Top Gun Redux: John Sidney McCain III for Prez

David Brooks, your "A Speech to the Delegates" was a mean-spirited, vindictive hack job.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/29/opinion/29brooks.html
Who ever told you you could do funny? Now here's funny.

McCain's Speech at the OMG, OMG Is Gustav the Second Coming Convention

ST. PAUL

My fellow geezers, it is an honor for me, John Sidney McCain III -- mah friends call me Maverick -- to address the Rich Old Geezers National Convention at this triumphant moment in our history. We stand by the flag at the eighteenth hole with right hand over heart clutching trust fund certificates while our left claws curl around glasses of 72 year old (whoops, Karl says mustn’t mention age) Glenfiddich® . (Hey, Punjab, I need a refill, dammit.)

Two paths lie ahead of us: we can go back to the first tee, give ourselves all the mulligans we want, foot mashies, winter rules, hand in our scorecards twenty strokes (shorry, Karl shays shouldn’t shay shtrokes – haha, you try shayin’ that after a coupla toots) below our hacker handicaps (Who’ll know? Hey, we own the USGA. ’Shides, beating my age by a shtroke or two – whoops -- would be cool – or is it hot nowadays?). Or we can go forward to the nineteenth hole, down a coupla three more malts, harrumph by the ticker tape machine ’bout gilt-edged bonds, towel whip each other in the showers, moon the young hotties by the pool and call it a day. Or we can do both – who says we can’t have it all, and I mean ALL. HAHAHA, WE DO HAVE IT ALL.

(APPLAUSE. DANCING IN THE AISLES – well, sorta, I mean lotta white folks tryin’ to shake their booties.)

The path behind us leads to our glorious past: ah, Standard Oil and the gold standard; Herbert Hoover and the Little Correction; damnweshouldanukedem Goldwater; not-a-crook Nixon and the Southern strategy (not our sort, really, but a clever bugger, all the same); Ronnie kicking it off in Philadelphia, Miss. (hahaha, the greatest thespian of them all; so they killed a N***** and a coupla J**s nearby, we all gotta die some time (hey, Punjab, what about that drinkie, hic, ’shcuze me).

And how ’bout them Bushies! What grand antecedents: Prescott and the Nazis (whoops); Skull and Bones and the Whiffenpoofs; Gentlemen’s C’s; Pappy gets his horse (that’s flyboy lingo for plane, picked it up from Tom Cruise) shot outa under him – hey, ah can match that – while Shrubby’s a no-show at his horse show in Alabama (have ’nother snort, bro). What a lovely coupla three wars they’ve given us to carry on! Abu Ghraib – what a frat house hazing party. Gitmo – whoever thought up those orange jumpsuits, contrasts great with those terrorists’ swarthy (can I shay shwarthy, Karl?) skins, give the man a medal. Hahaha. Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord and pass the Glenfiddich.

The path ahead leads to our glorious future: to the victorious Tenth Crusade prophesied in the Good Book (Hey Karl, aren’t I good? Got in the sop for the religious whack jobs.) by John of Croesus 13:4-6: “And the children of an all-volunteer army shall lead us and though countless numbers of them be blown to Kingdom come, they will have kept the world safe for plutocracy and for the peace that passeth all understanding of Grand Old Farts in countless clubhouses and counting houses.”

Yes, my friends: a Hundred Years of War; at least Fifty More Years of OIL,OIL,OIL; Twenty More Years before the polar ice caps melt -- but whatthehey, we will all be dead by then anyways. I might be dead a tad sooner than some of y’all (How old am I, Karl? Sheventy three? Shorry, Karl shays mushn’t bring up my age) but I tell you, my friends, when I’m Commander-in-Chief, SOME WILL BE MORE DEAD THAN OTHERS.

More dead ragheads, turbineheads, mullahs, ayatollahs -- SCREW WITH OUR OIL, YOU DIE.

More dead wetbacks -- what’s with this wimpy wall business? Give my Arizona vigilantes automatics and ammo and watch ’em go to work – YIPPEEEIOO.

More dead humpbacks -- we can kill whales better than the Japs and the Norskis, for Chrissake.

