My Second Flogaversary!

Hello darlings! This is my second Flogaversary, as it was two years ago today that I posted my first flogging here at The Morehead The Merrier. It was a different world then: Dubya was still firmly seated in power, halfway through his second term. Hilary thought she would be the next president. People still thought NBC's Heroes was an exciting TV show. The name "Heath Ledger" didn't make you want to cry. We all thought Ben Linus was the most evil person on LOST. And no one had ever heard of Sarah Palin.


I'd like to thank a few folks: The always-hilarious actress Jane Morris, who suggested I try flogging in the first place.

This is Jane and her husband, Jeff Michalski, doing a comedy sketch at Second City. Jane has been seen on such shows as The Drew Carey Show, Grey's Anatomy, 3rd Rock From the Sun, His & Hers, Freeks & Geeks, Lois & Clark, The New Adventures of Superman, pretty much any series with an ampersand, and will be seen shortly in an upcoming episode of 10 Items or Less. She has been in every movie Garry Marshall has directed since Nothing in Common over 20 years ago. Look for her particularly as Nedda in Frankie & Johnny where she steals the film away from Al Pacino, Michelle Pfeiffer and Nathan Lane. (I remember her comment about Al Pacino when they were shooting the movie: "They're paying him $7,000,000. For that money, you'd think he could learn his lines.")

That's Jane and Little Dougie at Second City back in 1987, preparing a sketch.


Next on my Thank You List is gorgeous Glen Hanson. Glen is a wonderful artist, and did my official portraits, like the one at the top of this column, and in my avatar, and that pops up in so many permutations in the various pictures that have adorned this flog for two years, with Glen's generous permission.

That's Little Glen. Isn't he a hottie? Talent and beauty, that's the combo that made me a star, and it's made him one too.

That's Glen with Little Dougie at a book signing for My Lush Life. I mention Dougie is in the picture because most people find him invisible standing next to Glen. Here's a self-portrait of Glen. Even he notices how adorable he is.

So for loads of visual delight and artistic wit, visit Glen's website: Glen Hanson.com.

Next on my Thank You List is Little Kent Levine, whose support and promotion of this site over on his flog, By Ken Levine, has sent many eyes this way. Here's Kent and I out engaged in some activity involving labor relations. Since we're doing it in public, I guess it's public relations, which is ironic, given that Little Dougie once barely escaped being arrested for "Public Relations". Fortunately, that night the only full moon was Dougie's, and his isn't reflective.

Rather than blather on today, I thought I'd just give links to some of my best posts over the last two years, so click and laugh darlings.

Cheers.

From Thanksgiving two years ago: Gratitude Imparting Day

Tomorrow is the birthday of my 4th husband, Boris Karloff. Revisit the tale of our marriage in my recent posting: Happy Halloween

I created a new Christmas classic in this Yuletide posting: The Passion of the Elf

The first of my Oscarcast reviews was never to be forgotten, which is more than you can say for the winners. (Quick, without looking, who won the Oscars two years ago?) The O Word.

The release of Walt Disney's version of Peter Pan inspired this tale of my performances as Captain Hook opposite Ethel Merman and Carol Channing - IN THE ROUND! My Peter Panned.

The publication of The Children of Húrin by J. R. R. Tolkien occasioned this unusual book review. Tolkien Resistance.

And that led immediately to an amazing revelation of the previously-concealed gender of one of Disney's 7 Dwarfs in Feeling Grumpy.

And the Tolkien theme climaxed in this black comic posting. ...And Fancy Free.

A visit to America by my dear friend Martine Beswicke inspired this tribute to another great star: The Second Most Glamorous Star on Earth.

Has a weirder review of a Sondheim musical ever been written than my Harry Razorhands?

If they are going to keep on giving out Oscars, I'm going to keep reviewing them: The Scariest Oscars.

I review the Tony Awards too. Tony Jerkins.

Back before the Mormon Church decided to wipe their asses with The First Amendment and make Gay Marriage illegal in California, I attended the wedding of Batman & Robin, as chronicled in Wedding Bells in Gotham.

The Summer Olympics of 2008 brought out many amazing and/or inspiring stories. This was one of the most inspiring, only NBC couldn't be bothered to tell it, so I did. A Tale of Two Divers.

Well that's more than enough to keep you reading all weekend. Enjoy darlings. And Cheers.

VINDICATION!!!

