Miley Cyrus greasing the climby pole at the Teen Video Awards — cellulite at 16?  Too many potato chip’n’banana on Wonder bread sandwiches back at the trailer, methinks.

Just a little reminder, parents buying Christmas gifts for daughters and nieces: don’t buy from godless transnational Disney Corp. and its best-known brand, Miley Cyrus, a.k.a. Hannah Mountana-from-behind. The daughter of no-talent assclown and sometime male stripper Billy Ray Cyrus (a one-hit wonder known for his moving, lyrical “Leaky Reeky Fart” or something like that), Cyrus teaches young women to have self-esteem if they’re emotionally secure and work hard at studies and sports.

Just kidding! If they work the pole in whore’s drawers — please, Miley, the world doesn’t want to be your gynecologist — and ask men to treat them as objects to scratch itches on. Because, of course, men need that encouragement. If the hosebeast daughter ever covers Daddy’s one witless hit, it’ll doubtless become “Itchy Twitchy Twat.” ‘Cause that’s just the high caliber ofartist [sic] she is.

In this connection, you must, must, if you haven’t already, see the scintillating South Park season 13 episode “The Ring,” complete with brief Wagner allusion at the end for those of us who don’t have a beautician girlfriend to beat when she scratches the Camaro (admittedly a tiny percentage of Trey and Matt’s audience — we few, we happy few…).  It satirizes the absurd “purity ring” phenomenon peddled by Disney’s other pretend-wholesome musical phenom, faggy boy band The Jonas Brothers.   “Mr. Mouse” beats down when they cross his plan to “sell sex to little girls”:

And the brilliant, hysterical finale: “Even the Christians are too fucking stupid to figure out I’m selling sex to their daughters.  I’ve made billions off of Christian ignorance for decades now.  And do you know why?  Because Christians are RETARDED!”

And so, dear believers, we are — if we sit there and let Disney Corp. and the rest of the Hollywood soft-core porn industry, the immensely rich and immensely evil Michael Eisners and Steven Spielbergs and Sumner Redstones, pipe their sewage directly into our living rooms day after day, night after night on The Disney Channel and the rest of their media outlets.  And all the while our grade-school girls sit there transfixed with their souls turning to sludge.  Please, Mom and Dad — buy your girls something else this Christmas.


Not amused: the scribbler.

Candid readers, it seems Ana Castillo, the learned subject of my Oct. 2 post, got wind of it and unwisely elected to counterpost, to the best of her limited abilities.  Below, therefore, I’ve cut and pasted the Oct. 9 blog entry from her website, verbatim, with one exception.  (I here elide the full name of the Berkeley grad student whose spelling/usage boner triggered my original post, a person whom Señorita Cosa gracelessly outs by name in her blog post — as my own post, you’ll recall, did not and still won’t.)

At the outset, let me note that Castillo includes, in her limp tissue of wet complaints, at least one bald-faced lie: that your faithful servant called the First Draqqueen a “gorilla” in a June 18, 2009 post.  Bullshit.  On the contrary, I used it to chastise those who do so call her, on the ground that Miss Hell Obomber doesn’t remotely resemble an ape, only a garden-variety, butt-ugly human being.  So get it straight, mentirosa.  Or did she just misread the post, as would be in keeping with her limited skill-set?  If so, I retract mentirosa and say she’s babosa.

My own reflections on Castillo’s devastating riposte follow.

Friday, October 09, 2009

This morning the world wakes to our the news that our president has been awarded the Nobel. But no doubt it has further fueled the ignorance the racism that has reared its very ugly head since his election in this country–just like the above link that went out yesterday about my reading last night.

By the way, it was extremely well attended.
And while I am not a size 42 (and nothing wrong with that) and don’t pump out books like the white privileged mystery writer she referred me I personally took no offense.
Anyone who calls Sara Palin ‘divine’ is in some serious need of soul saving.
It is true that people come to listen to my reading but what this hateful ’student’ can’t appreciate (but probably would understand if her hero Sara Palin came to Berkeley) is that my long time readers also come to SEE me.
Reading further on this white reactionary blog–she has referred to the first lady as a ‘gorilla’ and to those who must obviously be objecting to this hateful nonsense as ‘anti-white’? Whatever happened to Berkeley?
I’ll have to say it recalled the last time I was on this campus–as a Regent’s lecturer. As I began my reading at the Latina conference ’somene’ set off the fire alarm. the building was evacuated immediately, fire department called, program over–I went off to have Chinese food with friends. I asked Rosa M——z–the target of the hateful blog entry yesterday to read it beforei introducing me at the program. There are two emotions that motivate the human spirit, I told them afterward. One is love (the reason I have been invited, the students who helped to organized, the professors who teach my books and the community people who came out) and fear–the blog entry.


