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The Prog That Will Come

POLL: Who would be the perfect dam for the Prog Who Will Come?

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We almost had it. With Barack Hussein Obama we almost had the Perfect Progressive. Attractive, Teflon-coated. No one cared, except the crazed Rethuglicans, that one of his best friends was a member of the Weather Underground who constructed a nail bomb killing people. No one cared that for twenty years he listened to a preacher saying, “God DAMN America.” And he can walk on water. But here it is, only six months into his term, and he hasn't been declared President for Life, and there are some people in the world who still believe in personal responsibility and private property.

Image Comrade Jodin Morey caught with a very fast lens

That just won't do. So I invited a stellar cast out to the Rancho de Rio Grande for the conception of the perfect Prog. The Prog Who Will Come. And who would be better than our dear friend Jodin for the sire? And who better than our dear friend Ms. Godawfulo for the dam? My heart went pit-a-pat for the Prog who would issue from such a coupling. We would have the Prog Who Will Come. Who will lift us above being mere humans into the empyrean heights of complete and utter control and complete and utter personal irresponsibility. Oh. I repeat myself.

Who will give away the store and blame other people for it. I get all hot and flushed and squirm in my seat whenever I think about it.

“Bruno!” I yelled, “I have a surprise for you! We're going to host a world-changing event here. In a few minutes our friend Jodin...”

“Oh. My. God! Theocritus!” Bruno shrieked. “PuhLEEZE. Not that little pansy. You can't have forgotten the last time that he was here. I sneezed and he shrieked, ‘I am nonviolent!' and he pulled everything off the shelves and peed on the floor. And he stripped down because he was afraid that his sweater would look like Gitmo gear. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.”

“Bruno! Be still. I remember that I didn't know where to look either. Yes, I know it's only a grammatical convention that we accord him the masculine, or indeed any gender, including neuter, but you have to admit, he's just about as progtastic as one can get.”

"But the whining, Theocritus, the whining. And you tell me to quit whining."

"Bruno, he's just the most progerrific person that I know."

“And,” Bruno went on, his brow wrinkling with the unfamiliar task of thinking, “Do we have to have Janeane here again? The last time she was here we had to sluice down the entire Rancho with naphtha to get the grease off. Even our Many Titted Empress is cleaner than she is.”

“Now, Bruno, I know that dear Janeane is a bit, er, slippery, and she does smell. Yes, a bit ripe. Well, all right, very ripe. Just quit wrinkling your nose. I know there's a, ah, aura around her, and it's just a canard that it's flies, and you have to admit that per Prog Cred is impeccable. This will be the mating of the century. Just think! The Rancho will be the Manger for the Progressive World of Next Tuesday!”

“Oh. My. God. Theocritus. I used to think that you were the smart one.”

“Bruno, shut up and help Red Rooster set up his equipment. He's here to record the images for all posterity. Just think of what someone could have made if he'd had had good artist's tools in Bethlehem two thousand years ago.”

The doorbell rang and Bruno, after some prodding, opened it and in came Jodin...
In an adorable hand-knitted little sweater, his heat cocked perkily to the side. As soon as he was in, he ran to the leather couch, and shook his head from side to side, barking, "No animal products! No animal products!" and he lifted his leg. With his head still perkily cocked to the side.

“Jodin!” Bruno shrieked. “That's a brand new leather couch! Don't pee on the couch!”

Jodin barked, cutely, his head still perkily cocked to the side, and squatted and peed on my finest Bijari rug. Bruno had rolled up a newspaper and was about to reward Jodin, who was whimpering "I am not violent! I am not violent!" with his paws over his eyes, quivering and shaking so much that I turned a little queasy. But my faith in Prozgilla won out.

The doorbell rang again. It was dear Janeane...

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...who came slithering into the room. "Quick! Janeane, in!" I pulled her in while keeping out all but a few thousand of the flies which always circle her, trying to land but sliding off.

“Jodin, Janeane,” I said. I have invited you here to make the Prog Who Will Come. The Prog who will lift us above our little selves, who will implement the Prog's code: ‘Being a Prog means never having to say you're sorry. Because you're not responsible.'

“To record this seminal event, I have invited Red Rooster. And to act as mistress of ceremonies, I have invited someone we all know and love. Hillary!”

“Theocritus!” Bruno wailed. "Have you lost your mind? The last time Our Many Titted Empress was here it took six months to patch up the holes in the dry wall! And just how in the hell she managed to chip out bits of the concrete floor with the Hildo Turbo Hydra I still haven't figured out. And remember we had to raid Chairman Meow's house to replace half the stuff here. Well, it was ours anyway, but still. Are you out of your mnd?”

