A Few Randomly Rude Thoughts About Last Night's Big Speechification:
Just a thing or five about the President's little address to the nation. It doesn't really bear much analysis as a "plan" because it ain't gonna work, it's about the eight-thousandth new strategy that's not really new, and it's just gonna mean that American citizens pay, once again, in blood for the hideous incompetence of our man in Washington. "Come on along, motherfuckers," Bush may as well have said. "The road to the terrible abyss is paved with shit and bone." So, instead, let's have us some fun:

1. Let us say, and why not, that you're an alien, from outer space, and you just came down to Earth in your incredible invisible flying saucer. You're looking for a leader to follow, and you get to see two things: Saddam Hussein on the scaffold and George W. Bush speaking last night. Remember: you are an alien - you have no idea who these human beings are, no idea about gassed Kurds and blown-up Iraqis and Americans. Nobody's crimes or successes or failures even figure into the equation. Just two moments in the lives of two men. (And don't fuckin' say that you can't think that way - if you've gotten this far, you've already gone along with imagining you're a little green man or some such shit.)

There was Hussein, noose around his neck, smiling at his taunting executioners, asking them if they were even men. There was Bush, staring with those dead snake eyes into the camera, speaking in a robotically measured voice, asking Americans to accept more dead and mutilated soldiers for his vision of a way-off future when happy, free Arabs teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

That's your choice, dear Martian, sweet Venusian, tender tentacle-bellied slobber blob from Andromeda. Who is a leader?

2. The fuckin' funniest moment of the whole goddamned thing was this little section: "Many [in Congress] are concerned that the Iraqis are becoming too dependent on the United States, and therefore, our policy should focus on protecting Iraq's borders and hunting down al Qaeda. Their solution is to scale back America's efforts in Baghdad -- or announce the phased withdrawal of our combat forces. We carefully considered these proposals. And we concluded that to step back now would force a collapse of the Iraqi government, tear the country apart, and result in mass killings on an unimaginable scale."

Now, exactly how carefully does one have to consider a proposal before one concludes that it would "result in mass killings on an unimaginable scale"? That seems like one of those self-evident things, like being told, "We'd like to drop a shitload of bombs on this city." You wouldn't have to think real long and hard to conclude, "Oh, that might blow shit up and slaughter a buncha people."

In other words, Bush gave all alternatives the careful consideration that one might give a toilet before pissing in it.

3. The most bone-rattling moment of the whole thing needs to be watched to be understood. When Bush described the reaction of "radicals" to the election of 2005, he said, "And they responded with outrageous acts of murder aimed at innocent Iraqis. They blew up one of the holiest shrines in Shia Islam -- the Golden Mosque of Samarra." And he sounded like Stephen Hawking without the emotion. It wasn't just that he was remote and detached. It was that he gave it all the emphasis that a late night waitress at a diner might give describing a cheeseburger.

4. Don't believe anyone who says that Bush admitted mistakes. Bush said the word "mistake," but his big fuckin' confession was "Where mistakes have been made, the responsibility rests with me." That ain't an admission. That's actually part of the job description of being "Commander-in-Chief." The couple of strategic reasons "past efforts to secure Baghdad failed" he gave were termed in the vague "there were" sense. See, there's a qualitative difference in the balls of a person who says, as Bush did, "There were not enough Iraqi and American troops to secure neighborhoods that had been cleared of terrorists and insurgents" and the person who says, "I didn't send enough American troops..." One person is trying to throw up a smoke screen. The other person is living up to the idea that the mistake "rests with me."

5. For real fun, watch the White House's video of the speech. In the version that was broadcast, Bush was seen in full face, looking at you like a scared, dirty, nauseous fourth-grade boy being told to read in front of the class the note he was passing to his buddy, a note that contains the phrase "teacher's titties." In the White House's version, the image is from an angle, and between the strangely lightless room to Bush's left and the black bars framing the video, it just looks like the man is being swallowed by darkness.

Lindsey Graham: War Escalation Is About Bush's "Legacy":
So this is gonna be the spin: by escalating the war in Iraq, George W. Bush is finally asserting the "chief" part of "Commander-in-Chief" and taking his war back from the incompetent generals who fucked up the whole thing. That's essentially what the Washington Post says today. Senator Lindsey Graham, a man whose dubious sexuality fills the word "surge" with more repressed electricity than the battery of a jet fighter plane, remorsefully took the President's penis out of his mouth long enough to talk: "'It seems clear to me that the president has taken more positive control of this strategy,' said Sen. Lindsey O. Graham (R-S.C.), one of those pushing for more troops. 'He understands that the safety of the nation and his legacy is all on the line here.'"

How are those two things even remotely equal in significance? No, really, in what realms of cynical political gamesmanship can one even compare the "safety of the nation" with the "legacy" of a man? It's like saying, "He understands the severity of the Holocaust and how it hurts when you stub your toe." It ain't comparing apples and oranges. It's comparing apples and dust. Do Republicans actually realize that this is not about their Q rating - it's about blood and ripped and burned flesh? The horrible answer is that yes, they probably do, and they just don't care.

The Rude Pundit doesn't want his goddamn President to give a fuck about his legacy. He doesn't want anyone who supports him to give a fuck about his legacy. According to their Bible and their god, both of which they are so anxious to invoke, vanity, or "pride," is a fucking sin, and before it goeth the fall, motherfuckers.

We're about to send at least 20,000 men and women over for what will be second, third tours of duty. And these ain't active duty military - we're gonna sweep the states of their weekend warriors, some leaving their jobs and families for a second time, and fuck them and their kids over again. The Rude Pundit met an Army Reservist last week whose sunken eyes and jittery manner was almost completely opposite of who he was before he was deployed to Iraq. He talks to people all the time who are scared shitless that they're gonna be called up. "Where's the goddamned emergency?" one of them asked. "This bullshit ain't about any emergency, so what happens when another Katrina comes?"

Bush's legacy is Saddam Hussein's smirk just before the trap door opened. And the dead tyrant's "gaping neck wound" looked like a laugh.

(Note: the Rude Pundit is his secret bunker to rehearse his new show, The Road to Rude, to debut on Tuesday at the High Performance Rodeo in Calgary. So posts will be a bit briefer, unless they're not.)

Just Fucking Read the Link:
The Rude Pundit doesn't usually do the "hey-here's-something-really-good" linky thing. But Gary Kamiya's Salon piece comparing Bush and the war in Iraq to Jacobean revenge plays is one of the best damn pieces he's read in these frantic days leading up to tomorrow's announcement of upping the RPG fodder in Iraq. So click through the ad and read it.

(Note: Thomas Middleton's Revenger's Tragedy, cited by Kamiya, is one of the most fucked-up, intense, insane plays every written.)

America: Aren't We Embarrassed Yet?:
No, seriously, this couldn't get any more embarrassing if Muqtada al-Sadr forced George W. Bush to stand on a table, surrounded by ululating militia men, and strip to "Give Peace a Chance," Bush weeping silent tears as he has to pull off his t-shirt and panties, with Muqtada demanding, to the cheering Shia, that the President bend over and spread his ass cheeks and then stand back up and dance, nude, that cyclist's body shaking to the music, his balls slapping his upper thighs, maybe a transition to something peppy, like "I Will Survive." Oh, how the cell phones would be a-recordin' then.

Tomorrow night, when the Commander-in-Chief reveals his great and mighty, brand spankin' new, shiny plan o' war, with its splendiferous promises of killing more troops (aka "sacrifice"), Bush may as well just show up and burp, fart, smirk, and wave. And scratch his ass as he walks off. Because that's how much of a difference it'll make, except, you know, to the lives of the additional troops. 20,000 is a real big number. Higher than he can count, no doubt.

And now that hideous, depraved fucker Saddam Hussein has been turned into a martyr, his final smile of "I won, George" the last living image of him, damn, Osama bin Laden's gotta be thinkin' about turnin' himself in, wondering how bad America (however much it wants to protest that it was the Iraqis who decided when Saddam would swing) will fuck up his trial and execution, making suicide bombers pop like birds on an ungrounded wire around the world.

Conservatives like to talk about the concept of "shame," when they themselves are shameless. George Bush has turned this superpower into a gigantic laughing stock. And the laughs just keep on coming.

Note: Travel day. Rehearsing new show. Plane awaits. More later. Maybe.

Why Michelle Malkin Ought to Be Caged Like a Rabid Shih-Tzu (Corrections Edition):
Let us say, and why not, that you are friends with a married guy. Call him "Elroy." And let us say that someone in your office, call him "Jamie," tells you that Elroy's wife is fucking around on Elroy. Jamie's actually seen Elroy's wife (and, what the hell, let's give her a name - "Connie") actually blowing some other man in the front seat of her car in the parking garage at his apartment building. Jamie's detailed: he can give you descriptions of the man, of Connie, of how Connie moaned while taking long draws on said cock. Now, let's say you're really close friends with Elroy. So close that you call him on the phone, tell him you wanna meet for lunch; the next day, at some place you know Connie won't go, you drop the bomb on him: Connie's playing mouth music with the skin flute of some other guy.