It took a full year, but I have, at long, long last, been vindicated! A year ago, in a posting titled The Most Important Issue in the World!, I wrote: "When People Magazine inexplicably chose Matt Damon for the title [The Sexiest Man Alive]. I swear (constantly), the first thought to pop into my turban was 'Oh my God! Did Huge Jackman die?' One transcontinental telephone call to Australia later, I was relieved to learn the answer was 'No.' Bu this raised the unavoidable question, if Huge still lives, how can someone else be The Sexiest Man Alive? The title is deservedly Huge's until he dies, or at the very least, is horribly disfigured."

Understand, I never had anything against Little Matty. he 's very pretty and very talented, but while he is certainly sexy, he is NOT The Sexiest Man Alive! He is certainly multi-talented, as he is proving this season on Desperate Housewives, on which this 30+ actor is playing the 16 year old identical twins Parker and Porter Schaivo, involving one hell of a youthenizing make up. Perhaps I should talk to his make up artist, as people have been telling me for decades that I should have myself youthenized, though they have said I shouldn't do it if there's even the slightest chance of my turning into twin Tallulahs.

Apparently Parker is his Bourne Identity, and Porter is his Bourne-Again Identity.

But however many Matt Damons there are, and whatever their ages may be, Huge Jackman is The Sexiest Man Alive, and finally People Magazine has thrown in the cumrag and agreed. And I'm sure the fact that Huge is co-starring with Nicole Kidman Cruise Urban (What a name! Talk about Urban renewal!) in a big-release film epic about going down Down Under (At last a film about something relatable!) titled Australia, opening this week, is just a serendipitous coincidence!

I have no idea what Australia is all about, the movie or the continent. (For the better easing of Sarah Palin's geographical bewilderment, unlike Africa, Australia is both a continent and a country. Is that simple enough for you, Sarah? No? Sorry darling. I just can't dumb this down any further.)



Since the only interesting person besides Little Huge (Talk about a contradiction in terms!) himself that Australia has ever turned out is Barry Humphries, I have to assume that in Australia, Nicole is playing a young, pre-Damehood Edna Everage, and Huge is playing a young, pre-Knighthood Les Patterson. It may help bewildered American stage audiences watching Barry Humphries's new stage show currently touring America, and getting their initial glimpse of Sir Les Patterson, who is touring America with Dame Edna for the first time. Huge Jackman is certainly one of the few actors, apart from Milton Berle or Forrest Tucker - both of whom are excessively dead, who is equipped to play Sir Les in an anatomically-correct manner without borrowing Mark Wahlberg's infamous prosthetic from Boogie Nights! (The medical reason for the deaths of Forrest and Milton was the small amount of blood left over for their brains, since 90% of it was required further south.)

I'm just wild about Huge. He can sing; he can dance; he can act. And he looks so great, he'd be a star even if he had no talent at all! With Huge, talent is a bonus!

Here are Huge and I, out in the blazing desert of the Australian outback where, by coincidence, I was out-in-back myself. Huge is showing his usual professional patience, kindness, and tolerance when mere proximity to him caused me to suddenly become so moist, I nearly drowned both of us.

But you mustn't believe that all my Jacked-man thoughts are filthy, even if 99% of them are, because he has a wholesome side. (His left side) Here we are indulging in good clean fun. Huge is bathing and I am snorkeling. (Again, we didn't need to use any water, as I provided all that moisture myself.)

There's a nasty rumor being spread about by a malicious gossipy insane woman who calls herself "Mrs. Huge Jackman," that Huge is married! Tragically, in order to avoid further provoking this mad woman's hostility, Huge pretends to go along with her romantic delusions, even going so far as to have lived with the madwoman for many years, to have gone through a legal wedding ceremony with her, and having had children with her. Huge is a True Gentleman, willing to go to such lengths to preserve this woman's romantic delusions when any one else would just get an injunction. Frankly, I think some tough love is called for. She needs to be institutionalized.


Huge says she is harmless (If she's within earshot, he claims he "loves" her. Poor terrified man.), but consider this: Huge, as I mentioned above, has gone so far as to sire children by this creature. (Artificially I'm sure, as he is saving it for me. When I tried to get into his pants during our last encounter, he turned me down, explaining that he was "Saving myself for you." Or did he say "Saving myself from you."? Well, it comes to the same thing.) Now what's wrong with having a few kiddies to sling over to the nanny and avoid? Normally nothing, but just look at his horrifying answer to an interviewer's question this week:

Question: "What do you wear to bed?"