“Quiet, Bruno!” I commanded sternly. This is bigger than we are. This is for history. This is to make The Prog Who Will Come.”

“Jodin, Janeane, please make history. Now.” I turned on that old Fleetwood Mac song which made me tear up, thinking of those wonderful years of deceit, corruption, lies, self-righteousness and thuggery. You guessed it, the Clinton years.

"Make red-hot monkey prog love. For me. For history."

I could see that it wasn't going well, and I had feared as much. So I made sure that I had...

“Empress, would you please lend a hand? No one had your fine touch in birthing totalitarian rat-bastards fine, upstanding Progressives.

“Oh hell, Theocritus. I told you this would happen. Here's a man who is constantly throwing away his car keys because he's afraid that a hall monitor might think they're an atom bomb. And you expect him to do it? Well, I'll sort it out.”

At this time Red Rooster threw up and passed out, so there is no record of Bruno himself finally manning up and throwing the whole mess out of the door.

“Bruno!” I cried. “I'm so...impressed. You are acting, well, manly now.”

“Theocritus,” he sighed. “Don't get your hopes up. It was just the contrast. Just the contrast.”


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People's CopyLeft™ © 2009 Commissar Theocritus & Red Rooster for ThePeoplesCube.com
Download The Original Cartoon: The Prog Who Will Come - Can't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

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Arrrgh! What a disgusting mess that was. When I finally woke up Bruno was dangling fake diamonds over my beak and singing the Campbell's soup song...

I don't know what it all means... I'm still shookin' up.

Just like Dear Jodin.

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Dear Comrade Theocritus and Comrade Red Rooster,

OMGGGG!!!!!!!

What a tale! The story of the century! Oh, and that Jodin, breaking the turkey baster! Wasn't that, that, just adorable! So prog. So Jodin. So in accord with the highest principles of "Beingism." I be, therefore I break whatever I want.

I can't get the words "Prog Spawn" out of my head.

Oh, Comrade Theocritus, you must not give up. You must try again, and again. And one day, we will have the perfect prog. Perfectly Jodenian. Comrade O is a primitive prototype compare to the spawn of Jodin and Janeane. Oh, what a historical moment!

I must say, you two remind of that couple who murdered that Kansas farm family whose story was told by Truman in "In Cold Blood." When you get together, you are deadly.

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That Uber-Proginator should make quite the glancing blow on Jodin's backside.

Just don't forget to ask him if he's all right. If he says he doesn't know, ask him again. Make sure you tell him to put down his cell phone and black hood, because you believe (or so we want him to think) one is a diaphragm and the other a condom.

In the meantime, Theocritus (and Rooster, because I suspect you had a wing in this, too):

Image You have been awarded Pinkie's Prestigious Beet of the Week Award for your untiring efforts in trying to mate Jodin with Janeane to create The Prog Who Will Come.

Now, much as I'd like to stay and make the usual spiel about bumper stickers and parking spots, I'm afraid I have to run, as I have a sudden urge to go and cast up my accounts.

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There is no prog to come. The man we should've elected instead of this minstrel wastrel isn't even a man or a woman nor animal or vegetable. We need a robot (or some self aware super computer like in the Matrix). A soulless authoritarian that can not be argued with or bargained with. Something with a build in clock and a queue so every item on it's agenda will be enacted as it comes due. It won't need to read from the teleprompter, it will have one built in. It will not give long rambling diatribes in order to answer a simple question. It will not go ummm and ahhh.It won't have to dye it's hair black one day and gray the next. It will win every election because it will count the votes. It will replace the fickle media because it will generate it's own newsfeed. We wanted change we could believe in. Instead we got a chump who should be leavin'.

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Unfortunately I was informed that Regardless of how hard you try you can not mate these two creatures. Has to do with the polarization of "Smug". Perhaps we could try Genetics, Gene-Splicing to form the perfect progressive, remember it is the world of next Tuesday.

But before we endeavor this perhaps we should consider the consequences, what it will look like. I shiver when I think of the communion of these two.....We could be releasing a pox on the world, that well it may never recover from. I can only bring your attention to John Kerry, and Teddy Kennedy, these two were as we all know the result of early East German Gene manipulation, these result have been frighting.

Kind and Generous Leader, I would like to come and visit Rancho de Rio Grande, is my room ready? I must bring you the gifts I stole carefully selected for you in my travels, as well as some items I procured from the airlines, hotel rooms some persons lawn and the Mini Bar from Myrtle BeachPyongyang for Bruno.



