razzle dazzle, Wolf. Mexcans paint cans candy corn maize injuns engines! Goober ploober Main Street toilet seat --"

click














"Iran stan flim flam man jihad Pequod rod grod flod General Zod!"














"Rod grod flod General Zod?"















" Zod, America, Zod!"

click



























"Amazing!

And if you call within the next ten minutes, and we'll add a second bottle, free! That's a $39.95 value! Those nasty politicians and paid shills aren't going away any time soon, but now the power will be in your hands when your finger is on the trigger of The Amazing Translate-In-A-Bottle! Call now!"

Comfortably dumb

Childish scribblers, let me summarize --
no, I'm not here to proselytize,
but sprechen sie truth
and that's the honest to Satan's tooth!

Barack Hussein Obama
-- oh, save us from the drama! --
gave the bird, 'bout it, no maybe,
to the Super Magical Jesus Baby

by playing with the DNA
of his own and Rod the Helmet.
Crazy, ridiculous, mad, you say?
Here's a real scandal you won't soon forget:

one mutated stem cell sandwich,
a failure? No! A winner? Yes, victory!
Vilsack, you Monsanto bitch!
good job brewing zombie mobs of insanity

refusin' to disclose what they're hidin':
Hussein and Rod, twin fathers of Osama bin Laden!


















Talking hairpieces, how 'bout that Kennedy chick?
Makes you wanna flic your Bic
and set fire to your toupee, teevee,
the house burnin' far as the eye can see!

What's the scourge of the nation?
Terrorism? Masturbation? No! The worst prestidigitation,
plastic gossip for your amusement:
diabolical, insidious infotainment!

You're either with the networks or agin' us
in this, Our Great Country!
Sorry, just tripped over the Stumbling Colossus --
being eaten by American nobility?

"Yeah, but what can you do or say?"
Oh, narcissistic fairy in the sky,
bringing freedom to Iraq was child's play.
So instead of Afghanistan, let us numb up Dubai!

So dance your happy dance, and when you're through
don't move a muscle, gonna throw my shoe.

I've got a today mindset

Comrades!

Given that tomorrow is the anniversary of the birth of the Great Patriotic War, I thought to myself on the bus ride to work this morning, "Randal, you handsome devil, as usual, you have no post at the ready -- you sure do live on the edge, you rebel, you -- so how about penning a well-informed and witty essay glorifying this Holy Day of Obligation Prime Example of Blowback Thunderbirds Are Go to Blow Up Brown People?"

No need to point out that the above is about Bush the Smarter. Same family, same rot. I just wanted something extra riffy 'cause I'm in a bad mood.

Gentlemen, start your pimping!

"On Thursday, we will put aside politics and come together to renew that unity, to honor the memory of each and every American who died, and to grieve with the families and friends who lost loved ones while meekly reestablishing our patriotic street cred so that Beltway jokers won't pen snide copy about Democrats because that's mean and they don't do mean which is why they continually refuse to point out the permanent and crass exploitation of this event by Republicans at every opport --

Sorry, I must've fallen asleep while penning this well-informed and witty essay.

I just wish I had dreamed about naked ladies instead of Dems with spines.

Oh, and pragmatism trolls? Stick it up your ass, or I'll write about soccer.

Anyway, having run through various scenarios using other historical events that happened on September 11 in order to point out our propensity towards a grotesque nationalistic fervor worthy of a nineteenth-century tract self-published out of some lunatic's basement, I found that none of them were all that hilarious. Oh, sure, I could've lambasted the current American political and cultural scene via the Treaty of Kars deftly teaming up with Gary Numan, some of those always-comical Byzantine shenanigans, the 1973 coup d'état in Chile or, most frightening of all, the introduction of the Ford Pinto.

The more I toyed with these, the deeper I fell into self-deception which *sniff* slowly revealed its true nature to my conscious mind: self-loathing at having watched *sob* CNN for three consecutive nights.