Answer: "I didn't wear anything until my daughter was born and we had a night nanny because I was working. I walked out stark naked, and she was reading a book. Now I like boxer briefs."

The horror! The horror! Oh the humanity! Because of some useless child creature, Huge Jackman has stopped walking around naked!!! No greater argument FOR abortion has ever been given! I speak as a mother myself, so I know that my demented daughter was never any good for anything (Not to mention her writing that disgusting book Mummy Darling, the most revolting international best seller of all time!), but preventing Huge Jackman from being naked? Here is the tragedy of of no birth control presented in human terms. I mean look at this man. A hat is all he should ever wear.

But I am interested in more than just Huge's magnificent tits. Being a woman, my eyes eventually wandered up from his Mount Everestian crotch, on over the greatest pecs on earth, to his face. And it's nice as well. So here he is, fully dressed, just so you can see that I'm not objectifying him. Huge Jackman: The Sexiest Man Alive!

Now this flogging, which is the last of my second year, as Friday will be the second anniversary of my beginning this flog, must turn to a sad topic. From The Sexiest Man Alive to The Funniest Man Dead: for today, at the tragically young, robbing-the-cradle age of 94, Irving Brecher died.

Born in the Bronx on January 17, 1914, Irving started out writing jokes for Milton Berle. he punched up, that is wrote uncredited jokes for, a little no-one-ever-saw-it obscure movie called The Wizard of Oz, before making his most amazing achievement, becoming the only person ever to write an entire Marx Brothers Movie alone. He wrote two, At The Circus and Go West, and became one of Groucho's lifelong closest friends. With Groucho he created The Life of Riley as a vehicle for Groucho, though Groucho never played it. (Rosemary DeCamp did appear in it. Years later, her daughter acted onstage with Little Dougie in a laugh riot called Oedipus the King, written by that ancient comedy scribe Sophocles, and Rosemary came to see them act together. She didn't bring Irving. Too bad. If ever there was a play that needed punching up with some jokes, it was Oedipus Rex.)


Here is Irving's own account of his first meeting with Groucho, at MGM in 1939:

"I said, 'Hello, Mr. Marx.' He said, 'Hello? That's supposed to be a funny line? Is this the guy who's supposed to write our movie?' I probably turned white.


"Then I said, 'Well, I saw you say hello in one of your movies, and I thought it was so funny I'd steal it and use it now.' Grouch smiled, then he bought me lunch," Brecher said.


Irving was co-nominated for an Oscar for co-writing Meet Me in St. Louis. Making this movie, Judy Garland fell in love with Vincente Minnelli, and Minnelli convinced himself that he was in love with Judy. (Well, what gay man wasn't in love with Judy?), so thanks in part to Irving Brecher, we have Liza! I assume Irving must have supported gay marriage, since Meet Me in St. Louis is responsible for a string of them.

Among Irving's other films are Shadow of the Thin Man, Ship Ahoy, Du Barry Was a Lady, Best Foot Forward, Yolanda and the Thief, Ziegfeld Follies, and Bye bye Birdie. He even wrote an episode of The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis. From Groucho to Bob Denver. Now there's a career.

And also, not that it's a big thing, but he was one of Little Dougie's heroes. This little man was a GIANT of comedy writing.


He has a just-finished autobiography (I assume the last sentence, knocked out this morning, is either "And then I died." or "Aarrgghhh....") titled The Wicked Wit of the West, being published this January. I'll be reading it. I suggest you do too.

Cheers darling.

The Man Who Won't Be King.

Today is the 60th birthday of Chuckie Saxe-Coburg, who is better known by his Secret Identity: Charles Windsor, Prince of Whales. Chuck and I are old friends. In fact, for all I know, he may even be one of my ex-husbands, although I've never heard anyone say he was gay, despite his claim to be English. He's really German, which may explain it. Does anyone keep track of his marriages?

Prince Chuck and I bonded deeply because we share something profound. We have both spent most of our lives waiting for our mothers to die. I know I spent all my life looking forward to my mother's death with the sort of excited, joyous anticipation with which a child looks forward to Christmas. I was lucky; sometime during World War II, my mother finally had the good taste to die.(Death was all the rage during World War II. Simply everyone was doing it. Weirdest fad of all time, even weirder than the popularity of Hula hoops and the music of Yanni.)