Commissar Red Star CEO Hemlock Hospitality INC
Director of Kicking Doors at Midnight
Keeper of the sacred Plasma Cutter
Herdsman of Rainbow Farting Unicorns
Defender of the Faith

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Theocritus, this was the most inspiring post-modern romance story I have seen since a History Channel documentary revealed Adolf Hitler was in love with his niece. And a police dog. But to be frank (not Bawny Fwank, just frank) I think you were going about this the hard way. Just the clean-up required after entertaining BOTH the lovely JG AND Madame SOS on the same day must have been gargantuan, not to mention the mess that must have made in the aborted attempt at artificial insemination (I'll bet the groundwater pollution remediation alone will cost you plenty!) And after all that trouble, the goal of conceiving the new anti-Christ ultimate progressive was not achieved!

May I suggest you steal an idea from a flick I once saw, I think it was entitled "The Boys in the Band from Brazil" or something like that. In it, the protagonists sought to create the uber progressive state by cloning one of the greatest socialists of all time. Maybe you can obtain some cells from Obama and insert them into an appropriate egg (a vulture would seem to be a satisfactory host.) Perhaps some adjustments could be made to the DNA to correct some of the flaws (the inability to string more than two words together without a teleprompter is an annoying trait) and .... Presto! The NEW new world order will be born... er, hatched.

And, if it doesn't work out, you can always make omelets for breakfast.

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Pinkie, thank you for your Beet of the Week. And yes, Red Rooster deserves a mention too. He after all did the art, and with his sensitive artist's eye he suffered the most. The sights and sounds--even now I shudder and shake.

Red Star, by all means please do come to the Rancho. I thought of you when I was planning this Seminal Event, because I knew that your goons, er, highly trained troopers would be of use. But then I worried, What storm trooper is not going to act like a storm trooper and kick Jodin Morey's shaking little ass? See? That's the problem We have to be very careful with the Progs that we breed because sometimes you just get a concentration camp.

I am still full of sorry though, for the missed opportunity. I had hoped for something with the ruthlessness of Rahm Emanuel, the camera love of Miss Gawdawfulo, and the cowardice of Jodin. Because although I want the Prog Who Will Come, I want to be able to stamp my foot and have if faint in terror.

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So THAT'S what happened with the turkey baster you had me send over. I think it's time to start breeding ALL the major progs. It might take several generations to get the right strain, but each successive generation will be more proggish than the last, so things will get progressively (yes I know, I am denounced for the horrible pun) better. The throwbacks of course will simply be shot and harvested for blood, tissue and organs.

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I was thinking about what I ought to bring you if I visit you at the ranch, and I thought, maybe Theo would like an apron. After all, he likes to cook. And I thought, maybe some trifling little kitchen gadget, like some kind of vegetable peeler that leaves your vegetables in the shape of a flower. Or, maybe some kind of ironwork for his courtyard would do, I don't know.

Do you have any idea, Theo what this has done, or will do to your reputation? You may well be seen as a cross between Dr. Kevorkian and some famous Russian biologist like Lysenko
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And you may gain a certain kind of notoriety among the animal rights activists, as well.

But as for a gift to give you at the ranch, now I believe the most appropriate thing would be:

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However, by all means, I do believe you ought to carry on in this most noble of endeavors. And as you observe and pick out more prog traits, who knows? Perhaps you will find an even more suitable prog female with whom to mate Jodin.

And I do wonder, after such an experience, how is it that you go back to doing normal things? I mean, even like cooking an omelet without all of this in the back of your mind?

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I'm sorry to hear what happened to your rug Theo, and how messy it got. Ugh, seeing Jodin on Jeneane, what a mindf***, just like THAT IMAGE that will not be named, nor thought of again.

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Oh, kind and gentle comrades. I'm still shaking in my jack-boots. It was--horrible. Just horrible. Jodin was quivering like, a, well, lap-dog on speed, and Janeane was as coarse and vulgar as, well, Janeane.

Ah. Urine Gone. A good idea. But do you know the full extent of the smell of 200-proof Prog Pee? Nothing will take it out. And as for being a prog breeder? It didn't work. Jodin Morey as usual was, well, Jodin Morey.

Try not to snicker, snigger, laugh and wet yourself in hilarity.

