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Just Like Seein’ Bigfoot

You know how whenever anyone sees Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster or Ogopogo, they’re so freaked out that they can’t snap a decent picture of what’s obviously, definitely, not horseshit and is instead really right in front of them? So what you get is something that looks like a large, blurry man in a Bigfoot suit:

Bigfoot Classic

Or a snorkeler with a Monster-Shaped Sock Puppet:

Loch Ness Monster

Or I guess sometimes yes, they do get a decent picture of Ogopogo. Watch out, kids!

Ogopogo

Well that’s how I feel when I see a Women For Romney bumper sticker. Let me tell you something – they are OUT there. You just have to keep your eyes open. My friend Spang and I call each other when we see them – ohmygod, ohmygod, OHMYGOD! TOM! I SAW ONE!

Then we get cosmos. Other than that, we’re pretty manly.

But not the bumper sticker. I’ve never been able to get a clear picture of one, but here’s an artist’s rendition straight from my own personal Google Image files:

Women For Romney

See? It’s pink – that means chicks dig it. And some of the letters are all fancy, like a girl wrote it on her notebook, a girl who doesn’t just “like” Romney, but who “‘like’ likes” him. Sometimes they don’t even get bumper stickers, they just spray paint their whole Romney-ending name all over their car, as if they’ve already married him and his First Wife. Stephanie Meredith Romney! In a big heart, you know.

But anyway, today I saw this cryptozoological wonder cross my path:

Bigfoot2

Holy shit! Christians For Obama!

At first, I didn’t even comprehend it. Why would Christians ever vote for a guy who is not only a Muslim, but also a Satanist AND an Atheist? FROM KENYA?

I don’t know, but this guy not only did it, but he’s permanently bragging about it on his car! Who’s driving it, Mothman??

I’ll tell you, it was a spiritual experience, like looking the Abominable Snowman right in the eye across a card table, thinking, “He’s got the jack. He doesn’t have the jack. HE’S GOT THE JACK!”

Surely you can relate. Anyway, someone needs to fly me to Loch Ness or to Bigfoot Town (Canada? Seattle? I don’t know where Bigfoot lives) cause do you see how I calmly stopped texting while I was driving, and snapped a picture of the Sasquatchmobile? I’m like motherscratching Steve McQueen, baby.

Cool, now I have to go run this by some network execs, make some scratch. Don’t show anybody, blogosphere, because it’s not worth any money that way.

Bigfoot SuitNow, I know a lot of you are like, Tom, that could just be a Jesus Fish Eating A Darwin Fish bumper sticker wearing a Christians For Obama bumper sticker suit. Like when those knuckleheads said they had Bigfoot in a freezer and instantly, pre-Tom-On-Facebook, someone came to my desk to show me their Facebook page and asked me what I thought of it.

I said, “Well, shit, I’d say that’s either Bigfoot in a freezer, or it’s a Bigfoot Suit in a freezer. And since we already know there are Bigfoot suits, and since we don’t know if there’s Bigfoot, etc., etc. etc.”

Well – we’ll just have to let Science decide, and Science can tell History, and someone from Television can give me a check, is how I think this works. I’m going to get a new suit and a steak dinner, you guys stay here in case my studio check shows up.

 

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Obama Vs. Osama Vs. You

When the hunt for Osama bin Laden began years ago, I’ll tell you where I thought he probably was:  Vegas.

I figured, he keeps releasing these videos of himself in front of a cave wall, and that’s all we know about where he is, so that’s probably false.  He’s probably kicking it in Vegas in a big crazy suite, and they put up a little cave wall sound stage and filmed videos once in a while, and then when he’s done, he takes off his turban and puts on a suit and some shades, and heads to the casino.  Who the hell would think to question a billionaire in the VIP lounge?

I remember the rumor even surfaced – is bin Laden in Vegas?  And then the Vegas police wisecracked, “We’ve checked all the caves in the area.”

Which of course, they hadn’t.  And also, of course, that would be a stupid place for a billionaire in Vegas to hide.

Suffice it to say, like most people, I’ve thought about this day and how it would play out.  How we’d react to the inevitable capture or killing of Osama bin Laden.

And now it’s here – and I don’t know how to feel.

