The Three Stooges: it’d be funny if it weren’t so sad.


(Pyongyang) Last night’s speech to Congress by Dear Leader B. Hussein Obomber was received with tears of gratitude by the devoted American people, from San Francisco to Berkeley, from FDR Drive to Columbus Avenue, and everywhere in between. Seated upstairs in the gallery was the First Dragqueen, elegantly attired for this formal occasion in a sleeveless magenta mumu from Ross; her satellite-dish hips and flailing man-hands swirled and waved a funky shout-out to her powdered, depilated spouse below, busily mugging for the MSDNC cameras.

On the podium behind the Dear Leader stood Nates Pilosae (D-Sodom), Loudspeaker of the House, her puffy paunch and sagging breasts stylishly accented by a puke-green hoodie from Old Navy. Pilosae grasped the Louspeaker’s nutcracker with a firm knobby talon, banging it lustily to announce, through her whittled-down nose, Obomber’s arrival, though her constipated, fangy smile did little to dispel rumors she bites the heads off bats in her lunch hour.

Next to Pilosae sat Windy Joe Blow Biden (D-Amtrakstop), Vice-President and Minister for Asspinching; his hairplugs had never looked so luxuriant, nor his great gleaming dentures so radiant, and the Vice-President did not burp or break wind even once, though he’d just finished a groaning platter of corned beef and cabbage and three Seagram’s and Sevens at dinner.

These high dignitaries were preceded into the chamber by the Dear Leader’s learned cabinet (or what’s left of it after the various tax cheats and influence peddlers got run out of Dodge): Jamit Napolitano, unibrowed former Governor of Arizona and crypto-carpetmuncher; Timothy Geithner, tax cheat at Treasury whose non-plans made the markets nosedive; Hilda Solis, former Brown Power radical, whose graceless scrambles to bestow big, vulgar hugs on every penny-ante staffer she’d never met were repeatedly stymied by her stubby legs and cheap-stitched skirt, so that she kept plunging bad hair and weepy face into stomachs and crotches instead.

Most impressive of all was the Dear Leader himself, his McGovernite ideas fresh, his tautologies soothing because purred in a faux-baritone. By confiscating prudent, thrifty Americans’ incomes to shower cash on greedy proles who won’t even pick up their $800,000 yards, the Dear Leader’s stimulus bill will soon kickstart the manufacturing and small business sectors – have not the wise grad-school dropouts at MSDNC, the New York Times and HuffPo affirmed it is so?

Contrary to disloyal lies by running revisionist right-wingers, the Dear Leader – may he rule forever! or at least till Sarah Palin and Bobby Jindal kick his ass – is NOT just a glorified pimp, a glib, grinning, shit-talking, America-hating white liberal (never mind the traveling Kenyan babydaddy) who’d kill us if he dared, though mercifully he’d have to fall down a well to have a deep thought. The Dear Leader loves his children, black, yellow, brown, red and white (in that order, thank you), and his proposals to socialize heath care and dump money on the NEA and its surly lesbians will hurt him more than they hurt you – except in your back pocket, of course, where they’ll hurt you more, like a Coke bottle in the rectum.

American Gothic for the multiculti future: throat-slitting honor killer Muazammil Hassan, shown with his late wife (one of them, at least).


This nearly slipped under the radar because of the unfortunate plane crash near Buffalo, NY last week. Not only in the spirit of fact-checking the “religion of peace” — thanks for deceiving yourself and the unlettered, George Dubya — but in the spirit of satire ’cause this throat-slitter (that’s what the euphemism “beheaded” means) and his battered concubine were propagandists, busy informing naive Americans that the religion of fire and sword is really just some Winnie the Pooh tea party.

Irony alert for the Daily News: “After episodes of domestic violence, Aasiya Hassan, 37, filed for divorce Feb. 6 and obtained an order of protection barring her husband from their Orchard Park home, her lawyer, Corey Hogan, said. She and her husband both worked at Bridges TV, a satellite- distributed news and opinion channel. They launched the station in 2004 in an effort to counter images of Muslim violence and extremism.”


Just for fun, in a fit of anti-Yale and anti-elite pampered commodes of received opinion generally – that country club in Palo Alto with the bad library, say, Taco Bella Italia prefab – here’s a reprise of La Camilla’s post-election Salon column. All the tastier since the Obamatards are now having to eat their hats about Barky Hussein’s cool competence, his first-class temperament with a first-class intellect, blah blah blah burp brack ralph bruce.

Money quote: “How dare Palin not embrace abortion as the ultimate civilized ideal of modern culture? How tacky that she speaks in a vivacious regional accent indistinguishable from that of Western Canada! How risible that she graduated from the University of Idaho and not one of those plush, pampered commodes of received opinion whose graduates, in their rush to believe the worst about her, have demonstrated that, when it comes to sifting evidence, they don’t know their asses from their elbows.” Camille’s been reading her Lady’s Dressing Room!

Not a self-hater: Dutch nationalist and pro-Western Westerner Geert Wilders.


There are no words for how low Gordo Brown and the Labour party have sunk, refusing Geert Wilders, the Dutch nationalist and vocal anti-Islamist, entry into the U.K. This latest bout of official “multiculturalism” (that is, hatred of the West and its culture) is of course a far cry from the British Left’s xenophile solicitude for firebrand Islamist clerics and domestic Pakistani terrorists, free to wander England and Scotland plotting the murder or forced conversion of the native Britons — and indeed loudly to demand sharia and other exemptions from the minima of acculturation, cheered on by useful idiots like His Disgrace the Right Rev. Rowan Williams, schismatic (at best) Archbishop of Canterbury and Quisling to the culture.

Wilders’ own appraisal: Her Majesty’s Government are “the biggest bunch of cowards in Europe” and “more Chamberlain than Churchill” — but at least Chamberlain, unlike Churchill, feared the suicide of the West enough to try at Munich to prevent (alas in vain) the second great European civil war.

As in the Left-governed United States, the British nation have been deserted and even attacked by their government; the xenophile state, to use Brecht’s phrase, has elected a new people. How much longer will they obey their elites, when their elites instruct them gradually to disappear?

Coming soon to a nation inhabited (formerly) by you, if multicultis get their way: Delacroix’s Massacre at Chios (1824)


Multiculturalism means never having to say you’re sorry — if you’re a Muslim father who touches his daughter’s genitals, or “a Thai man who shows no remorse… for his part in a Garden Grove robbery in which two people were killed” and, boo hoo, gets the death penalty, says USC pervfesser Alison Renteln, issued a Ph.D. by Berkeley in “jurisprudence and social policy.”  (What a joke.  Who pays off the accredduhtaters so Berkeley can grant these shit degrees?)  Per Renteln criminalizing child rape is merely another monocultural Western taboo — she says that like it’s a bad thing — from which illuminatae like herself will deliver us blinkered Judeo-Christians. “Touching children in the genital area should probably be discouraged… But incarcerating parents or breaking up families are [sic] illegitimate means of inculcating new values,” Renteln writes in The Cultural Defense.  But of course.

“And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing if his ministers also be transformed as the ministers of righteousness; whose end shall be according their works.”

This is just delicious — Nates Pilosae, shilling for her Generational Theft Act, plows past a pig-ignorant mistake like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Which it wouldn’t, since all the old battleaxe’s moisture drained away in her ten facelifts. In fact, Pilosae has a knot of hide at the back of her head like a schoolgirl’s scrunchy, so the devil can hang her on a hatrack when he’s done using her.

“I don’t think we can go fast enough, uh, just uh, to, to stop that.” Spit it out, dear. And somebody put that mangled metaphor out of its misery.