Friday, July 18, 2008
The McChurian Candidate
In political campaigns, truth will out.
It’s painfully obvious that Barack Obama is a Muslim. It’s not just his middle name that’s a giveaway. It’s also the fact he insists on facing Mecca five times a day. I’ve seen the videos. He might as well just scream out “Allah Akhbar!” at every rally. After all, when has The New Yorker ever been wrong?
Lost in all of this, however, is perhaps an even more troubling story, a story the mainstream media is reluctant to report.
We all know about John McCain’s capture and subsequent torture at the hands of the North Vietnamese. His heroism is well documented. What is not known however is that while imprisoned, McCain was given a small gift: a microchip implanted in his left temporal lobe. Encoded in this chip are instructions from his Vietnamese masters. It is only a matter of time before McCain acts on these orders.
While visiting Hanoi last week for Zagat’s Guide to Puppy Restaurants, I was fortunate enough to meet Xio Lin Cho, a former NVA soldier and one of McCain’s interrogators at The Hanoi Hilton. Over a traditional lunch of cha gio, bánh chưng, and broiled Shar-Pei, the old lieutenant explained how McCain’s brain had been hotwired.
“It was a very simple procedure,” Xio recalled. “Virtually painless. Mr. McCain was conscious throughout and even joked that he wanted another chip implanted is his penis, which he called “his other little brain.”
I asked him what sort of commands had been programmed and how the American public would know when Senator McCain was prepared to act. Would there be any warning signs?
Xio smiled, a piece of puppy dangling from a molar. “You have already seen the signs.
Mr. McCain was instructed to marry a blonde heiress with strong beer connections. He briefly dated the St. Pauli Girl and the Coors Swedish Bikini Team before he settled on his current wife Cindy.”
He leaned in, a smile breaking every so slightly. “When you say ‘Bud’…” Xio chuckled and used his small hands to imitate some sort of explosion.
“Do you want another sign?” Xio asked.
I nodded emphatically.
“When Mr. McCain speaks of ‘Czechoslovakia,’ it is not by accident. Back in 1969, there was a Czechoslovakia, and Mr. McCain still believes this is so. The word ‘Czechoslovakia’ is the first indicator that his final orders have been initiated.
I was stunned, so stunned that not even the delicious lightly seared Shar-Pei could hold my attention. I begged him for more information.
Xio lowered his eyes. “On Inauguration Day 2009, John McCain will walk up to the podium to take the oath of office. At the exact moment he says “So help me God,” something will happen that will make your 9/11 seem like a firecracker.”
“What? What?” I implored.
“I have said too much already.” Xio turned to the waitress and asked for a doggy bag, not fully getting the irony.
“But what if Obama wins? Then we’ll be okay, right?”
Xio stood up and bowed. “That cannot happen. Mr. McCain will make sure it will not happen.” And with that, the frail Xio walked away, leaving me alone with a thousand questions and the reasonable lunch bill.
The waitress leaned over. “Comrade Xio always speaks the truth, but he left out one important thing.”
It was days later before I found out what she meant, in a fax sent to my hotel. The cunning Xio indeed had left out one thing.
It is not my intent to scare or tease my readers. Suffice it to say, there is more than one radical Muslim running for President right now.
It’s painfully obvious that Barack Obama is a Muslim. It’s not just his middle name that’s a giveaway. It’s also the fact he insists on facing Mecca five times a day. I’ve seen the videos. He might as well just scream out “Allah Akhbar!” at every rally. After all, when has The New Yorker ever been wrong?
Lost in all of this, however, is perhaps an even more troubling story, a story the mainstream media is reluctant to report.
We all know about John McCain’s capture and subsequent torture at the hands of the North Vietnamese. His heroism is well documented. What is not known however is that while imprisoned, McCain was given a small gift: a microchip implanted in his left temporal lobe. Encoded in this chip are instructions from his Vietnamese masters. It is only a matter of time before McCain acts on these orders.