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Thank you Kind and Generous leader: I made the GoonsHighly trained troopers promise to wait for instructions prior to, not just beating the S#@* Jodin Morey, they seemed somewhat upset with my orders but “Perked up” when I told them they could play dress up with Bruno, play practical jokes on Meow (Do not know why they are so amused, Meow never notices that they have set him on fire, He just walks around flatulating) and further that if (Dead Fish) Emanuel shows up they can beat the crap out of him.

Further concessions included we increase story time to a full ½ hour. They can swim in the river, and vandalize all the public toilets at every rest stop on the way down, a small price to pay to pay to avoid a concentration camp.



Commissar Red Star Most Beloved CEO Hemlock Hospitality INC
Director of Kicking Doors at Midnight
Keeper of the sacred Plasma Cutter
Herdsman of Rainbow Farting Unicorns
Defender of the Faith

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Yes, there is the fun of playing dress-up with Bruno. He so loves your troopers when they come over. The one with the long blond hair is his favorite; the only problem is the fact that his hairline starts at his eyebrows.

And when they get drunk and start yodeling. It's so cute, for about 30 minutes. Then I have to go out and polish my impaling spikes. Just in case.

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Commissar Theocritus wrote:Oh, kind and gentle comrades. I'm still shaking in my jack-boots. It was--horrible. Just horrible. Jodin was quivering like, a, well, lap-dog on speed, and Janeane was as coarse and vulgar as, well, Janeane.
Somethings never change I guess. I tell you what, you say nothing takes out the 200-proof prog pee, have you tried drain cleaner? It will destroy your rug, and may cause caustic burns to you, but if applied right, you might just be able to clean out the stain. A little extreme, but it just might work.

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It's the smell more than the stain. That smell of terror. Jodin is the most terrified person that I've ever met. So I should feel guilty ripping on him.

But I don't.

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{Progoffovich}

You bastards....I'm sitting here at work crying and choking with laughter, phlegm gagging me...my workers are wondering if I'm OK. "I'm fine....you wouldn't understand, it's a Cube thing." I keep telling them.

{Progonski}

RRRRRubbbber Biscuit?
No!
RRRRRubbbber Bullets!

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Careful Space Dog, it's contagious and may continue for some time as a Dynamic and Deadly Duo find the next Prog That Will Come.

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Oh, yes, Noble Space Dog. Oh yes. I think we're going to pay tribute to Comradette Nansky next.

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What is this Great and Fearless leader? Nansky? Are you sure? With all due respect breeding Nansky....Even my dumbest Goon trooper said, "But she is a walking pile of Rat Poison, Boss, when we wereat (Uncle Theos) place she sniffed flowers and they died?" Indeed she is a walking pile of "Botox"

He then staggered off, I had him captured and dropped off at Jiffy Lobo for a tune up. This was too close to independent thought for a Goon Highly Trained trooper.


Great and Fearless leader, and Stock Holders of Hemlock INC. I would like to take this opportunity to report that even with the poor economy, the Hemlock Chain is thriving. Profits are up 85%, we have strategically placed our village eateries, Near Unemployment Offices , Assisted living centers and Day care centers.Further, we have dispatched mobile units to Chrysler, and GM Dealerships.


But there have been rumors that we are over loading the state of California with unclaimed dead bodies.I would like to state for the record that we are not abandoning dead bodies in California. We are continuing to put them in the "Dumpster" as always. Perhaps they should be talking to "Henry Waxman" I do not believe I need to explain further.


Commissar Red Star Most Beloved CEO Hemlock Hospitality INC
Director of Kicking Doors at Midnight
Keeper of the sacred Plasma Cutter
Herdsman of Rainbow Farting Unicorns
Defender of the Faith

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Red Star, I think that you have hit on something. Henry Waxman can call forth his cousins, which are of the species <i>rattus rattus</i>. They can most easily dispose of the bodies. Henry Waxman, being a more highly evolved member of <i>rattus rattus</i> doesn't feed on bodies but on the body politic.

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Updated with Download Link for full post-mortem People's Original Cartoon and ObamaCare Jiffi-Lobo and OctoMom Make-Over Raffle™.

Buy your tickets today for the
ObamaCare Jiffi-Lobo and OctoMom Make-Over Raffle by downloading the original cartoon and reading the Daily-Kos Daily while standing on your head doing yoga with Mark Morford.

People's CopyLeft™ © 2009 Commissar Theocritus & Red Rooster for ThePeoplesCube.com<br>
Download The Original Cartoon: The Prog Who Will Come - Can't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow


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Erudite...you are truly the goddess of luuuuve.

