Castrated by Ann Coulter, and now intimidated by Carrie Prejean: Queef Olburpmann, the rather mannish Jewish lady who hosts “Countdown” on MSDNC, is retaining a lot of water this week and is VERY pissy about Carrie Prejean’s bosom:

No need to be catty, Queef — your breasts are much larger than Carrie’s. I see a pattern emerging in Carrie’s “fashionable” critics on the left: androgyny, fugliness and obesity, to start.  (Can’t Obomber afford a court flatterer who isn’t a slob?  I guess a degree in “communications” from Cornell… ah, Ag School won’t help if you’re bovine to begin with.)

And lowbrow Christophobia of course.  One is reminded in this connection of tart-tongued transsexual Ms. Garrison’s memorable outcry when dumped by Richard Dawkins in South Park‘s “Go God Go XII”: “Well go ahead and leave, you atheist faggot!  Have fun mocking God in Hell, queer!”  Warning to more squeamish readers: this South Park clip simulates sodomy in gleeful mockery of academic celebutard Dawkins, whose increasingly reductive caricatures of theism and theology have earned him a painful busting back to private by no less a Leftist than Terry Eagleton.

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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?

The hunter:

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

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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.