Sunday, March 13, 2011

Wolfenblitz And Rumkrieg

You would think after all of the man-made catastrophes committed under the bratling-prince (The Shrub Who Would Be King), his viziers would have learned to retire to a quiet place of shame and SHUT THE HELL UP. If so, you thought too soon.  

Shame?  Guilt?  Remorse? These people don't know the meanings. Perhaps for these Masters of Doom And Bumble, remorse is something that only follows premature ejaculation.

No, this retinue does not fade away into that good night.  Neither do they sink below the surface, nor content themselves with floating on top of it.  Rather, they are much more like annoying shrill gophers that emerge from their tunnels, pop their heads up, and sing the the same shrill annoying song that they have been singing as long as anyone can remember.  Then just as quickly they disappear below the earth once more, and faster than you can say, "Honey we need to call the exterminator," they turn up again in another state, accepting an award from the Generic Conservative Institute For Bombing People Who Threaten Our Oil Supply.  

(Granted, gophers don't actually sing, so perhaps we should describe them more as burrowing gopher-sparrows of some sort.)  The point is not the general suckitude of this author's similes, metaphors and often pointless analogies.  The point, gentle reader, is that these burrowing-gopher-birds just need to be very very quiet and go away. Forever. 

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