I apologize for stepping on a MoveOn.og volunteer’s head at the recent Senate debate in Kentucky. I stepped over the line, repeatedly, and also thought that line was printed on a woman’s face. I would like to add, though, that as a Rand Paul supporter, I am a firm believer in the free market, and sometimes the free market wants things we might not like–for instance, caving in your skull with a boot.
Most importantly, I think the police should have done a better job of controlling the crowd. I really whipped the crowd into a blood-thirsty frenzy with my love of Rand Paul and hatred of our so-called president. The people outside the debate were ready to do anything, and I mean anything. You should have seen the look in my eyes–it was almost demonic! Somebody really should have stopped a maniac like me!
It’s the police department’s job to contain dangerous, unhinged people like myself, and I think they really dropped the ball on this one. I could have killed someone! I’m calling for an investigation into their negligence, and their inability to recognize the fact that I clearly should be placed behind bars, if not some sort of institution.
I also think the Rand Paul campaign has to take some of the blame here. Clearly I’m not the sort of person a political campaign should have as a representative. How could they not tell I’m a danger to myself and others, simply by looking into my dead-eyed stare and twitching beetle brow? I almost appear as if I haven’t fully evolved, really. Paul really should have thought more carefully before associating with lowlifes such as myself. If anything, he should have alerted local authorities to my presence, so that I could be caged and studied.
And don’t think this MoveOn.org person is blameless, either. Obviously, I am a sick, dangerous person, and getting anywhere near me is like jumping into a lion’s den of Crazy. My disturbed, rage-addled brain can’t distinguish between genuine threats and ordinary visual stimuli. Anything that enters my field of vision is a potential target for my unfocused, ape-like fury. Frankly, I think she should apologize for placing not just herself in harms way, but anyone else in her vicinity, who might have become collateral damage from my bull-in-a-china-shop impulses.
The fact that I am allowed to roam the streets freely just sickens me. That’s why we need to elect responsible lawmakers like Rand Paul, who will keep our towns safe for guys like me from guys like me.
Bro, do you like the new Axe? I heard chicks dig it when you spray it on your junk, but it kinda hurts my pee-hole….OH SHIT, THERE’S A BALL COMIN RIGHT THIS WAY! I GOT IT! I GOT IT! YO LA GOT IT, BRO!
Hey, did you see that?! I snatched it right outta that outfielder’s glove! Serves ya right, you stupid fuckin world class athlete! Hey you, Chico, whatever your name is–this is you!
You’re all like, “Duh, lookit me tryna catch a ball while someone grabs my glove!” What an asshole! Go back to Texas, so you can then go back to Mexico or wherever the fuck you’re from!
Bro, high five. Totally burned that guy. That’ll teach him to come to the cathedral of baseball and think he can win a game. Too many ghosts here, bro. That wasn’t me who grabbed the ball outta his hands, that was the spirit of Ruth and DiMaggio and Mantle. But the thing where I did the jerkoff motion right in his face, that was totally me.
Wait, the Rangers are up 2-1 now? Fuck, let’s get outta here, this shit blows…whoah, the Yanks are back on top? FUCK YEAH! LET’S-GO-YAN-KEES! NEVER GIVE UP! BURNETT, YOU ARE A BEAST!
Jeter, why’d you hit your triple to center field? Shoulda hit it out here to right. I got a car battery under the seat, totally woulda beaned that stupid outfielder. He’d be all like, “Duh, I can’t catch the ball cuz my skull was crushed by a Duralast!”
Whoah, did that fan keep Gardner from grabbing a foul ball by the third base stands. YOU GOTTA REVIEW THAT, UMPS! WHAT THE FUCK! THAT COULD BE SOME RED SOX FAN DOWN THERE! Just some more anti-Yankee media bias, bro. Unbelievable!
Hey, wait a minute, who hit that home run? Bengie Molina? Never heard of him. I’ve been a Yankee fan since 1998 and that name does not ring a bell. UMPS, MAKE SURE HE’S REAL AND NOT A SOPHISTICED HOLOGRAM! YEAH, YOU LEAVE THE MOUND NOW, BURNETT, YOU FUCKIN HUMP!
Alright, now Joba’s in. He’s gonna right right the ship…ARE YOU FUCKIN KIDDIN ME?! YOU FUCKIN SUCK, JOBA, YOU FAT PIECE OF SHIT!
Bro, I’m out. This team has got no heart. No guts. They don’t see it through to the end like the old Yankee teams did. You wanna come with? I’m probably gonna stop at that one Hess station on the way home and abuse the African guys who pump the gas.
