Palin, Garbage Out, Dept.
Y'know, I haven't posted in a little bit. A cold and work and a bunch of other petty shit about which I could tug on your coattails ad infifuckingnitum. But I just wanted to say one li'l thing this cool Wednesday evening.
My incredulity in any viability at all of a vice-presidential bid by a person whose apparent qualifications for the post consist of a clear day's view of a U.S. rival, a working uterus and a belief system that involves rolling your eyes up into your head while babbling warga-warga in a church pew, beggars description, people. You might as well have tried to convince me two months ago that John McCain was going to select a half-eaten Domino's pizza for his running mate. Or a ball-peen hammer. Or the word "marzipan."
She's not a MILF. She's not a GILF. I can't imagine that anyone could even tolerate sharing an elevator for five flights with this nasal, ignorant harpy, much less convening sexual congress.
I'm starting my novena tonight. I'm asking God to let the National Enquirer find out exactly where the bodies are buried in Wasilla. I was going to ask that the upcoming Spirit movie not suck, but I'm sacrificing on everyone's behalf.
Thank you for your time and attention. In the saccharine phrase with which Red Skelton rotted my baby teeth, "Good night and may Gawd bless."
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Oh, oh, wait! I have a joke. I have a joke. Listen, here it is:
What's the difference between the Panama Canal and Sarah Palin?
One's an international waterway and the other's a dizzy bitch.
*ha ha!* Oh, laughter is the best medicine, isn't it?
Except for herpes. You can laugh your ass off, that shit ain't going away.
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Oh wait, wait! I remembered my other joke! I did! Listen, listen:
What's the difference between the Panama Canal and Sarah Palin?
One's a busy ditch and the other's an overreaching opportunist with little or no education, little or no culture, little or no sense, little or no experience and few or no scruples.
*ha ha!* It's all in the delivery, y'know? That half beat between "experience" and "and." It makes or breaks the fucking thing.
My name is the sobsister and I approved this message.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Ted Mack's Original Amateur Hour, Dept.
On tonight's episode of Love That Sarah!
-But, Mom, Jamie Lynn Spears and those 17 girls in Gloucester, Mass., they all got pregnant before they were old enough to vote!
-Young lady, if your friends all jumped off the Bridge to Nowhere, would you jump too?
-Oh, Mommmm...!!
(raucous audience laughter and applause)
Yeah.
A short burst of thought on this Bible-bothering, backwater bluenose.
If, at one of the most critical junctures in our nation's history, the Republican Party views the American political system and the future of our way of life with enough bilious contempt that it nominates for our country's second-highest position of power, just behind a 72-year-old man with one foot in the grave and the other on a can of WD-40, a malicious smalltown busybody whose opportunism and ambition swamp the natural modesty that would cause anyone short of an attention whore in six-inch platforms, a fuchsia tube top and fishnets to demur when offered a position for which they are manifestly unqualified by even the most generous measure, and whose qualifications for national service would be trumped by those of the humblest junior-year political science major enjoying a boozy year abroad, all I can say is that the entirety of that party's leadership should be pilloried, caned and hot-iron branded as traitors to absolutely everything for which this country has ever purported to stand.
If I thought the eight benighted, bemerded and bedamned years of the Idiot Bush's administration were a blight on the American dream, the nomination of Doddering Gaffer and Eve Harrington in mukluks is the GOP skullfucking the Statue of Liberty.
On tonight's episode of Love That Sarah!
-But, Mom, Jamie Lynn Spears and those 17 girls in Gloucester, Mass., they all got pregnant before they were old enough to vote!
-Young lady, if your friends all jumped off the Bridge to Nowhere, would you jump too?
-Oh, Mommmm...!!
(raucous audience laughter and applause)
Yeah.
A short burst of thought on this Bible-bothering, backwater bluenose.
If, at one of the most critical junctures in our nation's history, the Republican Party views the American political system and the future of our way of life with enough bilious contempt that it nominates for our country's second-highest position of power, just behind a 72-year-old man with one foot in the grave and the other on a can of WD-40, a malicious smalltown busybody whose opportunism and ambition swamp the natural modesty that would cause anyone short of an attention whore in six-inch platforms, a fuchsia tube top and fishnets to demur when offered a position for which they are manifestly unqualified by even the most generous measure, and whose qualifications for national service would be trumped by those of the humblest junior-year political science major enjoying a boozy year abroad, all I can say is that the entirety of that party's leadership should be pilloried, caned and hot-iron branded as traitors to absolutely everything for which this country has ever purported to stand.
If I thought the eight benighted, bemerded and bedamned years of the Idiot Bush's administration were a blight on the American dream, the nomination of Doddering Gaffer and Eve Harrington in mukluks is the GOP skullfucking the Statue of Liberty.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
The Cream of the Glass Teat, Dept.
