Light snow, big wind

Oh noes, it's the Blizzard of 2012!

April showers, May flowers, yeah, right, got it. But my idea of “April showers” does not involve a gram of snow scattered across the Lesser Bibleburg Metropolitan Area by 35-mph winds. All a guy gets out of that is cold.

Could be worse, though. Apparently not satisfied with making chumps out of Rick “Governor Goodhair” Perry and Ron Paul on the national stage, God laid a dozen tornadoes on the Dallas-Fort Worth area, where they caused several million dollars worth of improvements.

Elsewhere, a three-judge panel of the 5th Judicial District is in “full wingnut mode,” according to Mother Jones; Gawker’s Hamilton Nolan chats up David Duke’s old gang, the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan (as I did back in the Seventies, when I spoke with The Head Hood Hisself); and the RomneyBot v2.012 wins the GOP primary in my birth state of Maryland.

But lest you think the contest over, know this: Rick Sphinctorum says it’s only “halftime.” Jesus wept.

SweaterFest 2012 comes to Bibleburg

The would-be Sweater Vest-in-Chief, Rick “Man On Dog” Santorum, is bringing his clown act back to Bibleburg this morning.

The Frothy One has garnered the endorsement of fundamentalist windbag Jimmy Dobson and other local wingnuts and is expected to do well here in today’s caucus because the Bibleburg wing of the GOP loves nothing better than some bad noise from a pudgy loser (yes, I’m looking at you, Dougie Bruce).

In fact, if the pope’s bestest little soldier cares to stick around until the 13th, he can catch Bruce’s sentencing for his conviction upon (among other things) filing a false return, evading state taxes, attempting to influence a public servant and failing to file returns between 2005 and 2010. Good times.

Meanwhile, the venue for today’s SweaterFest seems appropriate. It’s The Depot, a failed restaurant turned “events center” that’s conveniently located just a stone’s throw from the Marion House Soup Kitchen, which serves the refugees from our last Republican administration.

Very few sweater vests in that congregation, the members of which are still waiting for life to begin after conception.

Notes from the 1,094,245th GOP debate

First off, though clearly one of these yahoos may become president, anyone who thinks one of them should be president needs a hole punched in his or her skull so that the bats may escape.

Jabba the Newt should be deported to Tatooine to keep all his ex-wives’ grandmothers company.

Rick Sphinctorum needs an enema. Preferably from Dan Savage. He sounds like Milton Waddams squeaking about his stapler.

Ron Paul is hereby awarded a “No-Class Warfare” T-shirt with goldbug cluster for shamelessly courting white supremacists, militias and survivalists with racist, anti-Semitic, homophobic newsletters and not having the sack to man up about having done it.

And the RomneyBot 2012 needs to be locked into a portable toilet at the U.S.-Mexico border and forced to listen to a replay of each and every lie he’s told while running for president, in both English and Spanish.

Finally, Wolf Blitzer should be welded into a 55-gallon drum full of tarantulas, scorpions and the vengeful ghost of Edward R. Murrow, then rolled off the stern of a garbage scow into the Marianas Trench, for that blindingly stupid fucking question about whose wife would make the best first lady.

The cheese does not stand alone

The more things change, etc.

So, dead heat between Mitt Romney and Rick Santorum in Iowa, eh? Guess nobody bothered to write in Haywood Jablomie, Jack Meehoff or I.P. Freeley.

Watching the food fight over the GOP pestilential nomination has been like watching a Coen Brothers treatment of Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72.” Or maybe a round of musical chairs with all the participants crazed on mescaline.

Mitt Romney keeps smiling because he owns all the chairs, the building in which they sit and the surrounding properties to boot. But that doesn’t make him any less a bag of runny owlshit that nobody’s buying as long as there’s anything else for sale.

The big cheese may eventually stand alone. All the smart money’s on it. But right now he’s doing a tango with Man-On-Dog Santorum, and he can’t be feeling too frothy about it.