Is it live, or is it Chimpy?

"Calgon, take me away."

C'mon down, you're on the Price Is Variable According To The Whims Of Our Corporate Overlords!*

"Up for bid, the 2012 presidency, closest without going over. Ralph?"
"5 million, Drew, and by the way the Democrats and Repub --"
"Yeah, yeah, that's nice. Sarah?"
"Gosh, 800 million."
"Barack?"
"What's the top bid again?"
"The top bid is 800 million."
"I'd like to bid, um, 800 million and one!"

*I haven't done one of these in months, and I don't know why because they're tailor-made for lazy bastards like yours truly, so thanks to Ethan for unintended, belated inspiration via the goofiest pretzeldential shot I've seen in eons. What, you thought I was going to postmortem the Clowns? Sure, & then I'm going to watch replays of The Drive & The Fumble, walk on hot coals, break into & subsequently romp through a federal bioweapons lab, inject air bubbles into my circulatory system, at last high diving into a vat of hydrochloric acid, the scythe of embolism striking whilst airborne.

P.S. I just got called sir. Saturn, a pox on thee.

Oscar-worthy

"Please don't tell the Ayatollah I love Avatar of the Great Satan."

Forget it, Marge, it's Chinatown!

"Relax, Tim. When we come collecting, Goldman Sachs will be last."

America's Favorite Game Show

"Come on down, you're on the Price Is Right!"

Gas, Grassley or Ass

"I'd never pull your plug, sweet thang."
"Don't get fresh with me, young man."

Mr. 3000, Or, I Don't Feel Like Writing A Goddamn Thing Today, You Bastards

"Trust me, sir. The beer nuts are in aisle five."



















"In America, you crush communism. In Belarus, communism crush you!"
















"Another joke rewrite? Being a freshman sucks."

Musical chairs

Former pretzeldent Bill Clinton and noted lunatic Kim Jong Il
gird their loins for the final round.

Near beer

"Yes, we are derailing the public option, but in exchange, one lucky winner gets an all-expense paid trip to the White House for a beer with yours truly."

I apologize in advance for the lameness of the following post (not really)

I'm here to plug *clap* you up.

Moscow Tea Party

Everyone knows Putin prefers two lumps and now, so does Obama.

Could you say that a little more sexfully?

"Not now, Harry, I just had a lot of work done."

Mahmoud and the Chocolate Factory

"I got the last golden ticket!"

A hunka hunka burnin' crap

"Pourquoi est-ce que je dois être si court?"

Using The Google to locate choice imagery to couple with my expertly crafted prose, my original plan was to create a masterpiece of comedy chronicling the America! Yay! jaunt of Hussein X through the foetid backwater that is Old Europe, skillfully uniting the visual, the literary and the humorous, a disparate trinity cycling into a cohesive whole not seen since the days when the works of Aristophanes were fresh upon the stage.

Then I remembered that I suck. Then I remembered that I'm perilously close to the edge of bloggy burnout. So you get a video of an exploding head instead.

Halfway house

"Settle down *guffaw guffaw* Bibi, the check's in the mail."

Now, on to matters of far more import.

The Fucking Lakers vs. Denver: There are many who believe in the awesome power of the Super Magical Jesus Baby, Caliph Charlie or Jumpin' Jehovah, but one of the many altars I worship at is that of fancy, shmancy statisticalism, and such number crunching tells us that Denver has a much better chance that you think, David Stern, Generalissimo of Marketing. That said, The Fucking Lakers in seven because what would an NBA Finals be without mindless gushing like those squishy, goo-filled HFCS candy bites about the greatness of The Steak while failing to ever mention that the reason the chump even has a second shot at a fourth title is the same reason he got his first three: a big man. Sure, El Beardo ain't Shaq Fu, but betcha Kupchak hasn't even gotten so much as a card.


















Cleveland vs. Orlando: Pick against the Cavs? After all my not-so-subtle virtual chest-thumping on the bitter heels of forty-plus years of choking and failure that, like Prometheus' bird, eats my innards every night? Pshaw. Cavs in five, unless Dwight Howard learns his first actual post move today, then Cavs in six.

Get off my lawn!

The story is here, a sordid little tale of raunchy sex, kinky food fetishes, rock and roll blow parties, blackmail, prostitution rings, rings around the collar, the county coroner's addiction to sniffing formaldehyde, the county sheriff's refusal to spread the confiscated drug wealth around and nepotism -- I might have made some of that up, but not this --

Burkhart later asked Chilton if he remembered making the threats.

"Sir, I don't remember," Chilton said. "I was too drunk."

Okay, so the story isn't as entertaining as a low-class gangster yarn but I thought the picture of that handsome devil was comical until I realized that that's going to be me in a few decades, scowling, stringy drool flying left and right and jabbing my finger in the Ben Gay-saturated air towards the invisible children trampling my overgrown, weed-infested grass.

Kids, lay off the sauce.

In like a lion

The power of Simba compels you!
The power of Simba compels you!
The power of Simba compels you!

Hair today, gone tomorrow

"Great Satan! Just you wait 'til mine fills out!"

Heaven and Hell

Chimpy, you were blogging heaven. Couldn't think of a goddamn thing to throw against the electron wall? Use The Google to find a stupid picture of you -- but I repeat myself -- add a badly composed line, et voilà, I was done for the day. Just watch:















"I told you he knows how to use a phone, Major! You owe me ten bucks!"

Now? Oh sure, there's plenty of crap going on in the world in between album reviews -- someone please release something already --
such as past pretzeldents and serial killers
Middle East fuckery and everyday dumbassery,
the soul of Murka temporarily pacified if one doesn't ruminate for too long about how our war criminals have gotten away with it and the fact that if single payer hops along I'll pay for your mug of hops, limit one customer,
yes, read the fine print
I'm only telling you thrice
"-- that's two, dude --"
angry Shakespeare: fuck ye! fuck ye!
coffee or tea, Dick Armey's Army of Dick
featuring Generalissimo Rush the Prick,
would you like fries or pills with that,
bacon and eggs, ketchup and ham,
jelly or jam -- yes, I'm hungry, breakfast was hours ago --
loose lips sink ships even tugboats.

According to Wikipedia, it's the unofficial birthday of this dude and who would dare question their triumphal authority, so here's something from heaven --



-- and something from hell:



Ain't no yin without a yang, yo. Anyone have any blogging ideas, feel free to suggest something reasonable, i.e. not too taxing, in comments.

Shit and giggles

"Mr. President, the officers from The Hague are here."



















"Just kidding, sir. You got away with it!"