So this morning the Rude Pundit watched Presidential aide and child-raping demigorgon of the K Street underworld, Karl Rove, participate in a minstrel show at last night's Radio and Television Correspondents' Dinner. Rove, brought up on stage by a comedian, was interviewed in classic improv style, or, perhaps, in the style of someone having a caricature drawn of them by a skeevy street artist in Omaha's Old Market. Oh, ho, oh, ho, how the gathered journalists and politicos laughed as Rove said his name was "Patrick Fitzgerald" (misspeaking at first and saying, "Peter," maybe because Fitzgerald denied Rove a subpoena three times and then Rove's cock crowed). Rove tried to joke, saying that one of his hobbies was to "tear the tops off of small animals," which was meant as their heads, but Rove's assertion was done with the creepy self-assurance of a man who, with the flick of his Blackberry, could have everyone in the room beheaded. And who has felt warm, sticky puppy blood pouring down his hands.
Then the song started, with Rove and two white comedians dancing and rapping, and David Gregory (for fuck's sake) and Ken Strickland (who is not a white guy) dragged onto the stage as back-up dancers. Man, how the white people loved seeing those white men shuckin' and jivin' up there for their pleasure. The only thing that would have been more hilariouser is if Karl Rove had been in blackface, with big goddamn jigaboo lips painted on him. And a fuckin' bowler on his head. Yellin', "Boogedy-boogedy-boo."
Rove's performance, which, according to several articles, brought the motherfuckin' house down, consisted of Turd Blossom swinging his arms like Frankenstein's monster at the end of a four-day meth bender and then doin' the hippity-hoppity thang of crossin' his arms gangsta-style and doing some weirdo shit with his cell phone, every once in a while answering the question of "What's your name" with his best Negro-speech-inflected, "MC Rove."
Truly, if the Rude Pundit had had a bottle of acid, he'd've washed his eyes out with it. Truly, Tupac Shakur, seeing the video on YouTube, said, "Fuck it" and shot himself, realizing there was no reason to go on pretending.
Yeah, how fuckin' cozy it always is, the press and the politicians, with Rove being reported as having closer and closer ties with the U.S. attorney firings, with Bush on stage, leaning back at the table, like a fat king forced to go to the wedding of a loyal duke, wondering when the cake will come out and if he can get the bride to lick his balls under the table without too many threats to her family.
Of course, Bush spoke, not quite doing the "Where's the WMD's" thing he did that one time. But he did offer a disturbing reflection on Barack Obama's "sleek, hairless pecs." Yep, between the lurching faux rap and the homoerotic objectification of the black male body, it was a proud evening for America.
