Harriet Miers Gets Ready For Her Striptease:
Let's say, and why not, that you're the best man for your buddy's wedding, and you're puttin' together one motherfucker of a bachelor party, the main event of which will be a stripper at the hotel suite you've gotten. Everyone's got their demands on what is necessary in said stripper: she's gotta have big titties, little titties, round ass, flat ass, blonde hair with a dyed landing strip, brunette with a Brazilian. She's gotta be able to really dance, she's gotta be willing to let you touch her on the lap dances, she's gotta be willing to lift a whiskey bottle with her snatch. Some of the partygoers want her to be a full-on hooker, some wanna make sure she'll at least give blow jobs, some of 'em have said their wives and/or girlfriends'll dump 'em if the stripper turns tricks. It's a burden, no doubt.

Now there's approaches you can take to the choice: you can search around, lookin' for the hot-ass stripper who'll please about half of the horny dudes at the soiree, with at least another third goin' along because they're so hard up to see live, naked tits in a small space that they don't give a shit if she's a toothless, stretch-marked, leather-skinned skank who'll take three dicks in her asshole at once 'cause it's the only way she can feel anything anymore. 'Course, the problem for you is: which half are you gonna please?

Then there's the easy choice: you have a favorite stripper. Call her Harriette ('cause Frenchy-lookin' names are sooo sexy). And you have been goin' to Harriette's club for a few years now. You know that Harriette knows exactly what you need - when to whip off that thong in front of you, when to go down on all fours with her pucker and pussy in your face, when to rub her tits on your face. Yeah, Harriette's got it down, man, even to the point that when you go back for the lap dance, she knows how to grind you to the point of spewing, lettin' your hands wander all over her very real breasts. She knows if she holds you there, in that delicious nether region between coming and blue balls, you'll tip her everything in your clip for her to finish the job. Fuck, just thinkin' about Harriette gets you hard.

So, screw it, you think. You're choosin' Harriette for the bachelor party. Good as she's been to you, you think you owe it to her for the major cash money she'll take home from the party. No, you don't know if she'll let Sam from Accounting jack off on her face. You don't know if Tom from Shipping'll be able to ram his favorite horsecock dildo into her ass. But you do know that, away from the club, you'll be able to stare at those tits, those thighs, for a long, long time, and you know she's gonna service you in just the way you like her to service you. So fuck everyone else. Harriette's invited to the party. Let the chips fall where they may.

As the Rude Pundit said about John Roberts, George Bush (and Rove, Cheney, et al) knows exactly who Harriet Miers is in nominating her for the Supreme Court. He knows how she's gonna vote on every fuckin' issue that comes before the court that actually matters to him. Jesus, she was right there for half the cases that she would be asked to decide on, from the torture policy to third-trimester abortions to the Patriot Act to releases of documents to assisted suicide. To not believe that Bush knows is to be played for a fool once again.

She's already sashayed her ass in Bush's face. It's the rest of us that need to be worried about what's under the pasties and g-string.

The Rude Pundit Answers Questions:
This week only, in honor of the start of his third year of bloggery, the Rude Pundit is answering questions sent to him by readers. He'll answer one or two questions at the end of each day's post.

So, too many readers have whined this question: "Why don't you allow comments?" Some even say things like, "You're just a pussy who can't take criticism." No, no, actually the Rude Pundit doesn't do comments because he's read the comments sections of other blogs (and occasionally adds his own nickel's worth) and while sometimes the arguments are interesting, too often it ends up being a back and forth between two readers who just oughta get a room and work out some of that latent aggression in the old style, where you fuck your partner-for-the-night in a brutal ecstasy of punishment and pleasure.

Oh, sure, the subtle joys of the first poster in a comments thread writing "Frist" may elude the Rude Pundit. But he's gotten over it. He prefers his community-building to be done face to face. Anyone wanna convince him otherwise?

And as for criticism? We'll get to some of the hate mail, per requests, tomorrow.