Posts Tagged ‘Lyin’ Ryan’

Don’t take it for granite, Joe

February 11, 2020

Frosty the Snow Toad awaits news from New Hampshire.

O, ’tis a frosty auld morning out there, cold enough to freeze the stones off a three-peckered snow toad.

I haven’t checked the forecast for New Hampshire, where ’tis rumored that the Granite State may lay a nice stone over the grave of Daffy Uncle Joe’s presidential ambitions, the third time being less than a charm, it seems.

I’ll always have a soft spot for Joe, if only for the way he hee-hawed Lyin’ Paul Ryan and his zombie-eyed, granny-starvin’ bullshit right off the debate stage in the 2012 pestilential campaign.

But he’s not the man for the job this time. He has the affect of a fella who feels obliged by circumstances and the voices in his head to apply for a job that he really doesn’t want.

If Daffy Uncle Joe were the nominee, I’d vote for him, of course. I’d vote for Frosty the Snow Toad if he were running against Puffy the MAGA Dragon.

But I’d feel like a fella obliged by circumstances and the voices in his head to do a job that he really doesn’t want to do.

Here’s your hat, there’s the door . . .

April 11, 2018

Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya, bub.

Lyin’ Ryan is fixin’ to hit the door running, say The Atlantic, The Washington Post. and The New York Times.

No doubt the Squeaker of the House wishes to spend more time with the family. The Gambinos, perhaps, since the Trumps have proven to be heavy lifting for a fellow with a spine of Jell-O.

I guess it’s true what they say: When the going gets tough, the tough get going. I mean, just look at him go!

Top dog

May 16, 2017

Well, I confess I’m at something of a loss here.

I’d trot out the “If Hillary/Obama disclosed classified information to the Russians. …” trope, but why bother?

I’m starting to think that if King Donald the Short-fingered were to be videotaped having sex with a Russian wolfhound atop an American flag, in the Rose Garden, at high noon on Memorial Day, Lyin’ Ryan and The Turtle would shrug their shoulders, mumble, “It’s just the president, screwing the pooch again,” and get back to the business of stripping the Republic for salable parts. Never you mind that the dog is on top.

Maybe when Cheeto Benito is headed home after his first big international trip we can turn out the lights, pretend we’re not home.