Happy Falafel, Chris V.Yes, the festivities in honor of Chris's birthday continue with this haunting ballad composed by Bill S. First, some background:
Now, sing along with the Bills! 
I think this is the best thing that Bill S. has ever written. If you agree, flick your Bic -- and burn a copy of one of Bill O'Reilly's book. 6:24:01 AM  |
Bennie Loves Hoochie& Happy Birthday, Chris V.!To demonstrate his undying devotion, young Ben Shapiro has written a glowing Townhall review of Ann Coulter's latest book. Clearly, the ardor Ben felt when he invited Ann to visit his orthodox synagogue (which is what the kids are calling it these days) is still present, because who but a man with the hots for Ann would write things like:
Well, to be fair, only a man with the hots for Ann who was also a Harvard Law student would write stuff like that.
Yeah, that was pretty side splitting when Ann claimed that Cleland blew off his own limbs by dropping his grenade while preparing to get drunk with his buddies. But clearly, this was Ben's favorite part of the book:
Yeah, just thinking about Ann getting wanded must make Ben want to get a job in airport security. That way, not only could he closely examine her for explosives, but he could also rifle through her dainty unmentionables.
Ben, honey, in Ann's world, you would have been pulled out of line and strip-searched SEVEN of the last seven times you flew. You're a young, Semetic male, and therefore racial profiling is all about you. See, Ann thinks that only blondes and people with blue eyes have the right to complain about having to comply with security procedures. Sorry, Ben, but your attempt to suck up to Ann by claiming that you've shared the same airport experiences falls flatter than this ringing endorsement of her book:
Claiming that Ann's work makes one vomit isn't what I'd call a big selling point. Anyway, in honor of Chris V's birthday, I thought we should do something a little special. So, Chris, this hardboiled detective story (featuring Ben, Ann, bits of Ben's column, snippets of Amazon reviews, and a couple of stolen movie lines) is dedicated to you. ***** It was a dark and stormy night. It was one of those bleak, sodden nights that make unrequited lovers jump off bridges, Sinclair investers also jump off bridges, and cause Bill O'Reilly to settle unfounded extortion claims for several million dollars. On a night like that, anything can happen. The Bush administration could even tell the truth. Even so, I wasn't prepared for HER to walk through that door with the gold stenciling that announced that this was the office of Benjamin Shapiro, America's Youngest Syndicated Pundit and a Harvard Law Student. The dame was trouble. You could tell that from her brutally sarcastic, bone-crunchingly vitriol, and her hilarious deconstruction of multiculturalism. Plus, she had legs that didn't know where to stop, and a black vinyl miniskirt that didn't know where to start. She was the kind of trouble that could make a man do things that he'd be ashamed of later -- things like read her books. She was as slender as a reed -- a Reed Richards that had been stretched out into a tall, thin rubber rope. But you could see the bones through her skin (you could even count them if you wanted to), proving that she wasn't made of rubber. She was just painfully thin, you know? Her skin was white as Newt Gingrich's belly, while her eyeliner was as black as the heart of, well, Newt Gingrich. She had blonde hair that fell in ripples over the mysterious bulge in her neck, and large, competent hands that could strangle a man while he slept -- and probably had. I opened my desk drawer and took out a can of Seven-Up. I knew I'd need it. I offered her a swig, but she just shook her head, smiled sadly, and smacked me with the stapler. "My name is Ann Coulter, and I need help," she said throatily. "Your help. You see, I've written a book, and there are people who want to kill it. They are evil people --liberals -- and therefore traitors and terrorists. I need a strong, brave, manly man to go to their hangout, the dive known as Amazon.com, and see what he can do to protect me." At this point, she crossed those long, long legs of hers, giving me a glimpse of her smooth white thighs and her delicate leopard-print boxers. She flicked a lock of hair with one of her long, strong hands, and the breeze blew the column I'd been writing off my desk and into the trash can. I moved to retrieve it, but the dame whispered, "Leave it. I need you more than WorldNetDaily does. And will