Now, of course, Elroy's not stupid. He's gonna ask you what evidence you have, although, truth be told, things haven't been great for Connie and Elroy lately. In fact, they haven't really been fucking like they used to. And oral action? Forget about it. You tell Elroy about Jamie, and Elroy says he wants to talk to Jamie himself. He accuses you of listening to a liar. He says it can't possibly be true. Fuck it, you say, call Jamie. Problem is, timing being shit, Jamie's gone on vacation. This sets Elroy off. He says you want to undermine his marriage. He tells you that you've always hated Connie, been jealous of their relationship. All of that may be true, you say, but that doesn't mean that Connie ain't fucking another guy.

After lunch, Elroy becomes obsessed with Jamie. He wonders if Jamie's even real. He can't find the name on the apartment building's mailboxes. He calls your office operator who doesn't have the name at hand. See? Elroy tells others, Connie can't be cheating because he can't find Jamie. His other friends try to help him with this mythical "Jamie," all to no avail. And then Jamie comes back from vacation. And Elroy calls you up to say fine, you weren't lying about Jamie. But he still doesn't believe that Connie is fucking around.

Now, of course, Jamie's presence doesn't make the story true. And, really, Elroy's kind of stuck. Because if he was actually secure about his relationship with Connie, he wouldn't have given a shit about Jamie, and you and he would have had a good laugh at the idea. But all he did was chase after the source, not the real story.

Michelle Malkin and most of Right Blogsylvania went nutzoid at the idea that Captain Jamil Hussein, a source for an AP story about Iraqi Shia pouring gasoline on mosque-departing Sunnis and setting them on fire, was fake. To prove Hussein was not real was to prove that the story was fake. To do that was to discredit all of the AP and its reporting that the war in Iraq is a fucking nightmare. Malkin went further than the rest of the let's-kill-more-Americans-for-our-deranged-visions bloggers, in her most recent "column" (if by "column," you mean, "horrible Invasion of the Body Snatchers-like pointing and screeching"). She compares several right wing manufactured media "scandals," referring to "the Associated Press' Jamil Hussein-gate" as one "that will go down in mainstream history as yet another case of textbook media malpractice." Problem is, of course, that Jamil Hussein exists.

Now Malkin has issued a tiny correction beneath a correction for another much-hyped bullshit story, over whether or not John Kerry was dining alone in Iraq (he wasn't): "As I noted on the 4th, the AP reported that the Ministry of Interior in Iraq has now said a Captain Jamil Hussein does work in the al Khadra police station. I regret the error. But no blogger should apologize for raising legitimate questions about AP's transparency, its reliance on local foreign stringers of dubious origins, and information that sources such as Hussein have provided the AP. I will continue to pursue some of the unresolved issues related to this." Let's just get this straight: the United States went to war based in many ways on its reliance on people of "dubious" motives (anyone need a "Curveball"?). But that's okay. AP puts two sentences in a bigger story about civil war/ethnic cleansing and all of a sudden it's Inquisition time - get out the anal reamer.

The Rude Pundit's not saying whether or not the Sunni burnings occurred. He has no reason to believe they didn't. But the right's obsession with pursuing whether or not a source is real has come back to bite them on the ass. The mainstream media bought into the idea that because Dan Rather's story on Bush's Vietnam-era non-exploits had some forged documents involved that there was no story. Right Blogsylvania got the story, the real story, killed by attacking a source. It's classic lawyer bullshit. If the victim's a hooker, did a rape occur? If the witness is a junkie, did he see a murder?

And now, for Michelle Malkin and the Malkinettes, they have discredited themselves by not pursuing what may be a real story in their war-tainted brains. Although whether or not six Sunnis were set on fire seems to be a minor point in all the shit that's confirmed by multiple and official sources (tortured, tossed bodies; endless kidnappings). Like the entire right-wing attack on the "liberal" media ignores whether or not the "liberal" stories are true.

What this is really about, as Eric Boehlert and others have pointed out, is the gut-twisting denial these jerkholes have contorted themselves into. Even as other conservatives fall in with the vast majority of the nation in saying, "Enough," for Malkin and Right Blogsylvania, the war in Iraq is their raison d'etre. It's their cocktail, their lubricant, their red meat. If they admit its failure, even if they know it's true, then they will have to admit that they wasted their lives (and the lives of untold thousands) on a cause lost from the beginning.

In other words, there's a fuckin' correction that can never be made.

Bush to Europe: You're Just Adorable With Your Belief in International Cooperation:
It doesn't bear saying anymore. In fact, the comment that "George W. Bush is not a serious man" is about as self-evident as saying "Chocolate is yummy" or "A bad blow job is still hotter than a good hand job." But just like you have to have a Dove bar or a hummer that's more licking than sucking to reconfirm what you know, so must we sometimes look at the words of the man in order not to stare blankly at his incompetence, not to revel in his madness and stupidity, not to weep at his cruelty, but just to understand how very much he just doesn't care.

Bush, our goddamned President, was standing at the lectern at the brief press meet welcoming German Chancellor Angela Merkel to the White House yesterday. A reporter said to Bush, "The debate always is how can European powers influence a superpower like the United States? Whether Germany objected Iraq or Tony Blair got along in Iraq, they had not much influence, the pessimists say. Can you give us one example where you changed your mind after talking to a European leader?" It was one of those moments, like asking the man to name a mistake he made, where you got the impression of not simply a deer frozen in the headlights, but of a really retarded buck charging head-on at the glowing eyes speeding towards him.

He answered, "I have come to realize that -- I don't know if I'd call this 'change of mind,' but one thing that my European friends have taught me is that the United Nations is an important body in order to be able to convince parliaments of hard work that needs to be done. For example, getting resolutions on Iraq at the United Nations is important for a country like Denmark or Holland, in order for them to go to their parliaments and say, we have U.N. approval.

"As you probably are aware, I've really never felt like the United States needs to get United Nations approval to make decisions necessary for our security. But I have come to realize that other countries do rely upon the United Nations and I respect that a lot. So there's an area, for example, where I have been taught a lesson by my allies and friends."

You got that? Essentially, the President of the United States patted the wee Europeans on their widdle heads, in front of the Chancellor of motherfucking Germany, and said isn't it cute that they seek Mama's smiles. What Bush learned ain't that the U.N. is important, but that it's important to Europe. It's like saying to a lover that you know it's important to him that he wears a condom, but you're gonna fuck away without one.

Not enough for you to show that Bush doesn't give a fuck about anything other than himself? Merkel then answered, in a complex way, a question about the success rate of the Quartet. She finished her answer with this telling line: "I must say I am a strong believer in this multilateral effort in these international fora, because it shows clearly where the red line is to those who do not wish for democracy. And this is what we need to do, time and again make it clear to them where the limits are, where the red lines are."

Bush, not only desperately needing to get in the last word, but revoltingly undermining the Chancellor's seriousness, added, "No back rubs."

Oh, how they laughed.

In Brief: Democrats Burn the Republicans' Bed:
Goddamn, it was so easy to predict: the first reaction of Republicans losing their power in Congress is to whine like the oldest, mangiest bitches in the pound, hoping that if they cry loud enough, they'll avoid the long walk to the metal table in the other room. As Democrats take over today, they've said that the Republicans can go fuck themselves. Break out the needles.

The fact that Republicans even think the victim act will work is laughable, in a "Christ, that's sad, let's shoot Old Yeller way." They don't realize that people love it when the bully gets beaten up. When an abused wife shoots the shit-faced, pummeling husband in the back of the head. When the convicted serial rapist is turned into the gang-banger's punk in prison. Sure, sure, we can bemoan the system that creates the circumstances where such violence can occur. But even in our most bleeding hearts, it's hard to feel anything but satisfied. Because for every life directly damaged by the actions of thuggish wads of fuck, there's reverberations to many, many people. Ask the family of any woman who's been raped. The parents of any kid who gets slugged every day at school. So even if you've promised non-violence as a way of life, well, at the end of the day there's a difference between pacifism and passivism.

So, really, and, c'mon, the proper response, as many have said, to the NRCC's pussy wails of disenfranchisement is to stare at them like the pathetic peep show masturbators they are. They seriously think saying, "Democrats promised to share their toys" is going to have traction as a counter argument to the election results, even when the entire country knows that Republicans kept the playground locked to Democrats for all these years. This is a Karl Rove ploy, the weak wimper of a cancer-ridden corrupt old man, trying to turn the Democrats on themselves, hoist them on their promise of better bipartisanship.

You can smell his sausage-like finger grease all over George Bush's sad editorial in the Wall Street Journal. "What Congress Can Do For America," it was titled. And the simple answer, the one demanded by all Americans whose paychecks don't rely on desperately trying to make Bush into a "leader," is "Fucking stop you."

Pat Robertson Says God Wants a Whole Bunch of Us To Die:
It always depends on which book he has his Bible opened to while he masturbates. For if Pat Robertson has pulled down his pants and silk underwear, grabbed his demi-tumescent penis and begun yanking, diligently, mechanically to, say, the Song of Solomon, well, chances are when he cums, dribbling a drop or two of his lazy semen onto the stiff pages of his Good Book, God'll tell him something wondrous, like that George Bush will be re-elected. If he's jackin' it to tales of doomed Sodom, wildly smacking his meat at the thought of rows of naked Arabs fucking each other's brown asses in defiance of the Lord, chances are God's gonna whisper in his ear about how homosexuals are destroying this fair nation of ours.

