I vigorously dispute Rusty DePass: In no way does the First Dragqueen resemble an ape!  On the contrary — she’s a garden-variety butt-ugly human being.

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Ah secular lefties, always good for a laugh; you never ululate louder than when somebody like Rusty DePass dares apply one of YOUR dogmas. Isn’t it an article of your childlike Darwinist faith — touchingly unshakable when confronted with the total absence of transitional species in the fossil record — that all humans descend from apes? Then why is it insulting to joke a gorilla is Miss Hell’s ancestor? DePass is only practicing what you preach — and you strain at this gnat but swallow Barack Obama camels like “white folks’ greed runs a world in need.”

There are however other perfectly good reasons for the thoughtful theist to bristle at Mr DePass’ little Darwinist home truth, or falsity I should say.  His controversial metaphor not only degrades human beings, created in the image and likeness of the Divine Being, but simians too.  How dare he compare this rangy transvestite, with that face that could stop a clock, to one of the great apes?  What have gorillas ever done to merit comparison to Miss Hell — angry chest-thumping and enraged shit-flinging during the rut aside, that is?

I mean, really!  No gorilla I’VE ever met is a race baiter, affirmative-actioned into Princeton but still seething with anti-white resentments — though she seems happy to spend quite a lot of white taxpayer money on her full-time make-up lackey (I do concede that, being a six-foot man, Miss Hell requires a great deal of paint to pass as even an ugly woman).  No gorilla I’VE ever met pretends teenaged sluts and their petty-thieving babydaddies enjoy a Constitutional right to taxpayer-funded uterine infanticide — ideally, per the lesbian feminist witches who cackle and chant round the sacrificial chair, via skull puncture and suction of the unborn but quite sentient child’s brain (partial-birth abortion, for those unfamiliar with the procedure’s stomach-turning cruelty).  Nor has any gorilla I’ve ever known had the temerity to vest itself in a purple rayon housedress from Sears and go clumping into the Capitol of the United States swollen with pride like some great bourgeois grape — for having achieved what?

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For all of these reasons then, I request, no, I DEMAND that Rusty DePass and everyone else who dares exercise First Amendment freedoms in private (the dirty bastards!) publicly apologize for comparing Miss Hell Obomber to a gorilla.  And then perhaps in time — just perhaps — the gorillas will forgive them.

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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.

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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!”

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

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(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.