[October 23, 2009]

My, what a deft close reader Castillo is!  She sloppily infers that your faithful servant is herself a grad student, and at Berkeley, inter alia, because Sweet Thang, my source, is.  (Sorry to embarrass you, baby — I know you’ve gone all monkish on our collective ass the last year or two, but remember, there were times when you used to spoil me ROTTEN.  You know you did.)

As if I’d be caught dead in either the profession or the place.  Baby, when you write you need to get paid for it.  And living anywhere but Silver Lake (with the possible exception of Williamsburg, as I remember it anyway) sounds to me like hideous exile in the sticks.  I won’t even cross the line into Los Feliz, kids — that shit’s bourgeois.

And let’s not even start on Castillo’s syntax and usage boners — I guess your faithful servant was on to something after all, huh, mean old bitch that I am, as you Beaming Betty Crockers out there are forever complaining.  (Can’t a girl be tough and respected?  Spare me your sugary, femmy, nurturing, first-wave feminist kitsch, ladies of the Left.)  And, holy cow, her smug, insecure, posturing screed of a post’s just rotten with typos — if I dared hand my editor a piece in this shape, let alone tried to post it as a finished article, she’d throw it back in my face.  And rightly so.

Poor dumb creature — Castillo earnestly volunteers, with more rhetoric than sense, that “there are two emotions that motivate the human spirit,” love and fear.  Er, I submit she’s forgetting the third, much more interesting one: amusement, which very vitally motivates my blog entry.  My own amusement, that is — I don’t claim it’s objectively witty, just subjectively, and gives me the relief of shouting, or at least bitching, when confronted with yet another instance of fools swindled by knaves, a capsule formula for the university literature departments these days.

And I assure you, I continue to be amused, rather than angered, by this scribbling ideologue: Could Castillo’s wrapping herself in the flag of Obama bin Laden and his dragqueen spouse be ANY more cloying and fatuous?  I almost puked at her servile, abject “our president” — what’s with this hushed tone of reverence?  Lick boots much, chica?  And how about her frantic, fawning haste to point out “Look, look, I’m important, I was a Regent’s Lecturer at Berkeley!” (long since a hollow credential, alas, after literature in the mainline universities was defined down to include the pulp fiction of agitproppers like Castillo).

There, there, don’t cry — have a nice cup of Insecuri-Tea, dear, you’ll feel better.  And maybe just a bit of cheese with your whine?  Gross!  It’s unseemly — she’s like a needy puppy, yapping and whining as it runs back and forth to trip you in the hall, peeing on itself and your shoes in eagerness to be validated.

La lecture du testament (F. S. Delpech)

Above: A portentous littérateur reads, to an adoring claque of spectators, at Berkeley.

And how ’bout that pompous, overblown mandarinism?  (Pretty sad day for the mandarinate, if this mis-speller and sentence-fragmenter’s what they’re reduced to revering.)  Castillo and the quasi-literates who buy her printed effluvia exhibit a suffocating, lifeless deference to social authority and received opinions that would make Alfred Lord Tennyson and Queen Victoria blush for shame.  “My books are taught in the universities!”  (Cut to extreme close-up of celestial mandarin strolling through Hall of Mirrors, making heavy-lidded, purse-lipped faces to the glass, huelepedos nose held skyward in paroxysm of smarm.)  Oh, madam, I do apologize — please, your ladyship, say no more, we’re all terribly impressed out here in the trenches, where literature, if it’s to be made at all, will actually get made.

Actually, if she wants to read what might very well, after a few decades of cool judgment intervene first, be judged literature, by a first-tier intellect and first-tier stylist who happens to be Mexican-American but isn’t, mercifully, far gone in terminal self-adoration, or a bought-and-paid-for political hack, Castillo has much, much to learn from the deft Richard Rodriguez, especially his essay collection Days of Obligation: An Argument with My Mexican Father (best on style points) and Brown: The Last Discovery of America (best on substance).


