More Clinton-Era Rudeness:
Hope everyone enjoyed last night's final Monday Night Football featuring Frank "Stewardess Fucker" Gifford and the grotesquely reanimated skull of Howard Cosell. Oh, what a party.

Yesterday, the Rude Pundit decided he was taking a few days of downtime to relax a couple of the folds of his brain, so he'd do something a little different in lieu of, say, a post that said something along the lines, "Donald Rumsfeld is a crazed, lying piece of worm vomit who'll say anything to make him look like more than the vile murdering horror masking as something vaguely human that he is." No, instead the Rude Pundit is offering prime rudeness from the 1990s, when he produced a parody radio program called The Rich Flemball Show, based on, well, fuck, you know.

The program would open with the first part of "My City Was Gone" by the Pretenders, and Rich saying things like, "A man who can't be stopped, not by five tranquilizer darts, not even by an elephant gun" or "A Godly man, who believes in Christian values, yet has Jewish friends and Muslim friends, and keeps two South American pagan pygmies in his penthouse for his own private use." Then, as with the real man himself, Rich would launch into some self-righteous monologue. Yesterday's post was all about Bill Clinton's threat to invade Haiti to depose a dictator. Today, in the name of history repeating itself and the more things change..., here's some pre-bloggy rudeness from 1994 - Rich Flemball's take on "feminazis":

It's time for a feminazi update.

A new book called Who Stole Feminism by Christina Hoff Sommers has hit the stands and, boy, I'll tell you, it just rakes the NOW Gang over the coals. The book researches the statistics feminists have touted for years as demonstrations of the bias in society. For instance, feminazis proudly proclaim that 150,000 women die annually from anorexia. Well, folks, the truth is that less than one hundred actually die. That's it! That's nothing, a drop in the bucket. There are 150,000 cases of anorexia a year. So what? Hey, like I always say, fat chicks don't get dates. Sommers shows this and many other false statistics.

And what a book like this does is cast into doubt the entire business of statistics for the feminist movement, a corrupt movement if there ever was one. For instance, we hear all the time about the thousands of spousal abuse cases. But how many of these are real? Could it not be that a husband gives a love tap, like he does to his buddies at the bowling alley, but when he does it to his wife, she may be at a tender time of the month, and she just goes ballistic, calls the cops, shoots her husband and then declares she's been abused for years. And then everyone rushes to her side, saying we never knew, gee, he threw his bowling ball awful hard, gosh, we really, really believe you. Yet no one questions the woman. How hard was she being hit? Was she just not taking it like a man?

And spousal abuse isn't the only area where women are using trumped-up statistics to prove their point. Look at rape. Feminists declare that "a huge percentage of rapes go unreported." Now why is that? Well, a feminazi will say that this male-dominated society will call the alleged victim into question. And why shouldn't we? Why shouldn't we? If a woman doesn't report a rape, well, maybe it's because she enjoyed it. Now, I know I'm going to get into trouble for that, but statistics are statistics, and they can be interpreted any which way. Maybe she enjoyed it.

Who among us has not had the rape fantasy? Who among us has not dreamt of the night that a swarthy stranger, dressed in black leather and red rhinstone chaps and cowboy hat, appears at our bedroom window, and says, "Be quiet, and this won't hurt a bit," and when he undresses, he reveals a washboard torso and is so well-endowed that he has bruises on his thighs from . . . well, anyway, who hasn't dreamt of that man? Who hasn't felt a deep quiver within when thinking about that man who says to call him, "Roderigo, the Latin Love Hombre"? Who hasn't thought of Roderigo and felt his butt cheeks shake in earthy delights anticipated? Who? WHO? WELL, well... (breathes heavily) Oh, Roderigo, when will you visit me again? When, you beautiful gaucho with your lariat of love? . . . oh, excuse me.

So statistics, yeah, statistics. They lie and the feminazis, boy they use 'em a lot.

And -- uh, that's our feminazi update. We'll take a break.--- Lumbago, get in here quick! (moans as he fades out)