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ANNOUNCEMENT: New "Hero of Change" medal of Obama

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Please be advised that the People's Cube is launching a new Party-approved "Hero of Change" Medal of Obama, to be awarded to our distinguished members for their contribution to the collective discourse aimed at Changing(TM) the country and pushing it closer to the brink of what we like to call "the Progressive World of Next Tuesday."

A glorious datapage with inspiring music will open for the award recipients if they click on the medal. See and click below.

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This medal replaces the now defunct "For the Common Good" Medal of Hillary bearing the visage of non-person H. formerly known as "Our Many-Titted Empress" (MTE), just as the so-called "Common Good" has been now replaced by "Hope and Change."

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All comrades who were formerly awarded said medal are hereby advised to erase it from their record if they don't want to face the wrath of Rahm Emanuel's steak knife.

However, you may request a replacement of existing H-medal with the O-medal.

All such requests shall be decided by the Special Party Tribunal on a case-by-case basis upon review of your submission of a 100-pages bio and tax returns, a list of all affiliations and associates in the last 20 years and their bios and tax returns, a list of all conversations you had in the last 20 years that lasted for more than 5 minutes (all Party members in good standing should keep such a list), a daily breakdown of all TV programs you watched starting with November 2000, and a handwritten (a trembling hand is a plus) 20-pages explanation of what the word "Hope" means to you personally, your view of Obama, of his historic presidency, and of the Change he is going to bring to this country and the world.

All submissions must be mailed in triplicate to Chairman Punchenko's Headquarters in Washington, D.C.

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Red Square wrote:...face the wrath of Rahm Emanuel's steak knife
Something which makes me tremble. Emanuel can shout down James Carville, who has been known to silence a klaxon.

Red, I have a problem. The last time that Meow and Pupovich were here at Rancho de Rio Grande, in a fit of pique, and much the worse for wear, they pissed all over my extensive biographical materials which would allow me to qualify for a replacement medal.

Can I just lie? After all, isn't that what we <i>do</i>?

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Comrade Red Square wrote:All submissions must be mailed in triplicate to Chairman Punchenko's Headquarters in Washington, D.C.

Color-coded and stamped, Comrades! Color-coded and stamped!

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Meow, you're such a tight ass. It'll get lost anyway. Why bother? It's the groveling that counts. Where is Pupovich?

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You can all have your shiny little medals. They aren't the real coin of the realm. He who counts the medals wins. I don't want medals. I want the real power. The power that's even higher than "he who counts the medals."

Now that Obama has become our new Secretary General we're all going to be in the Army of Socialism. Everyone is going to need uniforms for their particular place in that army. Uniforms and headgear are very important. You can't properly do your job in the Army of Socialism if your uniform isn't right. Anyone that's ever been in the military knows that. And everyone will want to have the best uniform possible - especially for parades. Everyone will want to look their best when Obama's eyes touch theirs. I want power over what groups in society get what uniforms. Those that are out of my favor get uniforms that make them look stupid in the eyes of Obama - those in my favor will be issued uniforms that Obama finds pleasing. I want power over how people look in Obama's eyes. Everyone will come to me, bowing and scraping for the best uniforms and hats. I see the real possibilities here. This is going to be fun. For me.

Margaret
Commissar of Party Hats

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Margaret -

It's heart-warming to see a young girl whose head is screwed right.

Theocritus -

In lieu of bios you can submit 100-pages-long denunciations of all your contacts in the last 8 years.

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Red, have I not denounced Pupovich enough? I feel sure that he's sure that I have.

Margaret, I have no objection with you being the commissar of party hats. After all, what's a hat among friends? But bear in mind that the Chosen One has to have a hat that cannot be mocked, and when you consider hats, the only hat that cannot be mocked is the French Beret. For for all of us good progressives, the French beret means that at the first sign of danger, we drop our rifles. That is why the French beret cannot be mocked.

So as long as you ring the changes on a French beret--yellow for some, red for some, with white feathers for some (the French and mimes), then I'm just fine with that.

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I have been in need of a new medal long ere this. My courageous, heartwrenching story will include harrowing accounts of guns, glancing blows, and a lot of gas.

It all started when I was perched on the ledge for peace and impeachment, and got caught in the crossfire of a shootout between Zampolit on the ground and Kalashnikov on the ledge. I was shot--yes, SHOT IN THE BACK and fell off the ledge. En route to what seemed a certain grisly end splattered on the sidewalk below, my fall was broken when my red headscarf caught on a flagpole and next thing I knew, I was hopelessly wrapped up in the American flag.

