Arsehole babies separated at birth: Backstabber Arlen Specter…

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and backshooter Phil Spector.

US Phil Spector Trial

Sen. Arlen Specter (R-PA), who uncannily resembles his undead namesake, convicted murderer Phil Spector, has announced he’ll turn his coat and be a Dhimmicrat now, as preliminary polls showed him getting destroyed by Pat Toomey in next year’s Pennsylvania Republican primary.

My tears flow like a river — all crocodile.

Dry your eyes, Wall Street Republicans; the weak old temporizer couldn’t even be bothered to vote against Obama’s hideous porkulus bill, among many other measures hostile to your capitalist interest.  And rejoice fellow conservatives, who hold our noses tightly and vote Republican because they’re not quite as far to the secular Left as Democrats: Specter was an orthodox liberal on abortion, homosexual “marriage” and other desiderata, and will live in infamy as a Republican betrayer who kept Robert Bork, the most learned jurist of our time, off the Supreme Court.

Naturally country-club Republicans, and the leftie MSM who love to interview them on these occasions, are in emotional tatters over Specter’s little tempest in a teacup.  Woe is the GOP, they cry, rending their garments and smiting their bosoms like some less-talented Vivien Leigh opposite Clark Gable.  What ever shall we do to win elections again?  Where ever shall we go to cobble together an electoral majority?

Here’s a hint, idiots: Stop trying to outpander the Democrats.  Return to the Reaganite fiscal discipline and social conservatism that used to win national elections, and big.  Even now, with the likes of grey, pudgy, and patently unappealing Mitch McConnell and John Boehner heading the GOP in Congress, Rasmussen reports Republicans lead Democrats 41%-38% on the generic Congressional ballot, a mere 100 days into Obama’s reign of error.  Well, well, well.

Conservatives, the GOP may yet be worth our time, with good riddance to bad rubbish like Arlen Specter. Don’t waste a moment’s ire on political whores who sell to the highest bidder; Specter’s thirty pieces of Democrat silver won’t get him far.  Far better to have your enemy out in the open, where you can see him, than constantly fearing his knife in the back you know not when.

In a word, candid readers: FAT.  That, and the fact that Carrie’s upright in both senses: full of moral probity, and tall as a willow tree, to May-gun’s squat, dumpy barrel cactus.

Yes, Carrie Prejean, Miss California who “chose truth over a tiara” in Maggie Gallagher’s words, is the Queen Esther of her times, physically lovely but discreet too, willing to put herself on the line to speak truth to power:

Contrast this, candid reader, with the bovine eructations of Meghan McCain, as likely to shoot from the lip as her amnesty-crazed father but, incredible as it may seem, even more ethically challenged than the old Keating Five womanizer himself:

How dare this dumpy cow lumber onto a national stage, belching and farting her country-club Republican twaddle to any leftie who’ll book her on his show, especially looking like that?  (You know the country-clubbers’ pious mantra: Cut my taxes — but keep abortion legal so my slut daughter can fornicate consequence-free.)  I thought she’d learned from the scars earned in her battle of the wits, though sadly unarmed, with Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham, like that gaping new one ripped between her ass’s ears.  How do I detest thee, Meghan?  Let me count the ways…  I can’t do better here than quote the patron sage of this blog, Jonathan Swift, describing female horse’s asses who try to impress beyond their abilities:

Some try to learn polite Behaviour,
By reading Books against their Saviour;
Some call it witty to reflect
On ev’ry natural Defect…
But, sure a Tell-tale out of School
Is of all Wits the greatest Fool;
Whose rank Imagination fills,
Her Heart, and from her Lips distills;
You’d think she utter’d from behind,
Or at her Mouth was breaking Wind.

(Strephon and Chloe, 1731)

Oral wind-breaking — yes, that pretty well sums up May-gun McLame.  Back to your stall now, Old Bossy, and give that flapping jaw, and your sorely overtaxed hooves, a rest.

Meanwhile, why exactly is ass-ugly gossip blogger Perez Hilton allowed even to enter the presence of gracile beauties like Carrie Prejean, let alone question them?  Does anyone who doesn’t huff amyl nitrite even know who this coarse little scrub is?  Doubtless spawned in some estaminet of Huntington Park, a coffee shop drudge or simpering bag boy at Gelson’s until last week, Perez is stunted and beetle-browed, like so much East Side ethnojetsam washed up on the kosher West Bank of L.A., lately gone from working the corners of Santa Monica Boulevard on to modest fame among homosexuals.  Yes, look closely at the face: the joke stage name conceals low peasant origins, probably one generation removed from an auto body shop on Washington Boulevard, two from some shithole jacal in Jalisco.   Hardly a eugenic or edifying specimen, before one even gets to the illiteracy and repulsive Gay Mart couture.  Indeed, the little pouf’s relentlessly pinched face and lemony sneer suggest a shredded or prolapsed anus, or some kindred sodomite ailment — you see what happens when you shove Coke bottles, various combinations of your own digits, and multiple strangers’ penile Petri dishes up your backside on a nightly, drug-fueled basis.

Bra-less wonder Perez Hilton before emergency makeover: What shat that?

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That’s precisely why bourgeois liberals’ push for homosexual “marriage” is such a joke — “gay” and “marriage” are contradictions in terms, as every candid queer from Mark Simpson to Camille Paglia has observed, and not just because marriage originated as a sacred union framed for the procreation and protection of children.  Everybody who’s not a Prozacked white lady in the Seattle suburbs, dutifully twitching when the Obamatards pull her strings, knows gay men are polygamous almost to a man.  No matter what claims they make in public about their “relationships,” they are except in rare cases industriously promiscuous unless body fat, clock-stopping ugliness or some other structural flaw precludes it, as with blobby toad Perez.