Sure, no doubt – if anyone deserves a bullet in the head it’s this guy.  I’m not sorry we killed him, and I’m as always enthralled to the point of awe by our Navy SEALs and their mythical badassery.  But the problem is, nothing ever ends with a bullet in the head.  

Murder – even the murder of a murderer – is always, always, the beginning of something else.  We have not convinced any terrorist networks that they should leave us alone, of course we haven’t.  It’s the opposite.  And did we freeze any assets?  Disassemble any command structures?  Let’s be clear – I don’t know any of this, but neither do you. 

And what can I say?  I’m never comfortable celebrating death.  

I’ll tell you where I was when I got the news.  I was waking up this morning after a Nyquil coma, and my pal Shawn had texted me, and he said what I said already – Osama bin Laden is dead, and I don’t know how to feel.

Click on the television, log on to Facebook, walk out into the street, and I find all my reservations and fears walking the Earth in human form.  Mindless cheering and Super Bowl chants – USA!  USA!  Conspiracy theories hot off the presses.  And yes, you bet your ass, allegations that Obama not only does everything wrong including poop, he also kills bin Laden incorrectly, yes he sure does.

“I just think the timing is suspicious,” I must have heard a dozen times, and you know, it’s hard not to crack my skull in half screaming at a statement like that.  Because think about it for a half a second and you’ll see that in order to be suspicious about such a thing, you must believe that Obama or the United States in general had some kind of choice with regards to the timing.  That we could have killed Osama bin Laden any time, and chose to wait until right now because it made so much sense.

Except it doesn’t.  Politically, if this were a stunt, this is the worst possible time for Obama to drop the head of Osama bin Laden before the America people.  A better time would have been right off the bat, say, Day One.  Or if he needed time to get his staff in place before exercising the – in this theory – simple Kill Bin Laden Option, right about six months or so, when Health Care Reform was clunking through.

Or the midterm elections.  Or the 2012 elections.

There’s nothing going on right now, politically, to make this a good play – even if it were a “play.”

It would be awesome if bin Laden were the Joker and now we got him, and Gotham City was safe for all time, but all of that is comic book and silly.  Bin Laden was one head of a globe-spanning hydra, and make no mistake, two more heads are sprouting as I type, right from the stump.

Not saying he shouldn’t have died, and not saying I’m sorry he died – just that I draw the line at doing a little dance about it, because it isn’t the end of anything, and it doesn’t raise the World Trade Center from its ashes or thousands of innocent victims from their graves.

The bottom line is, we got the guy we were looking for.  But what that guy wanted more than anything was to divide this nation and watch it fall, just like the Twin Towers fell, and here we are, ten years later, and yes, we got him, but yes, we’re still divided and still falling, and how far away can we possibly be from hitting the ground?

If I had a couple of wishes it would be that we reflect with more solemnity on what it means to deal death from this patriotic deck of cards we hold, and that we all for once get behind our legally and decisively elected leader, and stand as a nation not just for revenge, but for an end to a need for this kind of killing.  For a real, introspective revolution to take place among every American, about what exactly we’ve been doing as a nation that makes people want to destroy us, and for us to reserve our cheering for the day when peace rears its head, instead of these horrific, gruesome touchdowns.

Videos of blood splattered on walls, American citizens chanting like WWF fans – I have to tell you my friends.  I’m embarrassed.  I’m embarrassed by us, once again.

And I’m probably as terrified as I’ve been since actual 9/11, because there are far worse things than airplanes in this world, and one thing is certain:  This.  Is. Not. Over.

You want to try and score points on Obama on this historic day, go ahead.  I’ll tell you what I would do if I were him – I’d be so sick of hearing it from the people I’m protecting that I’d decline a second term.  I’d just say you know what, I showed you my birth certificate, I ordered the strike that killed bin Laden, and I’m moving to Kenya now, and I’m taking the Secret Service with me, cause I get them for life – how do you like those apples?

That, in my opinion, is the level of respect we deserve from this guy.  It’s fortunate for every man, woman and child in America that Barack Obama is a better man than I am.

 

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Trump And The Art Of Douchebaggery

I just checked, and there are apparently no synonyms for “douchebag.” 

I really wanted to find one, because I’m sitting here laughing my ass off at what a stupid, bald-headed, pathetic, douchebag Donald Trump is, and I really don’t like that word.  Douchebag.

