Sending the Chimp out to crash the market with his “pep talks” every other day is sorta like shipping truckloads of E. coli spinach around the country. They both cause disasters. And they’re both full of shit. Did Panchito really not realize he was selling a toxic wastrel?
Funny to see the shameless/soulless/clueless Chimp praising himself for being in the right place at the right time to fix the unbelievable mess he’s made over the last eight years. Sorta like having Typhoid Mary slapping on a tiara as a reward for running the Health Department. But at least she was a cook.
Just when you think the Chimp has done about all the damage to the country an impotent whipped dog can do, you read that the FDA’s solution to all the food poisoning outbreaks was to hire flacks on the sly to improve its image. Which gives me total confidence in that agency’s assurance that a little melamine won’t hurt. But at least we can trust the USDA, no? Except when it comes to frozen chicken and salmonella and it’s the consumer’s fault for microwaving rather than baking. Here we go again. Attack of the killer TV dinners. . . .
I missed the Chimp hosting “Fear Factor” on the teevee while I was off at some amazing friends’ very glamorous birthday party (terrace, jazz band, great caterer, winking waiters), but I do hope the myriad manufacturers of antacids seized the opportunity to run commercials for antidotes to the fresh yellowcake. Given that his stooges are rolling over yet again, I can’t wait for the dinner skit where he goes laughingly looking for those weapons of financial destruction he managed to sell. If only an infamous pretzel had been one small chocolate mint. . . .
The Moose Murderer has already proven herself beyond qualified to succeed the worst president ever, and not just because she comes across as developmentally disabled in interviews. Sequestered in Philadelphia, where she greeted not voters but “fans” in an Irish bar before the debate, she ordered the requisite cheesesteak with the proper processed crap rather than elitist cheese. Viola, as they say in wingnuttia — election accomplished. Mr. Heinz, eat your heart out.
In one scary week, it was surprising how reassuring it was to see the Chimp photographed repeatedly with wineglass in hand, toasting at the fancy dinners he felt compelled to follow through on as his cronies worked away on the great tax heist. If he was hammered, at least he was not trying to help. The tab would be twice as high, and he’d be walking out on the check.
I posted too hurriedly elsewhere on this, but the news that the FDA is going to speed up the process for getting genetically modified meat and fish to market should make us all very, very nervous. If there is one way to sum up this administration, it would be to say it has the merde touch. And if it wants to let Big Food pump scary stuff into supermarkets, you know who is going to benefit. Not you, the buyer at the bottom of the food chain. It’s all about profit, not about accountability. It would be one thing if the world needed more cheap meat, with tacos going for two for 99 cents in a chain that spends more money on advertising than ingredients. But this is about ramming things through with unvetted meat when no one can safely say GMO crops are not without their hazards. This at a time when the same regulators are not allowing beef producers to test for mad cow disease because that would give them a competitive advantage with consumers who will stretch to pay more for food fit to eat. Wall Street may finally be buying into the notion that government is here to help. But until we all have health care guaranteed during E. coli and salmonella and worse breakouts, I will retain my queasy doubts.
After eight miserable years of Turd Blossom’s pulling strings, I should not be surprised at the cynicism the Chimp Wannabe demonstrated in choosing a caribou killer as his second in command. Of course he would think women are interchangeable. To me it’s like craving a ribeye and getting served a Whopper Junior. Or hiring Julia and having Rachael show up. Come to think of it, though, she might be more qualified than the moose eater.
The only good thing about watching the Chimp doing his dog-eating-its-own-vomit act, returning to the scene of the crime in New Orleans, was realizing it was the last time he would be sweating and smirking there. Now we just have to grit our teeth to get past one more jackass opportunity here on 9/11. Given how trendy goat has suddenly gotten, with features in New York and Time, maybe someone could roast a pet one just for him?
The POW who would serve the Chimp’s third term seems to be having trouble staying on POW-of-the-people message. First he makes a foray to an Olive Garden in Florida, then he goes out for coffee in a cardboard cup in my old stomping grounds in Arizona. But he drops slightly more than the price of his shoes ($540) at the first stop and takes a nine-car motorcade to Starbucks on the second. My little brother, who still lives out there, was saying he hoped the entourage would buy a sandwich or two to help the local economy, but I kinda doubt this is what he had in mind. Given that McLame and his sugar mama shell out $270,000 a year on servants, you would think someone could fetch him a cappuccino at home. To his credit, he does seem to have documented that he cooks his own ribs. But why do I suspect grilling is just the brush-clearing of 2008?
As indicated over at the satellite operation, the Chimp was apparently on a mission to bring home the gold in the wastrel-son division of hammering. Maybe his dream is to finally succeed at something, like brand ambassador for Bud once the heiress and her Manchurian mate shuffle back to the Mississippi of the Southwest (I can say that — I’m from there). A better career choice would be to volunteer to be sent around to schools to provide stumbling proof of what a little brain looks like on booze. Unless the Skank Twins beat him to it.
I guess I have to say something about the postmortem outing of Julia, so here goes: You know that idiot son of an asshole sullying the White House? He’s a lying war criminal. Read the papers, the blogs, anything; listen to the teevee and the radio. It’s no secret. As her biography and obits disclosed way back when, America’s kitchen sweetheart worked for the OSS, which was very clearly defined as the predecessor of the CIA. What does the CIA do? Funny, though, how everyone wants to trumpet her having been a spy while still insisting Valerie Plame was just a glamour girl. News at 11: Bourdain did drugs!
The craziest notions sometimes turn up in my writeme inbox. The weirdest lately was the email promoting cheeses to eat while indulging in the Olympics. Which got me wondering if there has ever been a bigger gap between object and affection. Does anyone really sit in front of the teevee watching the beach volleyball competition and nibbling on taleggio in between schmears of Brie de Nangis? Look at the Fan in Chief, for war crimes’ sake. We’re talking Velveeta on a pretzel at best.
As this campaign threatens to turn into a feces-flinging extravaganza to rival the early days of eRectum, it’s too bad more reporters are not highlighting the main ingredient in a recipe for certain disaster: a private fishing hole. The Chimp has always had his own lake stocked with bass for him at his “ranch,” and now the Old Wannabe also turns out to have a shooting barrel at his ranchette, which is on a creek that actually had fish in it when I was a kid. Guys who want the game rigged should not be the boss of us. When it comes to elitism, worrying about the price of arugula pales in comparison.
In a week that started with depositors panicking outside a failed bank, you would think the Chimp could show just a hint of sensitivity at the table. But that would be misunderestimating his soullessness. Dinner for 245 after his silly ballgame was a full five courses, including crab salad and rib-eye steak, when for once hot dogs would have been more appropriate. But here’s a “fun fact” from the White House web site: Parties during the Hoover reign were big events, too, with 4,000 invitations routinely delivered around town. And how’d that work out again?