Actual talent: Richard Rodriguez.

But, horrors!  To admit the greater merits of another writer like Rodriguez, whose writing, both as form and substance, soars out of the abysm of self-reference in which Castillo’s screeds are sunk, would be to move beyond squalling self-absorption, to grow a pair and quit blaming “society” for the fact that you can’t write, and that nobody but the closed circle of the professionally aggrieved, and the repressed white ladies in the English departments who enjoy missionarying and condescending to them, wants to read your prose.  If it’s only because Castillo’s a “minority” (and she’s sure as shit not a minority here in majority-Mexican L.A.), or if it’s only because “society” is holding her down, that she can’t write her way out of a wet paper sack, then how do we explain Rodriguez?

For Rodriguez’ writing transcends, rather than wallows in, the disadvantages he was born into.  In his marvelously complex life, the past isn’t disavowed, or lost — but neither is it sentimentalized, nourished, fostered, in a perennial bile of resentments, grievances, and unforgiven wrongs (Lucifer, anybody?) in the belly you croon to, day in, day out, that’s long since risen up your gorge and into your head and yellowed even your eyes, so that for decades you haven’t seen anything, anything at all, even the stars or the flowers, except through the jaundiced prism of your hatreds.

No, in Rodriguez that past is instead neutralized, sweetened, absorbed, turned into something rich and strange that no one’s quite sure of yet (but we’re sure that we like it, ’cause it’s stylish).  The narrative arc he began in Hunger of Memory, a mesmerizing account of how Rodriguez, like all of us who manage to write prose people not part of our clique care about, achieved escape velocity from private language and rocketed into public speech and citizenship, is still curving upward (let’s hope there’s a book-length sequel to Brown).  Rodriguez like all Americans worthy of the name is a self-fashioner where Castillo is a self-pitier; he long ago left the dank, close air of Berkeley, in whose English Department he did his grad work — apparently without ever writing an e-mail to colleagues beginning “you might of heard…” — for the bracing air of the city.  Was it inborn talent, or lots and lots of hard work?  Both?

Either way, Castillo’s camp of critical race theorists and moldy Marxists, forever blaming bad character on social and economic conditions — as if poor people were so poor they can’t pick up their yards — will live and die petulantly refusing to accept any explanation for inequalities of outcome that doesn’t always, suspiciously, circle back to mean, old, rich, male whitey.  (What pity I’m none of the above — well, okay, maybe I’m a little mean, just around the edges).  ‘Cause that might require these professional resenters, if only imaginatively, to exit the warm, solipsist womb of the university hall of mirrors, and this, we can infer, the comfortable charity-case scribblers, cozily cocooned in praise from the Lilliputians of the lit departments, will never bestir themselves to do.

Rodriguez, you see, was exposed to, and then eagerly immersed himself in, writers of times, places and situations other than his own — Gawd, he even read Protestant theology at Columbia — those crazy nuns, you see, trusted him to learn and generalize beyond his own parochial experience.  And now it’s paid big dividends in his subtly-toned, allusive, impersonal prose, and in a smart, well-balanced cultural criticism which may before long stand comparison with Carlyle’s and Arnold’s — because Rodriguez long ago disdained and bypassed the horrible self-ghettoization of “ethnic studies,” championed by soft-bigotry-of-low-expecations types like Castillo and her enablers in the lit departments.


Rodriguez’ great master Arnold: they share the long, bony, handsome head.

Speaking of which, shouldn’t having her deathless fictions put on a university lit syllabus be the kiss of death for little Miss Piss-on-the-Canon, in whose dim, dim horizon of expectations the horrid Barbara Cartland probably does loom as some “white privileged mystery writer,” a veritable mass-market Patricia Highsmith?  But don’t expect logical consistency or rhetorical coherence from this shameless self-promoter — Castillo’s blog post is far too busy tripping over itself in her haste to run and hide behind the skirts of (secular) Respectability, Piety and Orthodoxy, rushing to shut down any debate that might unsettle her and her claque’s easy, shallow certainties — and I’m reactionary?  Oh, this is too good!