No, it wasn't hour upon hour of Leslie the Living Stubble, Lou the Mexican and Captain 360°, merely a few moments here and there. But aren't a few moments of this Guantanamo-esque torture enough? I ask you, isn't it enough?




















So, for at least fifteen agonizing minutes -- though it felt to be an eternity of screeching and painful aural violence rupturing the delicate inner ear -- I was afforded the privilege of listening to the aforementioned Leslie the Living Stubble along with Mr. Crowley, David Gurgling and Mark Harlequin wax idiotic on the Palinosity of Miss Mooseburger.

She's Distractastic!

Praise be unto Mighty Cthulhu, for I was saved by a baseball game! Yet resisting the cosmic pull of such well-coiffed and inhuman fuckery proved to be far beyond the limits of my mortal powers and I was commanded through the hidden signals beamed directly into our skulls by UN satellites to flip back during the commercial where, instead of learning about the newest deals at the local auto mart from another well-coiffed stooge in front of Old Glory -- was this section 827 of the Patriot Act, everything must be sold with a fucking flag? I know I'm in America, you fucks -- I got to hear more about Mayor Emeril and her edgy, lipsticked pigs and pitbulls.

Everyone is sexist.

Palin? Sexist.

Obama? Sexist.

Can we talk about issues now?

This is America, Randal.

Oops. Je m'excuse. Gimme more, CNN! I love celebrities!

Change up, little trooper, it'll be alright once your cross that bridge and find the merry old land of nowhere. And if not, there's always booze, though maybe you should try shooting wolves from a helicopter. I hear it's a blast!

Since I was smart enough to not watch any more of that putrefying network -- because I'm not addicted to watching teevee jerks boil my blood like some people; I've got self-control, I do -- I missed this supposed event which, frankly, I don't buy for a nanosecond. A talking hairpiece acting like a real journalist? What's next, flying pigs, with or without lipstick? Sexist! Derek Anderson, Super Bowl MVP? Randal Graves, Nobel Prize for Literature? The entire Democratic Party growing a collective spine, assailing their opponents while embracing a truly progressive platform as they distance themselves further and further from the true masters of the realm, the corporates?

I don't believe it, either.

You're having a hard time ending this post, aren't you.

That obvious, huh. Here we are, PETA babes getting their protest on in beautiful downtown Cleveland the other day.


















Sexist? Ask PETA. I keep my threads on when I fight The Man.

All-American

Beat it, Froggy. And take your stinkin' Euro with you.
It's our turn now.

"And zeez Yanks zay wee are zee rude!"














"Uh, you're the president. Sure, it's possible to have a bathroom break, sir."

I don't know what got into that Karl Marx-loving Randal, but we here at Randal's blog would like to apologize to each out-of-touch bourgeois real AMERICAN out there. And what better way to do so than to celebrate one of those most AMERICAN of pastimes, being afraid of actual free speech the smacking of a cowhide sphere with a big wooden stick, then running around on the grass like small children!

I know that in addition to Baseball, I'm supposed to mention


















Mom














and Apple Pie, but in lieu (damn you, French, get out of AMERICAN!) of such clichés, I'd like to talk about something that's even more AMERICAN than those, in fact, more AMERICAN than nearly everything under God's blue sky save our undying love of the Lord and blowing brown people up.

I talk, of course, of second chances.















Last year, as the Indians were cruising to a major league best 96 wins, pitcher Cliff Lee was dealing with injuries, trouble with his teammates, a stint in the minors, and a career-worst 6.29 ERA. It doesn't get much lower than that for someone who was once a 200-inning staple of a starting rotation. Now that he's healthy and has eliminated the flaws in his delivery, he's tied for the AMERICAN League lead in wins with 12, his 2.31 ERA is second, and he'll be starting tonight's All-Star game in Yankee Stadium.














