Senator Chuck Hagel

PRS: Senator Hagel, newspapers are reporting that this Monday you plan to announce your decision whether to seek the Republican Party’s nomination for the Presidency in 2008. Can you confirm that?

Hagel: That’s true; I do plan to make such an announcement.

PRS: Do you believe that you have a realistic chance of getting the Republican Party’s nomination?

Hagel: Of course I believe so, otherwise I would not even consider it. You don’t think I have a shot?

PRS: About as much of a chance as you have of sticking a feather up your ass and flying across the Atlantic Ocean.

Hagel: This interview is over!

PRS: Have a play date with Tim Russert, do you?

Hagel: I question your patriotism.

A Can of Wax Beans

PRS: So what’s up with you?

Can of Wax Beans: Well, I’m thinking of seeking the Republican Party’s nomination for the Presidency in 2008.

PRS: Wow. That’s impressive, you being a can of wax beans and all.

Can of Wax Beans: You think I have a shot?

PRS: Better than Chuck Hagel’s, I’d say.

Now, let me get this straight…….

Barack Obama comes into some decent money, namely $1.9 million for a book deal. Nicely done, Barry.

He decides to invest some of it. Smart move, I’d say.

Barry finds a broker and gives him authority to buy and sell stocks without his input. Another smart move, methinks.

His broker buys stocks in two speculative ventures, which happen to be backed by two of his top contributors. Say what? Of all the stocks for sale on all the exchanges in the world, your broker just happened to pick these two stocks? Quite a coincidence, I’d say.

One of the companies, AVI BioPharma, was in the process of developing a drug to treat avian flu. Such a drug would surely be a big money maker.

Two weeks after the AVI stock purchase, Barry becomes an advocate for increased federal funding to companies developing drugs to treat avian flu. Say what? Another coincidence? This is not sounding too cool, Barry.

Barry stated, ”At no point did I know what stocks were held, and at no point did I direct how those stocks were invested.”

Sorry, Barry, but that just pegged my Bullshit Meter.

Not to worry, though, Barry. You’re a democrat, so the story will be gone in a few days. If you were a Republican, the mainstream media would be all over you like a pack of jackals, and coverage would be relentless. No doubt, Chuck Schumer would find time to hold a press conference to call for the appointment of a special prosecutor.

Next time you might want to consider cattle futures.

This morning I was awakened to the news that two winning tickets for the $390 million lottery prize had been sold – one in Georgia and one in Jersey.

Yo, did the guy on the radio just say New Jersey?

As I strode to the computer to pull up the winning numbers, I could not help but think that vast riches were just a couple mouse clicks away. Oh yes, visions of an oceanfront mansion danced around in my cruller. Maybe I would treat the Usual Suspects to a trip to Hawaii to get away from the cold – Yeah, charter a plane – That’s the ticket!

I pulled up the numbers and checked them against my tickets. DENIED!!

I tossed my now worthless tickets into the trash and dragged my sorry ass off to work, hoping that if Catfish, Dax, Elisson, Kelley, Denny or Zonker bought the winning ticket sold in Georgia, he/she might just need a guitar pickin’ lawyer – maybe one from Jersey.

I’m still waiting for the call.

MEMO

From: The Seriously Honorable Hillary Rodham Clinton

To: The Morons on my Campaign Staff

Subject: Selma and Beyond

I’ve absolutely had it with you incompetent boobs!

Surely you’ve seen the news, you’ve heard those fascist bastards on the radio, and you’ve read those wing-nut bloggers all having a field day playing cuts from my speech in Selma. Oh yeah, they were having a pisser making fun of my Southern and black accents. I want you butt noses to know that it is all your goddamned fault.

At the outset, let me say that if I find out which one of you dumbshits retained that woman to teach me to talk black, I’ll fire your ass in a heartbeat. After hours of lessons the bitch told me that I sounded just like Wanda Sykes, and you bastards all nodded with approval. So, I went to Selma and did my best black schtick and I sounded like an asshole. Meanwhile Obama, was down the street talking black and kicking my ass. I want you to find out who taught Obama to talk black and pay him five times whatever Obama paid him.

I relied on you morons to do the advance work, and look what the hell happened! Apparently, I have do all the thinking around here. Therefore, so I don’t get blindsided on my next trip to the South, I want to see the following things accomplished, like, YESTERDAY:

1. Clothing: How do you expect me to relate to these southern knuckle walkers dressed in a goddamned New York City goddamned pants suit. I want to arrange for the purchase of several outfits of the type worn by this woman. This is a sure winner, but I sure as shit can’t depend on you Vassar and Radcliff dolts to see the obvious.

