9/9/09 9pm

OH MY FUCKING GOD, IS BARACK OBAMA ON GLEE??!?!?!!!?!!

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I LOVE Him!! Like more than Jesus and Bob Barker and Len Cariou and Dan Fogelberg and the World Wildlife Fund and Tacos and Diana Ross put together! This is better than the Justice League!

Wait...

It's 8:45.

Fuck. I'm early.

And yes, I suppose I could just NOT PUBLISH this piece, but you could also simply not have read it.

U.B. Kim Jong-Illin'

SEOUL, South Korea — North Korea on Thursday released a South Korean worker it had held for several months on charges of denouncing its political system, signaling what analysts called a desire by the North to ease relations with the South after months of tensions over its nuclear weapons program.

-The New York Times

It's crazy times in North Korea these days, everybuzzy. You may think it's crazy times right here in America, where the Obama evidently wants to kill old people and get the government involved in Medicare for the first time ever, but that's peanuts compared to North Korea. Remember when they used to be able to hold a grudge? Remember when they put the "is of evil" into George W. McBush's "Axis of Evil?" Remember how scared you were after you microwaved that can of Pepsi when you were 11 years old, and your parents threatened to send you to a North Korean prison, which was like the most unimaginably brutal and awful punishment in the parental arsenal?

Nuh uh, not anymore. You don't even need a swashbuckling, womanizing ex-President on your side either. In these enlightened times, getting released from a North Korean prison is basically as easy as getting out of high school detention. Just forge a note from one of your parents, and you are GOOD TO GO.

Dear North Korea,

Please let go of my Eggo. And by Eggo, I mean son, not the delicious brand of waffle we sell here in America, where we think you are evil. Adios, amigo. La puerta esta abierta.

Hola,
Mr. Robinson (Smokey Robinson's dad).*

So simple, even a caveman could do it, provided that the caveman could write Chinese, like my dad. Why, it's easier than trading in your cash for a brand new government clunker - and faster too!

Of course, the ultra-modern space children of Nowadays have far more gruesome things to worry about. Like having their iPhone 3GS's and all their apps for that and their facebag status updates taken away, or being forced to go outside and get some fresh air. Also, what's a microwave? And a Pepsi? That's what the kids say today, in this age of replicators and delicious food in pill form, because this is the future. Not this The Future either. The actual future. With flying cars and office buildings that can come pick you up if you're late for work, like in the Harry Potter show. Technology! Dumbledore!

*Not his actual name. The note, however, is real.

The Few, the Proud

From Politico:

Blagojevich's approval rating at 7 percent

The vast majority of Illinois voters want scandal-plagued Gov. Rod Blagojevich to immediately resign as governor, according to a new poll conducted by the Glengariff Group.

The poll shows 70 percent of voters believing that Blagojevich should resign now, while only 25 percent should wait until he is proven guilty. A 73 percent majority support the impeachment of the governor – including a majority of Democrats – with 58 percent “strongly supporting” his impeachment.

His approval rating, meanwhile, has tanked to seven percent. Among Democrats, only 13 percent approve of his performance.

As a lifelong Illinoisan, I am proud to count myself one of the noble Seven Percent who would undyingly pledge my support to my captain, my kinsman, and my governor, Rod Blagojevich. As long as there is breath in my body, I shall endeavor to expend that breath giving him my full-throated endorsement. Not torture, not damnation, not the very fires of Armageddon could possibly make me lessen my commitment to the Blagojevich cause. Wild wolves may tear my flesh asunder, but my enthusiasm for this man and his super-stylish haircut will not diminish.

For it is as is said in Scripture: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou canst go fuck thyself if thou wilt not give me five hundred thousand dollars (US) for a Senate vacancy."

Know your Bible, people. Do the right thing.

This was SO going to be Oscar the Grouch's last-minute Get Out The Vote message!

Curse you, Barack O'Bama. You've outflanked me for the last time. I hope you nearly choke on a pretzel during the Super Bowl - even if you don't win.

Is There No Depth to Which this Year's Crop of Candidates Will Not Stoop?

Ever since I stopped running the Oscar '08 campaign (for which I was beaten soundly with the Big O's trash can lid), I've been hearing a lot more about this Irish fellow named Barack O'Bama who's running for El Presidente, and this other guy named Sarah Palin, who is starring in the upcoming JJ Abrams Star Trek movie. No, wait - that's Zachary Quinto. Sorry, I keep getting them confused. I think it's the ears.

