FAIL! FAIL! FAIL!

Reportage and commentary by Gonzo First Dog Bo

The situation’s become pretty hairy. I think they may be coming unglued. The president’s always talking about wearing one of Phil Spector’s old shock wigs and seeing if anyone recognizes him. Geithner’s been running around marveling about how cool it is that America now has the historical distinction of employing more czars than the Russian Empire. TOTUS, meanwhile, stands over in the corner blasting FAIL! FAIL! FAIL! across his screen every 5 minutes.

I’ve been thinking of tucking a tube of mace under my collar. I may have to start dumping Patrón in my water bowl soon. I’m convinced they have no idea how deeply they’re digging themselves.

This afternoon’s economic “summit” was no different. We were in the usual place, the Oval Office, with the usual gang, Hussein (it’s cool to say his middle name now) and Rhambo and Geithner and Biden and even Gibbsy (whose constant drooling is really starting to get on my nerves).

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Gibbsy,” Hussein says, his feet propped on his desk, the soles of his shoes pointing toward Israel. (He’s been doing this all day since he found out it stirred up the Israelis, almost habitually, like he’s wondering if they can really see him.) “I heard that right about the time I was on the phone disrespecting Bibi the other day Rush was making this joke: ‘What do Obama and God have in common? Neither has a birth certificate. How do they differ? God does not think he's Obama.’

“I don’t get it. Why would he say a thing like that?”

“He thinks he’s Letterman, sir,” Gibbsy says, wiping a thin trail of drool dangling from his mouth.
“Well, that’s just awful,” Hussein said. “Letterman’s such a funny guy. Him and Jon Stewart…they they’re such great supporters these days.” He suddenly blurts out: “You know I wanted to be a comedian back in Indonesia, but they told me Muslim goat humor wouldn’t get me to the White House. Yuck Yuck Yuck.”

“Mr. President,” Rhambo says, his snake eyes narrowing to slits: “It didn’t. I really think we should probably stick to the economy.”

“Right, right,” the president says, taking his feet down from the desk and straightening his tie and intertwining his fingers before him, the serious man now. “We have a lot of work to do, gentlemen. What’s the story,” he asks, hunched forward, slowly panning the room with his beatific gaze.

“Well, sir….SLURRRRRRPPP…we have some problems. Unemployment numbers are ….SLURRRRRRPPP…out and, well, it’s up to 9.4%,” Gibbsy says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

The president shakes his head violently back and forth and leans back in his chair and purses his lips. “I thought we said it would never get that high; why that’s doomsday scenario for us, isn’t it Tim?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Geithner says through his teeth as he gnaws on a hangnail with the rhythm of a jackhammer….dthdthdthdthdth… dthdthdthdthdth… dthdthdthdthdth. He stops and looks right at the president. “And some folks out there are pretty sure that Stimulus is a failure, precisely because we’re beyond the doomsday unemployment figures and the money just doesn’t seem to be helping (not that we’ve really released that much). Since that bill passed, 1.6 million people have joined the unemployment rolls, sir.”

“If things get any worse, you’re looking at double-digit unemployment, a presidency killer,” Rhambo says, his forked tongue darting out to sample the scent of the mood in the room.

In the corner, TOTUS shivers and flashes FAIL! FAIL! FAIL! across his screen. No one pays him any mind.

“Well, haven’t we ‘saved or created’ 150,000 jobs?” the president fires back at Rhambo, the same look Michelle gave Bruni the other day crossing his face.

(I start to think I should have brought that mace. I mean, really, just how many times in history has a president been maced? I’m betting not many. Probably none by his dog. It could get interesting around here one of these days. I make a note to definitely check with my dealer later.)

“We’ve just got to spend that Stimulus money faster,” the president says, waving a hand at Rhambo. “And have Congress spend less. And get Kenneth Feinberg, our new pay czar, to get the corporations to spend less on their executives. Oh, and maybe we’ll just have to borrow a little more than a few billion for health care. Really, sometimes I think I’m the only one standing here between the country’s survival and the pitchforks. Without me, I swear we’ll be bulldozing all of the cities.”

He looks around the room again for approval.