Another man that has taken full advantage of being given a second chance is Texas Rangers outfielder Josh Hamilton. Once the first overall pick in the 1999 MLB draft, Mr. Hamilton began to waste his God-given talent by becoming addicted to certain substances. He has since gotten clean, all thanks to, in his own words, Sweet Zombie Jesus and is now in the top ten in the AMERICAN League in batting average, runs, home runs, slugging percentage, OPS and leads all of major league baseball in RBIs with a whopping 95.

What lesson can we learn from second chances?

That even if you can't get the job done, everyone hates you and/or you love the booze and coke, you too can someday grow up and do something memorable with your life.


















"You can even become dictator preznit of AMERICAN! If you got friends in high places, cheat, a pantywaist opponent, a breezy press corps and a, a, a, Unka Dick, what's another word for stoopid?"

















"Grrrr! Cheney want baby flesh!"

If politics was a person, I'd like to set it on fire while laughing uncontrollably at the screams

I've said it before and I'll say it again: this is what happens when you sit down to watch the talking hairpieces.

But Randal, you say, that's a mighty good rant.

Indeed it is, but our esteemed ranter has likely cut 72.6 years off of her life by watching such overheated tripe. And if there's one thing you don't want to overheat, it's tripe. Really loses its flavor and then you're stuck compensating with too much Mrs. Dash.

Being one who is naturally cynical, I haven't come remotely close to embracing the inspirational, feel-good-campaignism of the Senator from Illinois. Just ain't my gig. Of course, being one who is naturally not inclined to overtly militaristic imperialism, the jackass from Arizona garners support in the negative. By default, I trust the average politician about as far as I can throw them, and I haven't been all that strong since I got off the flaxseed oil. Even pressing triangle, circle or square has become somewhat of a chore. The verbal smackdown by Barack Hussein X of Holy Joe, a truly contemptible and vile excuse of a homo sapien, was, however, quite enjoyable -- keep it up, young man, and you may yet win me over to indifference. Even more enjoyable was my (and other's) representative's on-the-floor crusade/jihad for impeachment that I know will end up going nowhere.

Yes, Lack O' Votes Brigade and the We Hate The Perfect Coalition, I understand your viewpoints, and even sympathize on rare occasions when I'm drunk or voting or voting while drunk. What I don't get are the 40-50% of Americans -- a greater amount than the crazy few still counting themselves as followers of Satan's puppet -- who don't support impeachment at all -- are you fucking blind, been living in a cave on Mars for eight years or merely passed out because of painful gastrointestinal problems caused by salmonella-infested tomatoes? Only $5/gallon gas truly boils your blood, the reasons for the price increase be damned? -- nor the cowardly and/or evil fucks of both parties that waste time in Congress investigating my fellow juicers or documentary filmmakers. (I dare not bother with the well-coiffed assholes at all; they're as helpful to the discourse as bovine spongiform encephalopathy is to good health) No, wait, I do understand them, as do you. All too well. But please, do not waste precious time defending either of these groups.


They don't deserve it, but we certainly deserve the government we have. A shame we cannot excise the 25 percenters from polite society like we aren't doing with the creators of this planned clusterfuck. I know that doesn't sound uniquely American. Big deal. I had no control over where I was born. If I had popped out in Gaza, I'd probably be a suicide bomber. If I had crawled into existence in France, I'd likely be topped by a beret (socialist, not raspberry) while writing bad existential poetry along the Seine.

Our outdated, two-party system doesn't work. Another uniquely unAmerican statement. I'd love to consistently vote third party, but unless you have a foolproof plan for a grand cultural shift, good fucking luck with those guys in any kind of national election. Folks like George Wallace, Ross Perot and Ralph Nader were the anomalies that proved the rule, and none of them had a legitimate shot at sitting in the Oval Office. Ever.

Oh, Randal, stop helping to prop up a broken system.

I will, when one of the major parties stops nominating candidates who count bombing, unfettered money worship and invasion of privacy instead of feathers, body oils and champagne three-ways as fetishes.

