December 4, 2009
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.
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.
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" <-----@berkeley.edu> Date: Fri, October 2, 2009 1:35 pm To: email@example.com -------------------------------------------------------------------------- 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
October 2, 2009
Miranda, amanda — and dux femina facti, you damn betcha.
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?
August 27, 2009
Mary Jo Kopechne’s watery grave: requiescat in pace.
(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
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.
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.
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.
May 29, 2009
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?