(I’ve spent enough time around him since I came here during Easter to know he’s very insecure. He needs love and attention, someone to take him for a walk now and then and scratch behind his ears and tell him he’s a good boy and give him a treat, even when he’s completely off his rocker.)


“That’s right, Mr. President, you are The One,” Gibbsy says… SLURRRRRRPPP.

“Indeed,” Rhambo says, his tongue smelling the air again.

“You’re the man!” Biden says, ogling the cover of the most recent issue of Family Circle in his hands.

Hussein continues: “Joe…haven’t we been saying that Stimulus is a complete success, that it’s going to be a long, hard, road to recovery, yes, but we’re gaining ground? Isn’t that what we’ve been saying?”

“Hey, man, don’t ask me, this is all above my pay grade,” Biden says, flipping his magazine open and turning it sideways and frowning. “Hey…where’s the centerfold?”

“Yeah…um…right. Sorry, Joe.” Hussein looks up at the ceiling, as if he were trying to call on Allah, then lowers his gaze to the room and starts his favorite monologue, the whine in his voice creeping higher and higher with every word: “Look, people keep saying I want the government to run everything. I DON’T! I don't want to run auto companies, and I don't want to run banks. I've got two wars I've got to run already. I’ve got North Korea. I've got more than enough to do. But with all this trouble, government’s the only resource with the power to fix things.”

He finishes and looks around the room for approval, and, on cue, everyone bursts into laughter.

“I LOVE IT when you tell the press that joke, sir,” Biden says, laughing and laughing and laughing.

In the corner, TOTUS still flashes FAIL! FAIL! FAIL! across his screen, and everyone still ignores him.

“Yeah, sometimes I can hardly contain myself,” the president says, beaming.

“Alright…alright…hold on now. Let’s get serious: It’s time to ask: WWJCD?”

“What would Jesus Christ do?” Gibbsy says, his mouth suddenly closed, the drool gone, his eyes wide, as if he’s just heard the craziest thing ever.

“NO!” The president shouts. “Gibbsy, how many times do I have to tell you? We don’t say that name anymore. WWJCD stands for: What Would Jimmy Carter Do?”

“He’d run off to monitor fixed elections in Iran,” Rhambo says.

“He’d lead us into stagflation,” Biden says, looking up from his magazine and flashing his goofy smile.

“I think we’re already heading there,” Geithner says in agreement.

“Yeah, maybe. But here’s the thing.” The president lowers his voice, almost to a whisper, as if people who voted for him were nearby and wouldn’t like what he was about to say. “You know, I read the other day the economy in Washington is booming, that unemployment has shrunk to 5.6%, that college grads are shunning Wall Street and coming here instead.”

“Well, sir. That’s because about half of the jobs you’ve ‘saved or created’ are government jobs,” Rhambo says, hissing.

“I know,” the president says, smiling. He’s so pleased his ears seem to wiggle. Not for the first time since I’ve been here, I resist the urge to bite one. “That’s my point. Why don’t we just take a stake in everything?”

Life starts to color Rhambo’s cold-blooded, dead-fish face. He smiles, his forked tongue curling with delight.

“Why don’t we just go out and force the public and private business that are on the brink of collapse -- which is pretty much everyone, at this point -- into government protection. Let’s forget about small numbers, like a few million. Let’s save and create 150 million jobs through government takeover.” The president, so pleased with his plan, stands and smacks his hands together, the loud POP! jolting Biden awake, who’d fallen into a bit of a nap, his Family Circle apparently too deep for afternoon reading.

“The only thing that’s still not clear to me is how are we going to pay for it all.” The president looks way in thought.

“PAY?” Geithner and Rhambo and Biden and even Gibbsy (normally a little slow on the uptake) all say, in unison before starting a chorus of laughter (real, this time).

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

“We don’t PAY, sir,” Rhambo says. “The TAXPAYER pays! Remember? Crisis is…”

“Opportunity,” the president finishes and smiles like a loon.