Look, we're a winner-take-all nation. Despite the lip service played to the underdog, America loves a champ; it's forced into our collective social DNA from birth. Don't believe me? How much Yankees and Red Sox paraphernalia do you see compared to the Brewers? Did you already forget the choking jingoism after 9/11? Shining city on a hill, hear us march on down to stomp you out of existence so we can steal your take our resources 'cause we're the greatest thing since the invention of the sandwich, motherfuckers.

I am legion, for we are many.

Everyone not the boss is quickly forgotten (unless you're the Buffalo Bills) because we're all trying to be the boss. There is a deeply ingrained expectation, and acceptance, of a bipolar world.

"My, what simplicity you have!"

"All the better to eat you with my dear!"

Yes/no, either/or, up/down, left/right, man/woman, red/blue, ketchup/mustard, good/bad, us/them. Nothing changes overnight save which B-movie you're watching on cable while sprawled out on the living room couch, bloated from too many bags of Funyuns.

Of course, this would all be solved if we had a parliamentary machine with a distinctly European flavor instead. Tell me you aren't salivating at the mere thought of bitching about an entirely different set of problems!



















Those marching suckers were pissed off over, not an obvious transformation into a full-fledged rogue nation, but beef. Beef. Too bad this would never happen here. Protest and survive? Bah.

In a few decades, humanity is going to look back and wonder what the fuck we were thinking by not kicking these lunatics out of office. Oaths just aren't what they used to be.

I wonder how psycho the next one will be.

And remember, if paranoia about losing the election had/has/will have you against it, fret not, mes amis. We can still lose, trials and DOC inmate numbers or not. Place faith in the American voter and affiliated electoral contraptions at your own peril. I will not be joining you. Unless you're buying. I warn you though, the green fairy is expensive.

"Fool me once, shame on you. You fool me, can't get fooled again."

Oh, but we can.

Crime does indeed pay, you and your predecessors proved that.

You didn't think I put that up there for shits and giggles, did you?

Speaking of crime -- boy, am I the Master of the Segue -- a comment by Divajood in the Miami Vice post from this past weekend got me thinking. Most album covers that should -- if there were any justice in the world, and we know there isn't -- be illegal are usually associated with equally repulsive music, regardless of genre. But, within your personal collection, are there any putrescent sleeves stealthily hiding exquisite music?

I'm not talking ones that call forth neither good nor bad feelings, ones that fail to conjure venomous hatred and loathing, but ones that are, frankly, embarrassing. Until you spin the disc. See, even the greats fuck up.

My choice: one of my all-time favorite albums, a completely underrated classic within the primordial metallic soup that was the 1970s that one wouldn't know merely by looking at the disco inferno duds worn by Messrs. Butler, Iommi, Osbourne and Ward. I blame the drugs.

















Top that.

Two great tastes that taste great together*

What to write, what to write. Hmm.

Dear Penthouse. I can't tell that story. It's made up. It's too risqué.

It was a dark and stormy night. Nor that one. Dozing heads can severely damage delicate keyboards and I don't want to be held responsible.

There once was a man from Nantucket. Nope, no more poems this week.

Wait. That noise.

Ouch! My cochlea!

What the hell is that hideous cacophony?












RANDAL!






Yes, media?

Did you hear what McCain said?

"My friends, I never liked Rev. Hagee!"

Did you hear what Hillary said?

"Assassinate the superdelegates and their puppies!"

Did you hear what Obama said?

"I liberated Auschwitz! By myself!"

Did you hear Scotty wrote a book?

"I'm a repentant whore! For only $27.95!"

Did you hear what Bush said?

"Of course we never used proper gander! No follow-ups? Good!"

Did you hear we didn't do our jobs?

"We couldn't have done them any better!"

MAKE IT STOP ALREADY.

