ReTHUGlicans?

Yes!

Yes!

Yes!

Yeah, I intend to play my guitar a bit and then watch Barack _____ Obama’s speech to the masses. Then again, maybe before the spectacle begins, Morpheus will be kind and take me to a place where people don’t have their heads in their asses.

By now, many of you have seen the clip of Hillary calling for Barack ____ Obama’s nomination by acclamation. This sickening spectacle was made even more so by the putrid presence of the Lense Louse, New York’s Senior Senator Chuck Schumer. Just check him out. He’s the weasel-faced putz who always manages to find his way to the center of the shot.

The average New York voter may well be more goddamned stupid than the average Jersey voter, no small feat, that. Then again, there is always Massachusetts.

PRS Operatives were able to get a few minutes of Senator Barack __ Obama’s time while he was taking a break from preparing for his appearance at the Democrat Convention.

PRS: Senator Obama, do you have time for a few questions?

B_O: I’d rather not. I’m on a protein bar break.

PRS: It will just be a few questions, and no politics. I promise.

B_O: No politics?

PRS: That’s right. No politics. I wanted to ask you a few questions about music.

B_O: OK. I like music.

PRS: Great. You’ve anticipated my first question, which is, what kinds of music do you like?

B_O: Let’s see … I like classical, jazz, New Age, hard rock, soft rock, oldies, pop, soul techno, disco, Motown, big band, folk music and rap. Oh, and don’t forget country. I really love country music.

PRS: Country? I’m a little surprised ….

B_O: What are you tryin’ to say? Because I’m bl——-

PRS: No! I just figured you being from Chicago and all. I didn’t think country music was big in Chicago.

B_O: I have been an avid country fan for years.

PRS: Great. Most of America is into country music. What is your favorite country song?

B_O: That’s easy. My favorite is that song “Goofy.”

PRS: “Goofy?” I don’t believe I’ve heard of that one.

B_O: Sure you have. It goes, ”Goooofy, I’m goooofy for feelin’ so lonely. Gooooofy, I’m goooooofy for feelin’ so blue.”

PRS: Crazy.

B_O: What?

PRS: “Crazy.” The name of the song is “Crazy.”

B_O: Oh yeah, right. It was written by Merle Nelson. He’s fantastic.

PRS: No, that would be “Willie.”

B_O: Oh, right.

PRS: Any other favorites?

B_O: I love that one called, “I’m A Opie from Jamokey.” I love the way Merle Willie sings that one.

PRS: Haggard.

B_O: Damn straight I’m haggard. My Hawaii vacation didn’t help much.

PRS: I think we’re about done here, Senator.

B_O: Hey, wait! There’s Joe Biden, my running mate! I’ll bet he’d love to answer a few questions.

PRS: That would be great. Senator Biden, PRS here. May I ask you a few questions about music.

Biden: Absolutely. Go right ahead. Did I mention that I invented the electric guitar? I taught McCartney how to play bass. I coached Pavarotti, and I sang the harmony parts on six cuts from the Beatles’ “White Album.”

PRS: Interesting. Thank you for your time, Senator Biden.

Biden: Hey, wait! I’ll bet I know more about music than you do,

PRS:

Biden: Did you know that I wrote “White Christmas” and “Stardust?”

1. Wouldn’t you love to hear what the Hillary-Bill Duo and the Obamas really say about each other in private?

2. Seems to me that if the Democrat Primaries, instead of the Democrat Convention, kicked off today, Obama wouldn’t have a shot, and that must drive Hillary and Bill absolutely bonkers.

3. I’m tired of the “Guilt by Association!” meme. I figure that knowing who the person seeking the most important job on earth has associated with in his life and the nature of those associations is at least relevant (i.e. it is of some value to a voter in making a decision) and is, at best, extremely important. For instance, how many people have you befriended who have bombed federal buildings?

4. There is some buzz suggesting that Bruce Springsteen and Jon Bon Jovi will perform at Barack _______ Obama’s Nuremberg RallyAcceptance Extravaganza. Reportedly, each will do a couple solo acoustic tunes. Two New Jersey gazillionaire celebrity douchebags (with more than one house each, I’d bet), singin’ for the common man.

I plan on watching the Democrat Convention, at least until I feel my dinner traveling north.

