This guy may even be a bigger asshole than the Distinguished Gentlemen from New Jersey.

The system worked? Really?

This woman should be fired.

She should have been fired long ago.

Here are a few of the excellent Christmas gifties I received yesterday.

From left to right, they are:

Jefferson’s Reserve Bourbon

Hudson Four Grain Bourbon Whiskey

Sam Houston Bourbon

Michter’s Small Batch Bourbon

Russell’s Reserve 10-Year Old Bourbon

I know there’s quite a bit of tasting to be done, but I think I’m up to the task.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL FROM THE HOUSE BY THE PARKWAY

El Cap is at it again.

This time, in the spirit of the Holidays Christmas, he’s created a nativity scene, in which he has placed the reprobates bloggers who have been known to frequent drunken blabfests creative writing conferences, also sometimes known as blogmeets.

I’m pretty easy to pick out, but I can’t figure out who the angel is. How did ever I miss her? Maybe it was that stuff in the mason jar I drank.

I have spent the better part of the day with smoke pouring out of my ears thinking about that rat bastard Harry Reid and his co-conspirators doing everything possible to transform me from a citizen of a constitutional republic to a subject of the Washington D.C. oligarchy.

Fortunately, I was reminded that there still may be hope for the country (real hope, not the Barack variety) when I heard this song performed by third-grade students at Colonial Heights’ Tussing Elementary School in Virginia.

Unfortunately, the children singing this song will be the ones saddled with the mess that Obama, Reid, Pelosi et al. are creating.

Thanks to Da Chef of da Future

As previously discussed here, Dogette of Two Nervous Dogs and Laura of Fetch My Flying Monkeys have officially launched their new site in which they will provide advice on virtually any topic. They’re just that good. They will be assisted by the blogfamous Rachel Lucas of, well, Rachel Lucas. They are the Ones they’ve been waiting for.

So, if you’re wondering about what to do about that nasty carbuncle, or how to get your asshole brother-in-law to pay you the money he owes you; or, say, you’re racked with indecision as to whether you should buy that new Hyundai or take up snorting heroin, visit the Advice Asylum and fire off your question. Even if you’re too shy to actually ask for advice, you may well profit from the valuable advice these gifted ladies give, free of charge, to other people and the public at large. I found the child rearing advice to be particularly illuminating.

I had a case of the ass to begin with. I had been stewing over the detestable Harry Reid using my money to bribe Senators Nelson and Landrieu to vote for his stinking bill. As such, it was a particularly bad day to have to drive through the slippery street slop to in order walk among the troglodytes in the supermarket.

They didn’t disappoint.

Yo, asshole. What a swell idea that you decided to park your cart in front of the cheese display and lean on it while you had a meandering conversation with one of your buddies. You were too engrossed in your discussion of some silly shit to hear my “Excuse me.” It apparently didn’t bother you when I leaned around your goddamned cart like a goddamned contortionist to actually purchase some goddamned cheese. It’s a goddamned crowded supermarket, not the local men’s club. Jerk.

A special thanks to the fat-assed lady who felt she absolutely had to stop her cart in the middle of a busy aisle so she could make what was no doubt a very important phone call. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t calling Weight Watchers. Maneuvering around her was a special treat, given that the vengeful Supermarket God always sees to it that I wind up with a grocery cart with a dysfunctional front wheel, which only becomes obvious when there are a shitload of groceries in the cart.

This one was the clincher.

I rounded the corner of one of the aisles and was positively giddy to see that it was empty, except for one brofus, extremely unattractive woman troglodyte who appeared to be carefully studying a label on a can. My elation with coming upon a virtually unobstructed aisle was short lived, as I soon learned that the woman’s apparent rapt interest in the printed word on the can was a ruse to make it appear that she had not just cut a massive, maggot-gagging fart. Obviously, there was no way she could have outrun the spread of the noxious gas, which, in scant seconds, enveloped the entire aisle, so she opted for the “pretend not to notice the deadly gas” ploy. No wonder the aisle was clear. I damned near puked.

Other than that, it was a swell day.

Get a load of the comments from the progressive geniuses to the “The One’s Report Card – From 1970” post (reproduced in its entirety) here. As the “uninformed redneck” who authored this bit of SATIRE (hello?), I find it rather comical that so many of our self-anointed intellectual betters really are stuck on stupid.

El Cap has fired up PhotoShop once again, this time clearly placing me in harm’s way. Take a look.