Sunday, February 15, 2009

Friday, February 13, 2009

Ted Kennedy: Moderate, Or Just Dying?

Imagine if you will, the outrage and headlines that would be trumping even a New York plane crash, if Dennis Hastert had imported a 61st clinch vote from the oncology ward, just to further the Bush Agenda.

But that's exactly what happened. While Senator Kennedy desperately and frightfully tries every door in this life to avoid running Into Mary Jo Kopechne in the green room on his way to hell, Harry Reid manages to have the man catheterized and farmed in to give Arlen Specter an alcoholic smokescreen to dry-hump his ego--to the peril if the republic.

Now it looks like addled Lion from Kennebunkport is suffering the debilitating metabolic breakdowns that will even supersede screwing over America. And this, along with Senator Gregg's purported "no" vote on the alleged stimulus, places significant pressure on Senators Specter, Snowe, and Collins, as the removal of the 61st vote by oncological providence makes them the deciders.

Will they abstain? Or will they continue to ride their media Sybians and shelve the Republic?.

Any that do should just do the noble thing, and throw a pulmonary clot.

Please.

-JM

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Chains

Welcome my friend. Welcome to my world . . . the world of one Jacob Marley.

I didn't transmogrify to my current incarnation on a whim. No, I was driven to it. Driven across the ethereal divide to forever chronicle what augurs ill for a dying country--one that will throw it's own fate forever into the Stygian pit if it does not awaken from its trance. And that trance is quite deep, and quite transfixed on the masturbatory mantra of hope and change--which in its full gestation will only offer change--like any holocaust of illusion. Auschwitz was "change," too, yet I don't see much "hope" emanating from the Diary of Anne Frank. Funny how a failing economy ushers in those with rash policies of hope . . .

I have also been conjured to the office of existential, poltergeist; a familiar spirit that will haunt the very halls of traitors, namely that sick, gelded triumvirate consisting of Specter, Collins and Snowe; Something must be done. Something must enter the public trough . . . something that routs the gastrointestinal pathways and makes the collective belly very, very bitter. And that something must result in the very public and very bellicose retching of these politically-inbred losers into the sand. Bile and all. And I intend to be instrumental in providing the emetic.

I am anger. I am rage. And I have no inherent proclivity for beating around the bush. And yes, I am the reincarnated form of a previous blogger--one you've read before. One that demonstrated restraint, and had some propensity for the feelings of others on the rationale that reasonable people can disagree. He is no more. There is no answer for the hard left anymore, other than derision and violent discourse. And I am here to invoke both. Who I was before is inconsequential and irrelevant. It's who I am now that matters.

And matter, I will . . .