*heart*, Wingnut

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It’s the day after St. Valentine’s — V-Day for us, VD-Day for the wingnuts, and I’m about to put on my rubber gloves, rub some VicksSalve under my nose, and sift through the debris…

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Above:Potential parents of the Batshitz-hagwhack, the
universe’s superwingnut.

Pammy wanted to start the day off with a bang — literally: She might as well have said ‘Me so horny’ — but settled for a whimper, to every non-basementdwellingwingnut’s relief.

Settled for a while. Contented herself with thoughts of her previous evening, spent making sweet, Muslim-hating lurrve with Mark Steyn. All was quiet for a few hours (I suspect a session with the silver bullet, a fresh batch of batteries and pictures of dead Palestinians, but your milage may vary), then finally, she composed a Valentine for John Bolton so adhesive that — well, suffice to say, it makes her previous sloppy blogjobs on her John look like tame affairs. She’s more than usually inarticulate; she’s discombobulated by passion; she is a batshit yenta in heat and she will devour Mr. Bolton!:

Did you catch BOLTON on Fox earlier today? […] He tells it like it us and his authenticity is not to be believed. White-hot reality. If, as Mark Steyn said in our conversation last night, policy and principle is what’s really sexy, then John Bolton is People Magazine’s Next Sexiest Man Alive.

Jesus Christ, that’s disgusting! What gives (besides Pammy, offering Bolton virtual head)? Can it be explained simply by holiday spirit? Sadly, No! Bolton’s VD-Day gift to Pam was attacking Dear Leader from the Right! When you’re more fascist than George Bush, that’s when Pam reaches for her kneepads.

Do you feel like your retinas are scarred and your DNA mutated from just reading that? Yeah? Well, I’ve got more.

You went beyond the fold! You asked for it! What’s worse than Pam on VD-Day? National Review is what.

First the requisite puritanical lecture. Here’s someone called Patrick F. Fagan reminding wingnuts that Virgins make the best Valentines. Especially, one assumes, those who don’t have a choice in the matter. Isn’t that right, Spruiell and K-Lo?

Next is Michael Ledeen, who declares Andy McCarthy his Valentine. What did Andy do to earn such affection? Out-‘faster, please’ everyone else when it comes to ginning-up a war with Iran; for Ledeen, it’s not just how loudly you sing ‘Bomb Iran’, it’s the complexity of your melody and the shrillness of your grace notes that matter, too. After all, it’s a song he knows by heart.

Later is Tim Graham, who won’t give the name of his Valentine, the wicked tease, but a safe guess would be Brent Bozell. Or Jerry Falwell. Instead, Tim complains about how liberals on Pacifica Radio, with their calls for conscientious VDay shopping, have ruined — ruined — the holiday for everyone. Do-gooders. WTF is wrong with a sparkly conflict diamond if it makes a tacky nouvelle riche wingnut couple happy?

Finally, we have a quorum of the rest of the losers confined to one of those periodic NRO ‘symposiums’, and this one, like all those before, is a laff-riot. Several wingnuts were asked to hand out their political Valentines. Hilarity follows.

Andrew Breitbart picks Tammy Bruce. While allowing that Tammy has cootie issues, he adores her penchant for attacking the Left from the inside, as it were. A bit into his paen, though, he gets a little defensive, emphasizes that he’s not proposing marriage or anything, just “play[ing] a little footsy”.

Mona Charen, you can bet, was taken outside behind the dumpster and flogged for what she wrote. Mona gave her Valentine to the late-Gilded Age Republican wit and anti-Imperialist Thomas Brackett Reed. While it’s true that modern wingnuts — especially the ladies among them — can and do admire Reed’s anti-women’s suffrage stance, that anti-Imperialism shit along with it will not do. Didn’t Mona get the memo? All wingnuts wear pith helmets now.

Mrs. David Frum contributes an atrocious bit of doggerel that… well, TBOGG says all that needs to be said about it.

Midge Decter, who not that long ago composed a book-long Valentine to Donald Rumsfeld, picks Rudy Guiliani to send geriatric lovehearts to.