A couple of nights ago, Robertson celebrated the new year by opening his sticky Bible to the less worn New Testament and yanking his meat to the Gospel of John, the crucifixion scene, his mind a miasma of images from the words of the ancients and the film of the Gibson, Christ's pain and screaming giving him something not unakin to a full erection, his cock like a spitting camel at the end. And God spoke to him, and God told him a horrible thing, but something that, to his mind, was just an inevitability, like the nailing of the Son of God.

As he told the viewers of his 700 Club infomercial, leaving out the part about choking his chicken in a kind of mock animal sacrifice, God told Pat Robertson that disaster awaits the United States at the end of this shiny new year in the form of a terrorist attack on a major city that will involve "mass killing." God wasn't really definite about what exactly would happen, 'cause, you know, why bother? But that didn't stop Robertson, hands flaking dead skin and dried spooge, from interpreting: "I'm not necessarily saying it's going to be nuclear...The Lord didn't say nuclear. But I do believe it will be something like that."

Now, the Rude Pundit isn't sure, but his experience in watching the 700 Club involved a whole lot of prayers to this "God" fella about interceding in the earthly affairs of everything from Presidential elections to old women in Alabama with rickets. So apparently, this "God" can sort of work his sky wizard magic trickery and change things for people. If he's sayin' there's gonna be a mass killing to Pat Robertson, shouldn't he be following that up with, "But don't worry, Pat. I've got your back." And, like, you know, use his God-dy mojo to stop it. Unless, of course, as is his tricky wont, he wants lots of Americans to die. So very complicated trying to figure out the ways of invisible sky wizards.

But that hasn't stopped the media from breathlessly reporting on Pat Robertson's conversation with God, as if we should all give a holy ratfuck about it, as if the delusions of a single man are real. Front page of the Fox "News" website. CNN, too. Giving his mindless ejaculations prominence and relevance as, like every pride-filled child, Pat Robertson points to his boner and smiles.

Nutzoid Right-Wing Warmonger Says, "Okay, Let's Cut and Run":
Alan Caruba is a crazed hack PR man for nutzoid conservatives. He has helped foster the language and promotion of the pro-human extinction right, the ones who are global warming deniers. He writes a column for that mouthpiece of feces tossing crazies, Human Events. He also has a blog that is a repository for his columns and other "thoughts" (if by "thoughts," you mean, "post-ejaculation dribbles from the tiny flaccid cock of a stooge who's wasted away his short, meaningless life"). And he mongered war in Iraq (and Iran) with an intensity that would make Genghis Khan say, "Whoa, there, buddy."

Yet in his most recent Human Events chunk-blow, "Time to Leave," Caruba writes, "I wonder how many more of our soldiers will die in Iraq while President George W. Bush tries to find a way to leave as events in that nation and the Middle East conspire against him. There is no good way. There is only leaving."

Alas, sweet warrior. It was almost one year ago that Caruba wrote of Howard Dean's comment that "The idea that we're going to win this war is an idea that unfortunately is just plain wrong" was worthy of consideration as sedition. After giving the law on sedition and quoting noted legal scholar Ken Mehlman, Caruba hocked up this loogie of logic: "It is unlikely that Howard Dean will be indicted for sedition. It is unlikely that those who oppose military recruiters in schools and on the campuses of our nation's universities and colleges will be indicted for sedition. I suggest, however, based on my reading of the law, that these are, in fact, willful acts of sedition at a time when our military is tasked with the defense of Iraq as it transitions from a dictatorship to a democracy."

It's awfully goddamned nice that Caruba now feels free to join the ranks of the cut-and-run left (hey, why not re-brand that the "leave-and-live left"?), with statements like, "If we could recover from the devastating homeland attack of September 11, 2001, we can do so by swiftly, but deliberately departing Iraq" or "It is the needless sacrifice of young men and women in uniform for the notion that America cannot recover from leaving." Hey, welcome back to the real world, motherfucker. It's far better than writing, as he did in 2004, "The war against Iraq is just a down payment on a secure future."

But, you know, fuck him and everyone else who now so bravely declares that the war is lost or that it's time to leave or that Bush is nuts. Because it's not just that so many of us were right 3000 American lives ago - it's that all those conservative tools dared call us traitors and fools for being right.

Meet the New Year - Same as the Old Year?:
And so the Rude Pundit brought in the new year in a ramshackle bar in Red State America, dancing rollicking rhythm and blues to the band, led by the old black musicians, but supported by the young white ones, drinking beer and checkin' out the women in spaghetti strap t-shirts and tight jeans, wanting to break a bottle over the head of a misplaced noodle dancing guy in the crowd who tried to sing over the gruff voice of the old man at the piano, embracing friends when the clock passed midnight, the band not stopping to even acknowledge the moment, one year blending seamlessly into the next to a wicked sexualized "Tutti-Frutti," brought back to its juke joint origins about gettin' some "good booty."

The Rude Parents just attended the funeral of the son of a close friend, a soldier cut in two by an RPG outside Baghdad. He was on his third tour of duty. He had married a year before, between tours. The funeral home was packed, they said. People talked about how he loved the children in Iraq, giving them candy and befriending them. In another city, in Blue State America, just a day before, the Rude Pundit passed by an Italian grocery that was closed because, as the sign on the door indicated, "Our son was killed in action in Afghanistan on 12/25/06. We do not know when we will open again." Today, the Rude Pundit will attend a party with an Iraq war vet who vehemently supports the President.

We begin 2007 cautiously optimistic because of the Democratic majority in Congress, but with unending lies guiding our journey into the dark heart of desert darkness, the Rude Pundit wonders if we are merely hoping for bandages when we need transplants for our American organs.

Red state, blue state; by the time it's said and done we may all have purple hearts.

A Clown Not Smiling on the Inside:
You don't know where to start mourning today, whether for noted wife beater James Brown, Nixon's BFF Gerald Ford, or torture aficionado Saddam Hussein, not to mention residual tears for Augusto Pinochet and his magical people-disappearing act. So perhaps it's best just to send in the clown (really):

"Harpo T. Clown painted on a happy face, then stood sadly Friday in front of the church where Gerald Ford, the former president he called a friend, was being remembered by family and well-wishers.

"The colorful character wore blue and white sequins, a neon green fuzzy wig and white floppy shoes and stood just beyond the police barricade near the church.

"The clown, who is mute, nodded when asked if he was sad. He pulled out a scrapbook of photographs showing him standing alongside President Ford at various charitable events and golf tournaments in the area. He also attended the Grand Rapids, Mich., opening of Ford's presidential museum in 1982.

"Harpo, who lives in Palm Springs but won't divulge his real name, nodded vigorously when asked if he was a Republican and when asked if he missed his friend, President Ford.

"When Palm Desert police officers walked up to check him out, he maintained his silence and scribbled down notes which the officers read before walking away.

"To get into the church to pay his respects, Harpo would have had to go to a public staging area five miles away for a bus escort. He chose to stay close to the barricades outside the church."

Hanging's Too Good For Us:
Saddam Hussein. Now that's a fuckin' tyrant, an old school motherfucker, bereft of nation, of sons, of rights, defiant and tough, ready to be hanged in the savage wasteland that was once his savage golden empire, even leaving a message of peace to the people of the country he ruled with madness and murder. The world has precious few vicious dictators left with the stones to have such a final act.

And once he hangs, as he will any time now, once he's videoed pissing himself while dangling from the noose, maybe even a close-up on his last hard-on, then it's time to go to work. Cut that fucker's head off his corpse and graft it onto George W. Bush's right shoulder, so that it rots away next to him just like Iraq, so the President can watch the decay every time he looks in the mirror and smell it constantly. Rip out Hussein's bones and shove them up the asses of Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Condoleezza Rice, Paul Wolfowitz, Bill Kristol, Michelle Malkin, and more and more - Saddam's got two hundred something bones, so line up a bunch of neocons and warmongering whores, bend 'em over, and give 'em a souvenir. Dry Saddam's organs and grind them into a powder and pour it into the water supply of the United States so we can each consume a little bit of the man who so drove our leaders crazy that they destroyed our economy, our military, our morality to topple him, yes, let us all drink that in, toasting the hanging of Saddam Hussein as a demonstration of what great and noble and righteous and merciful humans we are. Send his cock to Tony Blair so he can go fuck himself.

Then tan his skin and hang it just outside the Green Zone in Baghdad so that every day, Iraqis can walk by and wonder at the shell of the man most of them so despised. They can dodge suicide bombers and snipers and IEDs to see it and ask themselves over and over, that horrible, aching, awful question of whether they were better off with the madman inside the skin instead of the skin empty of the madman.

Side note: The Rude Pundit's punishment for Hussein would be something simple - put him in a cell with the remains of his sons. Lock door. Throw away key. Like old time Bedlam.

In Brief: Why Ann Coulter Is a Cunt, Part 3054 (Repeat Endlessly):
Because Coulter, in her latest "column" (if by "column," you mean, "Russian roulette played with an empty gun in front of a packed audience of baboons"), updates an old bag of her screeching about how much she really, really thinks we all should hate Kwanzaa because of the criminal activities of the man who started it and its relationship to the black revolutionaries of the 1960s. Leaving aside the obvious "argument" that, you know, Christianity itself wouldn't exist without the mad tales of its outlaw founder (who, the story goes, was sentenced to death, so awful were his crimes), all Coulter's done is staple on a new beginning and a line or two for her update. It's at least the third time it's run.

