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.

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