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LnT, so glad to see you back. I was afraid that you'd gone over the Dark Side. "Theocritus," I mused, "perhaps LnT was channel surfing hoping to find a documentary on dear Leon or Josef or Adolf and she happened on Faux News and it blew out her head. Perhaps," and here I confess my tripes were wobbled, "she came across that vixen Ann Coulter! The fate worse than death."

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I will never forgive her for comparing me to John Edwards.

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Dearest Erudite....I was sojourning in Prog Heaven. The cookie dough fiasco? Well,i soon became quite bored with riding unicorns and dead progressives(Lenin sends his regards) and decided that i must return to earth and continue to fight the good progressive fight.

Prog off:

There isn't one gay man that I have ever known who would wear his hair like that seventies,blow-dried bush that John E. has residing on his head. Fag,my ass. ;) i love Ann for the fact that she gets libs frothing at the mouth,but she can be a bit strident at times.

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Commissar Theocritus wrote:I will never forgive her for comparing me to John Edwards.

Collectivism for the Commissar Compliments of Comrade Helen Ready...

"I'm every fag, every fag is in me, I'm every fag, every fag is in me, I'm every fag, every fag is in me, I'm every fag, every fag is in me, I'm every fag, every fag is in me, I'm every fag, every fag is in me, I'm every fag, every fag is in me, I'm every fag, every fag is in me."

"I'm every breeder, every breeder is in me, I'm every breeder, every breeder is in me, I'm every breeder, every breeder is in me, I'm every breeder, every breeder is in me, I'm every breeder, every breeder is in me, I'm every breeder, every breeder is in me."

"I'm every White Opressor, every White Opressor is in me, I'm every White Opressor, every White Opressor is in me, I'm every White Opressor, every White Opressor is in me, I'm every White Opressor, every White Opressor is in me, I'm every White Opressor, every White Opressor is in me."

"I'm every Black Victim of Racism, every Black Victim of Racism is in me, I'm every Black Victim of Racism, every Black Victim of Racism is in me,I'm every Black Victim of Racism, every Black Victim of Racism is in me,I'm every Black Victim of Racism, every Black Victim of Racism is in me,I'm every Black Victim of Racism, every Black Victim of Racism is in me."


Makes perfect sense.

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RR, I award you the Skip Gates Prize of Topping from the Bottom.

[ Prog off ]
LnT, you're quite right about the hairstyle. It's been some while since I was in a gay bar, or any bar for that matter, but that hair? No. Never. I just wonder if he wears polyester pants too.

I wonder if we could have a measurement scale for cranial pressure in the Prog brain on hearing Ann Coulter or Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity. Measured of course in millibars. And there's no danger--when a prog head explodes there's no gray matter to fleck the walls.

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Welcome back from me too, LnT. Is it really true that in Prog Heaven Woodrow Wilson and FDR frolic and play and roll in fields of other people's money all day long?

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I'm told that FDR's chair is so powerful that he can pull an entire Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, filled with all the money in America, right wherever he wants it.

Let's not forget LBJ.

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LBJ, FDR, JFK...might it be appropriate to give Dear Leader his own set of initials? Sure, he has "BHO," but that is too easily confused with Home Box Office and Hate Bush Orgasms. Perhaps "JEF" for Jug Eared Freak....


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Speaking of Dear Leader's Most Holy Initials.... The Yugoslavians made AK-47 magazines with a last round "Bolt Hold Open" feature. I've taken to calling them Obama magazines. Aside from the BHO initials they both share, there is also the fact that while they look good on the surface they really don't work all that well, and in fact are a fairly useless when put into actual use. (of course the mag still works, the BHO feature is IMHO fairly useless on an AK, as they were never designed that way...)

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Bodily Hermaphrodite Odor... I'm just sayin'....

B.O. and all.A lot of it in Berkeley.

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It's stretching but BHO--Bloody Horrible Oppressor.

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Commissar Theocritus wrote:SAP--Snooty Arrogant Prick.

There is a Spanish word--Sapo. It means despicable little man, and/or sly person and/or toad.

El Sapo is a commonly used derision, and what dictionaries don't say, is that it also has come to mean despicable voracious blood sucker.

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Snooty Arrogant Prick Obama.

It has a certain ring to it.

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I DENOUNCE THE COMMISSAR FOR CHASTISING DEAR LEADER WITH HATE SPEECH!!!!


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El Sapo and the Princess Prog are vacationing in Martha's Vineyard over the summer break. Pray that they will not be disturbed by any roaming policemen looking to harass and arrest any strangers who don't look like they own or deserve the house they are staying in.

