January 2009

Shorter John “Daaa Crusha” Yoo:

Obama’s unwillingness to crush the testicles of young children represents a return to pre-9/11 effeteness, and will lead to more terrorist attacks in the future.

Yoo’s pedosadistic fantasies make him feel big and strong:

Thomas Jefferson was on to something:

A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to it’s true principles. It is true that in the mean time we are suffering deeply in spirit, and incurring the horrors of a war & long oppressions of enormous public debt…If the game runs sometimes against us at home we must have patience till luck turns, & then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are the stake.  

The long awaited passing has begun, but someone needs to unpry* Yoo’s fingers.

*This is now officially a word with the meaning that I intended for it which is clear from the context.  Even if the prefix and noun combination would give it the opposite meaning.  You’ll just have to take my word on this.


Bill Kristol has slithered back to Reptoid headquarters, and the NY Times is looking for a simulacrum.  WANTED: Latest incarnation of the William Safire With A Thousand Faces.  Should be my social better, yet comfortable condescending to the tastes and mores of faceless heartland proles.  Must be fluent in contrarianism, and keep current with the latest movement-approved mock outrages.   Dead eyes and lizardish smile a plus, but not required.  All the suggested replacements are of this horribly boring genus.  The best attempted justification for this policy is that it will “sell newspapers to the country’s educated, affluent, urban classes”, because affluent, educated, urban classes like to read abridged novelizations of CNN’s “Crossfire” with their fair trade coffee and effete, Frenchified breakfast pastries.  Or, you know, whatever.

The best attempted “outside the box” suggestion is to cut out the middlemen  hand it directly over to Rush Limbaugh.  Limbaugh, unlike any of the bowtie conservatives who package his ideas for polite society, actually has an audience and a constituency, making his opinions A) politically relevant and B) likely to bring new readership.  Better still would be to hire Kaye Grogan, who is even more entertaining and representative of populist conservatism, is a snappy dresser besides, and isn’t even a disgusting fucking junkie.  On the downside, she might be dead, which some may consider a drawback.  I just think it would make the choice that much bolder.

Alternately: instead of asking frequent guests on CNN’s “Crossfire” to translate their schtick into short essay form, you could find a dozen people who are actually knowledgeable about some important area of public concern, and let them inform your readership.  People whose opinions might be worth more than, say, mine, and might be derived from sources other than political/professional necessity.  Consider Quality before highly contrived ideas of Balance.  And, seeing as the Times’ time-tested strategies for “sell[ing] newspapers to [anybody with two quarters]” are miserable failures, and “Crossfire” got cancelled, it might not be such a crazy idea.


Two times you picked me to be your president.  And two times I presidented things the best way I know how.  I did what we call in Texas “a real good job”.  But now I’m retired, and I will leave it to history to decide if I am more like Abraham Lincoln or Winston Churchill, and then I will wear one of those powdered wigs and be on the million dollar bill.  Meantime, I will host these here Golden Winger awards.

senator-harry-reidI’m Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid.  When The Editors asked me to abandon my responsibilities and play second fiddle to an unpopular, corrupt ex-President for this nonsense awards post, I said “No!  No!  A thousand times no!”  For if one does not have principles and the courage of one’s convictions, then one has nothing at all.  And that’s the story of how I came to vice-host this awards post.  Let’s see some winners.

bushchimpA man has to fight.  But you don’t just fight with your fists or guns or bombs or those giant robots made of robot lions.  Sometimes you fight by sitting in safety and saying “bring it on” while other people get blown up and crippled and show up for work.  That’s a real good quote.  Now I will “bring on” the winner of Chickenhawk of the Year.  Heh heh heh.  It’s Orson Scott Card:

How long before married people answer the dictators thus: Regardless of law, marriage has only one definition, and any government that attempts to change it is my mortal enemy. I will act to destroy that government and bring it down, so it can be replaced with a government that will respect and support marriage, and help me raise my children in a society where they will expect to marry in their turn.