Okay, there're only two reasons why you haven't been watching the premiere season of The Middleman.
You either a) do not have cable television in your home, or b) you hate puppies and the Baby Jesus.
Because any show that features a cute, deadpan, Latina smartgirl like Natalie Morales, a Dudley Do-Right dead-on classic like Matt Keeslar and jokes that riff on, say, Gene Colan's run on Tomb of Dracula and Stan Sakai's rabbit ronin Usagi Yojimbo is playing to the band BIGfuckingtime.
I came in halfway through the season, and me likee bookoo.
So, watch it.
Because every time you do, an angel gets HBO.
Okay, there're only two reasons why you haven't been watching the premiere season of The Middleman.
You either a) do not have cable television in your home, or b) you hate puppies and the Baby Jesus.
Because any show that features a cute, deadpan, Latina smartgirl like Natalie Morales, a Dudley Do-Right dead-on classic like Matt Keeslar and jokes that riff on, say, Gene Colan's run on Tomb of Dracula and Stan Sakai's rabbit ronin Usagi Yojimbo is playing to the band BIGfuckingtime.
I came in halfway through the season, and me likee bookoo.
So, watch it.
Because every time you do, an angel gets HBO.
The Snowman Goeth, Dept.
Well, the Good Lord gathered unto Hisself one of our nation's fine'n'funky pickers. Jerry Reed passed on August 31.
Now, somewhere in Sobsister Manor, there is a box. A record box, like you used to use to keep all your bestest and most favoreet 45s. And inside this box that has defied my every motherfrackin' effort to find it are a number of classic bits of vinyl. Nestled there, maybe cheek by jowl with "Rain Dance" and "Mr. Big Stuff" and other klassic kuts, is "Amos Moses," as fonky a slab of Southern fatback as you could ever hope to find.
Now, I didn't know Mr. Jerry Reed from his movies like Smokey and the Bandit or Hot Stuff or High Ballin', films that I know have won a warm spot in the collective heart of those who enjoy seeing the humiliation of stupid sheriffs and the unassisted flight of 18-wheelers and the like. But this one plateful of chicken-pickin' heaven alone etched Mr. Reed indelibly into my brainbox.
So, now, direct from deepest, darkest nineteen-hundred and seventy-one, Amos Moses.
I double-dog dare you not to bobblehead to this one.
Well, the Good Lord gathered unto Hisself one of our nation's fine'n'funky pickers. Jerry Reed passed on August 31.
Now, somewhere in Sobsister Manor, there is a box. A record box, like you used to use to keep all your bestest and most favoreet 45s. And inside this box that has defied my every motherfrackin' effort to find it are a number of classic bits of vinyl. Nestled there, maybe cheek by jowl with "Rain Dance" and "Mr. Big Stuff" and other klassic kuts, is "Amos Moses," as fonky a slab of Southern fatback as you could ever hope to find.
Now, I didn't know Mr. Jerry Reed from his movies like Smokey and the Bandit or Hot Stuff or High Ballin', films that I know have won a warm spot in the collective heart of those who enjoy seeing the humiliation of stupid sheriffs and the unassisted flight of 18-wheelers and the like. But this one plateful of chicken-pickin' heaven alone etched Mr. Reed indelibly into my brainbox.
So, now, direct from deepest, darkest nineteen-hundred and seventy-one, Amos Moses.
I double-dog dare you not to bobblehead to this one.
Dick's Picks, Dept.
Y'know, your sobsister doesn't post the pink. Nothing against them as does, but the children, you know, are our future, and I hate to think that little Johnny and Janie's introduction to the sacred and guilt-inducing act would be my posting of a bukkake glue-fest.
That said, I offer this in the spirit of something in the prurient vein (from L. prurire via pres. part. pruriens, "to itch," as in the one you cannot scratch because Jessica Alba not only is never going to answer your letters, but she wouldn't fuck you if it came down to the two of you repopulating a devasted Earth) for y'all to enjoy.
The animated story of Eveready Horton (aka "Eveready Harton" or "Eveready Hardon"), a fellow with rather a long, you know, thing, and the misadventures into which his concupiscence leads him.
Perhaps the first "blue" cartoon, it is close kin to the "Tijuana bibles" that were seeing their Golden Age just around that time. For the uninitiated, Tijuana bibles were crudely drawn pornographic comic books, usually eight pages long, which featured celebrities, both real and fictional, fucking and sucking in ways more usually depicted in Japanese shunga than in Hollywood fodder.
No, don't thank me. Your sweaty-palmed happiness is thanks enough.
Y'know, your sobsister doesn't post the pink. Nothing against them as does, but the children, you know, are our future, and I hate to think that little Johnny and Janie's introduction to the sacred and guilt-inducing act would be my posting of a bukkake glue-fest.
