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I received some lovely spam from a woman who noted our interest in Bill O’Reilly and send us a link to her online paper doll site, which includes a figurine of the indefatiguable culture warrior, stripped for action in his star spangled briefs, and ready to give your children the straight dope on Secular Progressives.
It’s certainly a lovely likeness of Bill, what with the trim physique and smoldering, come-hither expression. But still… There’s something missing…
(more…)
Comes from Robert at Lawyers, Guns and Money:
The British decision to defend the Falklands must rank somewhere between the defensive line of the 1985 Chicago Bears and the rise of Wham! in factors contributing to the collapse of Soviet power.
Meanwhile, LGM also takes a gander at that iconic and/or ironic photo of John “Hey, I Wear Body Armor When I Shop For Sansabelt Slacks At Dad ‘N’ Lad!” McCain sauntering through an Iraqi marketplace, marveling at how safe it is, except for the slight danger that he might become hoarse from shouting over the sound of hovering Blackhawk helicopters and Apache gunships:
Scott concludes: A red rubber nose would really complete this outfit.
But I dunno…Kinda seems like gilding the lily.
Normally I fling aside the Sunday coupon inserts like so much chaff as I dig for the comics, but Mary just had to bring this one to my attention:
And I was reminded of the two things that most freaked me out when I first moved to New York: Crazy Eddie commercials, and those near-constant spots in which a gruff-voiced and very drunk old man would harangue me about gettin’ me some of that sweet, sweet Cookiepuss. I mean, at least the girls on Seventh Avenue were fairly subtle about it; they’d just murmur, “Like a date, sir?” as they walked past at a measured pace. But Tom Carvel would croak on and on about Cookiepuss like he was her coked-up pimp and I was some hayseed just stepped off the Trailways at the Port Authority and he was shaking me down to pop for a nooner at the Piccadilly Hotel (money I had been saving especially to buy a brand new pair of Sergio Valente jeans at Alexander’s).
And as you can see, nothing much has changed:
Either Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo from South Park is working a second job as the Easter Turd, or else this is John Gibson’s worst nightmare: A giant black dildo that has achieved consciousness.