So, really, Coulter's "Kwanzaa: Holiday from the FBI" is like "Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus" for those more deranged and needy than pre-pubescent children.

(Travel day - possibly more rudeness later.)

Dead President:
The nicest thing that can be said about the dead man is that Gerald Ford wasn't bugfuck insane, and these days that is not faint praise. He was a selfish pragmatist who gave one of the nation's great criminals a pass (and thus set up our politicians' queasiness at putting George W. Bush away). Yeah, he gave us Justice Stevens, but he tried to impeach William O. Douglas while in Congress. He helped inflict Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld on us, something that gets him extra time in purgatory. He got us the fuck out of Vietnam, finally, at last, and he offered clemency to draft dodgers, but he helped wreck the environment, told New York City to go fuck itself (as an example of an administration bereft of anything resembling urban policy), and was a fairly worthless ex-President.

And while you may hear about his pro-choice street cred as a sign of his moderation, here's Ford, perhaps pandering for votes, in a letter to the Archbishop of Cincinnati in September 1976: "Since 1973 I have viewed as the most practical means of rectifying the situation created by the Court's action a Constitutional amendment that would restore to each State the authority to enact abortion statutes which fit the concerns and views of its own citizens."

No, let's put it this way: the nicest thing that can be said about Gerald R. Ford was that he didn't fuck things up even worse in the wake of Richard Nixon.

Sidenote: The Rude Pundit has a letter from President Ford from 1974, thanking the young Rude Pundit for his interest in garbage recycling. Feel free to make your own joke here.

Things That Shouldn't Be Funny, But Are:
1. Arnold Schwarzenegger screaming like a bitch after breaking his femur on a ski slope in Idaho. Reason it shouldn't be funny: Well, a broken leg hurts like a motherfucker. Reason it is funny: C'mon - it's Schwarzenegger, who you know sounded like Fozzie Bear on fire when he saw the bone sticking out of his skin.

2. British and Iraqi forces raided and destroyed a police station in Basra because the prisoners were being tortured and were going to be executed by the police there, who had been "infiltrated" by militia members and criminals. Reason it shouldn't be funny: "More than 100 men were crowded into a single cell, 30 feet by 40 feet, he said, with two open toilets, two sinks and just a few blankets spread over the concrete floor." Reason it is funny: "The serious crimes unit was at the center of death squad activity" and "The two-story building, once used by Saddam Hussein’s security forces, was then demolished, in an attempt to remove all traces of the serious crimes unit."

3. There's gonna be close to $2 billion in fraud revealed on Katrina clean up and reconstruction contracts. This'd include no-bid contracts to corporations like the Shaw Group, the dicking over of minority businesses, and the general piggy-at-the-trough greed that accompanies every action taken by the Bush administration. Reason it shouldn't be funny: Ultimately, like in Iraq, the people who are fucked by the skeevy, sub-mob way that Washington and Louisiana politicians do business are never the executives at Bechtel. Reason it is funny: The Saints are having one of their best seasons ever. And people really seem to give a fuck about that.

Things That Should Be Funny, But Aren't (Dead Soldiers Edition):
1. John McCain's son could be sent to Iraq if the surge that the senator so frothingly desires comes to fruition. Reason it should be funny: Oh, irony is such a cruel whore. Reason it isn't funny: Because if Jimmy McCain goes, at least 20,000 other Americans are going there with him.

2. More American soldiers have died in Iraq than the total number of people that died on 9/11. Reason it should be funny: Well, not technically "ha-ha" funny, but more "wry-laugh-of-sad-recognition" funny. Reason it isn't funny: Because that's just American soldiers who died in Iraq. Not like the 9/11 total, which includes people from many, many different countries. Wanna factor in everyone who's died in the war so far, as if that'll make a balance on the ledger of doom? Whatcha got? Ten for one? 100 for one? What's gonna put us back in the black? Nah, we're damned to stay in the red.

3. President Bush is trying to assert himself in the days before the new Congress comes in, rejecting the Iraq Study Group's proposals and threatening the lives of many more Americans by sending them to Iraq. Reason it should be funny: Seriously, is there anything funnier than the pathetic sight of George W. Bush thumpin' his chest and actin' like anyone gives a happy monkey fuck what he has to say? It's like watching Elmer Fudd try to tell a bunch of Bugs Bunnies how to lay down and be hunted. We're just watching in giddy anticipation until he gets his pants dropped and them cheeks get a spankin'. Reason it isn't funny: Nine more dead over the weekend. And if we really think the Democrats have the stones to de-fund the war (the only thing they can do to stop it), well, then one presumes the joke's on us.

Happy Christmas (Christmas Is Nearly Over):
Okay, here's the deal: No one's allowed to sing John Lennon and Yoko Ono's "Happy Christmas (War Is Over)" unless they actually want the war over. If anyone catches Sean Hannity singing along to the non-"War Is Over" parts, kick him in his jingle bells.

Otherwise, let's face it - the majority of people checking out the blog today are in a desperate search for pictures of the labia of a certain pop star (the Rude Pundit is still #4 on Google for this magical search - such bounty).

So instead, toddle on over to the ironically-named British blog, Only in America, where Himself has concocted a Rude Pundit-based quiz titled "If By Column You Mean..."

It's flattering and a little scary, like every good Christmas present for grown-ups should be.

How Can It Be a War On Christmas Without Bumper Stickers?:
It's upon us, the yearly celebration of the time that putative Christian savior Jesus Christ dropped from the uterus of his mother, Mary, passing through Mary's holy vagina, stretching open Mary's divine labia minora and hallowed labia majora, in order to enter the world, followed, no doubt, by his blessed placenta. Hope the goats and donkeys sharing that manger had their sores and hoof fungus healed by eating the afterbirth of the Lord. And, now, with the unholy rabble apparently, according to those who can manipulate two or three incidents into a national movement, attempting to take away the meaning of Christ coming out of Mary's vagina, one has to announce that it's not just some random "holiday." No, motherfuckers, it's Christmas, and conservatives wanna make sure you know it.

So over at WorldNetDaily (motto: "Loving the scent of our own taints for nearly a decade"), you can stock up on your "Suck it, liberals - Christmas rocks" merchandise. Things like magnetic bumper stickers that read: "Merry Christmas (with "Christ" highlighted): An American Tradition" or "This is America and I'm going to say it: Merry Christmas" (come to think of it, "Suck it, liberals - Christmas rocks" is way more fun). You can get a three-pack for the special sale price of $14.95, a two-dollar savings on the regular price.

Don't own a car or too stupid to drive? Then you can get all Lance Armstrong-y and wear a rubber bracelet that says, "Operation Just Say "Merry Christmas." According to the website, you'll be going all "In your face, Secular-Progressives" with this fancy trinket: "We have reached an all time low point in our nation's history when human sensibilities are elevated above offending Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. It is long past the time for Christians to stand firm in our faith." Because, as the website really says, "How would you feel if the people you loved - even gave your life for - celebrated your birthday but were afraid to mention your name?" Your answer might be, "Uhh, I'm fuckin' dead, why do I care?" or "Damn, that Jesus must be some egotistical prick to give his life expecting something in return." But then perhaps you're not the target audience.

Or maybe you just need to read the charming comic fantasy book Help! Mom! The Ninth Circuit Nabbed the Nativity! It seems that Johnny and Luke are having problems at their schools Christmas pageant: "[W]hen Senator Weary, Al Snore, Congresswoman Clunkton and the whole 9th Circuit court show up demanding an end to the fun and festivities in the name of diversity, global warming and stinky French cheese, all is almost lost until Johnny, Luke and an unexpected hero armed with a mysterious piece of paper unite to save Christmas." The Wall Street Journal's James Taranto calls it "an adorable story." Of course, Taranto called the suicides of three Gitmo detainees an act done out of "spite," so he would know adorable when he sees it.

So much merchandising, so short a season. For, truly, will not the "Merry Christmas, Not Happy Holidays" t-shirt be shoved in a drawer next to the candy cane-striped mint-flavored condoms and the Nutcracker tie in just a couple of days? As the good copy writers at Metrospy say, "Wear this shirt and take a stand against the secularization of Christmas," but after spending $17.99 on it, you'd just feel like a fucktard in January. But, then again, if you actually own this shirt unironically, you're pretty much a fucktard all year long.

And to all, a good night.

Note: The Rude Pundit is going to try to join the Great Migration to the new Blogger this weekend. Hopefully he'll have a better experience than Atrios, who was down for 16 hours during the transition.

Kofi Annan, the Razor Artist (with an Aside About Building Schools in Iraq):
Oh, sure, there's different ways to cut people. You can go with the thunderously obtuse machete or chainsaw, hacking off limbs and appendages. It makes a statement. Or you can go with the knife, stabbing or slashing, leaving the person bloody and punctured. But the real artists, the ones who want the slicing to hurt, but want to be subtle, even delicate in their work, are the people who use razors to open wounds. A good razor artist can cut you and you don't know what happened until you're looking at your viscera poking out of the slit in your gut.

