Let’s see, forty five days have passed since my last act of bloggery and…
Crude is still gushing into the Gulf from a broken oil well that nobody -- not even James Cameron or Kevin Costner -- can fix: So much for Hollywood elites. Whenever a nuclear weapon is being bantered about as an alternative to golf balls and mud, it’s safe to assume that the final scene of this nightmarish fuck up will feature John Cleese running away from a vicious, oil-encased rabbit.
___________________________________
Plumber: “Juan, I’m afraid I can’t stop the toilet from leaking.”
Juan: “Well, that’s not good.”
Plumber: “Don’t worry. I have a small A bomb in the truck. I’m guessing two, possibly ten, square miles will cease to exist. Trust me; after I set this bad boy off you won’t be worrying about the crapper.” [Plumber laughs while Juan ponders how he should inquire about his homeowner’s nuclear explosion liability without arousing State Farm’s suspicion].
___________________________________
Anson Burlingame continues his obsessive quest to avoid discussing progressive taxation as a possible revenue source.
Sarah Palin has enhanced her presidential stature by denying rumors of a boob job and ass tuck.
I feel better knowing that a large stash of lithium has been discovered in Afghanistan. But that’s just me. The prospect of scoring affordable Librium means that I can make it through another season of “Celebrity Apprentice”. Yes!
Because I know too much about Beck’s latest ghost written pap, “The Overton Window”, I’ve been singing:
Founder’s Keepers
Where’d ya get those peepers?
Founder’s Keepers
Where’d ya get that…eye?
I’d like to think that the newest Mrs. Limbaugh’s prenuptial agreement includes free rectal reconstruction surgery.
