Whining Mutts: Guess That Rock Hurts, Eh?

By Number Six

Monday, September 12, 2005 at 04:48 PM

I forget what elder taught me that old redneck maxim from my youth, the one that goes "If'n ya toss a rock inta a pack of yappin mutts, the one hollars loudest be the one ya smacked!"

Said maxim is, I've found, incredibly accurate, right up there with Chandrasekhar's stuff: I've noticed, as of late, that ever since the "liberal media" (hack-cough-cough-cough) went after Das Chimpenfuckup's mishandling of the NOLA-Katrina Clusterfuck, well, my neo-con associates are all running around with incredibly sore asses!

One attacked me and viciously: "You goddamned liberals, with your fucking handouts and your....!!!", "It's not the president's fault!"

Sorry, I shrug, and then I mention a certain past Democratic president, who had the big brass balls to stick a sign on his desk...THE BUCK STOPS HERE...Harry S Truman, and Truman was a much better president than El Dipshit is.

It's like this, I attempt to explain: Shlub appointed buddies of his, such as Drownie, someone with .0000174 percent experience managing disasters, but a friend and pretty darned good at Arabian showhorses.

Drownine blew it and blew it so bad, if he flew a 747 the way he handled NOLA, well, the NTSB would still be looking for pieces. Fucking awful, to say the least, and now, the "word on the street" smacks of racism and elitism, naturally.

Ergo, I explain, shit rolls downhill, Drownie was useless, so who do we blame for his appointment? Why that other graduate of The Dilbert Principle, old Town Drunk ne'er do well, of course.

Bottom line: Shlub, ultimately, must take the heat for the mangling. The sign on his desk says so, the Constitution says so, and 60 percent of the public say so.

"But...but...but!", and then they rant, and toss at me some Colterisms (Colterism: A statement or series of statements derived from fantasy, passed off as facts), and I'm supposed to be impressed. And then, it's Clinton's fault, my fault, my dog's fault, but NOT asshole's, eh?

Sorry, yours truly does read the news, but not the party poop courtesy Faux Noise, nor do I listen to Gag-a-her, Slimeball or Herr Hannibal, okay? I prefer uncontaminated news, not bullshit.

And then I grin: Gee, if he's so good, and so noble and so efficient, why the low poll numbers? Why are we getting kids killed for Exxon-Mobil? Why are we a joke to the rest of the world? Why is gas at 2.99 a gallon?

"Ya pays yer money, ya takes yer chances.", I smirk evilly. "You elected a nitwit who, to date, has bankrupted everything he's fucked with, now, you're seeing it live and in living color."

And what pisses them off so damned much? The media's in attack mode at long last, demanding answers, pinning Scotty to the wall, and editorials from about everywhere all say the same thing: Why? Who fucked the approach? Goddamn, I love it!

But, to some of them, it's to no avail: They keep on believing Clinton was Satan, that Carter was a pussy, and that we Democrats are the real cause of all the troubles in this land, and a whopping 99 percent of that attitude is so cemented it's not going to change.

I don't care nor give a flying shit, thank you: Nixon, even after that last tape played, even after he met with Goldwater, even after he ducked out with his resignation....still...had those goddamned diehards wanting him back.

Well, sports fans, fuck them each and every one, and I've smirked and said as much: "You had your little season, your ideas and methods still do not work, cannot work and quite soon, you and your fascist jackasses are out the door, hopefully, this time, for goddamned good."

And they turn red-faced angry when I grin that one out, but that's just fine by me: Apparently, that rock in the ass hurts pretty bad, eh?