Who Is Niall Stanage And Why Is He Pissing On The Clintons?

Whoever Niall Stanage is, he can kiss my ass nine ways to Sunday, run around the block and get back in line behind all the other cheeky butt-wipe pseudo-intellectual ignoramuses (ignorami?) who call themselves anything resembling journalists, reporters, op-ed columnists, or other unfortunately gainfully employed sub-human dispensers of public information, and pucker up to kiss it again.  And, I want tongue.

For some reason, Stanage has decided from his lair across the pond, that New Year’s Eve is the perfect time to take potshots at both Clintons on behalf of his skinny Mandingo idol, Baracus Whosayin’ YoMama, the Great Emancipator, Liberator of Uppity Negroes Everywhere.  He of the  “miss my Rising Tides, miss the gravy boat” philosophy of “urban renewal,” (remember that nifty little catchphrase, dittywad?) the brown SuperClown sent from a planet far, far away to save “bromanity” from the ravages ignorantly inflicted upon itself, suddenly needs protection from the evil, racist, rhythm-less Clintons by nerdy British self-declared Keepers of  Kryptonite-laced KoolAid.  Fuck a roasted duck:

By May 2008, Barack Obama had opened up an all-but-insurmountable lead over Hillary in the contest for the Democratic party’s presidential nomination. The former first lady was asked why, therefore, she was prolonging the battle, risking significant damage to the party in the process.

“We all remember Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in June in California,” she replied.

To raise the spectre of political murder in any campaign would have been startling. To do so against Obama – whose status as the first serious African-American candidate for the White House had obliged him to have secret service protection from a conspicuously early stage – was disgusting.

Demoralized

Every single day since the last time I posted, I’ve sat here and tried to compose another one.  And, every day, after a few paragraphs I get to the same “who really gives a fuck?” point, and easily find other, more important things to occupy my online time and mind.  Things like, “what was Ike Turner’s claim to fame before he statutorily raped a teen-aged Tina who ballsily walked into a bar he was performing in and snatched the mic?”  Or, “why does belly button lint stink?”  “How drunk do you have to be to imagine angels dancing on the head of a pin?”  Anything to avoid reading yet another one of those fawning attempts to gloss over the Pretendident’s many shortcomings just because he’s black.  The ones designed to smear icing on bullshit-in-a-muffin tin and try to pass it off as chocolate cake, and read like mouth-to-penis resuscitative fluff-fests written by unrequited love-struck wannabe suitors with an inappropriate, misdirected Mandingo complex.   How many times can you point out that he, and they, are punch lines to ill-conceived bad jokes on the level of farting in your hand, or pissing in the punchbowl?   Yes, I am stuck on the juvenile anatomical “humor” analogy, but it’s the only thing that remotely comes close to the level of disdain I have for the pseudo-intellectual journalistic whores so willing to happily prostitute themselves to the equally despicable object of their affection merely for the prospect of the possibility of a potential nod of approval in their direction from him at some point in the near or distant future, maybe.

Jerkweeds.

What The Hell, It’s Christmas

Even though all the political drama…

…wishful thinking…

…and “toldja so” back and forth that’s been going on lately…