Mary Jo Kopechne’s watery grave: requiescat in pace.

Teddy's Car

(Martha’s Libtard, MA) Speaker of the House Nates Pilosae (D-Fistula) announced today she would rally liberal support for the flagging ObamaCare bill by renaming it the Senator Kennedy Really Enjoyed Women Undressing, or SKREWU, Act. Asked if this means any substantive changes, Pilosae said: “Well, we’re planning to make the reproductive health care stuff a stand-alone bill. The mother’s, I mean. To be fair, cranial puncture and suction doesn’t necessarily meet everybody’s definition of health care for babies.”

As some in the audience shifted in their seats, Pilosae continued: “The stand-alone bill, which we’re calling the Ted Kennedy Inconvenient Duty to Rescue Act, dispenses with all that partial-birth stuff our base is so keen on. Instead, unwanted children will be allowed to be born but then plied with booze and drugs, strapped into an Oldsmobile, and driven off a bridge into a pond. Then left to swim for themselves. All taxpayer-funded, of course. We think Sen. Kennedy would be proud.”

— Sue Denham

In a more literal vein, via ABC News:

Americans were horrified when they learned that rescue workers found [Mary Jo Kopechne’s] body in the well of the back seat with her head held up, perhaps indicating that she had been alive for some time breathing in an air pocket.

No comment.

It may be that Edward Kennedy will find mercy in the other world, a good defense before the dread judgment seat of Christ, in the ancient formulation. Maybe not. It’s not for us still on this side of the veil to say. But what we can say, is that pretty young staffers, unborn children, our republican forms of government, and whiskey distilleries everywhere will sleep better tonight.  Or as my tart-tongued friend Peona de Fleur said yesterday: “My mother always said to say something good about the dead.  Ted Kennedy’s dead.  Good.”

fat-ted-kennedy

A bit jaggy but genuine I believe: a rare Hibernian walrus, Ebriosus cacatus, disoriented with drink and drugs, beaches itself on Martha’s Vineyard.

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

three-stooges

(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.

This is just delicious — Nates Pilosae, shilling for her Generational Theft Act, plows past a pig-ignorant mistake like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Which it wouldn’t, since all the old battleaxe’s moisture drained away in her ten facelifts. In fact, Pilosae has a knot of hide at the back of her head like a schoolgirl’s scrunchy, so the devil can hang her on a hatrack when he’s done using her.

“I don’t think we can go fast enough, uh, just uh, to, to stop that.” Spit it out, dear. And somebody put that mangled metaphor out of its misery.

Obomber’s installation in the White House: the inmates are running the asylum.

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(Washington, DC)  Mental midgets and moral dwarves from across the country, taking a break from masturbating, skimming the New York Times and grading stacks of undergraduate lit papers, have swarmed the nation’s capital to help thrust Sen. Barack Hussein Obomber (Weatherman-IL) into the nation’s highest office.  “Obomber, bastard child of a traveling Kenyan national and his America-hating mistress — as she recalled, anyhow — shows that anybody, just anybody, can become president of the United States,” exulted Nates Pilosae (D-CA), Speaker of the House and cracked leather good.  “Forty years’ assaults on the culture have finally paid off: the American sheeple are such docile self-haters they’ve installed in the White House an imp who loathes their most basic values — voluntarily!

Pilosae smiled, or perhaps it’s just that her facelift is so tight that sitting down causes her mouth to open.  “So what if Dhimmicrats have to sneak in Marxism by the back door, if we beat you in the end?  Obomber and his cabal of wine-quaffing surrender monkeys are just the purgative the American system needs to finally dislodge patriotism and piety for good.”  Waving her liberal-arts Lilliputians forward with one liver-spot talon, Pilosae wheeled toward the heartland and, grinning, barked: “America, assume the position!”