That said, I offer this in the spirit of something in the prurient vein (from L. prurire via pres. part. pruriens, "to itch," as in the one you cannot scratch because Jessica Alba not only is never going to answer your letters, but she wouldn't fuck you if it came down to the two of you repopulating a devasted Earth) for y'all to enjoy.
The animated story of Eveready Horton (aka "Eveready Harton" or "Eveready Hardon"), a fellow with rather a long, you know, thing, and the misadventures into which his concupiscence leads him.
Perhaps the first "blue" cartoon, it is close kin to the "Tijuana bibles" that were seeing their Golden Age just around that time. For the uninitiated, Tijuana bibles were crudely drawn pornographic comic books, usually eight pages long, which featured celebrities, both real and fictional, fucking and sucking in ways more usually depicted in Japanese shunga than in Hollywood fodder.
No, don't thank me. Your sweaty-palmed happiness is thanks enough.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Mama Don't Preach, Dept.
Gol-DINGUS! If this ain't the most humoresk campaign season in many a moon, I'll salt a possum and eat it!
So, Bristol Palin, daughter of GOP Veep-wannabe Sarah and her half-man/half-wolf Inuit shaman superhero husband, is, umm, how you say...enceinte? Yes? She took ze weewee of ze boy in her woowoo and now ze baby, he grows big in her 17-year-old belly.
Man oh Manischewitz! Some might look at this turn of events as li'l Bristol squattin' over Mama's punch bowl at the Sunday social and gruntin' out a big ol' turd right into the dipper. Ah, but not the Unsinkable Sarah P. Quoth she:
"Our beautiful daughter Bristol came to us with news that as parents we knew would make her grow up faster than we had ever planned."
Talk about taking lemons and making a horribly astringent lemon-scented douche out of them! I mean, sure, something like, say...college, just to pluck an example out of thin air, might have made li'l Bristol grow up faster than they'd planned. But, fuck, why bother with book larnin' when you can just do what comes natural? I can only imagine Gov. Palin's rose-colored view of shitstorms could be pretty darn handy should she ascend to national service. "Well, yes, that reactor meltdown did kill millions...but parking downtown is now a breeze! Tee hee." But, yeah, "Our beautiful daughter..." Sweet, right? Translated with the Sobsister Alethiometer, it reads, "Jesus Hashimoto Christ on a crumpet, young lady! You are grounded with no texting and no VeggieTales until the Rapture!!"
So, yeah. Li'l Bristol preggers at 17. She will, of course, marry her baby daddy, 'cause if abstinence-only education has taught us anything, besides the worthlessness of abstinence-only education, it's that two wrongs most definitely make a right. Poor, dumb bastid. He could've just gone for the b.j., but, nooo, he had to get all ambitious an' whatnot...
I bet Hill'n'Bill are soooo glad they welded Chelsea's knees shut when she turned 12.
Gol-DINGUS! If this ain't the most humoresk campaign season in many a moon, I'll salt a possum and eat it!
So, Bristol Palin, daughter of GOP Veep-wannabe Sarah and her half-man/half-wolf Inuit shaman superhero husband, is, umm, how you say...enceinte? Yes? She took ze weewee of ze boy in her woowoo and now ze baby, he grows big in her 17-year-old belly.
Man oh Manischewitz! Some might look at this turn of events as li'l Bristol squattin' over Mama's punch bowl at the Sunday social and gruntin' out a big ol' turd right into the dipper. Ah, but not the Unsinkable Sarah P. Quoth she:
"Our beautiful daughter Bristol came to us with news that as parents we knew would make her grow up faster than we had ever planned."
Talk about taking lemons and making a horribly astringent lemon-scented douche out of them! I mean, sure, something like, say...college, just to pluck an example out of thin air, might have made li'l Bristol grow up faster than they'd planned. But, fuck, why bother with book larnin' when you can just do what comes natural? I can only imagine Gov. Palin's rose-colored view of shitstorms could be pretty darn handy should she ascend to national service. "Well, yes, that reactor meltdown did kill millions...but parking downtown is now a breeze! Tee hee." But, yeah, "Our beautiful daughter..." Sweet, right? Translated with the Sobsister Alethiometer, it reads, "Jesus Hashimoto Christ on a crumpet, young lady! You are grounded with no texting and no VeggieTales until the Rapture!!"
So, yeah. Li'l Bristol preggers at 17. She will, of course, marry her baby daddy, 'cause if abstinence-only education has taught us anything, besides the worthlessness of abstinence-only education, it's that two wrongs most definitely make a right. Poor, dumb bastid. He could've just gone for the b.j., but, nooo, he had to get all ambitious an' whatnot...
I bet Hill'n'Bill are soooo glad they welded Chelsea's knees shut when she turned 12.
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