Lucianne Goldberg sends her Valentine to Margaret Thatcher and denounces Nancy Pelosi and Hillary Clinton as dykes for good measure. Something about Maggie looking lady-like in a hat, while those two wannabe-men look inelegant in hats, or something. I dunno. This thing shat Jonah Goldberg into the world; how am I supposed to make sense of such an.. entity?

Bridget Johnson’s Valentines to Benjamin Netanyahu and Dan Gillerman exude the rawest carnality. She plainly wants Bibi and Dan to pull up to the bumper, right now. For some lovers on VDay, flowers and candy or just garden-variety human kindness and joy of companionship elicits moistness or tumescence, as the case may be; but what gets Bridget’s juices flowing is telling the U.N. to fuck off, full-blast jingoism at the Arabs, and treating Palistinians like the subhuman scum that they are! ‘Yes! Yes! Look Bibi there’s one throwing rocks! Get him with a bulldozer! OMG! ahhhh I need a cig.’

Paul Mirengoff, ‘Big Trunk’, seconds Lucianne’s emotion: It’s Maggie that makes his heart sing and trunk straighten. And not because of her hat, no. It’s because not only did Maggie ‘stop history’, she turned back the clock! Obviously, Paul’s a choosy lover. Being a conservative is not quite enough to win his heart; he longs for thoroughly atavistic reactionaries. Sigh. If only Reagan had successfully repealed the New Deal; if only Dubya could repeal the Revolution and establish a hereditary monarchy; then Trunk would probably spew peanut shells all over the rest of the symposioids.

Special Ed strikes the melancholy note; no current Wingnut Politician can quite make him forget his first love, Reagan. The senile old bastard’s trumpeting of laissez-faire and his jingoism are what sustained Ed through the post-Watergate dark days. Ed retires, sobbing, reaching for a dvd of Bedtime for Bonzo.

John J. Miller, usually a dependable moron, smartly declines to send any politico a Valentine. Lisa Schiffren attempts to follow suit, but decides that would spoil everyone else’s fun and half-heartedly picks Thatcher, too.

I’ve saved the best for last. K-Lo, who recounts the story of the time she recieved a Valentine of sorts. Yes, she did. Why are everyone’s jaws gaping? I know, you’re thinking: ‘Did someone at the Duran Duran fan club, half taking pity and half exasperated by all the mail from this woman finally say fuck it and fudge Simon LeBon’s signature to some cheapy Hallmark’? Nah. Get a load of this:


Lopez, above: ‘This one time, at intern camp,
I tried to stick Bob Dornan in my lunchbox.’

Kathryn Jean Lopez
Few moments will ever compare to the afternoon when on an underground-Hill escalator—he was going down, I was going up—Robert K. Dornan, looking at my box of (very important, always were) Heritage Foundation backgrounders, asked: “Need help with that, sweetheart?”
It was a more innocent age, when B-1 could say such a thing without worrying Gloria Allred would be waiting for him back at his office. It was a more innocent age, when conservatives believed they could eliminate Cabinent agencies, instead of add them. It was a more innocent age, when interns could walk around the Hill with unidentified boxes and no one would give them a second look—save for the occasional fiery congressman from Orange County. Sigh.

Yes, that Bob Dornan. Words fail me.

 

Comments: 27

 
 
 

Makes me think of the lizard orgy scene in Fear and Loathing. Gilliam draws it out a bit more than the book does, but to strong Steadmanish effect.
And while on one hand I suspect Bolton and Pam have already done naked things, on the other hand I’d rather think about my parents having a threesome with Rupaul than them two. Yikes.

 
 

Gah! Dolphins! GET OUT OF MY MIND!!!!

 
 

Pee Ess at a different brad: Yeah, I agree. RuPaul’s getting a mite long in the tooth for that…

 
 

You think Bolton has, like, clumps of old tuna sandwiches stuck to his mustache?

 
 

Hey Retardo, darlin’, need help with that sweet, full, almost puffy box of yours?

 
 

Shorter Wingnut Cupid Day cupidity:

“I like you, if you only like people who are like you, check this box: [ ]”

 
 

Robert K. Dornan, looking at my box… asked: “Need help with that, sweetheart?â€?

I need BLEACH FOR MY EYES. THEY ARE BLEEDING.