But it lacks synonyms for good reason – no other word comes close to really describing someone like Trump.

This is a man who talks with a straight face about running for President when pretty close to everyone in the nation sees that as a hilarious joke.  I mean, we’d vote for Charlie Sheen or Sarah Palin LONG before this douchebag.  Literally.

Here’s a guy who buys the Miss America pageant.  A gross, old, mid-life crisis guy who isn’t happy driving his Ferarri to a high-class strip bar and making sure everyone sees him with the Super Prostitutes, so they know what a Man he is.  Here’s a guy who can’t just pay a supermodel to marry him, like a normal multi-millionaire.

No, he’s got to buy the Miss America Pageant, and no, he’s not compensating for anything, why on Earth would you suggest such a thing?  He’s obviously a serious stud – that’s why the hilarious hair piece and the fifty plastic runway models with his name stamped on their butts, and the delusional-unless-he’s-joking-and-I-sure-hope-he-is presidential ambitions.

Keeping his name out there – I gotcha.  Smart.  Savvy.  Business-y.

Except did you notice how Warren Buffet and Bill Gates completely dwarf this overgrown frat boy economically, and yet they don’t see the need to walk around acting like douchebags about it?

He’s insecure.  That’s clearly the problem.  All the other Multi-millionaires in the Multi-Millionaire club – they don’t take him seriously enough.  Sometimes when he hits on super models, they tell him, you know, there are younger, less gross multi-millionaires around.

And it just makes his wrinkled, white ass steam, doesn’t it?  I’ll show you supermodels – I’ll buy an unholy army of you!

The most recent example of what a dumb, impotent, dollar-sign-for-a-Johnson punchline of a human being this guy is, would be the way he decided to throw in with the Birthers, a weird move since most Birthers lack the money or the confidence or whatever, to be real douchebags.

You might say, they aspire to douchebaggery.  Which is nice – perhaps Trump will be their mighty king.

If that’s what he’s angling for though, he’s off to a rocky start.  After announcing that he’s “very concerned” that President Obama might not have been born in this country, Trump made what I’m sure he thought was going to be an aggressive, type-A Alpha Dog move, straight from the black heart of the Eighties Themselves, when he posted his own birth certificate on Newsmax, boasting that it only took him an hour to come up with it.

I guess the idea was to say, “See, Obama?  It’s not that hard, just show us the birth certificate like I did.”

Except because Trump’s such a douchebag, he didn’t check to see if it was really a birth certificate, and it’s not.  So, hmmm – not quite as easy as you thought, was it tough guy?

If he were really the President (BLARG – sorry, just did one of those burps where it tastes like barf, you know?) and the Birthers were questioning where he was born (which no one is), well this wouldn’t cut it.  They’d all clap their hands to their cheeks and go, “AHHHHHHH!!!!  That’s not a real birth certificate and it also says Jamaica on it!”

Except no, they wouldn’t do that, because Donald Trump is white.  A white douchebag, to be sure, but he’s white all right, and where are white people born again Birthers?

America, that’s right.  And Trump is one of the whitest people I’ve ever heard of, and no, not in a good way, I’m afraid. 

Anyway, leave it to Trump’s gaggle of lap dog employees to clean this up for him.  After mouthing off about how simple it ought to be, and then screwing it up like some kind of Three’s Company subplot, he sends out his personal bootlicker to ironically tell everyone to stop being such a bunch of sticklers about birth certificates.

The little toad man – actually a lawyer named Cohen – even praises his douchebag boss for having the incorrect document.  (From the CNN article Trump aide says release of unofficial birth certificate an ‘oversight’)

“It’s incredible he has that,” Cohen said. “I know I don’t have mine.”

Yes, that sure is incredible, my friend.  It’s incredible that he was trying to make a point about how simple it is to show a birth certificate and then did exactly what he was bitching about Obama doing the whole time.  And it’s incredible how you stuck your smarmy little snout up his ass for it, yes, that’s incredible, too. 

I’ll bet he loves going golfing with you, doesn’t he, Cohen?  “Good shot, sir!  Good shot, sir!  Good shot, sir!”

God, I’m so disgusted I’m banging my face against this desk and I can’t even feel it.  For the love of God, man, this guy’s like Zapp Branigan but he’s not funny. 