You name ’em, as Commander-in-Chief, I’ll nail ’em. Well, not me personally any more (heck, I gotta have my protection touring fruit markets) but I’ll order our valiant and patriotic young men and women recruited from Wal-Mart parking lots to go out and videogame a few beatings and rapes and build up some body count and then get their heads shot off in the cause of oil, bananas, whales, tungsten or whatever the hell commodity of the week the markets want freed for democracy. Too bad a coupla few thousand more of them will have to die, but we’ll bury their casketed remains in Arlington (any pictures, dammit, and we’ll off some of ya liberal East Coast media types) and chant that beautiful (get some "Brownie" points here, wink wink) Latino prayer: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

(Muted, somber-faced applause. Surreptitious swigs out of silver monogrammed hipflasks).

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My friends, we must keep open the book on the bleeding wounds of the old politics of bigotry (update Willie Horton, and oh, Harold Ford, call me – this Paris, Britney and Barack HUSSEIN Obama ad will kill ya) and sail our yachts down the sludgewaters of hate (Hussein in turban riding camel, anyone? Darken the skin tones a bit, dammit.).

For if this were to be an election about the real past or present (learn to use the subjunctive, Brooksie, the subjunctive) and what these portend for the future, we’d be toast – THANKS A LOT, GW GOOD BUDDY.

So we must make this an election based on Mock Turtle arithmetic: Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, Derision (TAKE A BOW, KARLISSIMO – YO DA MAN!) and belittle, demean, dehumanize the Other because that’s how all our accomplishments have been achieved. SWIFT BOATERS, REPORT FOR ACTION. ’TENSHUN. QUICK MARCH.

(AUDITORIUM SHAKES TO THE RAFTERS. Twenty thousand delegates are on their feet, marching in place, trying to keep time, drunkenly bellowing cadence “HUP TWO HEE HAW, HUSSEIN OBAMA GOTTA GAW”. Twenty or so old guys in Brown Shirts and jackboots gimp up to the podium and salute.)

(Dammit, Punjab, top me up. Glug. Hic. Burp.)

Yes, my friends, we meet today to keep from passing the torch to a new generation of Americans: a generation of wimps scared of a little global warming; too soft to tote heat to protect their property rights; screaming “Torture” at some gentle genital electrocution; squeamish ’bout some queen in Wyoming they strung up on barbed wire -- CAN WE HEAR IT FOR THE GREAT STATE OF DICK CHENEY ------- YEAAAAH.

(APPLAUSE, DANCING and SWIGS)

Yeah, these pansies actually think red, brown, yellow and black are a rainbow of colors, not PERILS – like RED PERIL, YELLOW PERIL, BROWN PERIL and now the deadly -- SHOUT IT WITH ME, GEEZERS -- BLACK PERIL .

Yeah, wusses who’d rather save damn rats-with-wings seagulls than drill for OIL, OIL, OIL.

(DELEGATES GO WILD, half of them screaming “PERIL, PERIL, PERIL” the other half shouting “OIL, OIL, OIL” followed by the call-and-response “TORTURE, TORTURE, TORTURE” “OIL, OIL, OIL”. Sorta Sydney Olympics redux.)

We meet today to maintain the divisions that have torn this country. For we are NOT all one country and one American family: we’re RICH and THEY ARE NOT (pace Chevy).

(AUDIENCE roars in unison)

HAHAHA. We can dance nekkid and pee on bushes (whoops, Freudian slip) and dress in drag at Bohemian Grove and THEY CAN NOT.

(AUDIENCE roars, but not in unison – some women and gay-bashers curiously silent – maybe still slightly sober).

And last but not least, my friends, WE ARE WHITE AND THEY ARE NOT.

(DELEGATES BERSERK. Sustained ROARED Applause, Booty-shaking, and Spontaneous Demonstrations. Clarence Thomas, John Yoo and Piyush Jindal are curiously silent.)

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PART II: CANDIDATE BIO (Cue the violins)

(Hey, Punjab, you pugreed punk, need ‘nother drink here? We’ll be getting into some real psycho crap soon: Oedipus, Shrub and whatnot. Hic. Burp. Belch.)

