March 3, 2009
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!”
February 25, 2009
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.