Dear Santa,

I know I should have written sooner, but I’ve been really busy trying to save the free world. I have been a good girl; really I have, so I hope you can bring me the things on my list. Being a compassionate, charitable and caring person, I have also included some gifts I would like you bring to other people. After all, it’s not all about me.

Here’s my list.

Information I can use to prove that that Barack asshole has some icky disease that makes his wizzle drip.

Some dirt on Oprah would really be swell too.

A decent voice coach.

A pill that promotes erectile dysfunction, so I can sneak it into Bill’s fried cheese sandwiches.

An ass lift (No, I don’t mean a balloon ride for Bill)

Some kickass weed (For medicinal purposes, of course)

Wonder Woman panties

A mirror that tells me I’m the fairest of them all.

A boob job (No, I don’t mean a gig for Bill. It kills me that Nancy has better tits than I do.)

Gifts for others

Tooth decay and baldness for that smarmy prick, John Edwards.

Explosive diarrhea for that lardass Tim Russert the next time he’s live on TV.

Chronic laryngitis for those jackboot-wearing, right-wing, fascist, racist radio talk show bastards, who constantly say I have no compassion. Pricks, they should eternally burn in hell. (Sorry, Santa. I got carried away there.)

A clue for Barbra Streisand (I know she’s trying to help, but, my God, she’s killing me with stupid).

For Bill, an exploding cigar.

Like I said, Santa, I’ve been a really, really good girl, and I really, really hope you can bring everything I’ve asked for. I left you some yummy chocolate chip cookies and a nice glass of milk.

Your pal,
Hilly

P.S. But, remember one thing. If you screw this up, your fat ass is mine once I become the President. Got it?

Both at the same time. Not a good combination for blogging.

Consider yourselves spared.

A day or so ago I was reading at Sweetthing’s site about a Russian program that “can mimic online flirtation” in chat rooms in order to obtain personal information from other participants in the chat rooms as part of an identity theft scheme.

I got to wondering how a bot like that might work. I figure it would go something like this:

Bot: Any wild babes out there wants to get down and get fanky? I’m interested in something sassy, who wants to throw mud in our eyes!

American Girl: Dude … What is your name?

Bot: I am Ivan. What is your handle?

American Girl: My handle? Oh, wait. I’m Tiffany. I’m from L.A.

Bot: I’m sorry. I don’t understand L.A. Please clarify.

American Girl: Dude … Los Angeles. Los Angeles, California. You must not be from this country.

Bot: Was that a question or a statement? Please clarify.

American Girl: Wow. Are you a Vulcan or some shit?

Bot: I am neither a Vulcan nor some shit. Are you a girl?

American Girl: Of course, I’m a girl. Do you know any guys named Tiffany?

Bot: Sorry. Tiffany was not in my database.

American Girl: Your database? You must be a Vulcan. Live long and prosper, Dude!

Bot: Thank you. May your lovers not have crabs.

American Girl: What? Crabs? Nice talking to you Ivan. I’m outta here.

Bot: Please don’t exit. I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?

American Girl: Jesus, Ivan, you said that you hope my lovers don’t have crabs. That’s really seriously gross.

Bot: I am so sorry. Really I am. I meant to say, I hope your lovers don’t have scabs.

American Girl: Oh, I get it. You’re a jokester.

Bot: A jokester. Yes, that’s it. I’m a jokester.

American Girl: I like jokesters. Where are you from?

Bot: Where would you like me to be from?

American Girl: Ha! With a line like that, I hope you’re from far away.

Bot: I am from far away.

American Girl: OK, let’s try this. What’s your sign?

Bot: My sign?

American Girl: Yeah, your sign. What is it?

Bot: My sign is … Welcome to Moscow. You must clean up your dog shit.

American Girl: Ivan, this is going nowhere. I’ve got to go to work early tomorrow. See ya.

Bot: Please, don’t go. I’m lonely.

American Girl: OK, maybe one more minute. Being lonely sucks.

Bot: Yes, being lonely sucks.

American Girl: Sure does. I’ll let you take the lead. What would you like to chat about?

Bot: Do you have big pendulous breasts?

American Girl: Screw you, Ivan.

Bot: Yes, screw me! When?

American Girl: You’re one sick puppy.

Bot: Do you like dogs?

American Girl: Get help, Ivan.

Bot: What is your address?

American Girl: Get lost, Ivan.

Bot: What is your social security number? Please give me your PIN. I need it for my records. Please send me a copy of your driver’s license. Your blood type, please?

American Girl:

Bot: What is your mother’s maiden name? Your father’s middle name? What was the name of your first pet? Please verify your credit card numbers. Your PayPal account is will be closed. Please verify your information.

American Girl:

Bot: You’re obviously not sassy and you’re not interested in getting down and getting fanky. Good nightsky.

Did you ever have a work day in which you were too busy to spend even ten seconds thinking about what you might like to write for fun? At the end of the work day, did you have some errands to attend to that not only occupied your mind, but aggravated it as well? Once the errands were complete, did you have to rummage around the internet to do some online shopping?

After all that, did you have any hope of writing something worth even half a shit?

Me either.

I’m thinking how seriously cool this would be if he could simultaneously tap dance.

via Side Salad

Much has been written about NBC’s refusal to accept a paid advertisement from Freedom’s Watch, which offers thanks to the troops serving during the holiday season. According to NBC, the ad was not the problem, but rather it was the ad’s mention of Freedom’s Watch’s website.