Biological imperatives trump laws. American government cannot fight against marriage and hope to endure. If the Constitution is defined in such a way as to destroy the privileged position of marriage, it is that insane Constitution, not marriage, that will die.

As a thrilling postscript to this boast, I heard some crickets chirpin’.  But just you wait.  For the cicadias.

bushchimpI’ll do this one, too, Popcorn Guy.  You look like that TV popcorn guy, so that’s my name for you.  I’m pretty clever like that.  This award is called the Fluffy, and it’s for appreciating excellence.  Usually, the winners would appreciate my excellence, but now that’s history’s job.  The winner is Rich Lowry, who I call “Pert Plus”, for seeing Starbursts:

A very wise TV executive [sic] once told me that the key to TV is projecting through the screen. It’s one of the keys to the success of, say, a Bill O’Reilly, who comes through the screen and grabs you by the throat. Palin too projects through the screen like crazy. I’m sure I’m not the only male in America who, when Palin dropped her first wink, sat up a little straighter on the couch and said, “Hey, I think she just winked at me.” And her smile. By the end, when she clearly knew she was doing well, it was so sparkling it was almost mesmerizing. It sent little starbursts through the screen and ricocheting around the living rooms of America. This is a quality that can’t be learned; it’s either something you have or you don’t, and man, she’s got it.

I feel like that about 9/11.  I’m not tryin’ to tell history how to do its job, but do you remember how 9/11 happened, and then, later, it didn’t happen?  That second part was all me.

senator-harry-reidThe Purple Teardrop with Clutched Pearls Cluster honors those who have had their tiny, precious feelings hurt, especially by unnamed parties, especially on the internets, and extra-especially involving bad words which have certainly never before passed your virginal lips or earholes.  The winner is Jonah Goldberg, Noted Scholar, for his complaint that “the white man is the Jew of Liberal Fascism.”  Awesome.

bushchimpThe Creamy Baileys No-Bell Peace Prize for Science celebrates outstanding advances in making everybody listen to the time you were watching the ST:TNG box set and pulling hits off the gravity bong and you figured out how Tantric quantum mechanics proves global warming is fake and fuck Al Gore.  The winner is Gregg Easterbrook, for reasons I don’t even want to fucking talk about anymore, and who also wins the Matt Millen Award for Theoretical Footballistics.

senator-harry-reidI’m all about capitulating to whatever the ex-President wants, but some people like to team up to advance some kind of agenda.  Different strokes.  You can also team up to make unbelieveable fucking assholes out of yourselves, and that is what the Soggy Biscuit is all about.  There was a whole lotta circle jerkin’ this election season, but the runaway winner is the “controversy” about Obama’s birth certificate, because seriously.  Seriously.


The Golden Winger Award for Wank of the Year is what we call in Texas “a real big deal.”  It’s real amazing how many unmemorable phrases you’ve heard a billion times and didn’t care are unique products of texas culture, and I like to share them with you almost as much as I like to share my jokes which aren’t jokes.  Heh, heh, heh.  The winner is Jonah Goldberg for Liberal Fascism.


senator-harry-reidWhen I found out I was nominated for the Coveted Palme d’Haire, celebating a full year’s worth of chafing in service of wankery, I said then and there that, come hell or high water, I would not settle for second place.  So I got third place.  This is the kind of hard-nosed negotiating position I took when defending Democratic ideals in the Senate, which is why I am so respected.  The winner is the amazingly embarrassing and ignorant Sarah Palin, who is sort of like George W. Bush, if George W. Bush was a girl, didn’t spend the first 4 decades of his life shitfaced, and had actually acheived any of his dubious accomplishments himself, rather than just coasting by on his family connections.  So, sort of like a much, much more impressive and qualified George W. Bush.  Losers as big as the outgoing President only come along once in a lifetime, and I speak for many, many, many prominant and influential Americans when I say how proud I am to have cowered before him for the past eight years.  Sarah Palin brings home the trophy this year, but we all wank on.