Who’s the pious old fraud trying to convince, anyway?  I don’t think it’s really me, or you, candid reader — more like herself and the cowed claque of coffee shop radicals, parochial hippies and ugly introvert fat girls who turn out for her “readings.”  How exactly should I fear Castillo when she can’t even close-read another girl’s blog post, let alone a literary text?  Or excise the typos, solecisms and just plain infelicities from her own?  First cast out the beam from your own eye, hocicona, and then you’ll see clearly how to pull the mote outta mine.

Oh, and by the way: It’s not me but you, dear, who need some “soul-saving” — tsk, tsk, sounds rather Christian and reactionary of you, and don’t lefties pretend all human behavior’s caused by material condtions? — about Sarah Palin.  (Note the “h,” dim bulb — I only used the Italian spelling locally to cohere with “la divina.”  And must we hilariously infer that you took the epithet literally?  Oh dear; the dullness is just too painful.)  For as everyone on the right knows, and as all of you on the left dread, Sarah Palin has the body of a goddess (not the blood-drinking pre-Columbian ones you posture to revere, dear), and the raw energy and crowd appeal of a rock star, and she’s going to be the next President of the United States.

But then, you were probably just exercised ’cause you couldn’t construe my Latin about her.  That’s pretty embarrassing, no?  Shouldn’t a Latina be Latinaloquens?

Going Rogue

Berkeley English

You might of [sic] heard that Berkeley English grad students aren’t what they used to be.  You heard right — see below.

Perhaps this Ana Castillo, in addition to reading, can give Rosa a copy of Hooked on Phonics so the poor dear’s no longer illiterate in two languages.  After all, it’s only because they’ve never been handed full funding for a Berkeley literature doctorate that unassimilated Hispanics can’t master English grammar, right?  Or perhaps Miss Hell Obomber, fresh from overtaxing herself talking to sock puppets on libtard agitprop Sesame Street — and herself an underqualified social promotion — can divert to Berkeley to offer Rosa sum remeedeeyall tootering.

Also, don’t audiences normally listen to an author read, rather than see her read?  I mean, I realize this Ana Castillo is the next James Joyce and all, with thousands being turned away by the fire brigade from the packed-out lecture halls where she reads, but I’m damned if I’ll watch her silently, lovingly mouth her own ham-fisted prolix prose to herself, like a housebound cat-feeding hippie crooning to the mirror she holds up, under the size 42 muumuu, to her withered crotchparts.  Not least since a cursory glance at Amazon tells me that this hasty scribbler has pounded out almost as many novels as Dame Barbara Cartland, but with even less benefit to the kulchur.

Ana the Authoress

The scribbler herself: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” (Keats, you know, not the scribbler — just pointing the contrast.)

This, I take it, is why Rosa makes an elaborate point of saying refreshments will be served — even drowned-rat literature grads, for whom bathing is an event not an institution, and scavenging in the faculty refrigerator haute cuisine, won’t come late to the lecture hall for these precious, self-adoring chumps unless they’re paid off in food.  No scratch, no snatch, as the witty ladies who work the corner of Alvarado and Temple are fond of saying.

The “super solid” Rosa signs herself with, for those unused to the far-Left politics of the mainstream universities, is a Communist slogan signaling adherence to Marxist dogma.  (Right now the asshole Berkeley graduate students, members of the United Auto Workers, along with layabout tenured radicals like lesbian self-promoter Judith Butler, are on the verge of setting themselves ritually afire because California’s taxpayers have cut their budgets by .09% or something.)  So Rosa’s super solid — just not in second-grade usage and spelling, alas.

With thanks to an old friend in one of the Berkeley literature departments.  Once we were lovers but now he’s celibate — 6’1″ and everything in proportion.  Sigh.  But he still always finds time to send me little gems like this to brighten my day.  Grazie bello!

---------------------------- Original Message ----------------------------
Subject:  Ana Castillo is coming to CAL this Thursday!
From:     "Rosa -. M------z" <>
Date:     Fri, October 2, 2009 1:35 pm

Dear Friends and Bibliophiles,

You might of heard that Ana Castillo will be reading on campus next week.

"An Evening with Ana Castillo"
Thursday, October 8th, 6-7:30 PM
Multicultural Community Center/Heller Lounge in the MLK JR. Student Union.
Refreshments and lovely conversation will be served!

Attached you'll find the flyer. Would you please forward this to all who
might want to see her read!