 
Qetesh the Abyssinian
 

Few moments will ever compare to the afternoon when on an underground-Hill escalator—he was going down, I was going up

Oh, yes, baby, yesyesyes!

What? Where did all these people come from? Oh god, I feel so ashamed…

It was a more innocent age, when interns could walk around the Hill with unidentified boxes and no one would give them a second look

Hello sailor!

But really, whose job is it to identify the boxes of interns these days? And since when? I’m all a-shudder.

Robert K. Dornan, looking at my box… asked: “Need help with that, sweetheart?�

I need BLEACH FOR MY EYES. THEY ARE BLEEDING.

I’d find some for you, but my brain just exploded.

 
 

You left out the best part:

he was going down

I love this:

If, as Mark Steyn said in our conversation last night, policy and principle is what’s really sexy,

Whoa-ho-yeahhh, policy and – ooooahh (fingers circling nipples)- principle baby…

then John Bolton is People Magazine’s Next Sexiest Man Alive.

I want to laugh but I must vomit.

 
Famous Soviet Athlete
 

PABLO NERUDA?

Sorry for shouting, but why is anti-commie Pammy even reading Neruda, let alone posting his work? I finally figured out that she quotes Einstein out of ignorance of his socialism, but NERUDA?

 
 

Listen to MARK STEYN and yours truly in liberty go at it!

Miss Pam always beats the satirists to the punch.

 
 

Maybe she’s actually waking up? I mean ‘his authenticity is not to be believed’? Freudian slip maybe?

 
 

Jonah, is that a picture of K-Lo? Knockout!

[/1996 GOP primary joke]

 
 

Look on the bright side. If the anti-Christ is born 9 months from today we will know exactly where it came from.

 
 

“Few moments will ever compare to the afternoon when on an underground-Hill escalator—he was going down, I was going up—Robert K. Dornan, looking at my box….”

– Kathryn J. Lopez

 
 

Heaven knows that there’s plenty of good stuff here, what with K-Lo’s too-good-to-be-coincidental innuendos and Pam, Steyn and Bolton forming some sort of triad of crazy. But there was a line in that Fagan piece which just blows me away:

It would seem virgins make not only the best Valentines but the best mothers …

Zur?

 
 

Syncronysity baby! I just watched The Starfighters last night, a movie that STARS B-1 Bob Dornan. The MST3k version of course. Now all thinking of him does for me is stick the “poopy suit” song in my head.

We’re flying away, in our poopysuits…
Pushing our crayon in our rayon!

Don’t crap in your hand,
crap in your poopysuit!

You’ll feel relief,
filling your briefs!

Fill your pants over France,
in your poopysuit!

Flying high in the blue
Free to do Number two!

Poop-oop-ee-doo!

Poop-oop-ee-doo…

 
 

as Mark Steyn said in our conversation last night, policy and principle is what’s really sexy

Poor deluded Pam. Steyn actually said what he’d find really sexy is polishing Prince’s nipples.

 
 

It would seem virgins make not only the best Valentines but the best mothers …

Sorry to break it to you, but your mother is not a virgin. Also, Santa Claus isn’t real.

 
 

Weird. Part of this post was eaten somehow and I dont remember enough to put back what’s missing. Bleh.

 
 

Nice to see that, after a few days off and the inevitable crisis of faith, HTML is back–and more hyper, texty, and marked-up than ever.

 
 

The site has been somewhat unstable since the DoS. And, of course, the preview button was the first casualty. Who’s for making a big pot of coffee and starting a reinstall? Anyone? Bueller?

mikey

 
 

GAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!

Pablo Neruda is now ruined for me forever.

Must . . . learn . . . not . . . to . . . click . . . links. No matter the temptation. Get thee behind me, HTML Mencken. [No, that’s not what I meant . . . .]

 
 

When did J-Lo take up sumo wrestling?

 
 

You know, I really admire you, HTML, but I also really wish that I had not read this post.

 
 

Oh man, that was sweet, teh. I’m still laughing at the ‘Reverend Mother Noonan’ thing.

 
 

Pammy on Bolton: “his authenticiy is not to be believed”.

Maybe she’s catching on. I’ve never believed in Bolton’s authenticity.

 
 

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