ADDING – Alternate post title:

“I have had it with these motherfucking Turks on this motherfucking plane!”

The War on Terror has officially lapped stupid:

A US citizen was booted from a Turkish Airlines flight from Istanbul to New York after he complained there were “Arab types” on board, Turkish news media reported.

Daniel Sussman Pincus, whose age and hometown were not given but who was described in one report as an American of German origin, shouted his complaints as the flight was preparing to depart Monday.

Imagine that, “Arab types” aboard a Turkish Airlines flight departing from Istanbul.  Why, I bet there were even some Muslim-esque individuals on board!   The nerve of some people!  You’d think they’d have been a bit more sensitive to Mr. Pincus’ bedwetting sensibilities.

And yes, ye horde of pedantic fact checking know-it-alls, I know that Turks aren’t Arabs, but do you suppose the paranoid Mr. Samuel L. Pincus was really all that discerning with his swarthy fellow travelers?

Now that the War on Terror has achieved this career milestone, I think it’s time he retired.  Permanently – not as some marketing gimmick ala Jay Z or Cher. 

Speaking as a concerned onlooker, the last thing the War on Terror wants is to end up looking like he held on too long.  Like, say, Brett Favre.

Due to a noticeable increase in the number of ugly children over the years, I have been forced by a concern for the future of the race to have a child*.  His name is Lucius Avericious Victor Davis Hanson X, Jr., and he looks what your children would look like, if your children looked less like Mr. Magoo fucked E.T. after a dozen apple-thalidomide martinis.

* Pending test results from tomorrow’s Montel Williams show.

Part II (a continuation of Part I)

So later that same evening, I’m outside again still not smoking , but this time with my friend L – she of the long raven hair and the beautiful pale blue eyes who I totally don’t have a crush on and don’t want to make mad, passionate lo…[composes self, waves away the starbursts].

L’s all like, “Hey you do the blogs don’t you.”  And I’m all thinking to myself, “Damn girl, is that some type of preemptive strike, rubbing my face in my nerdiness and letting me know that I don’t have a chance to so much as fondle your bags of sand no matter how deleriously drunk we both get tonight.”

So I’m all, “Yeah, I blog…sometimes.”

[Not a trace of chalance in my voice – letting her know that I could walk away from it at any time, and that  it’s not a major part of my otherwise exciting life, what with the hobnobbing with A-listers like Kiefer Sutherland, and did she want to meet him cause I could totally introduce…

So then L says: “Well, then maybe you know my new boyfriend” [Hand, figuratively clutching heart, blood draining from face (that last part probably happened in the literal, not figurative, sense)]. 

I respond: “Maybe,” in as dismissive a tone as possible – because, hey, everyone has a blog these days and why would I know this dork’s blog that’s probably about stupid stuff like his japanese anime porn fetish.  And even if he’s a “big” blogger – whatever that means – I can take solace in the fact that because he blogs, he can’t be that far from me on the nerd spectrum-ometer. 

That knowledge dulls some of the pain.  Not as much as Jamesons shots though.  Those work much better.  But I’m more of a “both,” not “either or,” kind of guy.

So then she says: “Well, his name is Paul Rieckhoff, have you heard of him.”

And I’m thinking: Fucking fuckity fuck.  He’s not a nerd at all, but rather some newfangled warrior poet dude who fights for veterans’ rights and benefits, works for progressive causes and candidates and has otherwise done actual stuff in his life – mostly with his bare hands.  He’s wiki-able!

I am, as they say, out of my element. 

So for those keeping score, my brother’s pairing up with Kiefer Sutherland on next season’s Dancing with the Stars and my crush is seeing some Manly Man’s Übermensch.  As for me, well, all I have is you LilliTootians.  And my japanese anime porn blog. 

Which is totally just as good.

(curv3ball: making the Toot a little more like Perez Hilton)

True story.  Mostly.