Ladies and gentleman, I never expected to be speaking before you today. Like so many of our speakers at this convention, I come from a rich, elite WASP family. My father and grandfather were Navy Admirals, actually commanded men, ships, entire fleets. Of course, I got into Annapolis – hehheh, what are legacies for – but almost didn’t make it out. 895^th out of a class of 899 ain’t ’zactly Admiral material. Plus, I was kinda short – DON’T DARE SAY RUNT OR BANTY ROOSTER. 5’ 7” ain’t that short. But it’s sorta average. (Deep swig of Scotch. Glug. Hic. Burp.) YOU CAN CALL ME FIGHTING COCK. (Can I use that word, Karl?) Yeah. I like that. FIGHTING COCK. (Downs Scotch. Hic. Burp.) Shtill am. Jesh ashk Candy (whoops) …I mean Carol…(mumble mumble)….shorry… I’ll get it…CINDY.

I was looking at a miserable little life, stoking boilers on some claptrap coal carrier, but, nudge nudge wink wink, a little pull here, a bit of a tug there and I became a Navy Flyboy. Not a very good one, mind you. The Admirals looked down their beaks at me. Sure, I never commanded any men, just a damn peashooter; but, hey, if a dumb AWOL goldbricker like Dubya can be Commander-in-Chief, so can I. And that’s a higher rank than Admiral. HAHAHAHAHA.

(Gimme ‘nother goddamn refill, Poonjee. Hic. Burp.).

Got shent to Nam. Bombed some paddy fields. Blew up some hooches. No biggie. But then – SHTUPID SHTUPID SHTUPID -- got my horsh shot out from under my ash (Hic. Burp.). Y’all know what happened next: shpent the next five years in the Hanoi Hilton and been dining out on it ever shince. HAHAHA, Wash the besh, make that shecond besh, thing that happened to me on my way to achieving the American Dream.

(Takes another swig. Hic. Burp.)

Back Stateside, I abandoned my crippled wife (she’d been a model, blonde, 5’ 10’’, but that was before she shrunk a tad) and the papoose I’d pouched her with, screwed anything in skirts that moved (especially those that saluted; fraternization, subordinates, adultery, Military Code be damned – I’m a maverick, my friends) and lived with a colony of randy pigs. We didn’t have much in the way of material possession, but we did have each other and the ability to carry our booze and swap our women. I was temporarily paralyzed in a lousy desk job but I never gave up my dream: my dream of servicing the seats of power – as Navy liaison to the Senate, boy, did I manage some liaisons (wink, wink), not to mention smuggling in their Scotch for the Senators boondoggling in Saudi. And that’s when the firsh besh thing happened to me: I bedded and wedded (well, not quite yet, I was still married, you see) a tall, willowy blonde 5’ 10” BUT THIS ONE WITH MONEY. LOTS AND LOTS OF MONEY. OODLES AND BOODLES AND JUGS AND JARS AND POTS AND VAULTS FULL OF MONEY, MONEY, MONEY.

(Somewhat somnolent audience spring to life screaming “MONEY MONEY MONEY” “OIL OIL OIL”.)

Northern Exposure Redux: Miss Northwest Passage for Veep

David Brooks, your "A Speech to the Delegates" was a mean-spirited, vindictive hack job.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/29/opinion/29brooks.html
Who ever told you you could do funny? Now here's funny.

Sarah Palin's Speech at the OMG, OMG Is Gustav the Second Coming Convention

ST. PAUL

My fellow Americans, I never expected to be speaking before you today. Like so many of you, I come from a hard-working, middle-class family. I was leading a miserable little life, married to an Eskimo snowmobiler in A-effing-laska for Chrissake -- no, they don't have thirty goddamn words for snow, now shut up and listen -- but, nevertheless, overcame great odds to live the American Dream.