While visiting Hanoi last week for Zagat’s Guide to Puppy Restaurants, I was fortunate enough to meet Xio Lin Cho, a former NVA soldier and one of McCain’s interrogators at The Hanoi Hilton. Over a traditional lunch of cha gio, bánh chưng, and broiled Shar-Pei, the old lieutenant explained how McCain’s brain had been hotwired.
“It was a very simple procedure,” Xio recalled. “Virtually painless. Mr. McCain was conscious throughout and even joked that he wanted another chip implanted is his penis, which he called “his other little brain.”
I asked him what sort of commands had been programmed and how the American public would know when Senator McCain was prepared to act. Would there be any warning signs?
Xio smiled, a piece of puppy dangling from a molar. “You have already seen the signs.
Mr. McCain was instructed to marry a blonde heiress with strong beer connections. He briefly dated the St. Pauli Girl and the Coors Swedish Bikini Team before he settled on his current wife Cindy.”
He leaned in, a smile breaking every so slightly. “When you say ‘Bud’…” Xio chuckled and used his small hands to imitate some sort of explosion.
“Do you want another sign?” Xio asked.
I nodded emphatically.
“When Mr. McCain speaks of ‘Czechoslovakia,’ it is not by accident. Back in 1969, there was a Czechoslovakia, and Mr. McCain still believes this is so. The word ‘Czechoslovakia’ is the first indicator that his final orders have been initiated.
I was stunned, so stunned that not even the delicious lightly seared Shar-Pei could hold my attention. I begged him for more information.
Xio lowered his eyes. “On Inauguration Day 2009, John McCain will walk up to the podium to take the oath of office. At the exact moment he says “So help me God,” something will happen that will make your 9/11 seem like a firecracker.”
“What? What?” I implored.
“I have said too much already.” Xio turned to the waitress and asked for a doggy bag, not fully getting the irony.
“But what if Obama wins? Then we’ll be okay, right?”
Xio stood up and bowed. “That cannot happen. Mr. McCain will make sure it will not happen.” And with that, the frail Xio walked away, leaving me alone with a thousand questions and the reasonable lunch bill.
The waitress leaned over. “Comrade Xio always speaks the truth, but he left out one important thing.”
It was days later before I found out what she meant, in a fax sent to my hotel. The cunning Xio indeed had left out one thing.
It is not my intent to scare or tease my readers. Suffice it to say, there is more than one radical Muslim running for President right now.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Mitt and The Mutt: A Cautionary Tale
Back in 1983, a simpler time when Americans needed only to fear an arms race with the Soviet Union and subsequent nuclear annihilation, long before Paris Hilton and Al Qaeda reared their respectively almost-pretty and ugly heads, a man named Mitt Romney strapped his dog Seamus to the roof of his station wagon as he and his large Mormon family trekked from Boston to Canada.
That's right. The same Mitt Romney who is trying (god and Joseph Smith forbid!) to become our next president, a man who changes his positions more often than a flexible Thai hooker on a Saturday night, this man Romney STRAPPED his dog to the roof of his car.
True, the dog was in a pet carrier with a windshield. True, the dog didn't die. But STRAPPING a dog to the roof of your car is illegal in almost all states and even parts of Alabama. And hey, Mitt was driving a station wagon. Had he been driving a smaller car, perhaps two of his towheaded children would've joined Seamus on the roof.
This act of doggy cruelty in and of itself could be considered a “mistake,” an “oversight,” a “stupid fuck*ng boneheaded move by a dickhe*d. “
But no. Mr. Romney, under attack by animal rights groups, is DEFENDING the STRAPPING claiming that Seamus, that beautiful Irish setter, loved to be up there… alone… terrified… pooping himself.
And now his wife, the lovely Anne, is rushing to her husband's defense: “Our dog Seamus rode in an ENCLOSED kennel, not in the open air,” she claims. “And he loved it. Every time he saw it, he jumped up on the tailgate, walked in, and lay down. It was just like the kennel he curled up in at home."
Great. Now we know that a potential First Lady is a stupid lying bitch.
Too bad we can't ask Seamus what he thought. Seamus is dead. And Seamus, like many dogs of his era, couldn't speak English.
