Okay, so the DNC is tiredly introducing some anti-Rush Limbaugh billboards in Rush's current hometown of West Palm Beach, Florida. Here is a picture their thunderingly dull and un-clever brainchild:
So, they're gonna, what? Drive slowly around his office all day, blaring a horn that plays "La Cucaracha?" Wasn't that whole Rush thing, like, back in February? I was sort of led to believe that the rest of the world had abandoned that fat snot goblin and moved on to other, different easy targets, like that HORRIBLE airline food, and the differences between the black people and the white people. Oh -- I should probably stipulate that, thanks to a small business loan, I've been running a detective agency since January, and that, like the tragically short-lived David Hasselhoff series Baywatch Nights, I run my detective agency out of a club venue. Only, instead of a nightclub, It's a stand-up comedy club called the Giggle Pants Laff Factory in the Commerce Plaza strip mall in Independence. I'm only allowed to interview potential clients between 12-minute sets, and we have to be quiet while the acts are onstage.
Since they won't let me install internet access at my office (table eight), I rely on the comedians for all of my current events, and believe me, those guys have a ton of opinions on what it might be like if Christopher Walken worked at a variety of unlikely occupations. Call center operator? Best Buy car stereo installer? Kegel excercise instructor? Just imagine a flat, halting Christopher Walken-esque voice saying, "A good way to find your kegel muscles is to imagine that you are sitting on a marble and want to pick up that marble with your vagina." You name the esoteric or comedically banal occupation, and these Van-Dutch-T-shirt-and-jeans-wearing raconteurs-with-suburban-goatees can speculate for -- well, for up to 12 minutes at a time about Christopher Walken's job performance. So, that's a thing, right? Everyone is talking about Christopher Walken? Again, I'm asking for information, here, because what with sleeping all day and then working at my small, comedy-club-based detective business at night, I can't be 100 percent sure that the world outside the walls of the Giggle Pants Laff Factory isn't just as consumed with interest in Christopher Walken. Or that the Newshour with Jim Lehrer isn't just as preoccupied with how much time women spend in the damn bathroom as Bobby "Bagadonuts" Baldone, a Los Angeles-based stand-up comic who may hire me to follow and take pictures of his ex-wife, assuming he gets confirmed for the Douchebags of Indifferent Celebrity Impressions Comedy Tour in May.
In order to get all the way through the next tedious sentence, I'm probably going to have to stop right in the middle for a shot of Wild Turkey, a cigarette and a KFC Famous Bowl. SO. There's some debate amongst the mortarboard-wearing provosts or whatever at Notre Dame about whether or not Barack Obama should be allowed to give a commencement address to their graduating class this year because
the president believes that ladies are the bosses of their vaginas. Are they seriously concerned that the President of the U.S. would give a commencement address on the subject of abortion advocacy? As a one- and sometimes two-fisted hard-boiled private detective with one foot in the grave, the other foot in just a huge box of shell casings, both hands inside the liquor cabinet of a client who stepped out of the room for a minute and a torso drenched in the blood of baby panda bears*, sometimes I wonder how Americans became such unbelievable pussies that they just can't bear listening to the voice of somebody that they disagree with. What would your railyard-working grandfather say if he heard that listening to somebody whose opinion varied in some way from your own opinion just absolutely made you want to barf? The truth is that he would have called you a fairy, because your grandpa was an unacceptable old homophobe, and that was a different and less tolerant era in American history (the 1970s). I'm actually really sorry and embarrassed that I brought up your grandpa at this point. But I think that his argument -- that you're probably something less than a man if you can't even listen to the other guy talk -- is pretty much valid.
*See Chris Packham and the Mystery of the Baby Panda Bears Who Wouldn't Stop Whining Like He Fucking Told Them To.