(I just wanted to see how that sounded in a sentence)

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Ooooooh. Leninka, I think that you have just won the award for the single snidest thing said on the Cube and that's saying a lot. Because I've been trying.

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Comrade Theocritus,

I owe it all to you. You are the catalyst, the inspiration, and that last impaling I received at the Rancho seem to go all the way, simultaneously, through both the Wernicke and Broca regions of my brain.

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Ka.... bump... bump... bump... because that's how life is actually made.

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Father Prog,

Perhaps your "novel" could be named "The Prog to come stifled by the dog who wouldn't" or some other enthralling title.

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Dear Father Prog,

I salute your efforts in trying to regenerate the Prog continuum in manners and ways that would make unholy copulating experiments with Dr. Frankenstein, the Reanimator and Bawney Fwank blush in comparison.

With all due respect, Father Prog, and in all humility, I must pose some ruminations that may have escaped my last Jiffy Lobo™ session.

Indeed trying to mate two prog-dogs is a difficult task on its face. It seems with the male prog-dogs all they want to do is have sex with Conservative females. Examples: "Fuck you, Sarah Palin!; Fuck you, Ann Coulter!; Fuck you, Michelle Malkin!; Fuck you, Michele Bachmann!... ad nauseum.

And with the female prog-dogs, all they want to do is chase their own tales trying to eat the fetus, or as we all know, the viable tissue mass that is coming out of their heinie. To have something come out of their selfish, self-absorbed bodies in the form and likeness of themselves is, well, "anathema", and indignant of the sacrifices necessary to their God of Convenience. But I'm sure you didn't have any religious conversations with Godawfulo as they are usually counterprodutive on their face.

The introducing of the Über Proginator™ ( not be be confused with the Urban Governator ) was a brilliant move. But I would have to suspect that Godawfulo wouldn't be the most desirable candidate for such a procedure as would be the Flying Pig™, Rosie O'Donnell. Experience is definately on the side of the Flying Pig™.

But lest I be cast into eternal beet field hell for suggesting such a vile thing, you can always hook up ( I choose to use the term "hook up" because of its trendy 'prog' connotations ) a modified version of the Über Proginator™ to the ends of both Godawfulo and Flying Pig™; exchange "juices", if you will; implant on a Petri dish and observe what evolves. I'm sure the result would be not only terrifying, but interesting as hell.

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Comrade Whinney,

Please do not group all prog dog women together. Some of us prefer to have one b*st**d baby after another by 3 different doggy fathers.

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Comrade Leninka,

You're quite correct in that matter. However I was refering to default mode in stating that most prog-dogs enjoy "eating their own"—that would mean a quick trip to that last bastion of "don't ask; don't tell", namely, your friendly neighborhood abortion mill—and quite specifically I was refering to the two lezbos, Godawfulo and Flying Pig™.

So if you're offended by any implication I may have laid down ( no pun intended ), then I fully take no responsibility for my actions and blame it on a dysfunctional family and a public education by unionized teachers with a 'progressive' agenda.

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Whinny, I am very impressed by your analysis of male progs wanting to mate with female RethugliKKKans. It's sort of like Bill Clinton wanting a woman who wasn't either the Ur-Fying Pig™ or some rather pathetic girl.

The single criticism of progdom which hurts me the most is the claim that to this administration, words mean nothing and are only a vehicle to the end of Total Socialist Control.

How did that get out?

But this leaves me in a conundrum. When a brother under the skin says, "Fuck Ann Coulter," do the words mean anything? Or is that merely the entirely laudable prog will to violence? Witness SEIU, the STASI, NKVD, GRU, ACORN and any other number of wonderful prog thought police.

I put it to the comrades: is violence the end in and of itself?

Inquiring union thugs want to know.

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Comrades,

Things with Coulter are not what they appear. Her luke warm morals were overtaken byt her love of money and she spoke at Homocon" or something similar.

All her actions and books have but one point, to generate cash flow. She is not even adept enough to harvest beets.

She may be more progressive than you have allowed for.

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Oh, Tooorisky. You open the floodgates of introspection, and I hate that. I have to think, and a Made Prog never thinks.

A thinking prog is not an electable prog. This is not to be confused with a scheming prog.

And as Father Prog, I only opine, and as a matter of fact I knew that word years before O'Reilly. My eyes are bigger too but I don't smile. Even his crocodile one. I'm a Made Prog, you know.

I'm told that Ann's biggest worry is that her mother didn't know that she smokes.