No wonder Mitt the Sh*t wants to “double the size” of Guantanamo Bay's detention camps and assure that America will forever be synonymous with torture. Some may say it's a tortured leap of logic to say that a man who mistreats his pets will also mistreat “enemy combatants” or the poor, or be unsympathetic to the neediest in our society.
Look at Adolf Hitler they'll say. Now there was a guy who loved his German shepherd. And see what he was capable of doing?
My friends, these some-may-sayers are wrong. First of all, it's common knowledge Hitler's dog Blondie was a complete assho*e. She was an evil bitch who ate Chihuahuas for breakfast and licked the faces of SS storm troopers. She was no Seamus, possibly the sweetest and most gentle dog who has ever lived.
Politics is personal, but it doesn't come close to our collective personal love for small furry things and Natalie Manes.
Mitt Romney, shouldn't be disqualified from becoming president because he's pro-Iraq, anti-choice and against expanded stem cell research. He shouldn't be discredited because of his faith or beliefs or the three other wives he's hiding in Provo, Utah.
No. Mitt Romney is unfit to be our 44th president because he made Seamus scared. And sad. Just like George Bush does to the rest of us every single day.
That's right. The same Mitt Romney who is trying (god and Joseph Smith forbid!) to become our next president, a man who changes his positions more often than a flexible Thai hooker on a Saturday night, this man Romney STRAPPED his dog to the roof of his car.
True, the dog was in a pet carrier with a windshield. True, the dog didn't die. But STRAPPING a dog to the roof of your car is illegal in almost all states and even parts of Alabama. And hey, Mitt was driving a station wagon. Had he been driving a smaller car, perhaps two of his towheaded children would've joined Seamus on the roof.
This act of doggy cruelty in and of itself could be considered a “mistake,” an “oversight,” a “stupid fuck*ng boneheaded move by a dickhe*d. “
But no. Mr. Romney, under attack by animal rights groups, is DEFENDING the STRAPPING claiming that Seamus, that beautiful Irish setter, loved to be up there… alone… terrified… pooping himself.
And now his wife, the lovely Anne, is rushing to her husband's defense: “Our dog Seamus rode in an ENCLOSED kennel, not in the open air,” she claims. “And he loved it. Every time he saw it, he jumped up on the tailgate, walked in, and lay down. It was just like the kennel he curled up in at home."
Great. Now we know that a potential First Lady is a stupid lying bitch.
Too bad we can't ask Seamus what he thought. Seamus is dead. And Seamus, like many dogs of his era, couldn't speak English.
No wonder Mitt the Sh*t wants to “double the size” of Guantanamo Bay's detention camps and assure that America will forever be synonymous with torture. Some may say it's a tortured leap of logic to say that a man who mistreats his pets will also mistreat “enemy combatants” or the poor, or be unsympathetic to the neediest in our society.
Look at Adolf Hitler they'll say. Now there was a guy who loved his German shepherd. And see what he was capable of doing?
My friends, these some-may-sayers are wrong. First of all, it's common knowledge Hitler's dog Blondie was a complete assho*e. She was an evil bitch who ate Chihuahuas for breakfast and licked the faces of SS storm troopers. She was no Seamus, possibly the sweetest and most gentle dog who has ever lived.
Politics is personal, but it doesn't come close to our collective personal love for small furry things and Natalie Manes.
Mitt Romney, shouldn't be disqualified from becoming president because he's pro-Iraq, anti-choice and against expanded stem cell research. He shouldn't be discredited because of his faith or beliefs or the three other wives he's hiding in Provo, Utah.
No. Mitt Romney is unfit to be our 44th president because he made Seamus scared. And sad. Just like George Bush does to the rest of us every single day.
Monday, May 21, 2007
The Fantastic Fall of Jerry Falwell
Satan and his minions were taken aback.
The new initiate into the Seventh Circle had made it in record-breaking time, cutting through the lesser circles like a hot knife through butter.
And there he was. The Reverend Jerry Falwell, the man who used his powerful pulpit to condemn gays and liberals and pro-choice advocates to eternal damnation, now found himself in the bowels of Hell.
“Surprise!” shouted Adolf Hitler.
'Welcome Jerry!” screamed Pol Pot.