Here’s the best part – when someone pointed out to Trump that the hospital placed ads showing Obama’s birth in the paper within days, here’s what he had to say:

“That was placed in the paper days after he was born,” he told Fox. “He could have come into the country and then did it for social reasons – for whatever reasons.”

Ah, yes, that makes perfect sense.  Obama wasn’t born in the country, he was born elsewhere and then slithered in and placed sneaky ads in the paper days later, because he was not only capable of doing that at forty-eight hours of age, but he had every reason to since he knew he’d eventually get elected President.

Unless you’re thinking time travel – is that it, Trump?  You figure ACORN went back in time and placed those ads?

You know what, I was wrong – there is a synonym for douchebag, and it’s you, Donald Trump.  Your name is the synonym.  That’s also the reason the President of the United States is not showing his birth certificate – because he doesn’t have to jump every time a bunch of douchebags and their Apprentices tell him to.  He can just say, why don’t you morons shut the hell up, the People have already spoken.  And We have.

Please.  Please.  Please, Trump – run for President, you comically stupid douchebag, and bring your boot-licking lawyers with you.  I’ll put on some banjo music and pretend I’m watching WWF while Obama kicks the living shit out of you right in front of me and every supermodel in America.  

That sounds like a hoot, yes it surely does.  And it sounds more likely than Barack Obama doing anything – anything at all – just because you’re feeling “concerned” about it.

Douchebag.

 
 

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Obama Poops Wrong, Conservatives Agree

A recent poll of self-described conservatives, as well as independents who are full of crap and are actually Republicans, revealed a startling list of things Barack Obama does incorrectly, including pooping and pooping-related activities.

“I poop in a Port-a-John on a construction site, usually,” said one Southern Ohio respondent.  “Have you ever seen Barack Obama poop in a Port-a-John?  This guy’s supposed to represent us, but the only place he wants to poop is an Air Force One toilet with a fully-functional French bidet in it?  I don’t think so.”

Over 81% of respondents agreed that President Obama should make an effort to not be such a limp-wristed sissy boy about where he poops, and to try harder to connect with Main Street Poopers, some of whom are perfectly happy pooping outdoors in broad daylight.

“What I want to know,” said another respondent, “is how does he have all this time to sit around pooping when there are three wars, a crisis in Japan, and the NCAA tournament going on?”

This was a common sentiment – fully 915% of respondents agreed that no matter what, the President should never be doing anything except talking into a microphone to the American people, talking on the phone to other world leaders, giving the thumbs up to military commanders, washing cars for conservative Senators, and extending tax cuts for really, crazy rich people.

Similarly, the same poll suggested that when a President is elected, his duty lies not in meeting his campaign promises, but instead in obeying the most recent polls, which are really like four-dimensional voting vortexes, trumping the actual votes with their temporal, polymorphic Super Accuracy Pellets of American Consensus.

For example, 51% of respondents agreed that any majority in any poll at all is reason enough to completely invalidate the policies a candidate ran under. 

Like health care reform, which was a cornerstone of Obama’s campaign – and which did among other things get him elected – but then certain polls showed that if you rephrased his campaign promises using more conservative language and repeated use of the word “comrade,” a majority was against the same promises.

That’s the tricky, metaphysical way that the American people voted for a man who promised health care reform with a public option, but then staunchly agreed that such a thing would be a communist, soul-destroying attack on everything America ever stood for.  In just six months.

Which is also why the Republicans won the House in the next election, a clear mandate from the American people to Washington:  Do everything the Republicans say, do it the way they say it, and maybe we should be throwing garbage at the President whenever he walks into a room, instead of playing that one President song.

You don’t need to yell at us, 88% of respondents agreed – because polls don’t lie unless they’re bullshit left wing media polls, which are dumb.