Chuckie's mother however, is a disagreeable old queen who refuses to die. Hmmm. Maybe I was married to her! An awful lot of my husbands were disagreeable old queens. But are they still my ex-husbands, now that The Mormon Church has outlawed Gay Marriages in California, that is, unless the gays are marrying two or three other people? The Mormons are determined to stop this monogamy thing in its tracks, and return America to decent Traditional Plural Marriage.

You see, Chuck's chosen profession is King of England, and he can't be King until his mother dies. And his Mother's Mother, The Queen Mother (sounds like my first mother-in-law) lived to be 712. Charles is 60, and he's still waiting to get his career started. Talk about failure to launch!

Which is not to say that Charles's life has been devoid of honor. Here is the highlight of his life so far: when he was Royally Presented at Court to Dame Edna and her bridesmaid and constant travelling companion, Madge Allsop. Did Charles abuse his glamour to take sexual advantage of Madge, and let her handle The Crown Jewels? Well, when I asked Madge where the Tower of London was, she pointed to Chuck's pants. (The correct answer is "London.") Besides, why else would he have later taken a fancy to Camilla Parker-Bowles, who makes Madge look like a glamourpuss?

Looking at Chuck now, you'd be hard pressed to remember the adorable little boy the whole world fell in love with back around the time Little Dougie was born, The Little Prince. Unlike Antoine St. Exupery's Little Prince, who lived all alone on Asteroid B-612, the real Prince Chuck was far more isolated. Basically, as he complained to the press about in later years, he mostly saw his warmth-free parents at formal photo opportunities.

It can't have been easy, growing up in a goldfish bowl: his mother a cold fish German relative of Kaiser Wilhelm, the man who made war on his cousin's adopted country back in 1914, and also made me his Love Slave (As told in detail in Chapter 8, I Lick The Kaiser!, of my award-adjacent autobiography My Lush Life.), his father a Greek sailor and boob given to Deep Throating his own foot to a degree that would shame even Soon-To-Be-Ex-Faux-President Bush. Prince Phillip, when speaking publicly, can get his foot into his mouth all the way to the knee! What a happy family in Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle, like The Addams Family with posh accents. In America, a man's home is his castle. In Britain, a man's home is The National Trust.

Chuck was married to a real Princess (What a coincidence!), named Lady Di, which she did, but not before giving birth to two sons, both of whom are far more attractive than Dad ever was. Then, tiring of being married to a beautiful woman, Chuck took his romantic life in an entirely different direction, and married Camilla Parker-Bowles, a woman less attractive than Buddy Hackett. (She's not as funny either.)It's amazing what waiting 60 years to get your career started can do to you. Just ask Little Dougie. He's only two years younger than Chuck, and his career still hasn't gone anywhere either. Dougie's mother has died, but it hasn't helped.

In any event, Chuckie's mother, Her Majesty Queen Helen Elizabeth Mirrin, was delighted by her new daughter-in-law, much in the same way that Hilary was delighted by the nomination going to Barack O'Bama, blessings and peace be upon him.

I read where Chuck sleeps in the nude. Poor Camilla. And he's a fan of the Harry Potter books and movies, which may explain why he keeps pointing symphony conductor batons at Queen Helen and shouting "Avada Kedavra!", only to learn that it doesn't work without CGI. He used to read a lot of Dickens, but he kept saying things like "Oliver Twist you lucky bastard!" Chuckie's been stuck with Great Expectations a long time now.

Living with a queen can be difficult, believe me, I know, and waiting for a stubborn old Mother to die is no picnic either; just ask our nearly-ex-faux-president. Babs Bush, who is every bit as unpleasant and self-entitled as Queen Elizabeth Mirrin, is bionic, and can't die. As Igor once said to Basil Rathbone in Son of Frankenstein: "He can not be killed! Can not die! Your father made him live for alvays!"

You know what The British Royal Family needs? Term limits! We're about to be rid of Dubya and acquire President O'Bama, blessings and peace be upon him, because Dubya can't be president anymore! Sadly for Prince Chuckie, Queen Liz is like evil, nasty old Chief Justice Antonin Scalia; The Constitution make him live for alvays!


Antonin Scalia staying in office for as long as Queen Liz; that's scarier than any Frankenstein movie ever made!