“Glad you finally made it, dahlink!” cried Eva Gabor.
The Reverend looked confused.
“Excuse me, but there must be some mistake.”
Satan couldn't help but giggle. His chief of staff Idi Amin almost burst a gut.
“No mistake, pastor. We never make mistakes.”
Satan rose slowly from his thorny throne and approached the quivering Falwell.
“You sir, shall sit at my left hand,” intoned the Dark Lord, “for no one, in the past twenty-five years, has promulgated as much hate and fear as you have. I had reserved that special honor to Dick Cheney, but you beat him to the punch. Good timing.”
Jerry Falwell, stunned beyond measure, dropped to his knees. “But I've been a righteous man. I've done my best to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I should not be here!”
Satan howled. “Righteous? Try self-righteous. And it wasn't my idea to bring you here. I've always found you rather petty and insufferable.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“Jesus. He condemned you to Hell for belittling his people, for claiming that Jews could never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Satan leaned in a little closer and bared his pointy teeth. “Here's a little secret, Jerry. Only Jews get to go to Heaven.”
“But not all Jews go to Heaven,” Roy Cohn chimed in.
The news was too much for Falwell to take. “You mean my whole life's been wasted?”
Satan smiled. “No, no. It's been a wonderful life. You've been doing my work for over fifty years preaching intolerance and prejudice. You made me proud. ”
“But that was never my intention.”
Satan reached down and picked up the fallen Falwell. “The road to Hell is paved with…”
Satan paused and grinned, then with the force of a hundred men, flung Falwell into a dark, fiery pit filled with rats and vermin and excrement and two former cast members of “Rowan and Martin's Laugh In.”
“We reap what we sow, Jerry,” Satan shouted. “Dinner's at six. You'll be sitting in between Caligula and Aaron Spelling.”
Meanwhile, in many parts of America, the celebrations continued.
The new initiate into the Seventh Circle had made it in record-breaking time, cutting through the lesser circles like a hot knife through butter.
And there he was. The Reverend Jerry Falwell, the man who used his powerful pulpit to condemn gays and liberals and pro-choice advocates to eternal damnation, now found himself in the bowels of Hell.
“Surprise!” shouted Adolf Hitler.
'Welcome Jerry!” screamed Pol Pot.
“Glad you finally made it, dahlink!” cried Eva Gabor.
The Reverend looked confused.
“Excuse me, but there must be some mistake.”
Satan couldn't help but giggle. His chief of staff Idi Amin almost burst a gut.
“No mistake, pastor. We never make mistakes.”
Satan rose slowly from his thorny throne and approached the quivering Falwell.
“You sir, shall sit at my left hand,” intoned the Dark Lord, “for no one, in the past twenty-five years, has promulgated as much hate and fear as you have. I had reserved that special honor to Dick Cheney, but you beat him to the punch. Good timing.”
Jerry Falwell, stunned beyond measure, dropped to his knees. “But I've been a righteous man. I've done my best to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I should not be here!”
Satan howled. “Righteous? Try self-righteous. And it wasn't my idea to bring you here. I've always found you rather petty and insufferable.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“Jesus. He condemned you to Hell for belittling his people, for claiming that Jews could never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Satan leaned in a little closer and bared his pointy teeth. “Here's a little secret, Jerry. Only Jews get to go to Heaven.”
“But not all Jews go to Heaven,” Roy Cohn chimed in.
The news was too much for Falwell to take. “You mean my whole life's been wasted?”
Satan smiled. “No, no. It's been a wonderful life. You've been doing my work for over fifty years preaching intolerance and prejudice. You made me proud. ”
“But that was never my intention.”
Satan reached down and picked up the fallen Falwell. “The road to Hell is paved with…”
Satan paused and grinned, then with the force of a hundred men, flung Falwell into a dark, fiery pit filled with rats and vermin and excrement and two former cast members of “Rowan and Martin's Laugh In.”
“We reap what we sow, Jerry,” Satan shouted. “Dinner's at six. You'll be sitting in between Caligula and Aaron Spelling.”
Meanwhile, in many parts of America, the celebrations continued.