This is not speculation, friends — though a strict celibate myself, my oldest and dearest friends are two gay men, as are a constellation of lesser friends and acquaintances, and believe me, they bear me out unerringly.  Nor, I might add, do very many of them buy into this manipulative liberal “gay marriage” schtick.  Gay men of all people know that male lust, freed of any limits in female reticence, is for all practical purposes unbounded; it drives unerringly for the maximum number of sexual partners, stopping only when structurally limited by the physical exhaustions of age, disease or both.  Nor, they’ve told me for years, would they want it to be; it’s precisely their hedonist, libertine refusal of respectable social norms — the self-restraint and voluntary sacrifice needed for the protection and procreation of women and children — that keeps the gaiety in gayness for them.

And I’m not just picking on the gays here.  Consistent reactionary that I am, I zealously assert divorce must be illegal except in cases of proven adultery; separation, perhaps, but rupturing a sacramental union, never.  “Husband and wife are one body in the same way as Christ and the Father are one.”  (St John Chrysostom) And hetero fornicating is quite out of the question too, as is indeed marital intercourse not open to the transmission of life.

Get with the program, self-described Christians: either human beings wholly own their bodies and can use them any way we damned well please — or not.  Half-measures and casuistry, the hypocrisy of “Christians” who condemn homosexual acts while having hetero sex for pleasure, are just intellectual and moral flab — be for real:

The unitive aspect of sexual love, therefore, is a blessed and joyful corollary to procreation.  It is a gift for which we can rejoice and give thanks.  It is so, however, only inasmuch as it derives from the more fundamental purpose of Christian marriage, which is to participate directly in God’s creative work through the bearing and raising of children.

(Very Rev. John Breck, The Sacred Gift of Life: Orthodox Christianity and Bioethics, 90)

So is marriage a sacred institution framed to hallow the procreation and protection of children, or isn’t it?  As several Orthodox and Roman Catholic theologians have observed, married couples who copulate using birth control are simply masturbating; it is every human being’s duty to abstain from sexual acts not open to the transmission of life.  Husbands and wives who contracept are, therefore, as antisocially selfish and morally foul as the randiest sodomite.  How’s that for consistency and even-handedness?

“From fairest creatures we desire increase, / That thereby beauty’s rose might never die.” — Shakespeare, Sonnet 1

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(Durham, NC)  Beeve Wedgethick, heavyweight on the academic Left (and bathroom scale), noted disciple of French leather-bar patron Michel Foolcauld, went to her eternal reward last week. Wedgethick, 69, was Newman’s Own Dressing Professor of English and Kulchural Studies at Duke.  (The university is now best known as the stalag where the lacrosse team, libeled as rapists and racists by university president Brod Dickhead and 87 members of his professoriat, were railroaded in a show trial; the crooked prosecutor and lying chief witness were subsequently exposed, of course, and all charges dropped.)

According to Wikipedia, where she did most of her research, Wedgethick’s many and weighty excogitations, eagerly lapped up by the sort of dim grad student who thinks Judith Buttlore’s cool — she failed freshman logic at Yale, Ruth Marcus told me  — include:

  • Between Mensrooms: English Litterchur and Male Homosocial Desire in the Humanities Building Basement (1985), a learned, lucid treatise on why many young college Homo sapiens, faced with young college women who look like Wedgethick, decide it’s sapiens to be homo;
  • Epissemology of the Watercloset (1990), a sensitive probing of the dark, mucky nooks and crannies of the smallest room in the house, which the sexual Other has, as second-class citizen, historically been compelled to enter through the back door (speaking of which, what pity Beeve’s books aren’t written on soft paper).

Wedgethick’s books, written in classical Asyntactic, have not been translated into English. However, it’s widely understood that they must be intellectually deep because few can squeeze meaning from the hard, tortured product Wedgethick put on paper, much as a dry well with no light looks profound though an inch deep. Happily, therefore, several of Beeve’s Nude Historicist colleagues (as in the emperor has no clothes) survive burrowed into the woodwork at Harvard and Berkeley, still living the glory days of 1979; several are proficient in Asyntactic and have volunteered to translate Wedgethick’s messy effluvia into stylish English (or their best approximation).

– Martinus Scriblerus

“The gay corpse bride of Janet Reno,” as one of my tart-tongued friends at Y.A.F. calls her.

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Left wing radical Janet Napolitano cries wolf about right wing radicals. As the local yokels say here in California: “Umm… Whut?”  Oh yes, that’s credible. The Orwellian part: DHS will be snooping “over the next several months” into “rightwing extremist activity” — i.e. exercise of 1st, 2nd and 10th Amendment freedoms by anyone to the right of the ultra-left Obama claque — surely 95% of the citizenry (can’t vouch for illegal aliens like Obama’s aunt).

It seems the unibrowed Madame Sappho has really put her big, sensibly-shod foot right in the middle of it this time: the American Legion demands the old bawd take back her slur on the Republic’s returning veterans. How about ritual suicide too? So what if veterans, or any citizen, are prepared to take up arms to save American liberties? Yes, just think of the bad company they’d be in: Washington, Jefferson, young Andrew Jackson.

And now today we learn that the old bag stands by her slur.  Mme Stalin and the NKVD speak: “DHS will continue to… prevent and protect against the potential threat to the United States associated with any rise in violent extremist activity.” Madam, it is YOU, and your non-patriotic president, who are the threat to the United States, actual not potential; your mouth’s writing checks your party can’t cash. “Violent extremist activity”? Your career up to this very day and hour.