Wednesday, November 08, 2006

From the hutch of the Majordomo: "Koupe tet, boule kay!"

Which, in the language of Jean-Jacques Dessalines, means cut off heads, burn their houses. This seems like the morning to revisit Haitian history, and let's face it: We all know I'm exactly the sort who would relish gulping a quart of black rum out of the roasted skull of Karl Rove.

You should all know that the D.C. air has an agreeable whiff of blood in it this morning, and I promise you all that If I see Bob Novak in the elevator today, I won't hesitate to flick him in his shrivelled little balls. I feel good today, and I don't particularly feel like being polite to scum.

The 110th Congress convenes at noon on Jan. 3, and a handful of bright people -- who know more about this stuff than I do -- expect the subpoenas to start flying by, oh, say, 12:15. Many evil fucktards are weeping. Craigslist will soon be awash with sublets and free Ikea furniture as the junior greedheads begin packing their Beemers and fleeing town.

Enjoy the morning, and let's all chant our personal mantras to make sure that the hanging chads and whatnot line up to send George Allen back home to Charlottesville, where he can fondle his collection of vintage nooses and mammy dolls away from the public eye. I have particular reasons for disliking that tobacco-chewing lunkhead -- not just his overt greed, racism, and general stupidity -- but they're personal, and we need not go into that just now; this is a bright morning, after all, and I'm feeling perky.



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