Posts Tagged ‘The Turtle’

Kentucky Fried Chickenshit

February 5, 2020

Col. Turtle filled the bucket for the Fat Man.

Showing the colors

December 19, 2019

A blast from the past, repurposed for 2019.

Well, the package is under the Christmas tree, but it’s not exactly what we hoped for, is it?

It’s a lot smaller than we thought, for starters. Missing a few pieces, seems like.

And we won’t get much time to play with it. A bunch of smirking old men wearing American-flag lapel pins are gonna take it away from us, just because they can. Doesn’t matter that we paid for it. Or that we’ll keep paying for it, for years.

When Vito Corpulento rose to power I thought that maybe, just maybe, the GOP would eventually wipe the blood off its flabby mitts, look around at the wreckage of the Republic, and say, “Whew. Well, we got almost everything we needed from the loony bastard. He’s not even a made guy. Let’s kick him to the curb.”

Wrong. The GOP is a gang, like the Gambino family, the Klan, or the Hells Angels. And gangs under attack tend to overlook any niggling internal disagreements.

Hunter S. Thompson wrote about the Angels as a tuneup for writing about Nixon, and tell me if this quote from a Frisco Angel doesn’t sound like your modern Republican Party:

“Our motto, man, is ‘All on One and One on All.’ You mess with an Angel and you’ve got twenty-five of them on your neck. I mean, they’ll break you but good, baby.”

They couldn’t do shit in the House except make a lot of bad noise, like a poorly tuned Harley. That’s the junior chapter over there, a bunch of prospects on mopeds, hoping to wear the colors some day. Good luck with that. The Senate wouldn’t let a bag of farts like Louie Gohmert in the back door to swab out the toilets after Taco Tuesday if he promised to use his tongue.

No, the Senate is strictly for the heavy hitters. It’s where business gets done. And by “done,” I mean done.

“Package? What package?” smirks The Turtle. “We never got no package from those guys. What could I tell you? But hey, it’s the holidays. There’s a lot going on. It’ll turn up, someday, maybe.

“Now get the fuck out of here. We’re doing business. Family business. And you don’t look like family to me.”

Curb your enthusiasm

June 1, 2019

It was one of those days. First we saw the hare; then we saw the tortoise. They weren’t racing, though.

Herself noticed this armored gent during our ride through High Desert this morning, and I inquired whether he knew Mitch McConnell.

“That asshole,” he replied. “Fuck that guy. He’s a snake on his mother’s side, you know. Gives us all a bad name.”

Sausage party

December 2, 2017

More shit soufflé? Of course we accept food stamps. Ha! Just kidding!

When you send whores to church, you should not be surprised to find them turning tricks in the pews.

Charlie Pierce says this more eloquently, and at greater length. The incomprehensible and unread tax bill that cleared the Senate in the wee hours this morning was larded with “conservative fetish objects” and the process “shot through with a contempt for democracy,” because of course they were.

And after this infernal hound comes howling out of the conference committee, and King Donald the Short-fingered gives it his blessing, and it begins devouring everyone who chose his or her parents poorly, and the MAGApies find that their health bennies don’t cover Tegaderm for the ouchy rug burns on their knees and elbows, to say nothing of that famous “burning, itching sensation,” well, you may be certain of one thing:

They will blame the black guy and the woman, not The Turtle and the Zombie-Eyed Granny Starver.

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.