October 2, 2009
Miranda, amanda — and dux femina facti, you damn betcha.
It will surprise none of you, candid readers, that la divina Sara‘s new memoir Going Rogue: An American Life, with six weeks to go before release date, has already rocketed to number one on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
Yes, Governor Palin, that most potent mixture of Laura Ingalls Wilder, Magna Mater and Britomart, to name just a few of her coruscating personae, is a rock star, who leaves bourgeoise hags like Miss Hell Obomber and lumpen lesbians like Hillary Clinton in the dust. She’s a scintillating ball of energy and blooming good health — in addition to being a blend of William Jennings Bryan and Robert Alphonso Taft, of blessed Old America memory — and she could draw 50,000 people to the opening of a hardware store, on an hour’s notice.
Beat that, Barack Hussein Ogabe, you gangling, crack-smoking pimp. But then, I guess there are no chapters in Alinsky for dealing with forces of nature. The affirmative-action incompetent in the White House and his loathsome Chicago handlers are way out of their depth dealing with Palin, as we saw last fall when her mesmerizing speech at the Republican National Convention sent Ogabe’s Potemkin village campaign into a tailspin (rescued, just in the nick of time, by the spectacular collapse of the Federal Reserve’s stock-jobbing house of cards).
Herewith, therefore, a link to SarahPAC, where you can donate a few Yankee dollars to our first female President’s political action committee, as I did this afternoon — yes, my widow’s mite goes to Sarah, and cheerfully done:
I trust Gov. Palin will continue to be the focus of support not only for us Constitutionalists, populists, paleoconservatives, libertarians, and values voters, but also for all you Republicans of good will out there who think McCain, Grahamnesty and Lamar Alexander (the last two voted to confirm Red Sonia Sotomayor) and the rest of those country-club Viagravators should get bent.
Grahamnesty : Does the depilated old queen imagine that thin, tight rictus passes for a smile? And that porcine nose, as though he were constantly scenting his own sulphurous fart. Would that Mencken were living at this day, to satirize this high prole come up in the world, or better yet Catullus, with his Celtiberian nouveaux riches proudly showing their teeth on the slightest pretext, freshly brushed with Spanish piss.
Speaking of country clubs, the principle-free zone that is Mitt “Stop Me if You’ve Heard Me Deny the Divinity of Christ Before” Romney, and the rest of the Grand Old Plutocrats, better be nice to Sarah. Remember the last banker with a personality bypass who crossed us and thought he could still be president? The one defeated by Perot and succeeded by Clinton?
October 30, 2008
“I’m as corny as Kansas in August…”: Mary Martin as Obamatard prole Chris Matthews (minus the paunch).
Your faithful blogging servant’s rather pressed with my day job today, candid readers, but in the interest of your having something toothsome to read (and mirthful to gaze on) herewith a few bons mots from Mark Steyn in today’s National Review:
This is an amazing race. The incumbent president has approval ratings somewhere between Robert Mugabe and the ebola virus. The economy is supposedly on the brink of global Armageddon. McCain has only $80 million to spend, while Obama’s burning through $600 mil as fast as he can, and he doesn’t really need to spend a dime given the wall-to-wall media adoration. And tonight Chris Matthews’ doctors announced that his leg tingle has metastasized leaving his entire body like a vibrating cellphone whose ringtone is locked on “I’m In Love, I’m In Love, I’m In Love, I’m In Love, I’m In Love With A Wonderful Guy.”
And yet an old cranky broke loser is within two or three points of the King of the World. Strange.
Just so. Here’s the tall, dark and handsome Matthews in a typical pose:
I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair… As soon as I grow some. Aside from out my ears and nostrils, I mean. Sling me some more of that corned beef hash, Ma — puts hair on your back!
So, just as the Daley Democrats did in Illinois, 1960, along with several thousand of LBJ’s closest deceased friends in Texas, be sure to vote early, and often. The Dhimmicrats certainly are, snuffling their snouts through a nice rich trove of moldy ACORNs in the gloomy forests of Ohio. Thus this:
I say, just let John McCain channel his inner Dick Nixon for five minutes (my beloved homeboy, born and now lying at rest just a few miles east of here in Yorba Linda). Then ain’t no skinny slick Harvard-educated pimp in the world gonna cheat him out of his victory, dead man voting or no.