I shake my head, pretending I have an itch in one of my ears. You simpleton megalomaniac, I think. You’re digging your own political grave, and taking the country down with you. Out of the side of one eye, I see TOTUS in the corner, wobbling back and forth, so violently, now, I don’t even have to turn my head all the way around to see his screen:

FAIL! FAIL! FAIL!

This satire is cross-posted at Smart Girl Nation and Feed Your ADHD.

Ten Reasons Why Medicare for All Will Be AWESOME!

From medicareforall.net: “MEDICARE FOR ALL would be like sunshine and a beautiful sky, a grassy field, people relaxing and children playing…like a sunny breezy day.”

Oh, you silly, silly conservatives, pouting and moaning and shouting from your pulpits about the dangers of socialized medicine. You just need to come back down and wallow with the people for a change in the mythology of the horrors of today’s American medical care. My recommendation? When in a Social Democracy. (It’s kinda like the “when in Rome” thing, but since we liberals say just about anything with the intent of bringing about something completely opposite, let me go ahead and spell it out for you: Smoke more dope to get in touch with your inner mellow, then pop a few Vicodin when the paranoia sets in.)

It’s a right good prescription for a new progressive vibe, the consciousness to get on board with the sweeping health care reform heading your way, Medicare for All (and the only kind of medicine you’ll really be able to find by then, anyway). This idea for health care reform is so fresh it’s like that block of Philadelphia Cream Cheese I’ve kept in the back of the fridge for special occasions, for 10 years now. What the heck, they say a little hair on the cheese is good for your insides now and then. Plus, it’s the kind of special treat you’ll reserve for yourself once you become accustomed to the exciting promise of life under Medicare.

In fact, here are 10 really cool reasons why Medicare for All will be just, like, soooooo awesome:

10. Everything will be decided for you. You won’t even have to think about it. Oh, sure, at first, your employer will dangle a few “options” under your chin, offering the choice of private insurance plans A and B or government cheese. Little by little, as more and more people opt for the easy life on government street and private insurance companies try to recoup spiraling losses with higher premiums, your employer will ask you to pay more and, then, like a sunny breezy day, suddenly blow your options back to Antarctica and shove you into the single-payer plan. From then on, you won’t even need to think about it. You’ll be under the loving arm of the Motherland, nuzzling against her for comfort and care, in health (we’ll get to “in sickness” in good time). And you won’t even have to search for your own doctor! Government health czars will find one for you. You don’t want to think too hard about choices anyway, do you? Why waste brain cells figuring out what’s best for you and your family when you could be watching Season 42 of American Idol?

9. It’ll be FREE! Free, I say. It’ll be so free you won’t even have to bother checking your pay stubs to make sure the accounting department didn’t accidentally deduct the entire company’s insurance premiums from your check. You won’t need to worry about that sort of thing anymore. Why, a simple little tax rate of 900% on your earnings (to include your benefits) will come off the top of your automatic bank deposits each payday (like your bookie’s cut of your college football winnings), nice and tidy, easy squeezy, as simple as any good government program should be. Just tuck the old way of doing things in the back of your hippocampus and forget it. And, while you’re at it, have a lollypop; they’re recycled from the floor scrapings of the Government Candy Factory, formerly known as Tootsie Roll Industries.

8. You will get more reading done. With more and more people entering the system, your chances for grabbing a doctor’s time will shrivel (what those in the biz like to call “rationing”). You’ll become intimate with the wonderful world of waiting lists, as if you’re standing at the back of a line snaking outside your doctor’s waiting room into the hallway and outside the front door and across the street, stretching to the other side of the county. You will spend your waiting time being more productive than ever before. You wanted to read War and Peace in your lifetime, anyway, right? That’s unintended enrichment right there, baby. Quality health care in the time it takes to read Tolstoy, a splendid marketing campaign that’s sure to impress.

7. Retirees and their caretakers love it; you will too! Why, it’s incredibly fun when you’re 70 to find out your doctor suddenly won’t see you because you’re on Medicare. It’s even more fun searching for a new doctor among the dwindling numbers of primary care physicians, many of whom already can’t make enough from equally declining Medicare reimbursements to keep their businesses afloat. Meanwhile, if you’re taking care of dear old mom or dad, think of the hilarious phone calls you have to make when Medicare suspends coverage for their prescriptions and the 10 different people you have to scream at to find the root of the problem and get it fixed. You have a better chance of navigating the bureaucracy of the cable company when you mysteriously get billed 6 months in a row for services you didn’t order. I like a good mystery, don’t you?