At his final press conference on Tuesday, outgoing United Nations Secretary-General Kofi Annan wielded a razor and went to town on the Bush administration. First, when asked about his worst moments as SG, he said, "I think the worst moment, of course, was the Iraq war, which, as an organization, we couldn’t stop. I really did everything I can to try to see if we can stop it." And then came the arm slash. When he was asked about what's needed to help Afghanistan, Annan answered, "I think the question you posed is an important one, and it’s not only relevant to Afghanistan. It’s relevant in other theatres. Reconstruction can only take place where there is a reasonably secure environment. Where there is serious fighting, it is extremely difficult to proceed with reconstruction." Annan's saying who gives a fuck about schools being built if you can get blown up or cut in two by bullets walking to the brand new school.

(An aside here: Laura Bush mentioned the whole "schools are being built" as good news in Iraq again last week on her MSNBC tear against the media. Seriously, how many fuckin' schools do they need over there? 'Cause we've been told about all the goddamn splendiferous new schools for over three years now. Bush mentioned it in 2003 in his speech to the U.N. The raped corpse of Colin Powell talked about it in an interview with Chris Wallace on Fox "news" in March 2004. Powell, like a good prison punk, talked about those schools again in a talk at Georgetown University in October 2004. The vile visage of Donald Rumsfeld spat it out in December 2005 speech at Johns Hopkins. It's been a talking point for every right-wing spoogebag that regularly takes the administration's chowder. Don't they have enough fuckin' schools there? What's the school to student ratio? Is that all that we do? We blow up someone's house, wiping out their kids, and then we build a school? Do we name it after the dead kids? Fuck, saying that school-building is good news in Iraq is like saying that it's cool that a fraternity gang raped that drunk co-ed because the frat guys hosted a blood drive.)

And on the issue of the uses of the Security Council, Annan said, "I hope that, when, next time, one is dealing with a broader threat to the international community, one will wait and seek the approval of the Security Council. As I have said, a country has the right to defend itself; but, when it’s an issue of broader threat to the international community, it’s only the Security Council that has that legitimacy to authorize action on that basis."

Goddamn, what an unpragmatic dreamer that Annan was.

Bush's Year-End Press Conference: It's the End of the Year Because the Year Has Ended:
Sweet motherfuck, let's take a gander at some of the patently obvious and blatantly bugfuck statements in this news conference:

Strangely seeming surprised that some people in the Iraq war are fighting against the United States: "The enemies of liberty responded fiercely to this advance of freedom. They carried out a deliberate strategy to foment sectarian violence between Sunnis and Shia. And over the course of the year they had success. Their success hurt our efforts to help the Iraqis rebuild their country, it set back reconciliation." So, in other words, in a war, the opposition fought back. Bastards.

Regarding the incoming Senate and House leadership: "We agreed that we've got important business to do on behalf of the American people and that we've got to work together to achieve results." So, in other words, they agreed to do their fuckin' jobs. Beautiful.

Dangerous questioning on what Bush might be planning on Iraq: "That's a dangerous hypothetical question. I'm not condemning you; you're allowed to ask anything you want." So, in other words, he won't send the reporter to Gitmo. Blissful.

History is soo 200 years ago: "[E]verybody's trying to write the history of this administration even before it's over. I'm reading about George Washington still." So, in other words, history is something that happened a long time ago, not yesterday, not three years past. Bountiful.

Goddamn, why hold a press conference if the only points you have are that one day in the future you're gonna make a speech about something that you won't talk about and that you'll work with your co-workers? George W. Bush's news conferences have become like fucking your partner of ten years: sure, you may be doing it in a hotel room in Zanzibar or in a cottage in the Hebrides or the same goddamned bedroom, but it's still the same cocks doing the same things in the same orifices. And even if you get to blow your load in his mouth, don't you feel just a little more empty each time? A little more curious about what it'd be like to bang the dude in the next hotel room, in the cottage down the coast?

Tell you what: next time, the press should bring out some sex toys, maybe some porn, to liven up the whole experience. That way David Gregory can ask about something important, like troop increases, and tickle the Commander-in-Chief's prostate with the very non-hypotetical Turbo-Charged Dimpled Vibrating Twistomatic (that ass reamer takes eight D batteries). Helen Thomas can ask about the mounting civilian casualties in Baghdad and before Bush answers, she can have him look at a DVD of Pierced-Clit Teen Gang Bang, Part 23. Why not, huh? Then at least the press and the President can pretend they still have some spark left.

A Surge (in Our Pants):
It is the plaintive sigh of thousands, millions of men every day, faced with the spam deluge that promises them penis enlargement, those goddamned annoying cock elongation commercials on TV, the occasional glance over at the pump while browsing through the latest issues of Tits and Clits or Big Asses Monthly at the porn store. It's a simple desire: "Just a little more, maybe 15 or 20% bigger, and all my problems will be solved." Yes, the deeply held belief that a longer schlong will compensate for every failing in one's life, it's fucked up the heads and lives of many a man.

Of course, the logic is bullshit. The big cock only comes into play once you're alone in the bedroom or bathroom or car or phone booth in Prague on that sidestreet off Straha Nerudova near the Italian embassy (Barbora, tell your sister that the Rude Pundit sends his transatlantic love). But it's got nothing to do with your game building up to the deliciously anticipated sound of the unzip. It ain't gonna make you funnier, better looking, or rich. You know, you can have the greatest tool set money can buy, but if you don't know how to drive a screw, it's all just a pathetic show.

The ludicrous debate over whether or not to have a surge of U.S. troops in Iraq is being approached with all the wishful thinking of any man who has ever received his package of peter pills in the mail. Besides, who are you gonna trust at this point? The Joint Chiefs of Staff - you know, the generals- or the President? Discredited idiots like Robert Pollock of the Wall Street Journal, who said as recently as September that he has no regrets about a policy of invading countries for "regime change," or desperate neocon savages like Frank Gaffney, with Israel crammed so far up his clenched ass that he wants a surge and an attack on Iran?

Nothing's stopping the decline into darkness in Iraq. Not a surge, not a further hacking away at our broken military. This ain't golf, although the rich executives running our country would like to take a mulligan. Because, see, you have to fuck a partner with the cock that you have, not the cock you might want.

White House Spokesdouche Tony Snow Says Everything You Need To Know About How the War Is Going:
"One thing you never do is announce when somebody is going to go to Iraq." From yesterday's press briefing, when the aforementioned spokesdouche was asked when the brand spankin' new Secretary of Defense might be going in person to check out the war he inherited.

Fucked New Orleans (A Seemingly Endless Series):
You may not forgive the Rude Pundit his cynicism, but he thought Herbert Gettridge's wife was going to die, along with Gettridge. Nearly a year ago, the Rude Pundit met Gettridge on his return to the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans as two other men helped him gut his still-standing home. Gettridge's wife was ill and in Madison, Wisconsin, where they had gone upon evacuating their city because of Hurricane Katrina.

Now, in today's New Orleans Times-Picayune, Gettridge is interviewed as one of the only residents to return to the Lower Ninth. Writes Gwen Filosa, "'A lot of people can't come back,' said Gettridge, a stubborn 83-year-old who has been rebuilding to provide a home for his ailing wife, who yearns for him in Madison, Wis. 'In some cases, some people are better off now than they were before the storm.'" Filosa says that Gettridge's house is one of the few occupied ones in the Lower Ninth now, 16 months after Katrina.

Gettridge is besieged by thieves in the post-apocalyptic landscape that is his neighborhood. They stole his $800 generator that he had chained down. Here's how Gettridge lived after the storm: "For months, Gettridge captured water from ruptured pipes in the area and hauled it back to his property in buckets. Through the swampy heat, he used coolers instead of a refrigerator and cooked with a propane camp stove. Electricity came back only last month, and Gettridge became one of the region's last residents to receive a FEMA trailer. He's still waiting for gas service to be restored."

New Orleans is fucked, you know. In the time since the big storm took down the city like a lion bearing down on a three-legged zebra, yes, much has gotten better in that many people, many of them white, some not, can live an approximation of normality, a pretense of everyday life. But the future, oh, the future of the city is fucked like a drunk sorority girl on a Royal Street balcony at Mardi Gras. Here's how the Times-Picayune describes the current state of the levee system: it "could be likened to a patient who no longer needs life support but remains in intensive care."

Meanwhile, the Department of Housing and Urban Development, with a delicious sense of irony, is going to raze 4500 housing units in the city, making way for private development of the land and far less housing for the poor. It would cost less than a day in Iraq to repair the four largest complexes. Sure, they may have been shitholes, but a shithole to call home is better than no home at all. And it ain't as if the residents were promised fuckin' Valhalla in exchange for the demolition. The poor in New Orleans are like the Indians of old, removed from place to place when it becomes inconvenient to keep them where you put them in the first place.

But, shit, life ain't a whole lot better for the middle class. The wads of fuck running the Road Home Recovery program, a private corporation called ICF Emergency Management Services, were given a three-year contract worth $750 million to run the $8 billion program to get grants of up to $150,000 to homeowners so they can, you know, rebuild their homes. And, well, it's worked like seemingly every other privately-run government program: "Only 82 of the 87,000 homeowners who signed up for the grant program...have gotten final checks." The company's already made $60 million. So, like, that's less than .1% of homeowners and ICF's been paid about 9% of its money.