Super solid,

Rosa M------z

Miranda, amanda — and dux femina facti, you damn betcha.

La Divina Sara

It will surprise none of you, candid readers, that la divina Sara‘s new memoir Going Rogue: An American Life, with six weeks to go before release date, has already rocketed to number one on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Yes, Governor Palin, that most potent mixture of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Magna Mater and Britomart, to name just a few of her coruscating personae, is a rock star, who leaves bourgeoise hags like Miss Hell Obomber and lumpen lesbians like Hillary Clinton in the dust.  She’s a scintillating ball of energy and blooming good health — in addition to being a blend of William Jennings Bryan and Robert Alphonso Taft, of blessed Old America memory — and she could draw 50,000 people to the opening of a hardware store, on an hour’s notice.

Beat that, Barack Hussein Ogabe, you gangling, crack-smoking pimp.  But then, I guess there are no chapters in Alinsky for dealing with forces of nature.  The affirmative-action incompetent in the White House and his loathsome Chicago handlers are way out of their depth dealing with Palin, as we saw last fall when her mesmerizing speech at the Republican National Convention sent Ogabe’s Potemkin village campaign into a tailspin (rescued, just in the nick of time, by the spectacular collapse of the Federal Reserve’s stock-jobbing house of cards).

Herewith, therefore, a link to SarahPAC, where you can donate a few Yankee dollars to our first female President’s political action committee, as I did this afternoon — yes, my widow’s mite goes to Sarah, and cheerfully done:

I trust Gov. Palin will continue to be the focus of support not only for us Constitutionalists, populists, paleoconservatives, libertarians, and values voters, but also for all you Republicans of good will out there who think McCain, Grahamnesty and Lamar Alexander (the last two voted to confirm Red Sonia Sotomayor) and the rest of those country-club Viagravators should get bent.


Grahamnesty : Does the depilated old queen imagine that thin, tight rictus passes for a smile? And that porcine nose, as though he were constantly scenting his own sulphurous fart.  Would that Mencken were living at this day, to satirize this high prole come up in the world, or better yet Catullus, with his Celtiberian nouveaux riches proudly showing their teeth on the slightest pretext, freshly brushed with Spanish piss.

Speaking of country clubs, the principle-free zone that is Mitt “Stop Me if You’ve Heard Me Deny the Divinity of Christ Before” Romney, and the rest of the Grand Old Plutocrats, better be nice to Sarah. Remember the last banker with a personality bypass who crossed us and thought he could still be president? The one defeated by Perot and succeeded by Clinton?

Mary Jo Kopechne’s watery grave: requiescat in pace.

Teddy's Car

(Martha’s Libtard, MA) Speaker of the House Nates Pilosae (D-Fistula) announced today she would rally liberal support for the flagging ObamaCare bill by renaming it the Senator Kennedy Really Enjoyed Women Undressing, or SKREWU, Act. Asked if this means any substantive changes, Pilosae said: “Well, we’re planning to make the reproductive health care stuff a stand-alone bill. The mother’s, I mean. To be fair, cranial puncture and suction doesn’t necessarily meet everybody’s definition of health care for babies.”

As some in the audience shifted in their seats, Pilosae continued: “The stand-alone bill, which we’re calling the Ted Kennedy Inconvenient Duty to Rescue Act, dispenses with all that partial-birth stuff our base is so keen on. Instead, unwanted children will be allowed to be born but then plied with booze and drugs, strapped into an Oldsmobile, and driven off a bridge into a pond. Then left to swim for themselves. All taxpayer-funded, of course. We think Sen. Kennedy would be proud.”

— Sue Denham

In a more literal vein, via ABC News:

Americans were horrified when they learned that rescue workers found [Mary Jo Kopechne’s] body in the well of the back seat with her head held up, perhaps indicating that she had been alive for some time breathing in an air pocket.

No comment.

It may be that Edward Kennedy will find mercy in the other world, a good defense before the dread judgment seat of Christ, in the ancient formulation. Maybe not. It’s not for us still on this side of the veil to say. But what we can say, is that pretty young staffers, unborn children, our republican forms of government, and whiskey distilleries everywhere will sleep better tonight.  Or as my tart-tongued friend Peona de Fleur said yesterday: “My mother always said to say something good about the dead.  Ted Kennedy’s dead.  Good.”