Smoking. The government steals by taxing a legal habit, and keeping it legal, with a breathtaking insouciance and just plain disregard. The government has declared that the tobacco companies must advertise against themselves, while the government preaches. And taxes. But where would our dear friends be without the solace of OPM?

And in the Progressive World of Next Tuesday Obamacare, we shall all be very glad of smokers, who die earlier. Especially as we are now seeing drugs for cancer being rationed. Not owing to price, but because not everyone can afford them.

Such wonderful sympathy with human nature. As I write the paint is peeling off my walls, shocked by the waves of acid and scorn coming from me as I consider how these friends of the people are nothing more than cheapjack murderers.

But then they always are, aren't they? I expect that most of the Bolshies in the Mother Country nearly 100 years ago were banal, vicious little thrusters with nothing more to them than being steeped in resentment for not being as big as they'd like to be.

Ah. I do so love it.

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Father Prog Theocritus wrote:It's sort of like Bill Clinton wanting a woman who wasn't either the Ur-Fying Pig™ or some rather pathetic girl.

I know exactly what you mean, Father Prog: something along the lines of a 5000-year old mumified female corpse perhaps.

Father Prog Theocritus wrote: I'm told that Ann's biggest worry is that her mother didn't know that she smokes.

Smoking. The government steals by taxing a legal habit, and keeping it legal, with a breathtaking insouciance and just plain disregard. The government has declared that the tobacco companies must advertise against themselves, while the government preaches. And taxes. But where would our dear friends be without the solace of OPM?

And in the Progressive World of Next Tuesday Obamacare, we shall all be very glad of smokers, who die earlier. Especially as we are now seeing drugs for cancer being rationed. Not owing to price, but because not everyone can afford them.

Father Prog,

What better way for prog-dogs to end the perfect "Fuck you, Ann Coulter" evening than lighting up that cigarette? It's like many of the glorious movies we often see with the gratuitous, er... explicit sex scenes that have little or no relevance to the actual theme of the movie other than to educate us on when is the best time to light up a cigarette.

And where would healthcare be without those brave individuals who would gladly give up their last $1, or even $10 paying for taxes on a pack of smokes—For The Children™? Why, I remember those cruelly difficult days when one could go out and purchase a pack of cigarettes for .34¢ or less with little or no government interference. Those were the days we were told—unmercifully, mind you—to "pull up our bootstraps". There were no taxes paying for healthcare then, and people were dying in the streets for wont of not. Tobacco companies were free to add whatever they thought was best for the consumer in those days—and we were all the better for it.

But we are much more enlightened now. And thank Obama for it! He, too, is showing us the way to pay for that glorious craddle-to-grave compassion. What better example can we have than our very own Dear Leader lighting up a fag, er... cigarette showing us the glorious way to the Progressive World of Next Tuesday™ where the sky is brighter, the rhetoric nontoxic, and the ObamaCare™ is free and no one will have to worry about such reichwing lies of "rationing" and "affordability".

So light up, comrades. Do your part. Smoke for The Children™. And when you're feeling claustrophibic inside that ventilator gasping for your last breath, or you realize that you just blew your last chance to become a billionaire—like Daddy Warbucks Soros—because you opted to pay the $10 on tobacco taxes rather than that lottery ticket, REMEMBER: "It's For The Children™!

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Whinny, of course Bouncing Baby Barry Bama will give us everything that he thinks that we need. Notice that we take what we think we might need, and we have a claim on whatever anyone else has.

"Government is what we decide to do together," said I believe the illustrious progette Warren. Meaning of course she'll decide what part of OPM she'll need.

We no longer worry about pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps. We are all Europeans now, spending our lives transitioning from one government institution to the next one, and not a single second free and responsible for ourselves.

Why, this reminds me of the boy in California who ran off the road in a mountainous area and the car was hidden by the trees. He waited in the car for three days for rescue and when he didn't get it, he climbed out of the car and went to the road.

HE RESCUED HIMSELF! ARRRRGGGGGGH!

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Comrades! I've just had a blindingly brilliant epiphany! Forget Janeane!

LET'S MATCH UP JODIN MOREY WITH SANDRA FLUKE!

Tell me this isn't a match made in Prog Heaven.

Both are political activists. Both believe in putting themselves out there to make a difference—Jodin by marching in an orange jumpsuit and black hood to show his solidarity with Gitmo detainees, and Sandra braving the cameras and conservative wrath to demand free contraceptives for herself and all her friends.

Both were menaced by anti-prog goons—Jodin by his local police, Sandra by Rush Limbaugh.