Anyway, you won't believe what these two guys are up to! Check out this headline about the O'Bama guy:

He left a trail for his ill grandmother? Seriously? Why didn't he just go see her? What kind of a jerk makes his sick grandmother get up from her death bed - in Hawaii, no less - to do a scavenger hunt to find him? Is he so busy running for president that he can't just take a couple of days away from the campaign and go visit her? What about her needs?

I think it's pretty shameless to keep trying to grab votes while you're ailing grandmother is chasing after your bread crumbs. But it's not the most shameless vote-grabbing effort this week - not by a long shot. Because it turns out that Sarah Palin is actually not a dude, but a chick! And that's not all. Check this out:


Amazingly, the video has since been removed. Go figure.

I have to confess that Sarah Palin kept me up last night...

Not so much because of her rousing call-to-arms to a Republican party that had been back on its heels, but mostly, because she farts in her sleep.

Invisible Gallagher Fever: Catch It!

Hey, everybuzzy. I'm a little down in the dumps today. First of all because I went into Labrador Weekend without writing anything about my thoughts about the VP announcement by the re-Pube-Lick-ens. I started writing this Friday morning, back when I had all this hyperintelligent pre-pick analysis to make. But just like Hurricane Gustav's expected direct hit on New Orleans, it didn't quite happen.

I'm also a little down in the dumps because when I started to write said analysis, it was gloomy outside. And gloominess, it is widely known, is the best backdrop available for waxing philosophical about candidates for high public office. But now it's all sunny and beautiful and perfect outside, which of course makes me utterly miserable.

But because I am as courageous and daring as a beauty contestant-turned governor, I'm going to give my pre-pick analysis to alls of yous anyways. I'm going to pretend like it's Friday morning, like it's still gloomy outside, and like we haven't yet found out that Tina Fey was the governor of Alaska.

Here goes.

Hey, everybuzzy. Happy Labrador Weekend.

I'm a little down in the dumps today, because it's gloomy outside. And when it's gloomy outside, the Fruit Plant is an almost unbearably sad place to be. Most of us who work in Dole Canning Operations are pretty hardcore existentialists, and existentialists are extre-hee-hee-heemly prone to weather-related depression. This is why the powers-that-be at Dole are pretty seriously debating the possibility of moving the entire C-Ops division to Hawaii. Of course, a lot of us are glum about that too because we fucking LOVE New York, if for no other reason than it provides us relatively easy access to the Annual Briggs-Goering Existentialism-athon and Bake-Off, which is routinely held in rural Pennsylvania.

But as Sartre himself would be the first to point out, existence comes before essence. And moving to Hawaii, where everything is all sunshine and rainbows and overabundances of pineapple is bound to put some smiles on the faces of even the most hardened scabs in the C-Ops crew. So lube up those laugh lines, Rebecca Goodman! Also, get some sunscreen, because you have a really fair complexion, and you don't want to burn. Oh, and please, please, please stop with the freaking email poetry about your son's soccer skillz. Just because he's named Pele does not make him some sort of prodigy of el futbol. Sending your son away to live in Brazil, on the other hand...

But that's not the only reason I'm depressed. Additionally to the aforementioned weather-induced funk, it appears that I won't get the Republican nod for VP with John McCain this year. Not that I particularly wanted it, mind you, but I was still hoping. I was hoping blindly, in the blind way that blind people blindly hope to win the lottery without buying a ticket, or how little kids hope that the watermelon at the church summer picnic this Sunday will spontaneously explode, showering everyone in gory pink and green carnage.

It's called Invisible Gallagher.

Always brings a tear to my eye.

Anyway.

Obviously, if they're passing on ol' Smokey Robinson for Veep, they must have someone pretty good in mind. So here's my three guesses for who McCain's vice presidential pick will be, based on my detailed analysis of the political landscape, particularly the formidable challenges posed by Barack Obama and the Democrats after this week's convention, and by the torturous legacy of George W. Bush as commander-in-chief.

1. Voldemort.

His conservative credentials are outstanding. His debating skills are unmatched. And his ability to torture his opponents into submission through use of the three "Unforgivable" curses is going to prove a pretty tricky obstacle for Joe Biden to overcome in the Vice Presidential Debate in St. Louis. Also, this is a dude who managed to survive by transferring his essence to the body of one of his followers and drinking the blood of unicorns, which he presumably first killed with a legally obtained firearm. That's the kind of survival ethos the Republican party desperately needs this year.

He's pro-torture, he's pro-little people suffering, and he speaks Parseltongue, three things that are certain to resonate loudly with the conservative base and the evangelical vote. And let's not forget, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named killed that sniveling whiner Cedric Diggory, the jackass who tried to steal Harry's girlfriend. It's time we all admit that none of us really liked Cedric, and that the reason we felt so bad about him getting killed in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (oops, spoiler alert) is because we secretly wished Voldemort would step in and do the dirty work. Mission accomplished.