A bit jaggy but genuine I believe: a rare Hibernian walrus, Ebriosus cacatus, disoriented with drink and drugs, beaches itself on Martha’s Vineyard.


This is so creamy and rich, rightists, you’ll eat it up with a spoon! Mind you don’t choke as you chortle with glee, as I almost did:

Urban America’s favorite big-box store, which draws hippie liberal douches as a stockyard flies, announced publicly against collectivized medical care recently. In the Wall Street Journal! Instantly, the Gerald and Helen Goodes of the world, every grey ponytail, snotty pouf and ugly introvert girl for miles around, drenched his/her pants in pixillated pique.  Says ABC News:

The op-ed piece, which begins with a Margaret Thatcher quote [sic], “The problem with socialism is that eventually you run out of other people’s money,” has left some Whole Foods loyalists enraged. Many say Mackey was out of line to opine against the liberal base that has made his fortune possible.

So poignant — where now, I ask, will Berkeley smellies and Manhattan smuggies pay ten dollars for a wormy tomato? Obamatard fighting Obamatard: the double grief.


Angry at Whole Foods: local Obama voter and wealthy slumlord Herman Adelstein, shown here at his fortieth Berkeley reunion.

Walpole Buttocks

Pictured above: (R) Barack Obama, president of the United States and box-office poison, stands on his grandmother’s grave (“a typical white person”) to thank racial shakedown artist Skip “I’ll Talk to Your Mama Outside” Gates for his help with the staged incident last week; (L) Gates prepares to emit the sequel to his learned post-racial treatise The Future of the Race (not to be confused with Josef Goebbels’ absorbing read of the same name).

In this connection, do yourself a favor and read IowaHawk’s satire of l’affaire Gates — smart and funny.

Sarah Palin potpourri!

July 30, 2009

La divina.

Candid readers, I appreciate your patience in waiting a month for this latest installment.  I’m honored that some of you wrote specially to request more — so herewith a compilation or potpourri of several squibs and bagatelles, previously published elsewhere, on She Who Must Be Reported On.  There’s no lexical or even thematic thread running through them, except that each glosses a news story touching Gov. Palin; I’ve just transcribed them in chronological order, discrete.  Enjoy!


Preach it, Sarah! And keep being physically and morally beautiful — it makes the Dorian Gray Democrats just livid. Especially Sen. Ketchupheiress, treasonable champion of the American Left in 2004: Horse’s face, horse’s ass. As Churchill reportedly said to the bossy dowager (the literate know the prelude, so I omit it here): “Yes, madame — but in the morning I shall be sober, and you will still be ugly.”

All good satirists go ad hominem, or in Kerry’s case ad equum. Can’t keep it at the level of high legal theory all the time, especially dealing with Sen. Medalsthrower, that betraying bastard.

Actually, on reflection Sarah’s too kind. It’s not so much the length as the corrugation of Kerry’s snout. Really the overall effect is, echoing Catullus 97, the wrinkling and puckering of a dehiscent mule, only permanently frozen in place.

Here’s the poem for my Latinists. Truly, it’s Kerry:

Non (ita me di ament) quicquam referre putavi
utrumne os an culum olfacerem Aemilio.
nilo mundius hoc, nihiloque immundius illud,
verum etiam culus mundior et melior:
nam sine dentibus est. hoc dentis sesquipedalis,
gingivas vero ploxeni habet veteris,
praeterea rictum qualem diffissus in aestu
meientis mulae cunnus habere solet.
hic futuit multas et se facit esse venustum,
et non pistrino traditur atque asino?
quem si qua attingit, non illam posse putemus
aegroti culum lingere carnificis?


‘Don’t explain; your friends don’t need it, and your enemies won’t believe you anyway.’ Conservatives, consider taking the Governor at her word. Resign political office, sparing oneself and one’s children sprays of poison from Obama’s grinning degenerates, aging catamites like David Letterman and gnawing shrews like “Katie” Couric? Of course the lefties scoff — how should the children of broken homes, of aborting mothers and homosexual fathers, believe? What evidence do they give of even the thinnest scraping of moral imagination? Is it so strange the Governor should stoke great billows of hatred and wrath in HuffPo degenerates? “Remember the word that I said unto you, The servant is not greater than his lord. If they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you.”