I've got nothing today -- and I mean zero -- were not yesterday's posts obvious precursors? Writing more crappy verse sure does sap the marrow from the bones -- I didn't waste my day off doing some extended family BBQ shindig, horror of boredom-inducing horrors -- and I'm not posting on some fucking political shit -- the above does not count -- so here are two videos of widely disparate musical styles, completely unrelated save for the fact that my multifaceted weirdness digs them both. This blog certainly isn't big enough to say 'open thread' -- isn't that what all comments sections are anyway, as if there was some iron-clad Law of the Tubes® carved in electrons demanding that we always stay on topic? I'm not going to go all police state unless you present yourself in the manner of a goddamn tool, like going off topic -- why do I fragment my sentences so much or run them on as if they were signed up for a cybernetic marathon? -- why is Leon getting larger? -- but if you don't say something, I'll merely end up talking to myself.

Or post on professional sports. And I know you don't want that. Right, Randal?

That's right, Randal. (No, I'm not drunk. Shut up.)



Satyricon, Fuel for Hatred




David Oistrakh and Co. playing the first movement of Bach's violin concerto in A minor

*title and concept deviously lifted (and maliciously altered) from the inscrutable and groovetastic Freida Bee. [Can a person or object be inscrutable and groovetastic? According to the OED, inscrutable means:

1. That cannot be searched into or found out by searching; impenetrable or unfathomable to investigation; quite unintelligible, entirely mysterious.

2. Rarely of things physical, as an abyss: Impenetrable, unfathomable.

Thus, if an entity is entirely mysterious, unknowable, how can they be labeled groovetastic? Mustn't we have provable facts and/or concrete experiences in order to quantify using our personal scale of groove? Since the entity we're talking about is a physical being, a fellow blogger, this could satisfy the criterion, no? On the other hand, the concept 'mysterious' in and of itself could be considered by certain parties to be groovetastic if one has an affinity for such abstract sentiments, bypassing the possible need for a physical object, provable facts and/or concrete experiences altogether. This is more than a simple either/or proposition and requires further study. Perhaps I can get a government grant. "No, Senator, I'm looking for more efficient ways to blow people up."]

The Man With The Golden Gun Hair*

"My friends..."

"Um, you're talking to just me, John."

"I like baseball. Do you like bas --"

"NOW THAT'S REAL CODPIECE MATERIAL!"

"Once I went fishing on Cape Cod."

I've got nothing today, dudes and dudettes -- though it is nice being at home instead of work on a Saturday for once -- so close your eyes for a moment and think of another world. That's right, close them all away ('all' for those of you blessed or cursed with multiple eyeballs, apparently. Why didn't I simply correct that awkward phrase? Beats me.) Clear your mind of clutter and concentrate on this magical place akin to naught but childish fantasy and mysterious whimsy! A thoroughly mad, impossible, fantabulous world of the truly bizarre, one in which *gasp!* Chris Matthews is not a flesh-eating diabolic beast of primordial myth. It's hard work, your President knows.

So have fun this weekend with the woefully inadequate Mad Lib below. No peeking, you bastards! The effort that busts the most guts in comments gets a prize: bragging rights!

What, you thought there would be hard cash involved? Capitalist pigs.

1. noun: a place, adjective, noun, verb: past participle, noun, adjective, famous television idiot.
2. adjective, noun, verb, adjective, noun.
3. adjective, noun, noun.
4. adverb, verb, unconventional occupation.
5. another famous television idiot, adjective, noun, adverb, adjective, noun.
6. vulgarity, adverb, verb, adjective, noun, adjective, noun, adjective.
7. adjective, noun: disarmingly weird locale, noun: plural, adjective, noun: plural.



I said no peeking!



I fucking mean it!



Do I not look Very Serious?



If you scroll down I'll stick a stamp to your ass and mail you to The Undisclosed Location. You really want to be Cheney's next meal?



That's right. Scroll back up like good little boys and girls.