2. Recipes: A shitload of women wanted to talk to me about goddamned recipes! Jesus Christ! I haven’t cooked any goddamned thing since, well, never. Get me some goddamned recipes for stuff like squirrels, ham hocks, possum, black eyed peas and collards. Oh, and I need someone to tell me what the hell sweet tea and blush puppies are.

3. Catchy Phrases: I also want you sorry asses to put together a list of really quaint southern sayings for me to work in my conversations with these Neanderthals. You know, shit like, “Damn, it’s colder’n a well digger’s asshole.” and “Well, strip my gears and call me shiftless.”

I don’t want to hear any bullshit from any of you about these demands. Put down your goddamned Blackberries and get busy.

Oh, I almost forgot. I will be speaking in Chicago in a few weeks. Get that Zbignew Brrzezinski guy to call me. (Yeah, geniuses, he’s the guy who worked for Carter.) I want him to teach me how to talk with a Polish accent and tell me all about kielbasa and shit.

I know you are all losing significant amounts of sleep fretting about the current status of the epic battle between Jimbo and what apparently is the Mother-of-All-Colds. Here is the absolute latest skinny.

After endless badgering from many quarters, I finally paid a visit to “Doctor Doctor,” the de facto Team Doctor to the Usual Suspects.

He’s familiar with my routines. As such, being the gentleman and consummate professional that he is, he is patient with my customary flights of self-diagnosis and smartassed comments such as, “If you have a cure for the common cold, I wanna be your business partner. We’ll buy and sell Donald Trump.” He just smiles and goes about his business of checking my blood pressure, checking my lymph nodes, looking in my eyes, ears and down my throat, and listening to my lungs.

When he got to the lungs, he listened and then asked, “You didn’t notice the noises your lungs are making?” Truth is, I had noticed the strange hisses, crackles, pops and “wheeeeeeee” sounds they were making, and I can only assume that when heard through a stethoscope, my lungs must have sounded like a fuel dragster at the starting line.

Without asking my “learned” opinion, he directed that I immediately take a breathing test, presumably to make sure that I wasn’t in the process of suffocating. (The song ”Am I Blue?” comes to mind.) The good news is that, even though my lungs sound like a traffic accident, they are working fine, so there was no need to call the EMS guys.

He prescribed an antibiotic, heading off my anticipated “Antibiotics Don’t Work on Viruses” argument by explaining that the antibiotic will help, because these things are often accompanied by or can result in multiple infections. It was an extremely professional way of suggesting that I ought to consider putting a sock in my yap.

“Doctor Doctor” – He’s simply the best.

It’s Sunday, and the farookin’ cold is still hangin’ on. It should be a Comfy Chair and Book Day, but shortly I shall be heading off to the Post, where it is my turn to tend bar. From what I hear, several of the Usual Suspects are also similarly afflicted, so it promises to be a Genuine Wheezeatorium, with lots of hand washing.

It could be a long day.

Then again, maybe a couple hours with the Usuals will jolt my creativity meter off Dead Solid Zero.

It’s been a pretty rough week, and I still don’t feel well enough to spend more than a few minutes at the computer. But, in those few minutes, I found this over at Rodger’s place, and it cracked me up.

I needed that.

In the course of walking from Mr. Comfy Chair, Bankie and Book to the loo, I thought I would permit myself a few minutes of computer time to thank those who left good wishes here and in e-mails for my speedy recovery from the Demon Cold.

So, with that, here is an update:

1. Mucus. The Mucus Tsunami has considerably abated, for which my blown and wiped raw nose is most grateful. Still doing a bit of coughing and feeling less than chipper though, which is why I shall return to Mr. Comfy Chair as soon as I post this.

2. Jersey Politics. (Yes, Virginia, the subject of mucus does tend to lead naturally to thoughts of Jersey Politics.)

Governor Corzine, who apparently is seeking to become a High Priest in the Religion of Global Warming, is so pleased with having plunged Jersey into the abyss of global warming craziness, he is now urging that the Federal Government follow Jersey’s lead on further regulating the crap out people and businesses and creating a bloated, useless governmental bureaucracy and high taxes limiting emissions that contribute to global warming.

Imagine trying to keep a straight face while urging any governmental body, anywhere to follow the lead of New Jersey’s State Government?