La Camilla on La Sara, hot off the press:

“The vicious double standard is pretty obvious. Only the tabloids, for example, ran the photos of a piss-drunk Chelsea Clinton, panties exposed, falling into her car outside London clubs a few years ago. If Chelsea had been the scion of Republican bigwigs, those tacky scenes would have been trumpeted from pillar to post in the U.S. as signals of parental failures…”


Palin Derangement Syndromers, gnash your teeth — Sarah speaks. And whenever she does, it’s news. Go ahead: fume, sputter, get red in the face. The more you clench your fists, the more Sarah just slips through your fingers. Here, you can enjoy her dumping on Sen. Voraxa Vulpine’s (D-CA) cap-and-tax hike. The old bag’s just grandstanding, of course; a sop for the Bay Area body-odor set. Don’t kid yourselves, hippies; the bill’s going nowhere. Oh, and Boxer looks like an old boot, too.

Sarah’s media gold and she’ll be making news whenever she wants for years to come. Hate her till you pop a vein, lefties. And Meghan McCain Republicans. (That bleached-out Black Angus, three hundred pounds of Daily Beast beef on the hoof, is twice the woman Sarah is — on the bathroom scale. I adamantly oppose abortion but can’t Cindy McCain be ordered to have one retroactively?)


It takes a Canadian, to see the zero-sum culture war of urban with rural America.

“We have one group that lives under the highly artificial and intensely regulated conditions of post-modern urban life. (Even if they go to a cottage, it will be equipped with the electronic paraphernalia to create a bubble of urbanity.) And, we have another group who remain in contact with the eternal verities of life on this planet. (Who, for instance, associate electric power with doing work, as opposed to “making consumer choices.”)

Perhaps better terms for the two sides, to replace left and right, might be “martians” and “earthlings.”

It is to the earthlings in this scenario that Ms. Palin is speaking. And when she writes lines like this intentional jaw-dropper in the Washington Post — “We are ripe for economic growth and energy independence if we responsibly tap the resources that God created right underfoot on American soil” — she is quite intentionally signalling that she is ready for war.”


The Constitutionalist renaissance continues. The time’s ripe, conservatives and libertarians: give each moderate or centrist you know a thumbnail education in federalism. Most don’t know the concept from Adam, having wasted four years, like yours truly, in one of those NEA homes for aging hippies where they teach sex ed instead of civics. But once explained, they grasp it instinctively, and respond eagerly. They know they don’t like it when the First Citizen (if he is one) confiscates their income to shower his urban redoubts with cash. They know they hate it when federal courts shove alien cultural and religious values down their throats. Now give them a principled reason why! Pragmatics are all very well, but teach these persuadables they don’t even need to reach the merits, whether this or that socialist policy of Obomber “works” or not — does it do violence to the Constitution? Yes. Then defy it.


What’s old is always new again, and where better for the next Tenth Amendment renaissance than the home of Boy Bryan, the original Red State republican — lower-case, please — and a loyal son of Jefferson and Jackson. As those who nowadays attend Jefferson-Jackson Day Dinners are distinctly not. Though of course neither are many of those who host and attend Lincoln Day dinners. Sarah Palin, Michael Huckabee and all other non-Arian presidential hopefuls, please take note.


Give me more of that old-time Ann Coulter! The Queen of Mean dumps on the locker room punching bags and dowdy schoolgirls who grew up to be Jon Stewart, or university staff. Libs are “talking about her like an ex-girlfriend… Because she’s magnificent… a huge star… the hatred for Palin is coming from liberal women in New York who have overheard their boyfriends saying, Well, gotta admit, she is good-looking.”


My old friend Peona de Fleur, high up in a Washington D.C.-area conservative think tank, as quick-witted as your faithful servant but less stodgy, suggests the following captions for Gov. Palin’s photo:

“Because Todd’s at least this big, I keep comin’ back to ride that ride…”

“Anyone who’s not this big won’t beat me down, come 2012…”

“You know what turns liberal women into conservatives?”

“Most Lefties dream of redistribution because they don’t have it upstairs or downstairs…”

I vigorously dispute Rusty DePass: In no way does the First Dragqueen resemble an ape!  On the contrary — she’s a garden-variety butt-ugly human being.