2. Rep. Jesus (R - WI).

Even though he voted against the Bush tax cuts, Jesus has usually been a lockstep supporter of the President for the last eight years. Yet somehow, he has managed to emerge from the Bush era with his reputation totally unscathed. Leading political analysts speculate that some sort of divine intervention may be involved, though this has largely been debunked by a series of press releases attributed to God himself, in which the Creator enumerates several complaints about Jesus's behavior on earth, citing specifically his "party tricks" of turning water into wine and walking on water as "the kind of showboating We simply do not condone up Here."

Jesus also has only tepid support among evangelicals and so-called "values voters" who see his lack of a family as hypocritical, particuarly in light of all that shit he said about cleaving to your wife. In a 2005 press conference, Jesus seemed to backtrack from the 2,000-year-old comment, noting that it was "really just something You say in an election year."

But the Jesus pick, despite its controversies, would still be a predictable move for so-called "maverick" John McCain, which has led political analysts and conservative radio hosts to speculate that McCain will forsake Jesus "like God did when He was on the cross," and pick someone completely out of left field. (Note: I wrote that before I heard about Sarah Palin, I swear.)

3. Rep. Jesus (R - WI) disguised as Voldemort

This one more or less speaks for itself. All the Jesu Bambino, with none of the softy, leftist, hippie bullcrap about being kind to your neighbors or loving each other the way God loves us. This election year, it's kill-or-be-killed. And who better to do the killing than a man who can later rip of his mask and forgive himself for doing it?

I think this is the clear favorite.


So there you have it. That's what I thought was going to happen on Friday, back when the weather was gloomy. Obviously, I now know better. But I still think Voldemort and Jesus are probably both in line for cabinet-level positions in a McCain administration. Voldemort would be a hell of a secretary of Labor, wouldn't he? And can't you just see Jesus at the Department of Housing and Urban Development, getting into fights with low-level staffers and sending memos that everyone laughs at behind his back? Because I totally can.

Get it? I totally can? 'Cause I work in canning operations? I think that's why Obama has taken the place by storm lately. His whole "yes, we can" slogan really resonates with the people here at Dole. And I hear he does pretty well among PepsiCo and Coke employees too, because yes, they can.

Some Advice on Being an Out-Of-Work Quasi-Dictator

If you live in Pakistan and you don't live under a rock, chances are pretty good that you've already heard the news about my good buddy Pervez Musharraf. That's right, he bought a dog.

Unfortunately, that news was eclipsed today with the announcement of his resignation as the President of Pakistan. Needless to say, he's pretty distraught, not only because it means he has to file for unemployment - and those Pakistani unemployment forms are about three miles long and read like they're written in a foreign language - but also because Mr. Fluffles (that's the dog's name) wasn't even properly housebroken yet. And now he needs to start the whole breaking process over again in a new house.

Still, at least he'll have a house in which to break Mr. Fluffles, unlike the millions of Pakistanis who live under rocks.

Pervez can be a pretty emotional guy when things aren't going his way. Last year, for instance, during Game 2 of the American League Divisional Series between New York and Cleveland, Pervez was literally tearing his hair out when Joba Chamberlain pitched through a storm cloud of Lake Erie midges in the 8th inning instead of calling a timeout. "What the hell is he doing?" Pervez kept screaming. "Why does he persevere? Why doesn't Torre pull him off the mound and refuse to continue? He is fucking blind from these gnats!"

"They're midges," I said.

"Fuck you! I'm calling A-Rod!" Pervez screamed back at me, the veins in his forehead and neck pressing to escape the surface of his creamy brown skin. "What the hell is he doing?"

"A-Rod's on the field right now, dude," I said. "You need to relax."

"Shit! I got his fucking voicemail!"

"Alex is on the field right now," I said plaintively, in my best voicemail system voice. "He can't take your call."

"Alex! It's Pervez! Call me right away, it's very important!" He hung up and waited, staring alternately at the television screen and the phone, absently fingering a merit medal near the lapel of his jacket. "Fuck this, I'll send him a text message."

"Dude, you need to chill out. Maybe you should get a dog or something," I sagely, and somewhat contrivedly advised him.

"Fuck you!" he crowed. "Don't fucking tell me what to do, you buzzard!"