Other statistical surprises:

  • 77% suspected the President doesn’t fold the toilet paper before wiping his butt, instead balling it up, which they described as “wasteful,” “lazy,” and “not very green.”
  • Just 12% believed that Barack Obama had the stones to pee in the shower, instead stepping out to use the toilet like a simpering, pansy-ass Mama’s Boy. 
  • Among the foods that Obama should not be eating, respondents overwhlemingly chose chicken, beef, carrots, anything green, lamb, tacos, portabello mushrooms, pizza, turkey burgers, sushi, eggs, turnips, Pez, cereal, fruit, hot dogs, popcorn, spaghetti, fish, candy bars, Girl Scout Cookies, Slim Jims, peanut products, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
  • A solid 100% believed that the President bombed Libya too late, with another 100% agreeing that he never should have bombed Libya because he’s Kenyan and not really the President.  Five million percent were outraged that the French got to bomb Libya first, while 8% believed that Libya had nothing to do with pooping at all.
  • 166% of respondents described the specifics of Obama’s pooping preferences as both “an outrage against God” and “definitely some of our business.” 
  • One bright spot for the President, the respondents were in unanimous agreement that Obama could potentially do something right, if for example he were to announce publicly that everything he does is wrong and then resign.
  • The study also showed that although the vast majority – eight million percent – sincerely and fervently prayed to God every single morning and night that Obama would magically turn white, a significant portion admitted to an irrational fear of such a development, many of them citing the Joker’s feelings toward Batman, and the whole Who Would I Hate If He Were Gone thing.
  • 100% of respondents indicated that the First Lady should never speak or leave the White House, though admittedly 0% were able to come up with a complete sentence which could be accurately attributed to Mrs. Obama.
  • 87% believed that the President’s bracket was “wasteful” and “possibly homosexual and communist at the same time,” whatever that means.
  • Suggestions were varied in terms of what Obama might be able to do to change his abysmal poll ratings, some suggesting that he resign (70%), leave the planet (88%), fornicate with an intern (66%) or get really into an addictive X-Box game, like Starcraft 2 or Gears of War(44%) and not come out of his basement til he beats it.

 

Either way, the poll spells trouble for Obama, who was no doubt relying on the Comically Confused And/Or Racist Vote for re-election in 2012.  The White House has declined to comment on the poll, citing “fiction,” “satire,” and a “lack of interest in blogs and bloggers.”

 
4 Comments

Posted by on March 26, 2011 in Fiction, News/Commentary

 

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Future Tom Blog Force: Stupid Rising

Spang and I were wearing cowboy hats for some reason, getting some sweet, Eastwood-caliber lighting going on our profiles, so we made sure to use really serious, scratchy voices when we talked to each other, because we’d already agreed to be fictional today.  And we were floating on an iceberg in the Arctic Ocean, our ostriches tethered next to us, and yes, they were wearing hats, too.

Spang smacked his lips and shivered and said, “Why so fictional?  This is kind of distracting and my toes hurt.”

“Aliens,” I told him, and then we squinted at the sunset for a solid forty seconds, nodding.  It had been exactly three and a half days since either of us had shaved.

Spang finally said, “I’m not following you.  I was talking about conservatives, and how after eight years of staunchly insisting that war protesters were unpatriotic for speaking out against the President, they’re suddenly perfectly fine with talking about Barack Obama like he’s a hunchbacked busboy in a Victorian Era nut house, and throwing garbage at him, too.”

“They’re pretty comfortable with that,” I agreed.  “How about when that one guy stood up and screamed ‘You lie!’  Can you imagine if a liberal Congressman did that to Bush circa 2002?  Now go ahead and imagine a black liberal Congressman.”

“Pandemonium, that’s what it would be,” Spang said.  “I mean, the whole thing begs the question:  What exactly is Barack Obama allowed to do that doesn’t suck?  I mean, can he go to the bathroom?  Eat a cheeseburger?  Have sex with his wife?  Pet his dog?  What?”

Absolutely true – it was all over Facebook. “The guy fills out a bracket and shoots a round of golf, and instantly every Johnny Conservative on Facebook is wondering why with all the trouble in the world, the President has time for anything except constant, solid, 24-hour Presidenting.”

“And then God forbid the guy should actually fly to Japan,” Spang pointed out.  “First thing you’ll hear is, how much did it cost for Obama to go to Japan?  Is Obama wasting your tax dollars in Japan?  Did he bow too low?”

“And not just that,” I said.  “All over Facebook it would then say, hey, why’s he helping Japan when we have plenty of problems over here?”

“Where’s our bailout!?”

“It’s disrespectful, plain and simple.  So blatantly disrespectful that it’s hard to let it slide.” 

