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Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Conspiracies!
The
car Obama was born in.
[Boss asked me to post this one. He chucked his computer through a window, after a heated screaming match with it. He wrote this as me. In my style, he tells me. I haven't had a chance to read it. Sure it's awesome.
[You say I don't sound all that enthusiastic? Your ears (or eyes?) are playing tricks on you. Couldn't be more stoked to be the butt of one of the Old Man's "homages." I'm fit to burst.]
BRIZONI'S THE MAN. Rumors are, it was driving in Kenya at the time when Obama popped out of it. How un-American can you get? Except that a car isn't a vagina, even if it provides a lot of the same comedic opportunities. Which is why I'm now going to proceed to do a totally AllahPundit trashing of Birthers catalyxed by a bunch of killer vaginal jokes. Cool, huh?. I mean, imagine. I have it all set up. The foreign car, the yaaaaawning SOMETHING, and hey, the punchline writes itself, right? Doesn't Michelle have a yaaaaawning SOMETHING herself in herWookie-sized Princetonian carcass, and then I close on just how stupid and southern the people are who believe Obama has anything to hide about his past. GIT IT ON, BRUTHA.
Uh, Boss. You asked (ordered) me to post this as if I wrote it, and (given the fact you set fire to your computer in yet another drunken rage). I was willing. I mean, you're the Boss and all. Except that in this instance you're totally, completely full of shit.
I have to admit I love the idea of an Isetta as a metaphor for the First Lady's vagina. I even love the slick word tricks (don't know their names) you use to blur reality into Obama somehow being born out of his own wife's Isetta door. But there comes a point where even I draw the line. And it's here.
Like, I got some problems with this whole Birthers are idiots position. Number One: Allahpundit thinks they're idiots. Allahpundit. Wake up, Boss! Are you listening AllahPundit!
I don't like to tell stories out of school, but there was this time that the Boss and I were hanging out on Twitter (we're really tight that way), and I said I saw something clever on HotAir and the Boss, he says, across however many miles and gigabytes of difference, he says, "That AllahPundit. The only writer he ever met bit him in the leg. And the writer died a day later."
After that I went to Borneo for a month or so, okay, seven, and Suli Li and I were just about to become a lifetime item when the Boss showed up again in his indefatigable and most remarkably sudden way. How he knew I don't know. But there he was, damn him, with his tradmark hundred-proof Stolichnaya bottle welded to his hand. "Meeee," he said -- and this mind you, was at the exact moment when the presiding shaman asked if anyone had any reason to keep Suli's and my eternal union from reuniting the shattered fronds of the [entire fucking, just so you know] universe -- "Heeeeeey, that's Brizoni. He owes me money, amd not only that, but his cat bit my dog and cost me thousands of dollars in cosmetic surgery. An Akita with a cat-jaw sized hole in his ear almost never wins the annual Animal X Games -- you know, the 'Kill or Be Killed English Sweepstakes' Michael Vick blesses every year in Druidic robes at Stonehenge."
Well, I'm just saying. I haven't seen Suli since (I sleep with a loaded revolver instead.) I've been reading all the adulation in the sci-fi comments the Boss arranged for himself. Okay. I admit the guy has a certain facility with words and arguments and like that. And some of his early poetry-like writing is something like poetry (if you like poetry that's isn't like poetry). But the guy behind it all is an absolute animal. I'm not going to make a big deal of it. I'm Brizoni, and I've spent so much time in foreign climes that I'm used to animals. Hell, I've been to Rio de Janeiro. Even the Boss seems civilized compared to what I do on a Saturday night in Rio. Where was I?
Oh. Dudgeon. Are we all going to sit still for these outrageous vagina jokes just because he's a fucking genius? I think not. It's unconscioniousable. Or whatever the word is. You'd have to be one of those perverts like the Boss even to pronounce it.
You see what I mean. If you know what I mean.
That didn't work out how I intended. Where the hell was I? Oh yeah. Birthers. Does any one of you Boss-worshipping tools know that a first-rate attorney named Andrew McCarthy (from the National Review) actually defended the Birthers, sort of? Sure you don't. You love the Boss. Who's really, really, incredibly, oh-so-unbelievably smart.
Like I always say. Right, Boss?
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