Rush warned us, now Lou Dobbs confirms it: President Barack Obama is an illegal alien. But that’s only half the story, morning glories.
It’s not just that Obama wasn’t born in these United States, perhaps he’s not even from our planet– making him an illegal alien alien!
Cripes, people– what if when he loosens his tie, takes off the suit and peels back his skin, he’s some sort of hideous creature from another galaxy here for our tasty healthcare, delicious salty snacks and refreshing protoplasm.
Look, I don’t want to sound alarmist here, but RuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuN!
It is a big deal because every-single-blessed-day is some sort of obscure holiday, and your friends at Ames Scullin O’Haire have captured an entire year’s worth of the suckers and forged them into a challenging (some say impossible) game. Up for it, sparky?
A bird dreams about wide-brimmed hats. Silly bird!
Look over yonder to the right under the Blogroll and click on TOUGHEST GAME IN WORLD. Click your way to July 27 and select which obscure holiday today is. See if you’re right.
Then try some other days.
If you can do three in a row, you’re decent.
Five in a row, you’re good.
Eight in a row, you’re great.
Ten in a row, you’re a master. I bow to your glory and bask in your greatness wearing spf 240 lotion.
We’ve yet to meet a ‘master.’ When we do, he/she will get his/her own obscure holiday and legions will follow singing praise and doing what adoring legions do.
On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong allegedly became the first man to walk on the moon. I say allegedly because 6% of the U.S. population believes it was a government hoax; that it was actually two chimps in the spacesuit and it was shot on Mars, dressed to look like the surface of the moon. You truly cannot fool all of the people all of the time.
Be that as it may, I’ve come across some of the other options the alleged Neil Armstrong had as his first words to accompany his first steps on the alleged moon. I share because I care.
"Look at me, everyone– look at me! Lookit!!!"
“That’s one small step for man and a really big leap forward for the human race of which the man is a part of, you know, the man who made the small step in the first place. That guy… me.”
“Hey, is everyone buying me being on the moon? I mean, really, this looks pretty authentic, right, because this is not a government hoax, I swear. I am on the moon! For real.”
“Now then, what was I going to say?”
“You just can’t beat a good BLT sandwich, no siree bob!”
“I’m on top of the world being on top of the moon. Did I just blow your mind, or what?”
“Looks like a full earth tonight. I love a full earth.”
“Hey, this ain’t no green cheese! It was all a lie! An awful, horrible lie!!!”
“They put a man on the moon, you’d think they’d be able to make a denture adhesive that didn’t slip. Well, now they have. Try new and improved PoliGrip…”
“All earthlings beware, bow to your new leader– Neil Armstrong!”
“I sure hope this moon dust comes out of carpets because I didn’t pack a second pair of shoes.”
The king is dead. Walter Cronkite gave earth 92 years and now has left it.
Back in the days before a 24-hour news cycle, before Ken and Barbie dolls learned to read Teleprompters, people like Cronkite applied the rules of journalism to their craft. They did the legwork, the homework and the back-breaking work of getting the story right, then presented it in as unbiased a manner as possible.
Back in the day, Cronkite was the heart, soul and face of television news. He was “The most trusted man in America” because he gave us the straight dope. He told us JFK had been shot and killed in Dallas and he paused for a moment, took off his eyeglasses, brushed aside tears, collected himself, returned his glasses to his nose and soldiered on. The only other time I saw him get teary eyed was the tears of joy he had reporting Neil Armstrong’s moonwalk 40 years ago.
He was the man who gave us weekly casualty counts from Vietnam. When Uncle Walter concluded that after so long and so catastrophic a casualty toll we should pull out, LBJ knew he had lost middle America’s support. He would not seek office again.
Whatever Cronkite told us we took as gospel. We thought and felt he would only tell us the truth. When he signed off each broadcast with “and that’s the way it is” we believed truly believed that’s the way it was.
Today we have pretty boys and girls relaying sound bites and pundits spewing talking points. We sensationalize everything and glamorize anything. But once upon a time, journalists roamed the earth, gathered the news and fed the masses truth. Cronkite was such a dinosaur and I am thankful he appeared in the magic box and talked to me.
The pain, the pain, the insufferable pain! Make it stop!
I’m in the neighborhood supermarket innocently shopping when it happens– the PA system plays one of my most hated songs: “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” by that terrorist group calling itself “Chicago”.
I am crippled as the inane lyrics of “walking down the street one day” bebop along accompanied by sunny horns blaring and toot-toot-tooting me down an emotional rathole. The melodic line worms its way into my cerebral cortex and takes root, infesting my brain with its horrible poison. The virus spreads. The horns, the stupid lyrics, the incessant evil background singers– they all roost in my consciousness and permeate my very being. Surely this is the soundtrack of hell.
I am infected.
I am ill.
I am a hostage under siege.
Ironically, only one thing can dissipate the effect: time.
Does anybody really know how much time it will take?
Does anybody really care? I do. I really do.
What is your most hated song? Let the discussion begin.
Sometimes a guy has to leave his lover for his wife and kids.
Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina recently admitted to engaging in extramarital hanky-panky with an Argentinian woman. The following is a conversation Mr. Sanford had with his wife after his press conference confession.
MARK: Hello, Jenny.
JENNY: Mark, honey, you’re home! How was your hike on the Appalachian Trail?
MARK: It was good, but geez, that thing’s longer than I thought… I ended up in Argentina.
JENNY: Oh, you poor dear. Are you all right?
MARK: I’m fine. Funny story, though– at the end of my hike, I met this woman and she cared for me.
JENNY: That’s nice.
MARK: And, well, I felt this connection with this woman.
JENNY: Connection?
MARK: She’s my soulmate, Jenny. My true love. My destiny. My heart’s desire and my soul’s purpose. She’s my everything and I have never felt such intense emotional love in my entire life. And don’t even get me started on how hot the physical attraction and lusty acrobatics were. It was incredible!
JENNY: She sounds wonderful, dear.
MARK: But, here’s the thing, Jenny. The more I thought about it and the more the media hounded me, well, the more I realized that maybe I shouldn’t be with this Argentinian goddess– what with me being married to you and everything. Plus the fact we have like what, four kids together.
JENNY: So she’s not your soulmate?
MARK: Don’t be silly– she’s my soulmate, that’s for sure. But you see, Jenny, I think maybe I shouldn’t have a mistress, so I’m going to do something very brave and very, very strong. I am going to resolve myself to falling in love with you, my wife, again!
JENNY: But she’ll always be your soulmate?
MARK: Absolutely. But you’ll always be my wife, Jenny, because a politician needs a wife to be all Tammy Wynette for him. And besides, a husband should love his wife, right?
JENNY: Oh, Mark, you’re so romantic, I think I’m going to cry.
MARK: Yep, I’m an incurable romantic, for sure, but no waterworks, please, Jenny. Now listen, I got to make a quick call to South America, then we can go out for a nice romantic dinner. How’s that sound?
JENNY: It sounds wonderful, Mark. I love you, dear, I love you so much!