Ah secular lefties, always good for a laugh; you never ululate louder than when somebody like Rusty DePass dares apply one of YOUR dogmas. Isn’t it an article of your childlike Darwinist faith — touchingly unshakable when confronted with the total absence of transitional species in the fossil record — that all humans descend from apes? Then why is it insulting to joke a gorilla is Miss Hell’s ancestor? DePass is only practicing what you preach — and you strain at this gnat but swallow Barack Obama camels like “white folks’ greed runs a world in need.”

There are however other perfectly good reasons for the thoughtful theist to bristle at Mr DePass’ little Darwinist home truth, or falsity I should say.  His controversial metaphor not only degrades human beings, created in the image and likeness of the Divine Being, but simians too.  How dare he compare this rangy transvestite, with that face that could stop a clock, to one of the great apes?  What have gorillas ever done to merit comparison to Miss Hell — angry chest-thumping and enraged shit-flinging during the rut aside, that is?

I mean, really!  No gorilla I’VE ever met is a race baiter, affirmative-actioned into Princeton but still seething with anti-white resentments — though she seems happy to spend quite a lot of white taxpayer money on her full-time make-up lackey (I do concede that, being a six-foot man, Miss Hell requires a great deal of paint to pass as even an ugly woman).  No gorilla I’VE ever met pretends teenaged sluts and their petty-thieving babydaddies enjoy a Constitutional right to taxpayer-funded uterine infanticide — ideally, per the lesbian feminist witches who cackle and chant round the sacrificial chair, via skull puncture and suction of the unborn but quite sentient child’s brain (partial-birth abortion, for those unfamiliar with the procedure’s stomach-turning cruelty).  Nor has any gorilla I’ve ever known had the temerity to vest itself in a purple rayon housedress from Sears and go clumping into the Capitol of the United States swollen with pride like some great bourgeois grape — for having achieved what?


For all of these reasons then, I request, no, I DEMAND that Rusty DePass and everyone else who dares exercise First Amendment freedoms in private (the dirty bastards!) publicly apologize for comparing Miss Hell Obomber to a gorilla.  And then perhaps in time — just perhaps — the gorillas will forgive them.

Loyal subjects of the Crown: Hussein Obomber and that salope Sarkozy can go sod themselves!


Elizabeth R. has been blackballed from this year’s D-Day commemorations in Normandy — and the fact that Obama and Sarkozy, who disinvited her, are both socially lower than a snake’s belly only adds insult to injury.  My apologies for linking to the Upper West Side Slimes, Jayson Blair’s far-left birdcage liner of record, but they were first to break this story stateside I believe.  The Daily Mail’s take: “Palace fury as Sarkozy refuses to invite royals to 65th Anniversary,” with appropriate details about that Glaswegian tub of guts Gordo Brown’s complicity in the snub.

One hates to say “I told you so,” especially to borderline lèse-majesté, but lie down with dogs and you get fleas. Conservatives warned back in April that Her Majesty shouldn’t receive Calypso Barry and Miss Hell Obomber, but noblesse oblige evidently got the better of her.  The monarch should have taken a leaf from her feisty grandson, Prince Harry, who as your humble servant noted back in January seems blissfully uncorrupted by multiculturalist (i.e. anti-European) agitprop.


Pictured above: The First Dragqueen rubs the Royal Person with her great galumphing paw of a man-hand, as she might another transvestite during some crack-fuelled lip-synch of “I Will Survive.”

Really, to paraphrase Sir Alan Clark’s wife, you can expect this sort of thing when you have below-stairs Anglophobes round for drinks.  QEI, Gloriana, the virgin Bride of England, wouldn’t have boarded her least-favorite dog with the Obamas, let alone spoken to them socially.


Elizabeth I, the Rainbow Portrait: “I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe should dare to invade the borders of my realm.”

And Sarkozy? A glorified fishmonger.

Voici M. la Grenouille-en-Chef avec sa putain — you know, Carla Bruni, the dopey slut who recently dragged her name into the headlines by sassing the Patriarch of Rome on the Christian teaching against contraception.  A subject with which she’s become most intimately familiar, perforce, during long years spent screwing her bowlegged way to the Élysée Palace.  In this photo, her legs are kept from flying apart only by Sarko’s crushing grip, inherited from his gold-grasping cit forebears, who knew to pinch a penny ’til it squeaked:


And that great, rawboned, Korean toaster of a head — can it be Bruni’s a drag queen too?