6. It’ll be better than going to Disney World. Just like Chrysler and Government Motors and the federal government overall, Medicare is already bankrupt. By 2018, Medicare will be running a deficit of around $100 billion; compared to the overall CBO estimates of the federal deficit by then, I’d say Medicare is incredibly stable, like the Titanic just before it hit the iceberg. Throw the entire population under the Medicare umbrella, and you’ll create the greatest amusement park ride of all time. The terror of experiencing the violent motions of a sinking ship is drastically overrated anyway.

5. We’ll need fewer medical students. Since doctors already earn less, thanks to Medicare and Medicaid, more would-be medical students will go into something else, like garbage collection…or undertaking. Those two businesses are easily the least likely to fall under government control anytime soon. Garbage is money, always has been (ask The Mob); for med students, taking care of the dead would be just a few steps away from operating on the live, without the $300,000 in student loan debt or the hassles of malpractice insurance.

4. We’ll see the invention of doctor trailer parks. Doctors who stay in the biz (due either to their own altruistic reasons or, more likely, to government extortion in exchange for the forgiveness of student loans or practice-related debt) will experience the community joy of public assistance, using food stamps to fill a shelf or two of their refrigerators (if they even have electricity). They’ll sell their homes at a loss and move into federal trailer parks for doctors, seeing patients out of the back room to cut down on practice overhead. The parks will have names like Bones Village and Blue Star Doctors Park and Good Samaritan Estates and take the place of hospitals, saving the federal government billions annually (because, naturally, we’ll have to bail out hospitals by then, too). They’ll become tourist destinations; we’ll plan vacations around our doctor visits and then tour the grounds, letting little Jimmy ride his first x-ray machine in exchange for a $5,000 admission fee. Universities will offer classes about them, with names like Contemporary Medical Trailer Park Economics and Staph Infection in the Trailer Park Hospital. Congress, meanwhile, will continue to conduct annual hearings on the State of the American Healthcare Crisis.

3. If you get cancer, you can see the world (or what’s left of it). The Government Health Decision Board will rule you ineligible for care, saving the taxpayers (by then) billions. You’ll use your retirement savings, or what’s left after you pulled them out of the market just before The Crash of ’12 and hid them under a stone in the hearth, to take a fishing boat to Haiti, the ocean cruise business having gone under and Americans no longer visiting any country east of Bermuda after nuclear ballistic missiles, unable to reach North or South America, wiped out every other continent during Iranian President Ahmed Ahmadinejad’s failed attempts to annihilate Washington. You’ll meet a witch doctor who will make you drink chicken’s blood and mumble incantations while stuffing his face in a bong during a 4-hour ceremony to exorcise your tumor. Amazingly, you’ll recover and come back to America and live a long and healthy life, taking annual vacations (by row boat, since you’re now broke) to Haiti for preventive health care.

2. On a related note, trailer park emergency rooms will have far less congestion than the old hospitals. Take your typical accident victim today. When he’s wheeled in, his arm is nearly severed and he needs a bucket of blood and is comatose, having had half his brain crushed when he was thrown from the vehicle. Medicare for All will simplify the whole problem. Accident victims will be treated only if they still have more than 75% of their blood and all of their limbs and at least 90% cognitive function (no substitutes, please). This will preserve the dwindling blood supply and eliminate the waste of resources required to keep a patient on life support. (Plus, it will help save the planet!) And think of the boon for transplantation! Why, with all of the accident victims unworthy of treatment ending up dead, we’ll have mobile organ harvesting sites outside each doctors’ trailer park. Donor waiting lists will become obsolete…that is, of course, if the recipients are still working and able to pay their share of taxes in support of the Motherland.

