Some ingenious wit has started a blog in persona of the Idiot-in-Chief’s Teleprompter (you know, the thing Obomber uses to thank himself for inviting me etc.).  Here’s the blog’s latest parody icon, a delightful sendup of Hussein’s pompous agitprop:


And then what do we hear?  Oh dear — Presidunce Teleprompter flopped on The Tonight Show — a jibe at the Special Olympics.

Barky Hussein, laughing at the retarded? Physician, heal thyself!

And now a retarded man who bowls rather better than the Metrosexical-in-Chief has thrown down:


Hmm — I’m gonna go with the retardate on the right.  At least he hasn’t got too big for his breeches — nobody bought his way into Punahou Prep, affirmative-actioned him thence to Columbia, and finally social-promoted him to Harvard Law.  Or figured, like the moldy Bill Ayers Left, he was an ideal Manchurian candidate to gull suburban boobs — many of them alas white, female and middle-class, and therefore vaguely moistened by some caramel, non-threatening androgyne.


The hunter:


And the hunted (it’s almost sad — like swatting a fly with a Buick):


Warning to Meghan McCain and other slow-witted RINOs: do NOT make eye contact with, do NOT challenge tall, thin women who will leap on you like a panther and bite your head off while you’re still chewing your cud.

Meghan, Meghan. (Could her name, like, possibly have been anything else?) Just stick to the suburban trollop’s feasible pastimes: facelifts, reality TV, and birth-controlled fornicating. You are NOT in Laura Ingraham’s league, let alone Ann Coulter’s. Either can think rings around your ponderous ass, before you’ve even put the potato chips down.

It seems straightforward enough: death for the ringleaders, expulsion for the rank and file.


No, mean old conservatives couldn’t make this stuff up, even if we tried: naturally Jalal Ahmed, one of the Pakistani brutes allowed by the Labour government to insult homecoming troops with impunity, is a baggage handler at an airport, and was found with pictures of airliners in his possession. But of course he and his little band of throat-slitters (note the wannabe-bad black getups they’re wearing) are still walking the streets free.

Why? When the state abdicates its most basic function — preserving the people who framed it — I fail to see there’s any duty to obey its laws, at least those that harm the interests of native Britons by protecting the dangerous Islamists who hate those native Britons — and will always hate them if they squat on British soil for a thousand years, surly taking the dole with one hand and giving Britain the finger (or rather the shoe bomb) with the other. And it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn what the Pakistanis’ passports say — a hostile alien will never be British, or any other nationality, just ’cause some cynical Labour legislator confers citizenship, the franchise, and transfer benefits on him.

Britons, defend yourselves if your government won’t!  Counterprogramming in the form of the Watford parade is a heartening start, but a cancer in the body politic requires drastic excision; strengthening exercises won’t cut it.  If ten thousand in Luton, and ten thousand in Bradford, and ten thousand in every major city in Britain take the matter of treasonable Islamists into your own hands, what precisely do Gordo Brown and the Labour government propose to do about it?  There aren’t jails enough to hold you — and how many of your own people, who staff the police and the military anyway, will put their lives on the line for Paki jihadis plotting to kill them?  Yes, I thought so.

Most of all, God bless the littlest Britons, of whom it seems there are still more than a few, like this angelic little patriot:


God save the Queen, yes — but loyal subjects of the Crown, you’d better start helping Him, right now.

Queef Olburpmann: constipated from all the bagels and cream cheese?  He has the faraway look.


Oh man, this is too good to be true: Ann cruelly outs the insufferable douchebag and pious fraud Keith Olbermann, who did not in fact attend Cornell as he claims but only the Cornell Ag School, or SUNY Ithaca as they say over in Myron Taylor Hall. (That’s the law school, for all the status-conscious schoolyard pantswetters and locker room punching bags out there who’ve grown up to be liberals — p.s. you deserved the beatings and abuse.)

Says Ann:

“The sort of insecurity that would force you to always say “trebled” instead of “tripled” could only come from a communications major with massive status anxiety, like Keith. Without even looking it up, I am confident that Harvard, Yale and Princeton do not offer degrees in “communications.” I know there is no “communications” major at the Ivy League Cornell.

“Communications” is a major, along with “recreation science,” most commonly associated with linemen at USC. But at least the linemen can throw a football, which Keith cannot…”

Pictured: The First Dragqueen, sporting a black plastic abdominal retaining wall, which protects against hernias should her tucking tape come catastrophically undone.  She’s not a raisin in the sun — she’s a grape about to burst.


Remember, you read it here first last week, just hours after the event: The British press, who unlike their American counterparts aren’t fawning sycophants of the tacky proles in the White House — the court flatterers at Vogue, to take just one tasteless example — tell it like it is about Miss Hell Obomber’s clownish fashion emergencies.

The First Dragqueen’s really put her size-12 foot in it this time. The magenta mumu at the pretend State of the Union was bad enough – will the coltish, brawny Miss Hell now proceed to gold velour track suits at state dinners?

And please, won’t some elocution and deportment coach tell the First Lady of J.C. Penney to cover those unsightly man-arms? Yes, yes, we get it; you go to a gym all the time (between your hard work of hating on Middle America and then blowing its tax dollars on ghetto-fabulous East Room receptions). Well, so do all the other hideous pretend career women who push and shove in front of us at Trader Joe’s – big, fat, hairy, female-impersonator deal. To echo a fit woman who’s actually attractive (and actually a woman): “Okay, so you’ve a got a personal trainer… That don’t impress me much!”