Pupovich saved me from this dreadfully mortifying trauma, and with his teeth dragged me inside the building, where some cops with riot gear were waiting for me. I thought I'd better put down my shovel and Medal of Hillary, lest the cops think they were weapons. They never even asked if I was all right, possibly because they feared I would miscontrue their concern for an attempt to avoid any culpability or liability for my injuries and sick the ACLU on them.

They took my shovel and Medal of Hillary, and said if I wanted them back, I'd have to come down to the precinct to claim them. I sensed a trap, and instead went to my car and drove home, but not before I doffed my red headscarf and stuffed it into the nearest garbage dumpster, fearing there might be dire consequences if I was seen wearing it near all those riot squads.

Mortally wounded by the riot squad's rubber pellet guns, I got behind the wheel of my Party-issued Escalade and drove home.

For a week I had a big red sore spot on my butt. It's now faded, but I just know it's from the glancing blow I received from the riot squad's rubber pellet guns, and NOT, as the digitally lobotomized, Faux News addicted 19 percenters mindlessly assert, from sitting on the ledge in the same underwear for 62 days.

(In fact, you can get an idea of what it looked like by googling "butt pimples" and/or "diaper rash", then clicking on "images.")

Therefore I shall need:

1. A new Medal of Obama
2. New shovel
3. New red headscarf.
4. To be patted on the head and told "there there" and be validated in my belief that the cops were meanies for not showing more concern for my injuries.

I'd also like to be put in charge of the Bush Crimes Tribunal.

Because I'm Pinkie.

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The poor, despoiled, traumatized Pinkie wrote:next thing I knew, I was hopelessly wrapped up in the American flag.
Oh, the humanity! The humanity! Did it leave scars? Silly question. Of <i>course</i> it did.

Pinkie! Now you have the <b>Peoples' Stigmata</b>. You are now qualified to lead us, along with the Chosen One, into the Progressive World of Next Tuesday. If someone asks to see your qualifications, you need only show the flag-shaped scars on your body.

"Put your hand on my side, but not lower than there nor higher than there or you get busted for harassment, and feel my scars, Doubting Mime."

With them you can heal the Faux-news addicted. You can cure those who work from, er, working. You can give happy people the noble gift of grumbling. You can <i>make the content feel resentful, cheated, and entitled</i>.

Yes, Pinkie, you can! You can! You can lead us, with your stigmata, into the Progressive World of Next Tuesday, where all are miserable, no one is happy, no one works, everyone is entitled, and everyone hates white males. Straight ones, that is.

Margaret, your post brought true happiness and amusement to me. I otherwise only get more joy from Stalin's jokes, who was truly master of any endevour:

Stalin: Stalin himself cracked them, including this one about a visit from a Georgian delegation: They come, they talk to Stalin, and then they go, heading off down the Kremlin's corridors. Stalin starts looking for his pipe. He can't find it. He calls in Beria, the dreaded head of his secret police. "Go after the delegation, and find out which one took my pipe," he says. Beria scuttles off down the corridor. Five minutes later Stalin finds his pipe under a pile of papers. He calls Beria—"Look, I've found my pipe." "It's too late," Beria says, "half the delegation admitted they took your pipe, and the other half died during questioning."

I find your idea inspiring. And I have the greatest sympathy for you Pinkie, the brazen opression of Bushilter's thugs is indeed shocking.

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Pinkie, we haven't heard from you. Are you lying in bed, all the worse for wear with Putinka, fondling your new medal and scarf?

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This medal is awarded to Ms. Hussie Pinkie-Obama, Commissarka of Vodka, Shovels, Beet of the Week Program, HBO, and Guest Soaps, Best Producer of the Year, Marina Kay Cosmonautic Cosmetics, Master Planned Economics Instructor, Tank & Shovel Factory, Ranked #1 on Google for "Crimes Against Everything" Thread, Recipient of the Order of Hillaryand the Order of the Mime, the brains behind jumpofftheledgeforpeace.org (blog updated hourly with new posts copied and pasted with MimeSwipe), for outstanding contribution to progress, educating the collective in the intricacies of shovelwork, discovering 100 new ways to use a shovel, as well as for the advancement of peace, justice, and secondary sexual characteristics through "Boobs Not Bombs" program.

CLICK ON IT!

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The medal comes with:

1. Hope
1. Change
1. New shovel
2. New red headscarf.
3. A pat on the head accompanied by vocal command "there there"
4. Validation of progressive beliefs and a mandate to enforce Hope
5. Promotion to the position of Bush Crimes Tribunal Planner and Drapes Coordinator.