1. It’s patriotic to pay taxes. If you have to pay taxes anyway, you might as well fund a good cause, excessive taxation being the greatest form of charity (for those who didn’t earn the money in the first place). Medicare for All is as good a cause as any other, except for maybe freedom. Besides, it’s not every day you get to put best in class American ingenuity into the hands of bureaucrats and completely destroy it, all while finding your government sponsored sunny breezy day.

This satire has been cross-posted at Feed Your ADHD and Smart Girl Nation.

Actually, He's a Friggin' DISGRACE

It took Obugger two hours to issue a statement about the murder of Tiller the Killer by a loony who just happens to agree with my thoughts about abortion...

...and two days to issue a statement about the murder of a U.S. soldier and the wounding of another soldier, at the hands of a homegrown Muslim convert.

But I'm being insensitive, I know, having served a day or two for our flag while Obugger, meanwhile, rolled a fatty with his birth certificate and smoked it.

I know, I know. Our relationship with the Muslim world is just so much more important than our relationship with unborn human beings, human beings being so gawd awful and worthless...unless they're Muslim.

Forget about those who serve. They're not even worthy of the whore who runs the country.

And I previously said he was merely an embarrassment.

The Obamapranos: Eh Joey!

Chapter 2: “Eh Joey”

In the Oval Office, President b. Hussein leans back in his chair, characteristically propping his feet on the great English Resolute desk used by all but three presidents dating back to 1880, his eyes leveled at the pages of Open Veins of Latin America: Five Centuries of the Pillage of a Continent, the book, a present from Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez, in his left hand. A Marlboro dangles from his lips, despite White House rules against indoor smoking. He plucks the butt from his mouth with his other hand and flicks the ashes, sprinkling a few on the heirloom desktop as they tumble toward a chrome ashtray. The president frowns, brushing the ashes to the carpet with indifference, as if they were a petition from Republicans to reach across the aisle to keep the American taxpayer from having to fork over more of their earnings for social programs.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Yeah. Comin,” the president barks.

The door opens, and the vice president, one Joe Biden, walks into the room. He ambles in like an orangutan, slovenly and haphazard, incongruous to his station and his surroundings. He stops in front of the desk and waits. The president does not look up.

After nearly 10 seconds, Biden breaks the silence. “You sent for me, chief?”

“I did.” The president turns a page in his book. He does not look up.

“So…what…um…ya gonna spank me or somethin’? You’re actin’ all medieval.”

b. Hussein closes the book and takes his feet down and sets the book on the edge of the desk, swiveling his chair to face the vice president. He looks up and glares.

“Joey. You’ve become a distraction. Whahmigonnadowitchu?”

Biden raises his eye brows and grins. “Whatsamatter now, chief. You’re still not sore about that swine flu business from a couple weeks ago, areya?”

The president tilts his head to the left and rolls his eyes and squeezes them shut and sighs. “No, Joey. Itsa little more recent den dat. Memba your speech da other day, when ya spoke for me at da Gridiron Club dinner, so I could be da first president since Grover Cleveland not ta show up? Memba whatchu said?”

Biden stares blankly at the president and then, as if a little caretaker inside his brain has turned on a processor, seems to come online and snaps his head back and says: “Oh, yeah! That was a hoot.”

“A ‘hoot?’” the president says, mockingly, looking at Biden as if he were a stumblebum who just came in from Lafayette Park for a free nip and a five-spot. “Let me quote you.”

A young naval officer giving me a tour of the Naval Observatory showed me the secret underground bunker where Cheney hid during 9/11. It’s behind this massive steel door. It’s got an elaborate lock with a narrow connecting hallway lined with shelves filled with communications equipment.

The officer told me that when Cheney was in lock down, this was where his most trusted aides were stationed.

“Sound remotely familiar, Joey?”

“Um. Yeah. I’m beginning to remember saying something like that.” The vice president looks down at his shoes for a moment, then back at the president and holds up his hands. “But…hey…ya gotta remember. It was, like, the heat of the moment. I was just warming the crowd up. They had this guy speak before me, I think his name was Bob Schieffer, who was all boring and stuff, kept talking about how CBS News sets the industry standard for journalistic fairness.” Biden slaps his thigh and opens his mouth and lets out a booming laugh. “We all know they’re so far up your cornhole they’ll have an exclusive if you ever grow polyps.”