Cheers darlings. And Happy Birthday Prince Chuckie.

Klondike Sarah

Gentlemen, start your blaming! Let the recriminations begin!

The first odd thing came a few minutes after the election was called for O'Bama. The network anchor said that, in a few minutes, Sarah Palin would address the crowd in Arizona.

Whaaa? Since when does the losing Vice Presidential candidate make a concession speech? Since never, that's when. Stand silently at the back of the platform, watching respectfully, showing humility, that's what they do.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, John McCain came out and gave the best speech he's given in 8 years, while his trophy wife and his trophy running mate stood in the background, saying nothing, as McCain reminded us of the class he used to have, and his supporters reminded us of what bitter dickwads they remained. Nothing further was said about Palin making a speech.

So today, The Blame Game kicked into The Lightning Round. Somebody had to be responsible for the McCain campaign losing the election. Well frankly, there's plenty of blame to go around, although Dubya, Dick Cheney, and Barrack O'Bama strike me as the primary architects of McCain's humiliation.

But folks from the McCain campaign, who learned taking responsibility from Karl Rove and Homer Simpson ("This is everybody's fault but mine!" - Homer Simpson.), all believe that God gave them fingers so they could point them at others. It couldn't be their war hero candidate's fault, although their "He suffered horrors on behalf of America. He should get The Presidency as an automatic reward." concept turned out not to fly. (Turns out others suffered horrors in Vietnam also. Where's their presidencies? The soldiers suffering horrors in Iraq aren't even getting proper medical care, thanks to Dubya.) We all respect what John McCain endured. He's earned a comfortable retirement. And given that the hot wife he dumped his disfigured first wife for has more money than Roy E. Disney and George Lucas combined, I'd say that when he retires, it will be unbelievably comfortable. The hard part will be figuring which of his palaces to go home to each night.

But there was a handy scapegoat standing beside him: Sarah Palin. There's no question she hurt the campaign immeasurably. She was intended to attract disgruntled ex-Hilary supporters whose votes were purely gender-based, ideology be damned, an insane concept, and to attract the evangelicals and extreme right-wing nutjobs who had been Bush's core supporters. Well, she did attract the religious idiots, but no one else.

It turned out there was another constituency they had all forgotten about: reasonable, intelligent conservatives.(Yes, they exist. I've met at least two over the last 111 years.) And by the busload, Sarah Palin's nutball antics, displays of awesome ignorance, her hillbillies-in-Sak's-with-a-credit-card clothes-spending-sprees, and her off-putting baseless arrogance drove conservative voters over to O'Bama, where they cast very reluctant votes.

So it's HER fault! Yes, it's true that no one in their right mind wanted her one old man's heartbeat away from the presidency (Bill O'Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, and Sean Hannity do not constitute "People in their right minds."), but who put her in that position? Who chose her as his running mate? McCain did. He shot himself in the foot, and Sarah Palin was the bullet. She is awful, but the blame is his.

So today, the people assassinating Palin's character (Hard to assassinate a completely fictional concept like "Sarah Palin's character".) were no longer we on the left. It's the members of McCain's campaign that are letting slip some juicy tidbits, like the fact that her clothes spending spree was far greater than we had been previously told. We learned that she did indeed ask to speak at the concession appearance, an amazing bit of ego there.

But the best stuff was learning that when it comes to geography, she is not smarter than a fifth grader, unless that fifth grader attends Wassila Elementary. My favorite? She thinks Africa is a country, and South Africa a region of that country. she's been so busy looking at Russia from her porch, and building bridges to nowhere, she's never glanced at an Atlas.

She repeatedly insisted she is qualified to be President of the United States, but asked to name the countries who signed NAFTA, you know, the countries on the continent on which she lives, and from which she has seldom, if ever, strayed, she couldn't do it. (Hint: it's Canada, The United States, and Mexico.)

Understand, I hate her and all she stands for, but the way she's being used as a scapegoat by the very fools who cynically foisted her on us in the first place, endangering the country to use her nutball appeal to try and curry votes from The Lunatic Fringe, is shameful. Talk about Buyers Remorse! Who is to blame for her driving voters away? They are.