I pay you in ways that they never dreamed of: in remaindered copies of Slander, and a couple of defective Ann Coulter talking dolls. You know, BAD ones." Then she stuck her tongue down my throat. She tasted of scotch, bulimia, and of the dark mysteries one finds written in ashtrays that are never emptied. I could refuse her nothing. So, I checked out this joint they called Amazon.com. After poking about a bit, I could see why the dame had come to me for help. Liberal reviewers had swarmed to her book like lice from the head of Al Franken. I deduced that virtually none of them had read her book, but that's probably because few of them can actually read. After all, they are liberals, and therefore not just traitors and murderers, but also poopie heads. But those who can read should email me to receive an explanation of the difference between the words “their” and “they’re.” You know, like this guy:
A perfect example of a liberal illiterate! And then there are people who said things like this:
And then I saw this one:
I realized that I had to do something to protect this beautiful American women who was also a published author from the chauvinistic men who were trying to silence her. So, I wrote a Townhall review of her book, concluding with the admonition:
I was sure that this would prove to the dame that I was her knight in shining armor, her protector -- and a nationally synicated columnist who attended Harvard Law but who wasn't afraid to make a fool of himself (in PRINT, even) for her. I figured that she would be so grateful that I would be rewarded with more than some of her naughty talking action figures (as much fun as they would be). I had it all planned: she would melt into my arms (even though she's about 3 feet taller than I am), and her soft, warm, Marlborough-scented breath would be in my ear as she whispered, "I want to get away from the harsh, unfeminine world of right-wing punditry and live in a rose-covered cottage with you, where I will have your babies, make your lunches, and even have sex with you occasionally." But I should have known that she would stab me in the back (and the crotch). She was a dame. They are all evil and dangerous and slutty and stuff. This one was merely another duplicitous, black-hearted double-crosser who made promises she never meant to keep, and who wouldn't even deliver the talking dolls she mentioned. I never saw her again. I moped around the office for days. Not even gratuitous mentions that I was a Harvard Law student could chase away the blues. My partner, Professor Dr. Mike Adams, Ph.D., tried to cheer me up. "Bennie boy, you can do better," he said. "She was a charming middle-aged lady with a face like a bucket of mud." "No," I remonstrated, still wearing the stars she had thrown in my eyes -- pointy Ninja stars, which had cut into my brain. "No, Dr. Mike, she was a dish!" "What kind of a dish was she? The sixty-cent special: cheap, flashy, strictly poison under the gravy kind," he quipped. "Dr. Mike, I just don't understand. Why did she ask me to write a nice review of her book for Townhall, and then pretend that she didn't know me after it came out to universal guffaws? Why was she all come-hithery and seductive when she wanted something from me, but then obtained a restraining order against me after I called her 382 times to see if she wanted me to write anything else for her? And why does she have an Adam's apple?" "Forget it, Ben, it's Chinatown, he said simply. "And you're an idiot." So, I walked down the mean streets of Boston and into the darkness, a softhearted Harvard Law student who was just too good for this wicked world -- and a guy who would be a virgin for at least a few more years. Life just isn't fair! 5:34:21 AM |
Who Said It?You people are amazingly well-read and astute! Yes, our first mystery guest from yesterday was Doug Giles, whose column "American Evangelicalism: A Non-Prophet Organization" is about how we need fewer wimpy religious leaders who are concerned about the poor and the sick, and more leaders who are, well, like Doug. You know, tough-talking Christians who don't buy into that all that garbage that Christ said. And yes, the second mystery guest was that wild and crazy guy, Karl Rove, whose tertiary syphilis has apparently damaged his brain. Now, for today's "Who Said It?"
Another reason to vote for Kerry: to get this jerk out of "journalism" and into something he's more suited for, like work as an inept mercenary in Africa. 1:56:34 AM |
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