As a child, I was abandoned by my parents and lived with a colony of plastic surgeons. We didn't have much in the way of material possessions, but we did have each other and the ability to fix each others' body parts. When I was good and fixed, stretched out to 5' 11" and filled out in all the right places, they started entering me...whoops...into some of them boondocks beauty pageants. I was second runner-up in the Wagamama Wagon Wheel Roundup (hey, the whole thing was rigged, I tell you -- Donald Trump was bonking the winner, Ashley -- haha, who's laughin' last, Ash-ole?). But I never gave up my dream: the dream of speaking at a national convention so that my legs could be gawked at by Rush lardgut Limbaugh and a buncha sweaty, drooling ole lechers. What the hell, what are you geezers in the front row doin' clutchin' twenty dollar bills in your teeth?
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In Denver, the Democrats showed America that they have cute daughters. A coupla such darling nappy-headed tykes. Well, on stage with me here are my five, count 'em again FIVE, real American kids. All blonde. All Republican. And, aaaaand...can you keep a secret...come upstage, Bristol honey, don't be shy, yeah, let the delegates see you in profile...ANOTHER REAL REPUBLICAN IN THE HOPPER! (Dammit to hell, Bristol, I thought I told you to flush that purity ring down the crapper.)

I tell you, brothers and sisters, REAL American kids are our secret weapon. How else do you measure FAMILY VALUES? Our motto is: YOU GOTTA BREED TO SUCCEED. Shout it out: YOU GOTTA BREED TO SUCCEED.

And it's more than a motto, my friends. It's the bulwark of our Republican platform and policy prescriptions:

Immigration policy: Breed more REAL American kids and who needs wetbacks to do lawns?

Foreign Policy and Defense: Breed more REAL American kids and you got cannon fodder for wars for the NEXT HUNDRED YEARS as John McCain promised.

Energy Policy: Breed more REAL American kids and you got cannon fodder for wars the NEXT HUNDRED YEARS to fight for OIL, OIL, OIL as John McCain promised.

Medicare: Breed more REAL American kids and who cares if old geezers live or die (whoops, sorry John, this plank may need some tweaking...but then again, come to think of it...ummmm......).
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I could go on and on, but I ain't no policy wonkette. For that, you gotta hear Mitt Romney, whose 116 days spent in Massachusetts out of the 1460 days he was governor of that lousy liberal Eastern media elite blue state (hey, we can call 'em names -- ain't got a snowball's chance in that hell anyways) made him uniquely qualified for absolutely nothing (sorry, Mitzi darling).

But I'll tell you one thing, my friends: MITT AND ANN ROMNEY ARE CHAMPION BREEDERS. Why, Mitt's already had five strapping boys by Ann (count 'em again: FIVE -- and who knows how many more by who else in spiritual unions -- those Mormons, ain't they a hoot?). And, aaaand -- wait for it -- those five...those FIVE -- and the oldest of those darlin' boys not yet twenty, jes' three years older than my own sweetie Bristol -- have already sprouted -- ohmygod ohmygod (pace Richard Russo) -- ELEVEN, yeah ELEVEN shoots. So, how many is that -- my 'rithmetic ain't so swift -- yeah, SIXTEEN, SIXTEEN more REAL American Republicans marchin' up the Mass Pike.
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My friends, over this past weekend I have gotten to know John McCain and his present wife Cindy real well. Well, not Cindy really, but John I got to know real well. John...Sidney...McCain...III. Cindy... Lou... Hensley ...McCain. Now those are some REAL all-American names to conjure with, ain't they? REAL. WHITE. ANGLO. SAXON. PROTESTANT. AMERICAN names. Sure, John's a short lil shrimp, jes' 5' 7", but he'll be a real hands-on President, I'll tell you that fer free. He's such a cutie pie. Why, he says when we're in the White House, that closet off the Oval Room would be jes' perfect fer our private Bible Study lessons, praise the Lord, so he can come into Jesus' bosom. (Actually, he said, Jeeezus Keeerist...mumble mumble...bosom, but that's what I think he meant.) And he says to call him Maverick -- he jes' loooves that Top Gun movie -- how 5' 6" Tom gets that 5' 10" Kelly even after ditchin' his plane and all.

And that Cindy Lou, ain't she jes' drop dead gorgeous? Sure, she's a mite shorter than me, but she's got oodles and boodles of dough she inherited from her dead pappy and she's got a face job to die for. (Hey, I grew up with plastic surgeons, I told ya.) Jes' 'nother of John Sidney's willowy blondes, you say? A carbon copy clone of Carol before she shrunk a bit? Who else, huh, who else? Vicki Iseman? Who are you, buster, an embedded DemocRAT? A New York Times reporter? Out. OUT. OOOOOUT.