“ENOUGH,” the president screams, standing up behind his desk. “I picked you to be vice president for your experience, but you keep acting like a two year old. I have enough problems with Nancy Pelosi and her expanding and ever-changing tale of when she knew about waterboarding. I have Dick Cheney gaining popularity on me in the polls. Dick…FRIGGIN’…Cheney! I’ve gotta get the Waxman-Markey bill and backdoor national health care through Congress these next few months. I can’t have a vice president running around, dropping mouth bombs like Don Imus every 5 seconds.”

The president turns away and shakes his head and stares out at the South Lawn. “Don’t make me do something I’ll regret, Joey.”

Biden lowers his eyes as if ashamed but…then…can’t help himself…and tries to break the ice:

“Well, look at it this way, chief. If Nancy’s next in line after me for your job, you’d better plan on sticking around for a while.”

The president sits down hard in his chair and leans forward and puts his head in his hands.

“Joey. I sweartagod…oh…crap…I keep forgetting we don’t say that here anymore.” He looks up at Biden, his eyes as hot as Bill Clinton’s libido if he were forced to stay in the same room overnight with a drunken college co-ed. “Don’t push me, Joey.…I’ll don't wanna have to make you an offer you can’t refuse. You don’t wanna know that side of me.”

Biden, thinking the president is joking, throws his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs. "That's a good one, sir. Who says you're not funny." And he laughs and laughs and laughs.

The lights go out.

And Biden screams.

Cross-posted at Feed Your ADHD.

"For Political Gain, People Are Making Headlines"

...so says the nitwit making lots of headlines for political gain this year: Arlen Sphincter.

First it was his voting for GoFrigYourselfus because...well..."somebody has to do something."

Then it was his shedding of the elephant trunk (which was really just a strap-on anyway) to reveal himself as the jackass we already knew was underneath because...well...he didn't think he could win re-election as a Republican.

Then, today, in typical Sphincter fashion, he came out and snuggled up with his new Zombiecrat buddy, The Wicked Witch of Congress, defending her lying ass (and a very hideous one at that), therefore placing himself squarely amid the asinine politicization of our national security:

"The current controversy involving Speaker Pelosi and the CIA is very unfortunate, in my opinion, because it politicizes the issue and it takes away attention from ... how does the Congress get accurate information from the CIA?" Specter said. "For political gain, people are making headlines."

I wonder when these yo-yos are going to figure out that the longer they keep Nancy Pelosi's transgressions in the news, the more chance we have to educate people about the truly oppressive "cap and tax" insanity and the ridiculous national health care taxes b. Hussein is lining up.

Just keep talking, you knuckledraggers. I'm beginning to think the new "missing link" had more brains than all of you combined.

Previously post at Feed Your ADHD.

How To Lose American Jobs

America Less Safe

Bill to include money for relocating Gitmo inmates

A war funding bill headed to the floor next week would provide the $50 million sought by the Pentagon to relocate prisoners from the U.S. detention facility at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, the top Democrat in the Senate said Monday.

The administration would be denied the money until it came up with a detailed plan on how to close the Guantanamo detention facility and how to deal with the 240 or so detainees being held there, said Majority Leader Harry Reid, D-Nev.

Reid said Senate Appropriations Committee Chairman Daniel Inouye, D-Hawaii, has told him that the measure would not allow money to be spent to bring accused terrorists to the U.S. before the end of the budget year on Oct. 1.

Wait a minute. Haven't just about every single 'representative' in Washington, D.C. said "not in my back yard"? In case they haven't figure it out up there in the swamp, this whole country is their 'back yard'! We have an administration that talked real big to get elected, but has no clue how to implement all his hopey/changey nonsense, and would put American citizens at risk.

"Closing this facility by an arbitrary deadline without any alternative is irresponsible and dangerous," said Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell, R-Ky. "It is unacceptable to the American people and it is unacceptable to an increasing number of lawmakers on both sides of the aisle."

When it comes right down to it, everything this Cheat in Chief has done, and is wanting to do, is a detriment to this country. Allowing dangerous terrorists within our shores is just one more indication we have a fool in the White House, and all those who blindly follow along are even bigger fools.