I don’t know exactly long we have had the same stove (part of which is an oven – not one of those fancy schmancy wall ovens), but it’s probably at least a dozen years old. During that time it has been cleaned several times, always with lots of elbow grease and perhaps once or twice with a stinky spritz-type oven cleaning product, which really didn’t do much more than create noxious gas.

Today, Mrs. Parkway decreed that we would try out the oven’s self-cleaning function. Being Mr. Doesn’t Pay Attention to Lots of Things Domestic, in the dozen years we owned the stove, I never noticed the button on the front that said quite clearly, “CLEAN.”

Before embarking on this adventure, Mrs. P’way located the book of instructions that came with the stove. They were a little scary. Because of that, she insisted that I be part of this operation so that it would be MY fault if we ended up having to call the Fire Department. Go figure.

The instructions made it clear that a few things had to be pre-wiped clean before one should push the “CLEAN” button. Once that was done, one selects the time for cleaning (three hours are recommended). Here was the scary part. Once the oven reaches “cleaning temperature,” the word “LOCK” appears on the little dashboard on the front of the stove. This means that one cannot open the oven during the cleaning process. I envisioned the stove turning into something like Steven King’s killer car, Christine, and my not being able to stop the killer stove. Later in the instructions (in the Question and Answer portion), one is told how to stop the process should the house become full of acrid smoke. That made me feel a little better about the Christine Thing and the Fire Department Thing.

What happens next is that the oven reaches temperatures that must come close to that of the surface of the sun or perhaps the depths of hell. When the three hours are up, the oven shuts off and the word “LOCK” disappears, letting one know that it is OK to open the oven door without fear of incineration.

I took a deep breath and pushed the “CLEAN” button.

Preparing for the worst (including the possible Fire Department call), we retired to the deck to read, with occasional glances into the kitchen to look for billowing smoke. There was none.

Three hours or so later, the word “LOCK” disappeared and, sure enough, one could open the oven. It worked! The oven was nice and clean. I felt a bit like a Third World guy staring at a clean oven, marveling that it cleaned itself. Hot Damn!

Of course, that got me to thinking what other inventions would be sweet. How about these?

Self-mowing grass

Self-painting walls

Self-washing floors

Self-shoveling snow.

Self-driving cars (peeps are working on this one)

Self-raking leaves

Then there are these:

Self-blowing noses (some kind of a warning beep would be a good idea – then again, maybe that’s what a sneeze is)

Self-zipping flies (I wouldn’t want to try this one until all the bugs were worked out)

Self-scratching itches

Self-brushing teeth

Self-wiping asses.

Don’t ask me how I got from cleaning an oven to self-wiping asses, for I have no idea. I do know that I can’t blame it on the fumes.

For reasons I do not recall, I got to thinking about the phrase “Here’s mud in your eye,” a common utterance when one toasts another.

I wondered about the origin of the phrase, and Google produced a few possible answers ranging from it being: (1) a reference to the mud kicked up by a winning race horse into the eye of the person riding the second horse, (2) a reference by WWI soldiers to the mud in the trenches and (3) a reference to Jesus’ placing mud in a blind guy’s eye, which cured his blindness.

Then, as often happens, when I think of such things for too long, the goofy switch trips, and a veritable mental shitstorm ensues. To wit:

Here’s topsoil in your nostrils.

Here’s compost in your ear.

Here’s crabgrass in your va-jay-jay.

Here’s mulch in your mouth.

Here’s gravel in your ass.

The exploding mental turds didn’t stop with combinations of earthy substances and human orifices.

Here’s roaches in your lunch.

Here’s dogshit in your socks.

Here’s boogers in your ice cream.

Here’s gasoline in your jelly donut.

Here’s coleslaw in your wallet.

Here’s maggots in your shaving cream.

Here’s crotch pheasants in your jockstrap.

Here’s cat hair in your corn flakes.

Here’s ear wax in your biscuit.

Here’s armpit hair in your Jell-O.

Department of Introspection: A form of Tourette Syndrome or a simple case of douchbaggery?

Way too farookin’ tired to blog.

That is all.

Have you seen the 25 Hints You’re Not Voting for Obama?

Two of my favorites are:

11. [You] think about 9/11 more than once a year.

16. [You] get sorta creeped out by 200,000 Germans chanting “Obama! Obama!”

I scored 25 of 25, which means I am more likely to stick a feather in my ass and fly to California than I am to vote for Obama.

Seen first at TigerHawk.