(Sgt. Wootten of the Alaska Dogsled Police tasers offender, dumps twitching body out back of the convention hall.)

We all know John Sidney could have become a desk Admiral even though he ditched his plane and all (well, maybe not, not after ditching his crippled wife and kid as well), but he chose to put his ego aside to become a Senate liaison, arranging liaisons for Senators (and a coupla two fer himself on the side, I bet -- that John Sidney, what a card !) and keepin' their supplies of Scotch safe for democracy as they were boondogglin' in Saudi. From there, it was a hop, skip and a jump onto Cindy (wash your dirty minds out with soap, you ), buyin' a few elections, savin' a few S&L's, helpin' out a coupla builders and Telcos, and now its onward and upward to becoming President of the United States and redeemer of the whole WASP race. America, what a country!
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As for me, there really ain't much to tell. No, really. Truly.

Well, awright, I got Mr. Todd Impalin' for a husband. He's out carousin' 'bout 'leven months of the year, yet I gets five kids. Go figure. (I thought he'd be shootin' blanks last time, but noooooooooo...I TOLD YOU TO GET IT SNIPPED, MISTER...you did? When? All right, all right, can we have this discussion some other time?)

Been huntin' 'n fishin' since I was a tadpole. (Crowd sings: Killed herself a polar bar when she was only three......Sarah......Sarah Palin). Was mayor of Wasisname, pop. 5,740. Whoopee ding. Moved up to Juneau, pop. 31,140. Double whoopee dingding. Been tryin' to hightail it outa that frozen wasteland fer years, and now here comes John Sidney and gives me my chance. Praise the Lord. God is Great (whoops, that's what those heathen Hajjis yell). Is America a great country or what?

But I get real mad when people say I got no foreign experience or nothin'. Look, I been to the lower forty-eight, haven't I? How much more foreign do you want? I went to school in Moscow, Idaho -- the Athens of the West -- should get two points for that. I shushed some Russkis trawling for tuna outa Anchorage harbor that one time -- Karl says we can build 'em up to be the lead dogs for the invading Imperial Russian Navy. And I went ballistic on them Canucks corralling caribou up Ketchikan way.
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Now I know I weren't John Sidney's first, second or mebbe even his tenth choice. The K Street cabal were rooting for Chauncey Gardiner, but he was dead. John's first choice were Katherine Harris -- that squirt were the only one shorter than him he could find -- but no dice, Jebbo's got first dibs on her, I guess.

Kelly McGillis were next, how could he not give her a tryout, she's John's all-time favorite gal. The L-word didn't put him off, he says he's too broad-minded (wink wink) for that. In fact, he says it would add a certain je ne sais quoi or did he say menage a trois, whatever, John just loves his French. But the handlers nixed it: the homos wouldn't vote for the ticket anyways (other than Ralphie, Grover, Billie, Dinnie and the rest of those neocon sweeties) and the Hillary L-crowd polled off the charts for me. Now ain't that a hoot!

Then came Mariel Hemingway -- John Sidney just loooooved her -- but the NRA put the kibosh on that one 'cause of what happened to Papa.

Then that b**** Paris -- can you believe she turned John Sidney down 'cause she were dating Hussein Obama? Well, John nailed her good through that ad, didn't he? That's my John, he can be sooooooo mean. But mostly only when he's a tad likkered up, rest of the time he's such a sweetie.

Then there were ... who? Cynthia Geary? Who's that? Ohmygod ohmygod ... you don't mean Shelly Tambo ... Northern Exposure ... Miss Northwest Passage ... she was such a goddess ... the one who secretly married that hunky hockey player and then shacked up with that runty ole guy that owned the bar. (What's that you say? Life imitating art? I. DIDN'T. HEAR. THAT.)

Well, long story short, after he'd thoroughly personally wetted all the other candidates, yesterday John Sidney propositioned ... I mean, proposed to ... scratch that, nominated me.
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