The Potemkin Pizza Man

Rockey Vaccarella is just like Cindy Sheehan, only…. he made reservations for dinner, right? Is that what they’re asking us to swallow?

And in fact, Vaccarella seemed very confident that he would be meeting with Bush when he left home, to the point where he had a date scheduled and everything:

“Dinner with the President is planned for the evening of August 22nd.”

This guy, this “distressed citizen,” owner of 31 Pizza Huts and former republican candidate for dog catcher or something, who is now softly cooing about “four more years” into whatever microphone put in front of him… this is our new American icon? Am I supposed to buy this?

Nobody is slipping “intellectual-curiosity tablets” in MY afternoon coffee, but do I… hm… sniff sniff…. hmmm…smell… a rat? Or is that the Ninth Ward slowly turning back into marshland while Halliburton pushes piles of trash from one side of the street to the other?

There’s a big pile of trash that needs to be pushed, but I was thinking it was OUT OF WASHINGTON.

Warning- totally New Orleanian inside joke: No wonder Carlo won’t talk to the motherfucker.

you swallowed that? I was worried I was gonna step in it…

He’s traded his flight suit for a bookbag, and I’m not swallowing THAT either. Kathleen Parker, on the other hand, doesn’t even bother to hold her nose:

This theory occurred to me not long ago at an off-the-record luncheon with Bush and a hundred or so of his supporters. I was the guest of a guest, and welcomed the opportunity to observe the president in his natural habitat.

What I witnessed was revealing. Not only was the man fluent in the English language and intellectually agile, he was knowledgeable on a wide range of subjects raised during a 90-minute Q&A. Someone apparently had been slipping intellectual-curiosity tablets into Bush’s cola.

Wait, wait! I have an idea! Here’s how we make Bush seem less like an idiot… find a BIG PASSEL of even stupider people… No, you’re gonna love this, I promise…

Tucker Carlson= the bug. Fate and Jon Stewart= the windshield.

TRex with the gleeful forensic analysis of The Smoking Wreck (formerly known as the journalistic career of Tucker Carlson).

And it has been a long fall. I remember not two years ago, you were ubiquitous. Your self-satisfied smirk was everywhere. The sun never set on your arrogance, oh, yes, I remember! You were the de facto voice of former Reagan Youth everywhere, the pre-NeoCon avatar of a nation of Alex Keatons, all graduated from your cushy private universities and ready to take on the world with a million smug little quips and snotty asides. You gave hopes of relevance to a million mental midgets just like you who knew in their hearts that their fathers’ money and boarding-school bona-fides did made them, well, better than everyone else. Your smug condescension inspired an army of imitators. It’s thanks to you that the Hinderakers, the Jonah Goldbergs, and Ben Fergusons get any air-time at all. Those kids should be sending you flowers every day, shouldn’t they Tucker? Without you, they’d never have gotten past the Pox News green-room!

I gotta say, For me, Tucker’s most odious moment was when he conflated John Kerry and Osama bin Ladin because they both called GW’s Excellent Adventure “a disaster.”

I guess we’re all Osama now, turdstain.

Dance, turdstain, dance.