Oh, and even if you get the money, after waiting for months, chances are you're gonna be fucked by ICF and the Road Home: "Melanie Ehrlich, a founder of the New Orleans advocacy group Citizens' Road Home Action Team, said she has seen 15 yellow final award letters and found errors in 11 of them."

Back in the Lower Ninth, Emelda Skidmore, another elderly returnee, awaits her Road Home money. And Mayor Ray Nagin has said that market forces and private investment will power the recovery in New Orleans. But the Lower Ninth will probably be the last place to come back because it awaits "citizen investment."

The Rude Pundit Is Time's Person of the Year:
Of course, he has to share the honor with every Johnny Knoxville-wannabe racking his nuts on YouTube, every Dateline-baiting sexual predator on MySpace, and that horrible Atlas Shrugs chick.

But still, and all, it's nice to be recognized.

Christ Weary of Prayer Warriors:
Apparently, we've pissed off God. No, not the whole Tim Johnson thing - surely, if there is a giant sky wizard who gives a holy shit about earthly affairs, he'd've bled out Barbara Boxer or Mark Dayton, not low-key, conservative Tim Johnson. Nope, America in general has earned the Big Guy/Gal/Thing's ire. At least that's the implication of the latest Prayer Target e-mail the Rude Pundit has received from the Family Research Council (motto: "No, a Dozen or So Guys Wandering Around Together For Years Is Not Kinda Gay"). The Rude Pundit belongs to the FRC's Super-Duper Prayer Team under a nom de rude, and every week we receive our prayin' orders from the FRC's President, Mr. Tony "Please, Sean, Gimme More Face Time" Perkins. And this week, oh, man, we've got some grovelin' to do before the sacred sand-encrusted feet o' Jeeeezus.

Raves Perkins, "Secularism, liberalism and hedonism have made inroads into every sphere of American life. Beliefs and conduct condemned by past generations are now welcome, even in many churches and homes. America's survival is threatened." Now, while "secularism, liberalism and hedonism" are pretty much the ruling triumvirate at the Rude Pundit's on the weekends (two out of three only on weeknights), Perkins wants you to know that we're pretty much fucked unless we "STIR OURSELVES TO FIGHT for our families and to revive Christian culture!" (capitalization and exclamation point verbatim from Perkins). That's right. We're no longer just a placid, hands-together Super-Duper Prayer Team. Oh, no. We're "prayer warriors."

And what's making us go to war and blow some shit up (metaphorically, one presumes, because otherwise we'd kind of be jihadists - no, we're just warriors)? Is it the imminent return of Lucifer, who would presumably peel the skin off Tony Perkins from his smarmy face to his tiny scrotum? Is it an attack by joined armies of Jews, Muslims, and Hindus? Nope. It's that guinea Jezebel, Nancy Pelosi, and her hordes of godless Democrats who would dare "pass a spate of popular measures" including stem cell research. That's right, warriors. We now have to get all theological on their asses in order to halt the Congress from passing legislation that the majority of Americans want. Perkins fumes, "The next two years may bring the most profoundly anti-faith, family and freedom initiatives in the history of Congress."

So we gotta get up our prayerifyin' mojos. We have been given our marchin' orders: "Pray that God will multiply His prayer army during the next two years. May He train men, women and young people to be disciplined, focused, faith-filled and equipped to challenge whatever may come." And the great thing about training prayer warriors is that as they stand up, we can stand...oh, wait. Now the trick there is hopin' that God's a-gonna get off his ass and multiply that prayer army. Fast, motherfucker, because 2008's just around the corner.

And we've gotta do some prayin' fer that, too: "Pray that God will intervene to give America a President who knows and fears Him, who will lead our nation in righteousness and call Americans to the kind of prayer and to repentance that will allow God to restore his favor to America. Pray that Americans will rally to such a candidate." See? We've lost God's favor. And without that favor we're wandering lambs, favorless, bereft of favor, God's favor. Like some kind of favor-denied nomads in a secular desert with progressive cactuses pricking our non-favored flesh whenever we want to drink sweet cactus juice to slake our unfavored thirsts.

Sometimes you just gotta sit back and enjoy the panic on the Christian right since November. They're flailing around now, their leaders descending into madness because of their suppressed libidos and weakening grip on power, their minions running away, their politicians disappearing into the dark limbo of the loser's graveyard, their cause now nothing more than what it always was: steps backward, steps backward, when the unstoppable urge is forward.

Tim Johnson: He's Gotta Serve Even If He's Just a Marionette:
Towards the horrible end of his too-long life, Republicans made sure that the decaying corpse-that-rolled Strom Thurmond could still serve out his term so that the Democratic governor of South Carolina would not be able to name a replacement for him. While everyone around him, including the Republican leadership, lied about his ability to put together a thought that was more cogent than, "Ngah, pudding," Thurmond himself was merely an empty vessel shitting out his innards into a nauseatingly full diaper. That didn't matter to the GOP, clinging to a seat that would have to be re-upholstered every week because of the acidic urine stains.

God, the awful, nearly medieval ways they made it seem like Thurmond was anything more than a pile of cells that desperately wanted to die. They used metal rods to keep his spine straight so he wouldn't slump over in his wheelchair. They used epoxy and polyurethane to prevent his skin from drooping off his skull. They inserted small, hinged, electronically-controlled metal arms into his mouth so that he could smile or grimace at appropriate times, and also to make it look like his lips were moving in sync with words, sounds that were actually pleas to allow him to taste sweet death. But Karl Rove wasn't gonna let him die. As long as he could still shriek in pain when it was time to vote "Aye" or "Nay," with Trent Lott interpreting what the gurgling cries actually meant, then Strom Thurmond was gonna fuckin' show up in the Senate to do the bidding of the Republicans.

So, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah, hearts go out to Democratic Senator Tim Johnson of South Dakota for needing surgery for a brain hemorrhage and to his family and with the hope that he recovers, yadda, yadda. But right now you can bet that legions of lawyers are getting ready to go to war over what seems to be a clusterfuck of statutes over what happens in SD should Johnson go turnip. While it's possible that there may need to be an election called in 10 days or 80 or 90 days, more than likely Republican Governor Mike Rounds would just get to appoint someone to finish out Johnson's term until 2008. And there goes the Senate, back to a tie, with the smirking visage of Dick Cheney tiebreaking.

Democrats better be ready to go at South Dakota with all the eviscerating force of a school of pirahna on a cow's stomach. Because while the right is, for the most part, keeping its powder dry on this one, offering mucho prayers and hopes for recovery, you can imagine that behind the scenes there's an attack plan being drafted to wreck any attempt to sideline an appointment by Rounds. But, considering his lack of subtlety, there's also a good chance that Rove'll waddle over to George Washington University Hospital to take out Johnson himself, and thus be called a "genius" once again.

The alternative for Democrats, of course, is that no goddamn matter how much Tim Johnson's brain has turned to mush, the Democrats pull a Strom Thurmond and wheel that drooling rutabaga-man out onto the Senate floor. Attach strings to him, making him fuckin' do interpretive dance to debate bills, cattle-prod him whenever it's time for a vote. Any fuckin' thing to hold onto the majority, which is, in fact, let's face it, and you know it, more important than Tim Johnson and his family.

Bill O'Reilly Fights the War on Christmas Titties:
Now, by Fox "News" host and self-described "big boob" lover (which means he must adore Sean Hannity) Bill O'Reilly's calculation, the Rude Pundit is just a dirty fuckin' SP (no, not "Sucker of Penises," but "Secular Progressive"). But if, say, the Rude Pundit had an hour every weeknight in which to offer commentary and do interviews on the news of the day, he doesn't think that he'd pay quite as much on-air attention to the travails of your everyday stripper. Not out of any dislike of strippers. It's a question of proportion, you know. Not Bill O'Reilly, though. If someone done a g-string wearing lap dancer wrong, O'Reilly's there to defend her dignity in the face of a world that just doesn't get it.

So last night, on his Fox "News" show (if by "show," you mean, "48 minutes of nut-grabbing, baby-eating, and spooge target practice"), after implying that Vermont and Boulder, Colorado don't give a shit about murdered children because they "are run by far-left secular progressives," O'Reilly hosted a discussion with two strippers from Scores in New York City (which Scores he did not say, for there is more than one, dear readers). In case you didn't know what he was talking about, O'Reilly laid it out for you: "[T]hey call them gentlemen's clubs. They're all over the country. Basically places where guys watch women undress on stage." There's about thirty jokes to make about that line, but why bother, huh?

Kelly Branton, in a cleavage-revealing ensemble, perhaps the better to breastfeed the baby Jesus, and the single-named Morgan, dressed more demurely, complained to O'Reilly that no charities are taking the money and gifts that the strippers have raised for Christmas. Except for the Marines Toys for Tots. Probed O'Reilly of Morgan, "Were you -- were your feelings hurt when they turned the money down? Were your feelings hurt?" And, in fact, Morgan's feelings were hurt.

As were Kelly Branton's. She explained, "[S]pecifically because the charities that were supposedly affiliated with the empowerment of women, and I feel that we as women doing what we do, a lot of us have children and a lot of us are single parents...And when we want to give back to the community, for a charity to say, 'We're not going to accept your donations because we think that it's degrading to women,' offends me because of the fact that I do this empowers me as a woman." In the video of this moment, about two minutes in, you can see O'Reilly trying very hard not to look at Branton's self-empowered tits. His eyes shift up and down faster than a rent boy's head in the alley behind the Manhole. But O'Reilly felt up Branton's pain: "I can tell you, just talking to you, you get a little emotional about this."