Meet Your Typical Obamabot

Here he is, your typical Obamabot.

Notice the lurid stare. Manifestation of nothing short of maniacal exuberance, a clairvoyant knowledge that every time you open your wallet little government pixies threatening to tase you will jump down off your shoulder and swipe 30 to 50 percent of its contents and promptly flush it down the toilet.

On this one, the swastika is quite obvious. Normally they hide them. Under a breast. Beneath the hairline. Between the butt cheeks. It symbolizes idolatry, belief in The Supreme Being, The One. They've been told by ACORN to look for the symbol each month, in a newspaper ad, on their favorite cereal box, and always, always, as the stamp on the envelope containing their government check. The symbol will guide them! And since they don't know how to read anyway, they haven't ever thought of googling it on the Internet to learn otherwise.

The uniform pays tribute to past carriers of the flame, who they've been taught to uphold: Lenin, dear Adolf, Mussolini, Stalin, Idi, Fidel. The uniform bearer is simpatico with all present and future socialists. He is Darth Vader, his weapon a crackpipe, Jonesing to lock into mortal combat and imbibe on the Marxist force, which he's been told to buy from a shady character who looks like Sean Penn standing outside the nearest 7-11.

Finally, the lolling tongue is evidence he has a taste for it now, a real taste for it. It's coursing through his veins, his every cell, rippling through even his mitochondria. He is pure Zombiecrat now, right down to the hole in his chest where a soul used to be.

He will never stop. Ever.

Unless you put a caterpillar on his pillow. It will drive him so mad, he'll eat his own brains and complain you tortured him, his obsession with minutia affording you the opportunity to cleave in his skull with a mallet, leaving one less Zombiecrat eligible to vote in the next election.

Previously published by Dr. Dave in a drunken stupor over at Feed Your ADHD.

Another Nominee

Records violations dog housing nominee

President Obama's choice for the government's No. 2 housing job is embroiled in the largest fine in U.S. history for "blatant violations" of open records laws after the Washington State Supreme Court chastised his office for withholding documents detailing taxpayer costs for a new professional football stadium in Seattle.

The documents that Ronald Sims' office was found to have kept from the public when he served as King County executive included information about cheaper alternatives to the $430 million Seattle Seahawks stadium, which was built in 2002, according to a Washington Times review of the court records.

I have one simple question: Does B. Hussein Obama even KNOW anyone that isn't a criminal?

The Obamapranos: D.C. Shakedown

A serious dramatization, for a little something different today. Since the MSM took days to cover this story, we might as well imagine how it went down, no?

Chapter 1: “D.C. Shakedown”

Three well-dressed men crowd into a darkened room. At first they are somewhat disoriented, the drapes blocking all incoming light from the windows. Slowly their eyes adjust to the glow of a small halogen lamp at the back of the room, casting shadows backwards against the drapes. The men make out the silhouettes of what appear to be flags mounted on floor-standing poles to the either side of a great wooden desk. Between the poles, behind the desk, a man sits, smoking a cigar. They cannot see his eyes, but they can feel his stare… and the accompanying waves of malevolence rolling their way.

They know where they are. They are in the Oval Office.

“Sit,” the man behind the desk says, his voice gravely and stern, the accent vintage Chicago, the tone resonant of someone widely used to having his way.

They comply without complaint, each man taking a seat on the sofa closest to the light, resigned to play along. They know the man is the president of the United States. This is his turf. They are here to settle a matter of money. They too are serious men.

From the right, out of the darkness, another man walks into view, slivers of light ricocheting off his suit as he moves. He is tall…and dangerous. The light catches his eyes and appears to dance in them, like a coven fire. His hair is slick, combed straight back. He has wide shoulders and enormous hands, the kind of hands that could crush another man’s palm at will.

“Gentlemen. My name is Steven Rattner. I’m da White House’s auto task force chief.”

He takes a seat on the sofa across from the other men, not offering his hand to any of them.

“Let’s get down ta business,” Rattner says. “I’m gonna speak for the president. We acknowledge his presence, but the directives come from me.”

