“Forgive me, Your Extreme Loathsomeness, but there’s a moving van out front, Vader has signed on with Cotton 2024, and the Emperor isn’t returning our calls.”
Jabba the Twitt
Month: November 2020
From The Failing New York Times
ByeDon wins. Time for a Cold 45!
Meanwhile, at a golf course somewhere in Virginia, a 3-iron spirals into a water hazard.
• Extra-Credit Bonus Snark: Most Jersey reporter ever tells Trump supporter to “Fuck off.”
Some Saturday silliness
OK, it’s been a little dark lately, and it may get darker still.
So today, while we wait for the poor sods tasked with deciphering the wishes of the electorate to finish their thankless chore, here are a few items that made Herself and I giggle like schoolchildren this morning.
• Say what? Sign-language interpreter translates heckler shouting “Fuck you!” at Hawaii mayor.
• Talk about your pinkos: Trump backers tricked into joining “Gay Communists for Socialism” on Facebook.
• Avoid the void: The void is full. Please stop screaming into it.
He’s bearing up quite nicely, thanks
Hey, Johnny, got any more Roxxies?”
We’re all having a little hee, and also some haw, over Adolf Twitler delivering a major address to the voices in his head at the White House last night.
I caught only a couple minutes of the performance, which falls short of the ne plus ultra — gin-soaked Tricky Dick wandering the halls at midnight, screeching at the paintings.
Still, I think it’s fair to observe that the current “president” seemed not unlike a geriatric bear that wandered into Johnny Depp’s house, gobbled most of his stash, had three strokes in quick succession, then picked up a Shure SM58 and started freestyling.
That being said, we are all about the public service here at Ye Olde Chuckle Hut, and I’d like to pass on this friendly reminder from Ranger Smith, who notes that even if Sleepy Joe pulls off the V here, Yogi will still be rifling the pic-a-nic baskets at Jellystone Park until Jan. 20, 2021.
We now return you to the clusterfuck, which is already in progress.
Yummy
Miss Mia Sopaipilla blew a hairball into her breakfast this morning.
I consider this an imperfect metaphor for American politics, if only because I didn’t get splashed. It was a perfect shot, straight into her own bowl full of Taste of the Wild Rocky Mountain Feline Formula, which runs a buck-forty a can.
A real American cat would’ve gotten at least half of it on me and Herself, blamed the Deep State/antifa/libtards for the hairball, taken ownership of and pride in the hairball, demanded that the bowl not be cleaned, and then returned to chowing down, hairball and all.
Democracy. It’s what’s for breakfast.
Mad Blog Media 