Jodin thought he was shot in the back. Sandra thought Rush had inflicted pain not only on her, but on all women, all wives and daughters and sisters—at least those who are liberal.

Both are criers and whiners. Both are victims. Both are entitled!

Comrades, tell me if the following doesn't sound like something out of the Lincoln-Kennedy coincidences:

Sandra got a phone call from Obama who asked her if she was okay, but she still went on TV to whine anyway.

A cop asked Jodin if he was okay, and he said he didn't know. He still went on the Internet to whine anyway.


https://www.opednews.com/articles/1/Vio ... 9-942.html

I dove to the ground on the west sidewalk of St. Peter somewhere between West 7th and Exchange Street. Several police barked an order not to move, while pointing their weapons at me. I let go of my cell phone and Guantanamo hood so that they would not mistake them for weapons and placed my hands beside me on the sidewalk. I said, "I am not moving, I am not moving." I lay there for a little while and then I heard someone walk up beside me. I then heard what sounded like a camera shutter going off a few times before that person wandered off again. I believe that it must have been a police officer taking my picture, as the reporters were not being treated any differently from the protesters. If there had been a reporter around me when the bullets were fired, I believe they would not have been able to freely move in the area with out the police addressing them.

A few moments later, an officer in riot gear approached me and told me I could get up. As I got to my feet, the officer asked me if I was OK. I replied, "I don't know." I obviously had not checked my back yet, as I was not able to move while on the ground. I also was not sure if shock had caused me to underestimate the possible damage to my back. But the officer must not have been terribly concerned about my well-being because he told me to continue north on St. Peter without checking out my back. I believe they must of known they shot me. The reason I say this is because they ordered me to the ground, took a picture of me, and asked me how I was. After asking me how I was, however, he showed in his response a clear lack of concern for my well-being. The only other motive I can ascribe to his having asked me how I was is a possible desire to relieve themselves of liability for having injured me with the hope that I would say I was okay When I did not say I was okay, he did not choose to continue the conversation, perhaps because he did not want to open up the conversation to my having been hurt.

Jodin never got an apology from the cops, just as Sandra never got one from Rush. Oh, he says he apologized, but only because he was losing sponsors so it doesn't count.

Together, Jodin and Sandra are the best kind of progs: Victims with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement! Yes, no matter what we give them or how much, it will never be enough to erase the pain of their perpetual, chronic, progressional victimhood, for those who are entitled are not only always entitled, but are always entitled to more.

I believe they are the perfect Prog couple. Why, not even the most well funded government program, or Obama's “Cash for Cohabitations” could come up with a flawless match like this!

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Esteemed, and feared, Commissarka Pinkie wrote:Oh, [ Rush] says he apologized, but only because he was losing sponsors so it doesn't count.
Ah, that's true. No apology is sincere until the person accepts it. No matter if she has more feelings than anyone needs.

I happened to work out that it would cost her 91¢ a day over three years for a condom a day. Now I know that Messaline, Augustus' wife, would have breezed past that instantly but we cannot hold Messalina up to be a hero for women. Because she was privileged and her lending it out meant nothing.

I am so glad to have you remind me of Jodin Morey. You know how you don't know what you were missing until you have it? It's like the doctor telling you that after all you won't die or spend your life on dialysis or have a liver transplant after all. And that the kidneys are working after all.

Just so I hadn't had the cockroaches of my heart warmed by the thoughts of Jodin Morey. That epigone of self-righteous whining. That little, tiny gobbet of self-righteousness. And cowardice. What a progressive.

I had thought that Ms. Fluke's name would be pronounced as though it were a homonym of "fluke," but I was wrong. On finding the correct pronunciation, I was reminded of the time that Dorothy Parker entered a party with a friend and saw people doing a party game.

"What's that?"

"That's ducking for apples."

"There, but for a typographical mistake, is the story of my life."

But I for one am perfectly prepared to pay in perpetuity for all of Ms. Fluke's contraception. Even though she's a wonderful Fellow Traveler, a privileged elitist, and hard-left activist, I know that progs will be progs and that no armor will protect my back enough.

Do we want Major Snatch, Jr.?


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Yes, it's that time again! The ol' "Prog That Will Come" thingy. Come to think of it, doesn't everyone? Umm, never mind...that won't do.

I vote for Pinkie's Pick:

LET'S MATCH UP JODIN MOREY WITH SANDRA FLUKE!

Or,

A deliquescing pumpkin stuffed with rotting beets.

Both seem most equal choices.

Redundancy seems to do the trick, if you'll pardon the expression.


 
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