So much for the debunking of the idiocy that wives of Presidents actually cook. Mrs. Chimp, pimping the Skankier Twin’s wedding and flogging “their” book, actually took to the teevee to fix some food. I can’t imagine how it went over in Mother’s home, but I’m sure everyone panic-buying rice at Costco appreciated the message: Let ’em eat oyster po’ boys.
Speaking of the most magical city in America, something about the place brings out the most craven impulses in Republicans. The Chimp is like a dog with its own vomit, going back to the mess he caused over and over. And now his Wannabe has the gall to strut around bombasting away about how he would have come right to the aid of a drowning city — ignoring all the images of what exactly he and his pal were doing on the disastrous day: posing with a birthday cake. His message to the media seems to be let ’em eat shit.
Maybe it’s because I’m not an $8 million-a-year talking head, but I can’t wait for an elitist to take back the White House kitchen. It was bad enough that the Chimp served hot dogs to Father Time; those are what that old fart feeds his friends from the press plane. But to offer Gordon Brown a hamburger? No wonder the Pope passed on dinner.
Now that the NYTimes expose on spokesPinocchios has made it sickeningly clear why we’re staying in Iraq — to launder money for GoFuckYourself’s contractor cronies — beef is looking even scarier than ever. The WSJ, whose new owner should be covering up the E. coli, actually ran this headline: Meat Inspectors Can’t Keep Up, Official Says. As the story elaborated, the USDA is “so understaffed that some inspectors are assigned to as many as 24 plants.” And worse. Meanwhile, we have billions and billions to squander far from the land of cheap food. Don’t get me started on the whimpering for the poor children separated from their moms in a wacko religious cult in the Chimp’s wacko state while not a word is heard about the offspring of illegal immigrants rounded up in raids on slaughterhouses and packing plants. When the roll is finally called wherever it’s called, America is going to have some serious ’splaining to do about 99-cent burgers in a drive-through world. But to paraphrase the Language-Mangler in Chief, who cares about hell? We’ll all be dead.
Sad that the home of the brave is too chickenshit to consider impeachment, let alone war crimes trials. Not while “Top Trash” is on, at any rate. At least I can take consolation in knowing the Chimp would walk away unscathed no matter what. Given his affinity for junk like hot dogs and O’Doul’s, he has the perfect defense for approving torture: The Twinkies made him do it.
About the only law that still seems to be in effect in America is the one of unintended consequences. Consider the case of the “homeland security” money showered on Long Island. One of my better sources says it has paid for big new boats and crews to patrol the Sound, and of course Osama and his dialysis machine are not exactly swimming ashore out there, so big new boats and crews have nothing better to do than harass fishermen. Who have their own insecurity with lobster stocks never having recovered from the mysterious die-off a few summers back. Apparently tickets are being handed out for oystering minutes past the 4 o’clock cutoff on a catch that used to be allowed from dawn to dusk. Forget the terrorists. The petty bureaucrats have won.
I had one question on unavoidably listening to the Chimp as he knuckled around the birthplace of vodka: Is he shit-faced? Luckily, photographers and picture editors everywhere were not, because he has clearly entered the escargot phase of his beyond-disastrous tenure — he has always oozed slime, but now they’re pouring on the salt and he’s shrinking fast.
Higher up the print chain, all you need to know about why we have a good ol’ fuckup in the White House was on full display in an NYT blog post by a “reporter” on the trail with the Big O in Pennsylvania who was shocked, shocked to encounter that local oddity cheese fries — something sold less than a block from his workplace the last time I worked there, at the Nathan’s straight out of Coney Island. Candidates are expected to be totally in touch with every level of this very complex society. “Journalists” with six-figure incomes, 401Ks and stock plans can afford to be appalled by what the other nine-tenths eat. No wonder the Budweiser heir-by-marriage fed them Costco barbecue — he knew they would roll over and wet themselves.
Both my parents were WWII Marines who knew from KP, and I still cannot conceive of anyone ever using the word “spud” in actual conversation. But not one of the countless regurgitations of the press release I read failed to shuffle “potato” out in favor of “spud” by the second graf. What, “brown tuber” was taken as a synonym? Even worse than the idiotic flack-talk transcribed into print on- and off-line was the easy bait of a ridiculously overpriced item — if the Pentagon were so transparent with $55 baked potatoes, or $81 burgers, we could halve the $12 billion wasted every single day. And somehow I don’t think it’s truffles pushing up that tab.
New revelations oozing out about the Chimp’s illegal wiretapping would be more sickening if not for the entertaining aside on what the Skankier of the Twins was up to right before 9/11: having the Secret Service organize a bar-hopping trip to Mexico after she was caught bingeing illegally here in the homeland. Apparently that wall should have gone up much sooner, and not to keep immigrants out but those genes in, away from the good mescal. Start with one body in an intersection and before you know it 4,000-plus are piled up far, far from the WTC. “Salud” in Simian is a very scary word.
A new vendor at our neighborhood Greenmarket had a funny sign: “Kosher honey for Easter.” Next: Chocolate bunnies for Passover. Or maybe what another vendor was selling at Union Square: “Hard cross” buns. Will people millennia from now be buying waterboard flatbreads?
I was happy to hear the almighty-god-given right to freedom has now been officially validated on the Upper West Side. A friend who lives in the Beresford spent the better part of a day in lockdown because a certain Chimp was due there for lunch, the $1.4 million shakedown stop on his Irrelevance Tour. Good thing he got all that training flying into Baghdad unannounced and under cover of darkness. He evaded those of us who pay his salary who would have been happy to greet him with flowers — spelling out WPE, with a hot dog from the corner cart as exclamation point.
As for the poor sap who didn’t realize harmless sex will always be punished more severely than lethal lies about endless war, I have a thought on how he might be able to resurrect himself. Considering the trend toward posterior attachments as restaurant names, maybe he could open an alternative to Dovetail in Manhattan and Foxtail in South Beach. Govtail is a natural.
The only thing more appalling than seeing the war president prance around as if he had finally found his organ grinder was hearing what he ate for lunch afterward. Hot dogs. On White House china. Worse, the war president wannabe agreed to have whatever the First Child was having. He is McLame.
Just like the outgoing unevolved Chimp, though, the incoming Father Time knows how to massage the hell out of the pack media on the campaign trail. Just by treating reporters to a barbecue at his log mansion very near where I grew up (not Sedona) he got no end of Tiger Beat-worthy coverage. They even ran his rib recipe, for Costco’s sake (nothing but the best for “my friends”). For once I’m glad Panchito is safely confined to the chewing-and-typing beat. Imagine the damage he could inflict with a manly man in an apron rather than a cowboy hat doing the jive-talking. America would be convinced this is not the Gordon Ramsay of candidates but the guy to have a comforting plate of macaroni and cheese with.