Monday, May 07, 2007
To Hell and Back with John McCain
Oh the excitement and suspense was palpable last week as the Republican candidates for President debated last night at the Ronald Reagan Museum!
Ten very white men squared off in a donnybrook reminiscent of Tyson-Holyfield II. Well, it seemed like that, because these rascals chewed my ear off for over ninety minutes.
Senator John McCain, hopped up on an odd mix of Red Bull and Cialis, came out swinging. In response to a question about whether it was prudent to focus so much national will and treasure on the capture of Osama “The Gingerbread Man” Bin Laden, the former POW took no prisoners. As President, McCain says “we will bring him to justice and I'll follow him to the gates of hell.”
He may have lost the debate right there.
According to most scholars, The Gates of Hell are very far away. To get there, one must drill to the core of the earth, through crust and mantle and a lot of molten magma. According to the Congressional Budget Office, chasing Bin Laden to those fiery gates could cost well over 4-trillion dollars. As a candidate who rails against budgetary waste and pork-barrel projects, McCain’s quest would bankrupt this nation, and, in his absence, all major White House decisions would be made by Vice President Imus.
McCain’s macho response begs an even bigger question: how does he know Bin Laden even wants to go to The Gates of Hell? Safely ensconced in some no-man’s land on the Afghani-Pakistani border, Bin Laden has no reason to go anywhere. Sure, if he had a chance, he might like to visit some relatives in Saudi Arabia or take a Princess Cruise to Anguilla. But The Gates of Hell? Why in heaven’s name would he ever want to go there? You can’t even find the place on Google Maps. I know. I tried.
Just for a moment, let’s suspend disbelief and pretend that Bin Laden, after seven years of travel, dialysis machine and three wives in tow, reaches the Gates of Hell, closely pursued by the doggedly determined President McCain.
Okay, they’re at the Gates. Now what? Does McCain challenge Bin Laden to a duel or to a boxing match? The diminutive Senator would be at a distinct disadvantage against the 6’5” Saudi. Yes, McCain is tough, but Bin Laden could easily flick away his lazy right jab. And let’s face it – McCain’s lost a step or two since 2000. He can’t dance around the ring like he used to. That’s why he has to dance with Jerry Falwell now.
Let’s keep going with this irrational scenario. Even if McCain could pummel or kill Bin Laden, who would know? Try getting cell phone service anywhere near Hell. “Can you hear Satan now?” No, you cant! McCain’s amazing feat of derring-do would go unreported for another seven years. Do you think the mainstream media would follow him on this quixotic quest and dare miss the Annual Correspondents Dinner, hosted, ironically, by Vice President Imus? No way in Hell.
By the time McCain got back to Washington, it would be 2022. He would’ve missed his entire presidency. Sure, Imus was effective in bringing down the deficit and in naming several nappy-headed hos to his Cabinet, but wasn’t it McCain who we elected in the first place?
Perhaps President Justin Timberlake will take pity on the now 85 year-old Arizonian and appoint him to a new commission, this one exploring the Giuliani administration’s failure to stop the terrorist attacks of 2017, 2018, 2019, and 2020.
Ten very white men squared off in a donnybrook reminiscent of Tyson-Holyfield II. Well, it seemed like that, because these rascals chewed my ear off for over ninety minutes.
Senator John McCain, hopped up on an odd mix of Red Bull and Cialis, came out swinging. In response to a question about whether it was prudent to focus so much national will and treasure on the capture of Osama “The Gingerbread Man” Bin Laden, the former POW took no prisoners. As President, McCain says “we will bring him to justice and I'll follow him to the gates of hell.”
He may have lost the debate right there.
According to most scholars, The Gates of Hell are very far away. To get there, one must drill to the core of the earth, through crust and mantle and a lot of molten magma. According to the Congressional Budget Office, chasing Bin Laden to those fiery gates could cost well over 4-trillion dollars. As a candidate who rails against budgetary waste and pork-barrel projects, McCain’s quest would bankrupt this nation, and, in his absence, all major White House decisions would be made by Vice President Imus.