O'Reilly moved on to his "Most Ridiculous" item of the day before heading back to his office to break out the Jergen's to jack off thinking about getting a faceful of the young thonged ass of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Morgan and Branton presumably headed back to Scores to make men ejaculate in their pants. And thus Christmas was one step closer to being saved by the good works of Bill O'Reilly.

The Terri Schiavo President:
No, no, it's not fucking possible, not at goddamned all. This is what it's come to? The President of the United States, through his spokesdouche, Tony Snow, is having to proclaim that he gives a shit what his own generals and advisers have to say: "[T]raveling to State and traveling to the Pentagon obviously are making the point that the President is listening to key people in this administration." Then, oh, fuck, then, the press is actually forced into asking questions like, "[I]s he going to be listening to them?" and "What role is the Vice President playing this week in the listening?" One might think the proper answer to that question is, "The Vice President will be roughly sucking out the viscous goo inside each expert's head through their eye sockets before skull-fucking them because, you know, that's just what he does." But, no, Snow spurted, "Well, he's listening and asking some questions and he's participating in the conversations." Everyone's just got their big ears on now, at last, nearly four crazed years in.

And now those "key people" are also saying just how golly-gee-whiz open-minded Bush is being about the whole fuckin' thing. Said retired General Wayne Downing, an uberscary guy in his own right, after Bush's Listening Tour (really) took him to visitin' generals, "I found him very engaged. I think he's looking for some answers." Barry McCaffrey added that Bush was listening "intently."

Thing is, we've been here before, where the wishful, the hopeful, the liars, the spinners, the hucksters have all told us that an unmoving blob of flesh is a sentient being. Said one idiot doctor about poor Terri Schiavo, "Although Terri did not demonstrate during our 90-minute visit compelling evidence of verbalization, conscious awareness or volitional behavior, yet the visitor has the distinct sense of the presence of a living human being who seems at some level to be aware of some things around her." And, really, is that protestation of consciousness any different than what McCaffrey said about the President?

Or perhaps this: "Terri Schiavo smiles. She laughs, cries and moans. Her eyes appear to follow a balloon around the room. When a cotton swab slips into her mouth, she grimaces." See? She wasn't in a persistent vegetative state. She's listening. Like when Bush promises "when I do speak to the American people, they will know that I've listened to all aspects of government."

Terri Schiavo or the President on Iraq? Sure, everyone can say they saw him move, react, follow the balloon, but in the end he's just rotting away with a brainless smile on his face.

William Jefferson's Re-Election - Oh, Get Over It:
The analysis and fingerpointing over the re-election of Democrat William Jefferson of New Orleans to the House of Representatives, even after the FBI found $90,000 in a freezer at his house, even as he's under investigation for bribery, is hilarious to anyone who's ever paid any attention to the history of Louisiana and its politics. The fact that the state almost sent an unrepentant racist (which included pictures of said candidate in a Nazi uniform) to the Senate is just about the least appalling aspect of Louisiana politics.

'Cause, you know, c'mon, Louisiana is a state that honors, on multiple levels, a goddamn slave-trading pirate, Jean Lafitte. The old thief, who tried to establish a personal kingdom in southwest Louisiana and gave tons of money and goods to those who would protect him, has a town, a parish, and a festival named after him. Motherfucker has so many streets named after him, you'd think that he did something more than steal slaves from others and sell them by the pound (no, really). Instead of deploring and distancing the state from the buggering bastard, Louisiana sees him as some kind of Errol Flynn-type devil-may-care roustabout. Instead of just a thug.

Where d'ya wanna go from there? Huey Long? Fat bastard was Karl Rove crossed with Karl Marx, and for everything that he did for progressive politics and for the poor, he was a power-hungry savage who bathed in the dollars of patronage. Of course he was elected to the governorship and senate in Lousisiana. (It helped that the people who were trying to destroy him were far more reviled than Long could ever be.) Edwin Edwards? So beloved by blacks and Cajuns in the state that after being indicted for bribery and obstruction of justice, after a reputation as a proud Vegas gambler, he was elected for a fourth term by running against the aforementioned racist. In his final term, he worked tirelessly to get casino gambling widespread in the state. He's in jail now.

So what's the lesson here? We could go with the easy answer here: that Louisiana's just fucked-up, a mini-Florida just one fiasco away from madness. Or maybe we could go with something a bit more complex: the people of the state don't like to be bullied. And they don't like outsiders and political operatives telling them who to embrace (with the knowledge that Jefferson, Long, and Edwards all took full advantage of those who believe this). And that post-Katrina, in New Orleans, who the fuck cares what the federal government says is good and bad, right and wrong?

Besides, every cloud has a silver lining of cyncial opportunism. If there's a case to be made against Jefferson (and, really, c'mon, how can there not be?), then taking down a black congressman on their own would establish major street cred for the Democrats in Congress and for Nancy Pelosi to show she's serious about ethics reform. Or maybe he'll just be a sacrificial lamb to cover up for other, larger, deeper crimes. Either way, it's a win-win situation.

And since only 16% of eligible voters bothered to cast ballots, fuckin' get over it.

Advice To Young Bloggers Wishing To See Their Traffic Expand Exponentially:
Apparently, if one includes mention of a pop star's genitalia in the title of a post during a time period when said genitalia has been copiously photographed, oh, the bounty that will follow.

Fruit Salad With the Prime Minister (The Neediest President in History, Part 2):
And so it was that James Baker III, oozing the kind of reptilian evil that we expect from the half-men, half-crocodiles that slither from the putrid pools of 41's inner circle, said to a Senate Committee regarding his Iraq Study Group's list of nearly four-score recommendations: "I hope we don't treat this like a fruit salad and say, `I like this, but I don't like that, I like this, but I don't like that.'" Yes, Baker was there to save the nation from Iraq and 43 and 43 from himself, but no one gives a damn. When it's time for an empire to fall, it must fall. So when 41 became a weepy bitch over Jeb's imminent passage from public life, it was the pathetic whine of a fallen patrician, the end of the goddamn line.

For what was 43's press conference yesterday but a chance to hunch over in the ditch once more and toss dingleberries at the media, the degraded man, not so much a president anymore as a dalmatian, bred to be a proud-haunched firefighter mascot but merely capable of licking his own anus instead of actually saving anyone from an inferno.

Fruit salad? Hey, listening to Bush, Jr. yesterday one got the idea that we were watching a jiggly Jello mold with a coconut topping. It wasn't just the usual state-the-obvious-firmly lines: "[T]he Palestinian-Israeli conflict is important to have — is important to be solved." Or the bizarro dropped half-sentences that are more insulting than incoherent: "I talk to families who die." And it wasn't the moments where Bush demonstrated his ability to magically pull synonyms out of his ass: "I also believe we’re going to succeed. I believe we’ll prevail" (which was followed by a descent into Howard Hughes-like echolalia: "Not only do I know how important it is to prevail, I believe we will prevail. I understand how hard it is to prevail").

No, no, it was the nutzoid insistence on his ability to "understand" and "read" things that made Bush seem like he needed the approval of someone, anyone, at this point. From the ridiculous statement of "I understand what long deployments mean to wives and husbands, and mothers and fathers, particularly as we come into a holiday season" to the disturbing admission regarding the ISG report: "To show you how important this one is, I read it, and our guest read it. The Prime Minister read — read a report prepared by a commission. And this is important," it was part of a litany of demonstrating how great and wonderful he is, please love him.

But also how bugfuck insane. Said the President of the United States, once again, "And one of the things that has changed for American foreign policy is a threat overseas can now come home to hurt us, and September the 11th should be a wake-up call for the American people to understand what happens if there is violence and safe havens in a part of the world. And what happens is people can die here at home." Have we really, sadly, horribly not advanced in our thinking in the last five years past that?

Fruit salad? Hell, at this point, we'll be lucky to get out of the next two years without having all of our salads tossed.

In Brief: Why Ann Coulter Is a Cunt, Part 3240 (Head Injury Edition):
So, like, conservative carbuncle Ann Coulter scrawls the beginning of her latest "column" (if by "column," you mean, "the transcribed oinkings of a swill-sucking sow grunting from her shit-filled mud pit"), and it's all about the usual blah, blah, blah, Democrats are pussies 'cause they want people to not die, and, oh, gee aren't we all fucked because they were elected and by the way doesn't it suck to have to wait in line at airports. It's sort of like listening to a bad Dennis Miller imitator, which, because Dennis Miller blows monkey cock, so it would be pretty bad. Oh, and the Iraq Study Group - they're wimps, too, 'cause they wanna talk to people instead of shooting them in the head.

Then, seriously, really, starting in the fourth paragraph, Coulter absolutely abandons everything that she had spoken about previously to squeeze her nipples to erection over Matt Lauer's 9/11/06 interview with George Bush, and how Lauer aggressively questioned Bush over the waterboarding of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. And then spends the rest of the column defending the action and mocking Lauer for daring to bring it up three months ago. The column ends with a brief nod to the Iraq Study Group, but, after that third paragraph, Democrats are never, never mentioned again.