Part I

Me and a bunch of friends met up at a bar in the West Village called Fiddlesticks a few weeks back [I know what you’re thinking: West Village, Fiddlesticks, we know what kind of bar THAT is – not that there’s anything wrong with it. And you’re right of course: it was lousy with the Irish].

So we’re all busy getting our tipsy on and making merry, as the season warrants, when a block of unabashed, unapologetic 80’s music finds its way on to the bar’s playlist.  Swept up by the synthy majesty, my brother [yes, I include family in my list of friends because, well, the list would otherwise be pathetically anemic] and my friend Neil [not related to the best of my knowledge] start swinging their arms back and forth and gyrating their lower extremeties in an exaggerated 80’s dance [think Boy George, only more flamboyant].

It was a real crowd pleaser – at least to us – although there was palpable hostility bubbling up from some of the other patrons, and had it gone on too long, I imagine we might have had one of those bar stool bashing Hollywood bar fights on our hands. 

But then, right after the dancing duos’ arms tired out, forcing them to cease prancing about and dab at the sweat forming on their respective brows, the goodly bar wench came over and tapped my brother on the shoulder, leaned in and said something to him that I couldn’t quite make out above the din.

After relaying her message, she pointed across the bar to some middle aged dude with a receding hairline grinning ear to ear, staring at my brother and doing his own rendition of the same 80’s dance.  It was awful, forced and the spectacle of it all caused an uncomfortable feeling to rise in the pit of my gullet. 

My brother – feeling compassionate [he’s better than me] and in an attempt to ameliorate the uncouthness of the whole situation – made a go at reciprocating the dance moves from across the room.  But his compassion has limits [sort of like a centrist Democrat] and you could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.  As the two dancers – separated by the rest of the room – locked eyes and carried on their long distance choreography (one with unbridled enthusiasm, the other with a perfunctory politeness), the awkwardness was increasing in intensity, not waning, as awkwardness is wont to do in such circumstances. 

So in an attempt to disentangle himself from this uninvited and undesired coupling, my brother performed the kinetic version of trailing off mid sentence, offered a nod, a smile and then turned around to grope his pint.

Glancing back nervously at the dance-stalker, my brother said, “Hey, he kind of looks like Kiefer Sutherland.”  And without really looking myself [my brother is blind as a bat and prone to exaggerate], I’m all, “Yeah, he totally does.  Haha” [kind of laugh you offer ROFLMAO Richard Cohen out of pity, which has led to a profound self-misoverestimation, but that’s another story]. 

Later I went out to have a smoke take in the night air because I totally don’t smoke cigarettes [shhh, my mom could be reading this. She loves this blog.  Mom says: “I like it when The Editors does the kitten porn! But does he have to be so mean to that Jonah Goldberg man.  You shouldn’t pick on the mentally handicapped.”  And I respond: “It is the task that God assigned The Editors mom.  He is a reluctant warrior.” But lucky for me she won’t read anything in brackets or italics – it has something to do with the Pope warning that literary asides are as much a threat to humanity as global warming, which doesn’t exist because Ron Burgundy said so.  Or something.  I’m terrible with the theology stuff].

So where was I?  Oh yeah, outside for an invigorating bit of NYC air, I look over and see the creepy dance stalker guy and…it’s fucking Kiefer Sutherland.  Without a doubt.  In the flesh.  Smoking a fucking cigarette as if he just had coitus.  With my brother.  In a sense.

I’ll say this about the man, though, despite his filthy smoking habit, the guy is all class: he actually came up to my brother and apologized for intruding on his night, which is totally the right thing to do, if a bit too little too late.  More appropriately, he could make it up to him by turning my brother into a rich and famous movie star, like, overnight.  I’m betting Kiefer [yeah, we’re on a first name basis now – that’s how we roll bitchez] is working on it. 

He’s that awesome.

… THE EDITORS adds: Keifer’s dance moves, artist’s recreation –

Audience reaction, artist’s recreation:


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