“But you represent him, the president, the White House, the United States of America,” says one of the three men. He looks Rattner straight in the eye, unblinking. Rattner does not answer. “I’m Tom Lauria. I represent Perella Weinberg Partners, financial stakeholders in Chrysler. These two gentlemen are…”

Rattner holds up his hand in protest. “I don’t give a crap who dey are. We don’t have a lotta time, so let’s just get down to it, shall we?”

“Alright.”

“Tirty cents on the dolla. Twenty-nine, actually,” Rattner says, without looking at Lauria, as if the offer were so dishonest it wasn't even worth looking across at his counterpart.

“WHAT?” shouts Lauria.

“You heard me.” Rattner now looks directly at Lauria, the light dancing in his eyes again. Lauria has the distinct impression he’s dreamed of this man before. The dream didn’t end well, he remembers. “You take tirty cents on da dolla fa what ya client invested in Chrysla. In exchange, you go along wid Chrysla’s bankruptcy and sale of assets ta Fiat.”

“You’re telling me that my client, the first lien holder in Chrysler, who just walked into this room prepared to accept only 50 percent of our investment, as indicated by the settlement letter you should now have, in order to approve your takeover of Chrysler and subsequent moves… you’re telling me, piss on it, that you’re going to force us to take 29 percent of our investment back?”

Rattner smiles the cunning, calculating smile of a veteran of the boardroom, where the only difference between a shank and a pen is the room in which the weapon holder stands.

“Yeah. Dat’s what he’s sayin,” the president answers, leaning forward so Lauria could see his face clearly. “The American people come before your client, Mr. Lauria. Chrysler workers come before your client, Mr. Lauria. Pensioners of Chrysler come before your client, Mr. Lauria. Your greed is contemptible. This offer is non-negotiable. You can take it or leave it.”

Lauria, astonished leans back into the sofa for a second, then bolts forward and stands, looking directly at the president: “You’re telling me, sir, that the Constitution no longer governs this land? The right to property, contractual property no longer exists when the government becomes the business partner? You’re telling me that the people who bought this debt -- pensioners, teachers' credit unions, personal retirees, retirement plans, college endowments -- the people whose money my client used to fund Chrysler…they have no say in this?

“Oh, I can take it one step further,” Rattner says, smirking. “You’ll take da offer, and your client will like da offer, and da people your client represents will like da offer, or your client will experience…shall we say… certain difficulties.”

Lauria laughs, his head leaning back, and claps his hands. Looking back at Rattner, tilting his head to the left, and smiling, he says: “What are you going to do, Mr. Rattner, have us “whacked”?

Rattner stops smiling. His stare at Lauria couldn’t be interpreted in any other way but as pure, unabashed hatred. “No, Mr. Lauria. We’ll make life miserable fa ya client. We will use da full power of da White House press corps to destroy your reputation. We’ll feed dem so much disinfamation aboutcha, it'll be so’s you wished you’d never even stepped foot in dis office.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lauria says, disgusted, sitting back down in astonishment. “So you’re telling me that as of this moment, if my client takes their chances in bankruptcy court…to earn the FULL value of their investment…not the 50 percent we’re offering…you will smear my client and, presumably me, for not accepting to take ‘tirty cents on da dolla?’” Turning to the president, Lauria says: “Since when, Mr. President, did the executive and judicial branches of government become one?”

“Since today, Mr. Lauria. Since, today,” the president says, plucking the cigar from his mouth and laughing and laughing and laughing.

.....................................................................................................................

Note: The White House denies these threats occurred. Perella Weinberg Partners, hedge fund owners who supposedly invested $2.5 billion in Chrysler, have since denied Mr. Lauria’s allegations and are backing the government-proposed settlement. Socialists everywhere, meanwhile, are calling Perealla Weinberg Partners, and by extension, Lauria, greedy to the highest degree…because…they weren’t sacrificing enough.

My question: If this is how the United States Corporation of America (that is, the government) does business now with private companies, why should anyone ever invest in American business again?

Probably not as long as Obugger has the Fourth Estate in his pocket, too:



Also posted at Feed Your ADHD.