In the spirit of that comment, and out of my desire not to be called a buzzard again, I am not going to offer Pervez any advice on what to do with his life now that the whole President of Pakistan thing didn't pan out. I know he's always entertained the fanciful notion of taking eight months to backpack through Europe till he got to Amsterdam, where he would load up on weed and have sex with as many hookers as his considerable personal wealth would allow. But I also know he's something of an ice cream connosieur, and that he has a longstanding wish to tour the Ben & Jerry's factory in Waterbury, Vermont.

They give you free samples on that factory tour, which, in my opinion, makes it totally worthwhile. I couldn't care less what temperature the milk is reduced to, or how they add a ripple of fudge to their fudge ripple. The movie they show about the personal history of Ben and Jerry might as well be called "nap time." But bring on the free scoop of Chubby Hubby, you know what I'm saying?

They also give you free samples at the Guinness factory in Dublin, Ireland. Anyone else smell a theme trip idea? Not for Pervez Musharraf necessarily - it's an idea that anyone could use, whether he happens to be a recently deposed leader of a semi-authoritarian regime in southwest Asia, or, say, a 22-year-old with a freshly minted diploma from Brown.

Unrelated: I'm looking for some assistance with the Oscar '08 campaign, just in case there's any former Asian heads of state who suddenly have a lot of free time on their hands. No dogs allowed, though. Sorry, Mr. F.

Vote for Oscar, Or This Could Happen to You

John McCain's campaign staff was up in arms about this unwarranted, unprovoked, and irresponsible attack on the candidate's ankles by a row of jars of Mott's brand applesauce. Imagine how pissed they'd be if they discovered that this attack was politically motivated, though.

That's right, folks, the Oscar campaign funds are finally going to use!

Sadly, the applesauce barrage is about as high profile as we can afford. In fact, after the $8 bribe we paid the ham-fisted stock clerk to stack the jars just so, the Oscar '08 campaign war chest is now down to a quarter, two nickels, and a parking token from the West Windsor Parking Authority intended for use at the Princeton Junction train station.

We would obviously have vastly preferred for McCain to be buried underneath an avalanche of Oscar Meyer hot dogs, bologna, and other packaged cold cuts (available in your grocer's refrigerator section - ask for them by name!), but that would have cost an extra dollar, and we just didn't have it.

So you probably won't be seeing any national ad buys (or any regional or local ad buys, for that matter), unless those stingy rat jerks at the Children's Television Workshop come through with the donation I have been begging and pleading for, but obviously in a very dignified way.

As for Obama, he's been a little bit harder to get to, what with all the muscular, athletic, rippling-muscled Secret Service men he surrounds himself with. I wonder why he likes to be around so many chiseled guys? And also, why did he need to go to a gym full of similarly mouth-watering dudes on his overseas trip, instead of going to visit our hot and sexy American soldiers?

Audible gasp! Could Obama be teh gay?

Dear Obama,

Ha ha ha ha ha, I just convinced America that you are teh gay. Now you will never win the president because everyone will be scared that you are going to sodomize their children and make them marry other children in the same sex as they are.

I am laughing all the way to the bank, in the sense that the bank is politics and the money inside the bank is Oscar the Grouch winning the president and you not winning the president.

You are not winning the president though. No-bama.

Go check out some more guys!

Love,
Smokey D. Robinson
Chairman
Campaign to Get Oscar the Grouch Elected President, or at Least to Make The Other Candidates Look Stupid and/or Gay

Almost as good as John McCain's balls...

Need I say anything at all?

You can also read the definitive story of the controversy surrounding John McCain's balls here. I love you, Gawker.

This is what I'm thinking about on Subpar Tuesday?

The thought that inexplicably leapt into my head this morning as the A train was pulling to a stop at 59th Street was this:

What if you lied about your pants being on fire?

Liar: My pants are on fire.
Non-Liar: I think you're lying.
[The liar's pants burst into flame.]
Liar: [calmly] Thank Zod this isn't painful in any way.

I find that in the mornings, especially, I am often beset by these weird Moebius-strip like turns of logic, and I sort of hate my brain for inflicting that on me. I would much rather be mindlessly listening to Steely Dan on my iPhone, or contemplating the infinite number of ways I will be able to spend my stimulus refund when it gets here.

But I also find that when I have my stupid little visions, they are so vividly detailed as to probably be worthy of some sort of detailed psychiatric evaluation. For instance, in the above scenario, the Non-Liar had a pencil thin mustache and was drinking a cup of Earl Grey tea with milk, and fussing about whether he had included enough Bergamot in the mixture, which he most certainly had not. The pants in question were a deep blue polyester with barely visible pinstripes, a detail which quickly became moot once the pants were aflame.

I totally need to buy some Steely Dan.