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Red, after all my service, Pinkie gets <b>drapes coordinator</b>? WTF? Am I not the decorating commissar? Am I not the one with the kitchen to just simply die for? And that Hussie gets the drapes coordinator?

I'll see about that. Just see if I don't.


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Uh, <i>yeah</i>.

Pinkie, darling, dear. Pinkie. Pinkie? Pinkie! Where are you, Pinkie, dear? Cuddly Commissar Theocritus wants to visit with you just a little bit. Step into this back room. Oh, and Bruno will watch over your shovel for you so you don't have to worry about it. The next time that you see it it'll be real clean and shiny you know. You won't even see it coming recognize it.

Pinkie? Pinkie. Come here, dear. Cuddly Commissar Theocritus wants to chat with you.

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Oh, now don't whine, Theocritus, that is so Causal Crunch! Bruno is doing something over my shovel, all right, but it isn't watching, not after the way I whacked him with it.

I know how eager you are to hang the Obamessiah's drapes, for all that you couldn't wait until last Tuesday to start measuring for them. And since I'm quite frankly scared poopless of drapes now, after having been so ignominiously--well, draped in the American flag after my fall from the ledge, I'm quite willing to pass the honor of Drapes Coordinator on to you, but on the condition that Red Square also provide me with the one thing I realize now I forgot to demand--my own . . . oh, what would you call the male equivalent of a harem? A meat market? A beefery? A slab? Not an abattoir, that would be for later when I get really bored and/or displeased, but whatever it is I'm blathering about, I want it.

Because I'm Pinkie and I now have the People's Stigmata, I want a slab of Hot Commie Hunks. And please note, Red Square, that's slab with an A, not O, so none of the usual slobs this time.

I know you.

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Pinkie, what you want is a stable. A <i>stable</i>. But remember that old Roman adage: Those whom the gods want to destroy are first given their wishes. And--behold.

That is <i>exactly</i> what I wanted and what I got is now Bruno, who is even more insensate than normal, and I know it's hard to tell. A little quieter, that's all. But I mean, look at the specs. Out cold, if you ignore that puddle of drool, that's quite the piece of beef, right?

Well, you've seen Bruno in action. You've seen that monster of vanity, that walking id, that 24/7/365 monument to self-adornment who made Paris Hilton think of reforming.

And there is one thing to remember, Pinkie: when you get a lot of men who spend <i>that</i> much time considering their looks, who spend <i>that</i> much time primping and preening, it's a good bet that they're doing it to be seen by each other as well as by women.

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Pinkie - please select from the following menu:

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Although I really don't understand what's wrong with the glorious socialist meat market you have rejected:

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What about this hunk-a-hunk-a-hunk-a-progressive love?

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Now <i>there's</i> a stud muffin.

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One could stick a WealthSpreadTM spigot into Comrade Moore's jowls that would flow unto the masses for all time.

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A STABLE! Thank you, Theocritus, that is the word, and I should know it, too! What's happening to my brain lately? Or is that a good thing, that apparently I can no longer think--especially for myself?

Ah, I see as usual, Red Square has trotted out my five Friday Night Regulars. FRESH MEAT, Red, I want fresh meat, not those old scraps. But I see plenty of FM in the BW photo! All those young, strapping, muscular young studs in their Stanley Kowalski tanks, now they're for me. Send them over and let them talk dirty to me about the Napoleonic Code.

Step back, Bruno, before I break this vodka bottle and stick it in your face.

I've always depended on the kindness of Red Square.

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Pinkie, how I wish you hadn't brought up <i>Streetcar</i>. Now Bruno has gone to fetch a blond wig and is doing Blanche DuBois, and it ain't a pretty sight. My lord but I'd pay to have Carmen Miranda back. You choose: the sighing and illusions of gentility when she's just a puta, or this 6'4" man dancing on platform shoes making noises like an enraged coatimundi. Your choice. I don't have the energy.

Pinkie, why not some of our young progressives at say a Progressive rally? I'm sure that Jodin knows lots of men who would fit into a stable. You could have them spend their time reciting, not poetry to you and your beet-reddened eyes--but I love them--but each comparing how fast he'd thrown down his cell phone and his Gitmo gear just in case some cop might have thought he was a danger. And there is no correlation between premature defenestration and premature anything else.

And who knows? You might get the Order of Lysenko if you can show that any of those people even has a pair.


 
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