McCain’s macho response begs an even bigger question: how does he know Bin Laden even wants to go to The Gates of Hell? Safely ensconced in some no-man’s land on the Afghani-Pakistani border, Bin Laden has no reason to go anywhere. Sure, if he had a chance, he might like to visit some relatives in Saudi Arabia or take a Princess Cruise to Anguilla. But The Gates of Hell? Why in heaven’s name would he ever want to go there? You can’t even find the place on Google Maps. I know. I tried.
Just for a moment, let’s suspend disbelief and pretend that Bin Laden, after seven years of travel, dialysis machine and three wives in tow, reaches the Gates of Hell, closely pursued by the doggedly determined President McCain.
Okay, they’re at the Gates. Now what? Does McCain challenge Bin Laden to a duel or to a boxing match? The diminutive Senator would be at a distinct disadvantage against the 6’5” Saudi. Yes, McCain is tough, but Bin Laden could easily flick away his lazy right jab. And let’s face it – McCain’s lost a step or two since 2000. He can’t dance around the ring like he used to. That’s why he has to dance with Jerry Falwell now.
Let’s keep going with this irrational scenario. Even if McCain could pummel or kill Bin Laden, who would know? Try getting cell phone service anywhere near Hell. “Can you hear Satan now?” No, you cant! McCain’s amazing feat of derring-do would go unreported for another seven years. Do you think the mainstream media would follow him on this quixotic quest and dare miss the Annual Correspondents Dinner, hosted, ironically, by Vice President Imus? No way in Hell.
By the time McCain got back to Washington, it would be 2022. He would’ve missed his entire presidency. Sure, Imus was effective in bringing down the deficit and in naming several nappy-headed hos to his Cabinet, but wasn’t it McCain who we elected in the first place?
Perhaps President Justin Timberlake will take pity on the now 85 year-old Arizonian and appoint him to a new commission, this one exploring the Giuliani administration’s failure to stop the terrorist attacks of 2017, 2018, 2019, and 2020.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Holy Moly! It's Foley and Roly Poly!
Maf54: So… can I watch you legislate?
RolyPoly365: Sure. Just let me finish this doughnut.
Hand it to the Republicans. When they make a mess, they not only stick with it, they roll around in the muck and throw big mud pies at each other.
The GOP, or Grossly Overpaid Pedophiliacs, finds itself unable to extricate itself from its latest debacle, a delightful tale of surreptitious messages typed in the dark with little or no pants on. Former Congressman Mark “What Are You Wearing?” Foley has opened a partisan Pandora's box filled with delicious denials, flailing finger pointing and tasty tidbits of treachery.
Maf54: Tell me, Dennis, what do you look like in Speedos?
RolyPoly365: You don't want to go there, Mark.
This spectacular orgy of self-implosion has already cost the Republicans a Congressman and a whistle-blowing Congressional aide. It now threatens to dethrone Mr. Roly-Poly, a/k/a Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert, a man fondly known as “Coach.”
Hastert, who's probably never skipped the last course of a meal, has been served a huge tray of just desserts.
Maf54: I think love handles are sexy.
RolyPol365: I need a snack. BRB.
Within two weeks, Speaker Hastert has gone from “persona au gratin” to “persona non grata.” Endangered GOP Congressmen dare not share the same stage with him, and not only because of fire department weight restrictions. He's a pariah in a party that has given us the debacle of Iraq, the debacle of Terry Schiavo, and the debacle of Jack Abramoff. In a very real sense, Hastert has an incurable case of “The Cooties.”
Predictions abound that the GOP is now in grave danger of losing its control over both chambers of Congress. Sure, Americans can forgive massive debt, growing casualties in Iraq, and a President who is genetically incapable of admitting mistakes, BUT they cannot forgive a Congressman who sends naughty messages to under-aged boys. Creepy trumps catastrophe any old day.
The irony is apparent and the message clear: 16 year-old pages must be protected from power-abusing Congressmen. Too bad 19-year old soldiers dying in the streets of Baghdad aren't offered the same protection.
Maf54: Are you a little horny?
RolyPoly365: Nope. I'm a little hungry.
Let's hope, that on November 7th, the American electorate is even hungrier... for change.
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