Man, I hate having to defend her. She has gone back to Alaska, where a man with 7 felony convictions can still be re-elected to the United States Senate. She'll do well there. The populace is primarily composed of people who are wanted for crimes back in civilization, sort of like Australia a century and a half ago, only frigid, so when blatant crooks like Ted Stevens and Sarah Palin run for office, their crimes are a plus. I spent some time there back in the late 1920s, making the movie Eskimo Pie, in which I played The Klon Dyke, and let me tell you, the Eskimos are the most intellectually sophisticated residents they have.

On another topic altogether, if you know any Mormons, tell them to go the fuck back to Utah and roast in their own Hellish environment. Fuck the motherfucking Mormons! Little Dougie's dad was born in the Black Pit of Hell that is Salt Lake City, but his dad, Dougie's grandfather, had the good sense to flee from Utah to the civilized world of Los Angeles in 1922. And Dougie's beloved Mormon grandmother would never have voted against Dougie's own civil rights. She loved her family more than the evil church in which she was raised. (As she proved by choosing her religion-hating husband over her church.)

If you voted No on Proposition 8, then Cheers darling. If you voted Yes on 8, go to fucking hell, you piece of shit.

America is Back, Black, and Barack!!!

I have lived for 111 years, and in all that time, only a handful of nights were as glorious as this night: the night women's suffrage passed and I acquired the right to vote, the night when, inspired by my kidnapping by Kaiser Wilhelm, America won World War I, often incorrectly called "The Big One." (I've had "The Big One." It was growing out of Milton Berle's crotch. Yes, I know, but once I'd slapped a burlap bag over his head, he was great. Milton was circumcised of course, and that cast-off foreskin made a lovely belt, big enough for Jackie Gleason. Milton never told Jackie what it was made of when he gave him that "belt."), VE Day, VJ Day, BJ Day, the night I gave Delores Delgado's Oscar to Jane Wyman, the night Delores Delgado drowned in the Seine in Paris, the Moon landing, the night Neal Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on The Moon (So what was "The Moon Landing" you ask? The day a man first landed on J-Lo's butt of course. Try to keep up!), and now the landslide election of our first Afro-Hawaiian-American President. Our slave-owning early presidents would plotz! I can hear Thomas Jefferson now saying, "Oh sure, I wrote that 'all men are created equal,' blah, blah, yadda, yadda, but I never expected to be taken literally! Can't anybody take a joke anymore? For Heck's sake, he's an N-Word!" I threw him out of bed, and he crawled off to Sally Hemming's shack, to sire more slaves.

Much as I admire Barack Hussein O'Bama (Soon to be known as BHO. Of course, no one calls Dubya GWB, but that's because it makes him sound like the date rape drug, which would be a terribly nasty thing to call the date rape drug.), so far Michelle has selfishly prevented me from finding out first-gland if he is indeed "Hung like an Hawaiian." They say he's really only half-black. I hope the black half is from the waist down, if you catch my meaning. It seems a safe bet, given that his upper half is paler than Little Dougie. As some less than racially-liberal folks have pointed out, he's black, but he's not very black. However, he's black enough that most of The Confederacy went for McCain. (Remind me again why Lincoln felt we needed to keep The South? It seems to me that we would be a lot better off without them.) Here's how Southern McCain voters now see The White House.

But here am I, asking Hussy (That's what I call The President Elect in private. Ironically, it's also what Michelle calls me!) the one question all America is now asking, The One Great Question about the new O'Bama Administration: What type of puppy will the new First Doggie be?

I sobbed all through Hussy's acceptance speech. Eventually I managed to get the chaise leg off of my foot, but I still had tears for that moving speech. I loved all that blather about little 106 year old Ann Nixon Cooper voting for him. I just wish he had chosen an old lady to yap about who didn't have Nixon in her name! You'd think a man with the middle name Hussein would know what a liability having an evil middle name can be. He could have used ME as an example. I was discarding my virginity before little Annie had filled her first diaper. But, as usual, he knew that bringing me up would inevitably result in his being completely upstaged by my glamour and fame. So he went with that nobody Cooper woman.

I know why I was crying. For 8 years I have been ashamed of being an American, as The United States followed the Fascist path of Germany in the 1930s, behind a bumbling idiot and his Satanic Vice President, Voldemort Cheney, who had illegally stolen the Presidency. When O'Bama was declared the next president, I felt that shame lift from my shoulders, and I cried because my pride in being an American was restored. We'd broken The Black Ceiling, and Jim Crow is forever buried under the rubble.

