I Know What You Did Last Hummer

There comes a time when a conservablogger gets a golden opportunity to take off the Klingon uniform, leave his mom's basement for a few hours (allowing her finally to Febreze the captain's chair and the futon, much to her blessed relief), and strap on a pair of golden kneepads. Dear Leader has provided several lucky 'tards just such an opportunity, you'd best believe they did not waste that chance at sweet, sweet war-chowder, tapped directly from the source.

It was very cool. The President of the United States slapped my hand and called me “brutha”. Top that....

Um, okay. I'll try. How's this: I once met Kip Winger, and he was actually very cool. He even let me call him "Kip", while I wager that these guys were just too caught up the majesty of a reg'lar guy that talks to them like he's Huggy Bear or something.

I mean, this stuff barely fits the realm of "empty-headed crap". No one expected any of these tools to be the least bit adversarial about anything, but I'm still not sure we thought they'd be this slavishly sycophantic. This is a chihuahua nervously wagging its tail, endlessly seeking approval, maybe a nice pat on the head.

There are a lot of things that adults can and should be seriously discussing in the context of policy objectives and abject failures. But these are not adults; this was a birthday party for a hopelessly spoiled five-year-old, is all. Can he count on your unwavering support, if he slaps your hand and calls you "brutha", so's he don't hafta remember your name? You betchum.

Usually the old saying is that we know what you are, we're just haggling over the price. These clowns are not haggling, because there is no price. They're more than happy to put out for free.