The column is titled "Incoming Congress prepares to launch 'Operation Surrender.'"

Now this ain't about the morality or immorality of torturing evil people. This is about the responsibility of editors to look deep into the twirling eyes of their batshit insane writers and say, "Ann, the interview's old. And what the fuck does it have to do with the incoming Congress?"

Probably Coulter had a months-old pile of scrap notes laying around and she demanded that her assistant type it up, slap a couple of more recent references on the front, bring her the animatronic Sean Hannity robo-head with rugged tongue action, place it between her legs, and jack off while watching her squirm as Hannity's android head gives her head. Oh, and e-mail that column off to Universal Press Syndicate.

The Iraq Study Group Report - A Fig Leaf or a Bandage?:
Listening to the announcements and meetings over the report of the Iraq Study Group is a little like listening to a group of rape crisis counselors and social workers standing in the middle of a maximum security prison, informing the prisoners that it's just wrong for the stronger men to sodomize the mouths and asses of the weaker prisoners, that perhaps forcing some of the thin, feminine-looking men to dress as women and become "wives" is perverse and fucked-up. There's President Bush, sitting there like the beefiest motherfucker in the Aryan Brotherhood, nodding, all the while wondering which of his bitches to rape tonight. There's the Democrats, standing around like pathetic turn-outs, thinking they're about to get their sore asses some protection. And the guards? Why that'd be the American people, just shrugging their shoulders, wondering what they can do to stop all the butt-reamings and mouth explosions - no one listened to the whistleblowers in the first place, you know. Meanwhile, the counselors and social workers get to get the fuck out of the lock-up and head back to the 'burbs.

Sure, sure, just a search and scan of the 160-page report comes up with fun nuggets of wisdom, like "U.S. foreign policy is doomed to failure—as is any course of action in Iraq—if it is not supported by a broad, sustained consensus" of the executive and legislative branches, and the American people. And, even though the report's being hailed as one big cock punch to the Bush administration, there's more than fig leaves for the White House here: "The global standing of the United States could suffer if Iraq descends further into chaos. Iraq is a major test of, and strain on, U.S. military, diplomatic, and financial capacities. Perceived failure there could diminish America’s credibility and influence in a region that is the center of the Islamic world and vital to the world’s energy supply. This loss would reduce America’s global influence at a time when pressing issues in North Korea, Iran, and elsewhere demand our full attention and strong U.S. leadership of international alliances." Or, in shorter terms, we're fucked either way.

The bottom line of the report, though, seems to be that it's time to pass the buck over to the Iraqis, after a few handy steps: "Iraqis may become so sobered by the prospect of an unfolding civil war and intervention by their regional neighbors that they take the steps necessary to avert catastrophe. But at the moment, such a scenario seems implausible because the Iraqi people and their leaders have been slow to demonstrate the capacity or will to act."

Call it the "sand nigger explanation": like slaves after the Civil War were more or less just expected to get over it and become good little demi-Americans, so must the Iraqis forget about the decades of deprivations under Saddam Hussein, U.N. sanctions, and, well, fuck, war, and just get on with it. It's there in Recommendation 21, the "No Iraqi Left Behind" idea: "If the Iraqi government does not make substantial progress toward the achievement of milestones on national reconciliation, security, and governance, the United States should reduce its political, military, or economic support for the Iraqi government."

How can one completely poo-poo a report where the authors say shit like leave Iran to the United Nations and fuckin' talk to Syria, that sets a timetable of "milestones" for Iraq to achieve, that states "The United States should not make an open-ended commitment to keep large numbers of American troops deployed in Iraq," and more? Because the whole document, massive press coverage and all, carries about as much actual legislative weight as, say, the 9/11 Commission report.

Hell, in that case, we've been told that the vast majority of the recommendations have been carried out, which may be true, in the same way that chimpanzees are mostly the same genetically as human beings, 98.8% so. But, looking at all the nit-eating and shit-throwing, one might think that the remaining 1.2% is crucial.

The Neediest President in History, Part 1:
So it was that President George W. Bush and his lovely wife Laura yesterday invited to the White House the children of military men and women deployed overseas. It was a holiday reception, with the abundance of delectable treats and lavish decorations that only the President of the greatest nation on earth could provide while at war. Or, you know, a Sultan. Or a Czar. And a show, too, with cast members from the Kennedy Center's production of Willie Wonka doing a little song and dance for the kids. Surely, yes, the parents of these children would be delighted to know that their sons and daughters could have such pleasures in times of such emotional privation.

Before Laura introduced the show, George got up and said a few words. Among those words, were these: "[D]o me a favor and email your mom or dad who is overseas how much the Commander-in-Chief respects them, admires them and supports them." Seems so small, doesn't it? In the midst of an e-mail about all the 15,000 chocolate truffles and two tons of crab claws and, miracle of miracles, a singing Willie Wonka, a child would say, "Oh, and the President told me to tell you he supports you." Which, if you've sent them to die for you, ought to be a bare minimum requirement for what you say to a soldier.

Because it ain't really about the kids, oh, no. It's about George, who so needs approval, so desperately needs to think that others know he cares, who so needs the positive attention that such small gestures might bring, that he would tell children to write about how much he likes their parents.

Lately, there's been much ink and many bytes spilled over whether or not the President is insane. Instead, let's just say that he's a sad, needy man, a figure of pity, not in a tragic way, but instead just a "will-someone-change-his-diapers" at the old age home kind of way. We'll explore that over the next few days.

Birthday Demands:
Today is the Rude Pundit's birthday.

He wants a new TV so he can better make out Soledad O'Brien's pores.

So give him money.

That is all for now.

Back later with...well, fuck, it's the birthday boy's choice, innit?

Britney Spears's Pussy Saves the World:
Man, the Rude Pundit can't get enough of Britney Spears's pussy, plastered all over the Internet like a sideways grin. Or like a closed eye with a c-section scar brow. Yessir, everywhere you wanted to look last week, there was Britney Spears's pussy. You could turn on your MSNBC to check the latest way in which Gitmo-resident-in-training Keith Olbermann was pimp-slapping the Bush administration, and there, Tuesday, was a discussion, albeit a humorous one, of Britney Spears's pussy (if you are so inclined, insert a Paris Hilton joke here). Over on the Fox "News" program Heartland, host John Kasich plastic coated the studio and had Bill O'Reilly on to talk about Britney's pussy, even showing photos of said pussy and its owner with the offending slit blocked out (if you are so inclined, insert a Paris Hilton joke here). It wasn't just the ubiquity of Britney Spears's pussy last week; it was the way in which Britney Spears's pussy was transformed from just another shaved crotch to some kind of anthropological/cultural marker. There are places in Iraq that weren't probed for WMDs pre-war as deeply as Britney Spears's pussy was last week.

It isn't that Britney Spears's pussy's public appearances aren't in and of themselves interesting. The Rude Pundit supports genital revelation of all sorts. But it's just that, other than being attached to Britney Spears, being the stage curtain for the debut of two kids, and acting as the golden door to the slick caves of presumptive paradise, what exactly has Britney Spears's pussy accomplished? Yes, indeed, it's time to make Britney Spears's pussy earn its place in our networks of news, beyond the Page Sixes and Michael Musto columns (he's so bitchy, you know).

Yeah, Britney Spears's pussy needs to go down to New Orleans, and it can join in the searches that go on to this day for bodies in the Lower Ninth Ward. And if Britney Spears's pussy finds a body, it can pose next to it, like a trophy, and then we can all have an idea of how great Britney Spears's pussy is.

With that notch in its pouch, Britney Spears's pussy can head to Iraq to rally the troops. We know that Britney's a big supporter of President Bush, so with his popularity so small and her pussy's so big, Britney Spears's pussy can not only entertain the troops, but it can meet with the Mahdi Army, who will no doubt be as mesmerized as Americans by Britney Spears's pussy, willing to toss aside their weapons and higher concerns so that they can pay attention to Britney Spears's pussy.

Just imagine all the good Britney Spears's pussy could do, heading off to chain itself to a caribou to halt drilling in Alaska, or replacing John Bolton's newly-resigned cock as ambassador to the UN, or going to Congress to testify for...what? Well, would it really matter, because it's Britney Spears's pussy and it could probably stop the genocide in the Sudan if it would only apply itself.

Then, once Britney Spears's pussy has accomplished some or all of these goals, we can all give a rat's ass, a happy monkey fuck, a good goddamn about where Britney Spears's pussy is at any given time.

A Bit of Tony Kushner For World AIDS Day:
This is from the second part of Kushner's Angels in America. It's spoken by Harper, whose Mormon husband has admitted that he's gay and who has gone through a kind of breakdown that has given her visions of distant places and people. By this point, she has healed enough to talk about other kinds of healing:

"Night flight to San Francisco; chase the moon across America. God, it’s been years since I was on a plane. When we hit 35,000 feet we’ll have reached the tropopause, the great belt of calm air, as close as I’ll ever get to the ozone. I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth, and that was frightening. But I saw something that only I could see because of my astonishing ability to see such things: Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles, and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them and was repaired. Nothing’s lost forever. In this world, there’s a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind, and dreaming ahead. At least I think that’s so."

More later.