Spang shook his head and said, “But damn it, you know – I’m trying to just ignore it, because it’s so unbelievably, irrationally, nauseatingly stupid I hate to justify it with a response.  And also, I’m afraid to find out if these people I know and hang out with sometimes – are they actually the rock stupid idiots they appear to be when they talk like that?  Or do they know that what they’re saying is bullshit, but they say it anyway just to carpet bomb Facebook with Obama negativity?”

“Like a digital cropduster,” I mused.  “Spreading stupid on purpose, instead of just standing around with your finger up your nose, being that way.  Which would be worse?”

We watched a few neon pink and blue dolphins honk at us as they leapt past us in the emerald waves.  It was pretty fictional down this way, that was for sure.  I said it again:  “Aliens.”

“Yeah, why don’t you go ahead and finish that thought.”

“You ever read Majestic by Whitley Strieber?”

And that gave Spang a good laugh.  He arched his eyebrow at me and said, “No, I’m quite sure I haven’t read any Whitley Strieber books, Tom.  That’s where the gray aliens and the anal probes came from, right?”

“That’s right.  But listen, the book opens up…”

“You want a buy a crystal or some beads, Tommy C.?”

“No.  No, I sure don’t.  Listen, this is important.  The novel – and that’s what it is, a novel, in the fiction section – ”

“Like us,” Spang said proudly, patting his ostrich on the head.

“Yes, like us.  The narrator is talking to someone he knows, a publisher I think, and he’s saying that he’s worried about putting his book out because it contains all this super top-secret U.S. Government alien conspiracy stuff, and he’s worried that he’ll get killed.”

“Naturally.”

“Yes, naturally.  So the guy says to him, hey, just write it as fiction.  That way if they kill you, then they legitimize the fiction.  They’ll be the opposite of motivated to kill you.  And if they leave you alone, then they can continue denying everything and point out that your book is in the fiction section.”

“So he tells you in the first chapter of his fictional novel that he’s only calling it fiction so he won’t get killed.”

“Right.  So you can choose to believe he’s telling the truth.  But you can’t argue with him, because he’s writing fiction.  This is from 2002 by the way.”

“Ah ha.  And that’s the problem with these asinine attacks on the President – the reaction is all that they need.  It’s very clear that both historically and recently, the President is entitled to personal time, every single day.  There’s always something going on that’s important, but still – he gets vacation days whether he’s a white conservative or a black Democrat.  And again, when Michael Moore was criticizing Bush for playing golf and hanging out on his ranch so much post-9/11, this same exact crowd was calling Michael Moore a terrorist for it.”

“How dare he speak out against the President in a time of war!”

“Right.  Now we’re in the middle of two wars, and they’re feeling free to knock his books out of his hands whenever they get the chance.  I’ll be real honest with you – it makes me think it was a mistake to retire the dreaded N-word.  At least in the seventies, the racists were easy to spot.”

“And I think that’s your point.  Any response to these absolutely submoronic insinuations only causes a discussion about them.  An argument.  And just having the argument with them legitimizes the topic.”

Both the ostriches started nodding, because yes, that was my point all right, and they were pretty smart ostriches.  I told him, “That’s why I thought we should meet fictionally.  Because then we can express to anyone attacking the President for innocuous bullshit, that to rational adults, they sound like simpering, adolescent imbeciles, and that we would no sooner argue with them about it than we would argue with a Holocaust denier.”

Spang nodded at me and hopped up onto his ostrich.  “And then if they show up to argue about it -”

“Then we just point out that we’re riding flying arctic ostriches over an ocean we’ve never seen, and if they want to argue with us while we do that, well we certainly won’t have legitimized anything will we?”

“The Reverse Bangkok Bullshit Switcharoo.  Why meet absurdity with anything else?”

And so Spang and I rode off into the frigid sunset, the words “You Are Poisoning The Earth With Your Stupidity,” coming out of our ostriches butts in rainbow letters, and it was up to anyone watching us to determine if the words were meant for them. 

Oh yes and then one of the ostriches farted and it sounded like either me or Spang saying, “Screw you if you don’t think the President of the United States should get to fill out a bracket, we both know you filled one out at work, on the company dime.  Racist.”

But it wasn’t really either one of us saying that, it was just an ostrich farting.  So don’t worry about it.

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Earlier:  Rein In Your Idiots, Please

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And:  Future Tom Blog Force: Crisis On The Internet

 

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