1. One fine, sunny beltway day, Tweety was going to ____noun: a place____ to have his ____adjective____ ____noun____ ____verb: past participle____. On the way, he met his ____noun____, the ____adjective____ bag of gas, ____famous television idiot_____. Tweety was surprised.

2. "Wow, you ____adjective____ ____noun____, I didn't expect to see you ____verb____ your ____adjective____ ____noun____ this early!"

3. "You know the old saying, 'The ____adjective____ ____noun____ catches the ____noun____.'"

4. "Something catches what? Sorry, I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking of The Straight Talk Express ____adverb____ ____verb____. What a colossus of ____unconventional occupation____!"

5. "Shhh! ____another famous television idiot____ might hear you! Do you want that ____adjective____ ____noun____ ____adverb____ blabbing to you-know-who about your ____adjective____ ____noun____ fetish?"

6. "Oh, relax. Don't be such an elitist ____vulgarity____. I'll just ____adverb____ ____verb____ this ____adjective____ ____noun____ until their ____adjective____ ____noun____ disappears like evidence of my ____adjective____ man crushes on vile bastards."

7. And Tweety said goodbye, whistling a ____adjective____ tune as he headed back to his ____noun: disarmingly weird locale____ with his stack of ____noun: plural____ and his ____adjective____ ____noun: plural____ to spend the day reminiscing about John Sidney McCain.

*yes, I realize that it's now red. Blame Ian Fleming for not being proactive.

Tales of Terror

The curtain of twilight will drop in thirteen short hours, and after the life-giving sun, protector of all that is righteous and holy, slips beneath the horizon to settle into a deep sleep, pitch-black Walpurgisnacht arrives when the witches -- you know, left-wing chicks -- emerge from the cthonic shadows to begin their blasphemous sacrifice of the tiniest, most sweetestest babies in the history of the world to satisfy the insatiable, flesh-hungry maw of The Dark Lord, draped in a darkness so dark, you wouldn't be able to see anything in that darkest dark even if you had one of those industrial-strength flashlights, the kind they sometimes sell at Home Depot.

So in honor of this poor man's Halloween without candy, I offer to you this chilling tale that will curdle your blood and freeze your bones.

*whoosh! whoosh!*

That was a spooky wind sound. Not scary enough for you?

How about this:



Scared yet?










Brit: On today's show, Sean Hannity, Chris Matthews, Bill O'Reilly and myself will be talking about the issues of the day that are of vital import to each and every American: Barack Obama's patriotism problem, Barack Obama's pastor problem and why John McCain is so strapping. Sean, let's start with you.








Sean: Brit, everything has worked to perfection these last seven years: the flourishing economy, record-low unemployment and inflation, anti-terrorism efforts that would make Tom Clancy proud and the decision of geopolitical genius that was the invasion of Iraq. And what have we seen since? A prodigious drop in worldwide terrorism, stable crude oil prices and the first Jeffersonian democracy in the Middle East after toppling the most evil man since Hitler, Saddam Hussein.

The reason Barack Hussein Obama doesn't wear a flag pin is because he fears the blinding aura of the president, and when people see an American flag, they can think of only one thing: George W. Bush.












Chris: He doesn't fear Bush you fool, he fears the New and Improved Codpiece! Just imagine him, a seasoned pilot, landing on that flight deck!









Bill: You want him to crash another plane and waste more of the taxpayer's dollars? Who's looking out for you? I am. So just shut up, MSNBC bitch.
Shut. Up.












Chris: You want a piece of me, cultural backwater? Nice jacket, by the way.
East coast elitist.











Brit: Gentleman, gentleman, you're sounding like the left side of the internets. Now, the Vice President's lawyer says that no one in this dimension or the next -- including our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ -- has any authority over his office.








Sean: Sieg heil, mein Cheney. Brit, don't be meek little girly girl like Alan. Even that flea is in awe of the power that dare not speak its name. I have something much more important to say here. We all know that Rev. Wright is a rampaging, Afrocentric lunatic who wants to spearhead the Barack Hussein Obama plan of enslaving White Christian America, and this dovetails brilliantly into my original point --












Chris: John McCain! John McCain! Baba booey! Baba booey!