We were braced for an "October Surprise," some horror cooked up by Karl Rove to scare the country into voting for Cosmetic Change instead of Real Change. But it turned out that The October Surprise was The Stock Market Crash, and folks remembered "It's the economy, stupid!" was still true, and America wisely decided not to ask the people who created the problem to fix the problem. If someone stabs you, you don't trust that person to stitch you back up.

And what's even better than O'Bama winning? Let me put it this way:

I thought John McCain's concession speech was classy, his first classy speech in 8 years. Of course, his followers still insisted on demonstrating what douche bags they are. When, in the spirit of uniting behind the new president as One Nation Not Under God, McCain mentioned O'Bama's name, his followers booed- loudly! McCain had to quiet them. Yet when Hussy mentioned McCain's name, in the same spirit of reaching across the aisle to unite these states so disunited under Dubya's Administration of Horror (The Bush Administration was the Saw IV of presidencies.), his people applauded McCain, and were respectful.

Who must we thank for this great victory? Well certainly Sarah Palin played a big role. Exit polls from all over showed, again and again, that lifelong Republicans who had been supporting McCain and intending to vote for him, switched to voting for O'Bama, thousands, if not millions, of them voting Democratic for the first time in their lives, once they got a good gander at, and worse, listen to, Sarah Palin and realized even they didn't want that psycho-bitch one old man's heartbeat away from being president. As one person I recently read wrote: "She believes in fossil fuels, but not in fossils." (Ironic, given that her running mate was a fossil.) Somehow, we'll have to get by without a VP who can see Russia from her stoop. Back to Alaska, Sarah. I'm sorry for the moose (Mooses? Moosum? Meese?), but I'd be sorrier for us if she had won.

Besides, Tina Fey has got to concentrate on 30 Rock. She doesn't have time to go on playing that Wacko-Mom, I mean Hockey mom.

McCain of course, gets the credit (?) for choosing Palin, so he was also a big contributer to his defeat. And certainly Dick Cheney's last weekend endorsement of McCain helped push O'Bama over the top. But let's face it, the person most responsible for the election of Barack Hussein O'Bama to be the 44th President of The United States of America is none other than - envelope please - George W. Bush! Thank you Dubya. It's the first good thing you have ever done in your whole, misbegotten excuse for a life. Now go fuck off forever.

And by the way, who did Joe the (unlicensed) Plumber vote for? No one. He's a convicted felon, and can't vote.


Dubya used to make a lot of noise about having a "Mandate," despite his narrow victories, based on only a handfull of fictitious votes. In fact, his 2000 "Victory" was just five votes, all of them Supreme Court Justices who should have known better, but who were in the bag. O'Bama however, has won by a landslide, and the voters have further handed him Democratic majorities in both the House and the Senate. Darlings, that is more of a "Mandate" than dinner, a movie, and a motel room with Huge Jackman! (And Huge, I'm free!) I might add that, though Proposition 8 passed in California for now (FUCK YOU MORMAN CHURCH! You're a fine group to dictate "Traditional Marriage" to ANYONE! Don't think we don't remember Little Dougie's Mormon Bishop great-great grandfather William Haney Hickenlooper and his three simultaneous wives!), and Gay Marriage has been re-banned, nonetheless, Mandates are still legal.

But now the robocalls stop. I'll feel so lonely. Each time the phone rang, I thought, "It might be Mr. DeMille!" But now when the phone rings, it might actually be someone alive at the other end. "What? You're a real person I can actually converse with? How do I do that?" Fortunately, the 2012 campaign starts tomorrow, so the calls will recommence. Hilary has already declared, and on NBC, Rudy Guiliani was heard to say, "9-11. I am declaring 9-11 that I am a candidate 9-11 for president in 2911 or 2012, whichever comes first. 9-11."


All joking aside; what a great day for America. Dubya will soon be gone (And hopefully then under indictment, along with Jeb, Cheney, and all the other criminals that placed him in the White House illegally), we've shown that our ideals of equality may actually mean something, and elected an inspiring man to our highest office. There was a sigh of relief and cheering all around the earth, as people in every country breathed easier (Kenya, where our next president's African Family hails from, has declared a national holiday today, in Hussy's honor), knowing that the Evil America that has terrified them for 8 years is banished, and Good America is coming back.

Cheers darlings. Real cheer this time. To quote one of our worst presidents: It's morning in America. Time for a drink.