We’ve come to a sad point when saying thank you to our military personnel is considered to be high octane politics, rather than a genuine expression of thanks.

I would hope that all veterans with anything resembling a blog or a website will post the ad to fill the gap created by NBC’s refusal to do so. You see, veterans understand the importance of a simple “thank you,” even if the management of NBC doesn’t.

Each year fewer and fewer people remember what happened on December 7, 1941, which is sad.

Above is a photo of the U.S.S. Arizona before it was sunk on December 7, 1941, the date when the nation of Japan attacked United States Forces in Hawaii.

At the time of the attack, Japan’s envoys were in the United States to discuss peace.

Please keep that in the back of your mind the next time a presidential candidate says we should break our asses to TALK to the bad guys.

I’m just sayin’.

Must have ben a helluva “coffee” break.

PRS Operatives were able to be on the scene at a supermarket somewhere near Washington, D.C. when White House Reporter Helen Thomas was shopping for groceries. She appeared to be a bit confused as she slowly shuffled up and down the aisles. Without warning, she stopped in front of the shelves containing jars of apple sauce. She turned directly to the jars of apple sauce and began to speak:

Helen: Do you plan to just sit there while thousands are being killed in Iraq?

Apple Sauce:

Helen: So, you plan to do nothing to end this horrible carnage?

Apple Sauce:

Helen: Well?

Apple Sauce: Move along, lady. You smell like a hamper.

PRS Operatives learned that, due to an unspecified bureaucratic foul-up, Madam Speaker’s government airplane was not available to take her from Washington D.C. to San Francisco. Despite her having made several threats to various federal employees and throwing a couple three hissy fits, nothing could be done.

Her only option was to fly commercial.

PRS managed to obtain access to the video tape taken of Madam Speaker at the security checkpoint:

TSA Agent: Ma’am? Excuse me. You’ll have to place your purse on the conveyor.

Nancy: My purse? You want me to give up my purse and place it on that thing? Do you realize that this is a $4,000 Gucci? Besides, I have all my things in that purse. Why do I have to put it on that dirty conveyor?

TSA: We have to x-ray your bag, Ma’am.

Nancy: Is this something new? Do you x-ray everyone’s bags?

TSA: Yes, ma’am. It is standard procedure.

Nancy: Sounds like some kind of bullshit harassment, if you ask me. What if I refuse? You gonna send me to jail or some shit?

TSA: No, ma’am. If you refuse, you just won’t be permitted to board the aircraft.

Nancy: This is bullshit, and I intend to straighten this out when I return to Washington. I don’t have time to screw around here, so I’ll put my bag on your stupid conveyor.

TSA: Thank you, ma’am. Now, would you kindly remove your shoes and place them on the conveyor.

Nancy: Remove my goddamned shoes? Are you out of your goddamned mind? These are brand-new Manolo Blahniks. Six hundred bucks a pair, asshole. I’ll bet you don’t make that in a week.

TSA: Sorry Ma’am. You’ll have to remove your shoes and place them on the conveyor.

Nancy: You are one annoying bastard. OK, let’s get on with it. I’m going to be late for my flight.

TSA: Thank you. Now, please, step through the metal detector, Ma’am.

Nancy: (steps through) There! Are you satisfied, asshole? Now gimme my stuff and let me be on my way.

TSA: Sorry, Ma’am. The screener has indicated that I should check your purse.

Nancy: Why? Do I look like a goddamned criminal to you?

TSA: It won’t take long. Thank you for your patience.

Nancy: I guess you’re too goddamned stupid to know who you’re dealing with here.

TSA: (removing an item from the purse) Ma’am. You are not permitted to bring this aboard the aircraft. It exceeds the permissible container size for fluids.

Nancy: That’s Cristal, you moron. Three hundred bucks a bottle!

TSA: Sorry, Ma’am. If you wish, you can step out of line and arrange to mail it to yourself, but I cannot allow you to board the aircraft with that.

Nancy: Yeah, like I have time to do that. How about you shove it in your ass?

TSA: (removing an item from the purse) You can’t bring these aboard the aircraft either, Ma’am.

Nancy: Are you crazy? That’s a piece of jewelry!

TSA: They’re handcuffs, Ma’am. Not permitted aboard the aircraft.

Nancy:

TSA: (removing a plastic bag containing vegetable matter from the purse) What is this, Ma’am?

Nancy: Oregano.

TSA: (sniffing bag) Pretty expensive oregano, Ma’am.

Nancy: OK, asshole. Give me back all my stuff. I’m leaving and going back to my office. You’ll pay for this.

TSA: Sorry, Ma’am. I have to notify the police (radios police of a problem). Please take a seat over there, Ma’am. The police are on their way, and I expect you’ll be arrested.

Nancy: Listen to me, you piece of shit. Do you have any idea who I am?

TSA: Sorry, Ma’am. I don’t.

Nancy: Well, look at my face. Go ahead. Look!

TSA: (whispering and speaking directly into her face) You listen to me you miserable bitch. I’m looking at your face. I’m looking real hard, and all I can say is that if you get one more goddamned face lift, your tits are going to wind up somewhere around your ears, Mrs. Pelosi. Have a nice goddamned day.