Sean: Don't interrupt me again you out-of-touch beltway bastard! I'm a man of the people!











Brit: Gentleman, please, a little decorum. And perhaps a towel to wipe off my drool. I'm not as spry as I used to be.








Sean: Shut the hell up, old man. You want to tangle, Matthews? Let's g --












Chris: Sean and Alan sitting in a tree...








Sean: THAT'S IT, ASSHOLE!




























Bill: Holy shit! Matthews ate Sean! He's the real Jekyll and Hyde!
You sonofabitch!




















Brit: *screams* It's too late for me! Run, Bill, r --

































Bill: I'll fucking get you, Matthews!

To be continued?

Sing

Don't worry, I'm not going to sing. Do you enjoy the harmonious cacophony of fingernails cascading down a chalkboard? An event quite reminiscent of me being tuneful, as tuneful as the screams the world currently finds itself going deaf from.

I'm sure once we get our house in order, we'll be able to afford that hearing aid we so desperately need. I need a drink to celebrate this upbeatness. Anyone have some ice?

And you doubted my fabulous mood. Bloody wankers.

Restrictions may apply

"That's a ridiculous question. Pumpkinhead steals his questions from me!"

This is unpatriotic!

Maybe Barack Obama and Hillary Rodham Clinton can sum up their policy differences in 30 seconds or less on Wednesday night.

They will have to if they are going to get their points across well on networks other than ABC, which is sponsoring the hotly anticipated Democratic debate that evening. According to the usage guidelines circulated by ABC, other news organizations are only allowed to excerpt half a minute from the broadcast.

I've been blessed by The Lord to live in the Eastern time zone, but what about our brave men and women out west? They'll be forced to engage in bated breathing while waiting for such hotly anticipated Gibby nuggets like:

"Senator Billary -- can you put down the shot glass and rifle, please? -- will you actually be able to take the call at 3 a.m. telling you that the deadly Iran/Al-Qaeda Conglomerate of Cartoon Supervillainy has started their invasion of The Free Democratic Republic Of Iraq if you're busy busting up yet another one of your husband's trysts?"

"Senator Osama, in between bouts of wiping marijuana ash from the dog-eared pages of your copy of Das Kapital, do you eat both Christian babies on your plate, or do you share a limb or two with your Muslim brethren and sistren as your communist manifesto dictates you should?"

Enjoy watching that claptrap, kids. I'm afraid I'll have to pass. That booze won't drink itself.

I'm so excited!

Wow! Both Tweety --

















-- no, the other one --














-- and Pumpkinhead --













-- no, the other one --

















-- listen, asshole, the other asshole --













-- thank you. Sheesh. Those two Manly Men of Aqua Velva Reporting Manliness, complete with Codpiece accessory, will be in my hometown, not all that far from where I live and work!

Be right back, I have to go projectile vomit and find an American flag lapel pin. That's how we knew Larry Craig's wide stancing gay bathroom sex and David Vitter's deviant diapering were patriotic acts: they had on their lapel pins. I don't want to be labeled as a commie pinko homo Hitleristic jihadist while I watch the debate with my equally commie pinko homo Hitleristic jihadist wife and our children, a future squadron of the suicide bomber corps of that Unholy Imam, Barack Hussein Osama.

P.S. This great American will be here too!














Who's a fan of this even greater American!

Why am I telling you this? In case the concentration of such gooey stupidity in one place coagulates into some blob-like creature that decimates the surrounding environs, you'll know why Cleveland will have disappeared off the face of the planet.

Update!
For a list of quality questions compiled by tomcat that in no way, size, shape or form, whether magic circle, cube, cylinder, trapezoid, dodecahedron or other assorted polygon, will be asked by Pumpkinhead -- or any talking hairpiece for that matter -- go here.