Category: Parody

Achtung, beeyotch

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 21 Comments
Obersturmführer Greg “Jethro” Bodino in an undated file photo.

Double-naught spy Greg “Jethro” Bodino is apparently the designated fall guy — “Sündenbock,” in the original German — for the blitzkrieg in Minneapolis whose blowback may have mussed the coiffures of Kristi “Reichstag Barbie” Noem, her chief of “staff” Corey “Simple Battery” Lewandowski, and their famously erratic patron, Orange Hitler.

Bodino, believed to have been a button man in the notorious Clampett Gang before his appointment as Obersturmführer of the ICEholen SS, reportedly has been banished to El Centro, Calif., where there is absolutely no truth to the rumor that he, his photogenic Nazi greatcoat, and the lifts in his jackboots will be in command of a meter-maid’s Cushman cart.

El Centro grannies beware — you may expect a ruthless press conference if you overstay your welcome while parked outside yarn shops, thrift stores, and doctors’ offices. Also, and too, a good pepper-spraying and perhaps a dozen or so bullet wounds. In the back, of course.

Christmastime in Washington

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments
“Frigate? Frig it, I wanna battleship.”

Well, I see Admiral Palsy wants some new toys to sail round his salty dog while he frolics in the tub (Gulf of America™).

Tom Nichols of The Atlantic has a few thoughts about this vanity fleet:

Trump announced that the new Trump-class ships will be “battleships,” but they seem to be supersize versions of the existing workhorse of the Navy, the Arleigh Burke-class destroyers. … The Navy has also announced the development of a new class of frigates. Destroyers and frigates, as the Navy knows (and as the commander in chief should know) are not battleships. Battleships are huge and powerful, and are meant to dish out — and withstand — serious punishment. Destroyers and frigates are less rugged, and perform missions that require more speed and agility than battleships can muster. But none of that matters: The goal, apparently, was to give a childlike president a new toy, named after himself, in exchange for gobs of money that the Navy will figure out how to spend later.

Jesus H. Christ on a tugboat. Swear to Dog, this egomaniac would put his name on his dingus if he could find a sharp-eyed tattoo artist used to a small canvas.

“Sorry, dude, I’ll be lucky to get a ‘T’ on this thing. Yeah, right, gold, I heard you the first three or four times.”

The only thing I want to see his name on is a tombstone, after the profligate sonofabitch chokes on a mummified Filet-O-Fish that did too much hard time in the Mickey D’s storage cabinet (bad food, unlike bad presidents, doesn’t get good lawyers on the taxpayers’ dime).

And on that glorious day I plan to be well hydrated, with a little Steve Earle on the headphones.

Come back, Woody Guthrie. …

Humbugs and gasbags

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments
The Wizard of Ooze. (Behind the curtain: Stephen Miller, Generalfeldmarschall, Twatwaffen SS.)

You will recall that Professor Marvel, a.k.a. the Wizard of Oz, traveled by gasbag.

His very distant cousin in humbuggery, the Wizard of Ooze, likewise gets around on hot air, with an assist from other people’s money.

But I don’t expect we’ll see him at the 2025 Albuquerque International Balloon Festival, which begins today. Oh, sure, there’s a golf center at Balloon Fiesta Park, with a driving range and a six-hole pitch-and-putt course. But there is a distinct lack of screening foliage and even the most myopic of Repuglicunts could see him improving his lie.

The Great and Powerful Ooze might send the ICEholes in his stead (darn those bone spurs!). What a fine addition to the spectacle that would be — fats with tats in masks and battle-rattle snatching up brown people and stuffing them into locked baskets beneath unmarked black balloons, to be spirited away to Kansas or someplace even worse, flanked by escorts of flying monkeys.

But I expect those boyos are busy too, lumbering after nekkid bike riders in Stumptown or the more easily caught deep-dish pizza in Chicago.

Eat up, fellas! And don’t worry about the legs on the black olives. Ramón says they’re free-range. Organic.