At least it’s football season. Got tickets for Giants-Cowboys in a coupla weeks. You’ll never guess what I’m gonna yell at Tony Romo…
Yeah, that’s right. Who told you?! WHO TOLD YOU MY HILARIOUS TONY ROMO ZINGER?!
Bro, I’m sorry I had to smash you in the face with a car battery. I was emotional. It was the ghosts. If he was in my shoes, Jim Leyritz woulda done the same thing.
Tony, I would like you come to my “Restoring Honor” rally in Washington. Albert Pujols will be a guest of honor and it would be great if you could introduce him. Gee, I don’t know, Glenn. As a public figure, I have to be careful what I associate myself with. I usually shy away from politics. Don’t worry, Tony this is a completely apolitical event. Really? Sarah Palin is speaking at it. She’s not a politician anymore–she resigned the guberna…gubernavit….she’s not governor anymore, remember? And it’s taking place on the exact same date in the exact same place as Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream” speech, and you said your goal for this event is to “reclaim the civil rights movement”. Civil rights aren’t a political issue, Tony–they’re a human issue. All American citizens should have the right to live and work the way they choose. That’s an issue that transcends politics, wouldn’t you agree? I suppose so. And so is the right to hoard gold for the impending cash-less economic system the radical socialists in the quote-unquote Democratic party plan to foist on America by the year 2013. That sounds kind of political. Oh, it’s definitely not. Because the Democrats insist on absolute separation of church and state, and the liberal fascists in the Obama administration are bent on removing religion from every imaginable public sphere. So if we believe in God, we ipso facto cannot be political, in their eyes! You believe in God, don’t you, Tony?
I’m not really religious, but I guess I believe in God. Good! You’ll need to pray to that god when the new world order tries to brand your babies with a UPC-type symbol so the one-world government can track them at all times. Why do you think that’s going to happen? /pulls out chalkboard with Rube Goldergian swirl of arrows Wow, that is convincing. But you swear this isn’t political. Not in the least. Though we may all grab pitchforks and march on the White House and attempt to overthrow the government by sheer force of will. Not sure; we’re gonna play it by ear. Sounds like a blast. Will there be vegetarian meal options offered at this event? Excuse me? Will there be vegetarian meal options? Because I’m a vegetarian. YOU’RE ONE OF THEM!
/ Body Snatchers-esque screech
Greetings, fans! John Sterling here, voice of the Yankees! If there’s one question I get asked more than any other, it’s “Why are you still alive?” After that, the question I get asked the most is, “How do you come up with your famous personalized home run calls?” Often followed by, “What possessed you to come up with these home run calls?” and “Who lets you come up with these home run calls?”
Each home run call I develop takes days, sometimes even weeks of trial and error. When the Yankees acquire a new player, I sit down with my little yellow notepad and come up with a few “punny” riffs on his name. I then stand in front of my full-length wardrobe mirror and bellow them at the top of my lungs, as I twitter and shake like Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias (still one of my faves!).
Then, if the downstairs neighbors haven’t called the cops again, I judge the way they sound on my own Sterling Scale, with 1 Sterling being poor and 32 Sterlings being just grand! If I have a friend over for dinner, I’ll seek feedback from him as well. I know I’ve hit the mark if he says he’s not hungry anymore or turns green and runs to the bathroom.
I don’t take this process lightly. After all, I am the voice of the Yankees, the most celebrated franchise in all of American sports. I understand that my choices should reflect the history, tradition, and mystique of this team. Of course, not everything can rise to the majestic heights of ROBBIE CANO, DONTCHA KNOW! or A THRILLA! BY GODZILLA!, but striving to achieve such grandeur remains my goal.
The most important factor when choosing my home run calls: Will it allow Suzyn Waldman any time to speak? If the answer is yes, it’s back to the drawing board.
Of course, not every idea makes the cut. Here’s a list of a few proposed home run calls for Yankee greats, past and present, that were not up to my usual, exacting standards:
Chuck Knoblauch: IT’S ANOTHER KNOB-POLISHER! Jason Giambi: GO TO THE MATTRESSES! THAT’S A VICIOUS HIT BY THE GIAMBI-NO CRIME FAMILY! Jorge Posada: HEY THERE, GEORGIE BOY, SWINGING AT THE PLATE SO FANCY FREE! Bernie Williams: THAT BALL’S BEEN BERN-ED BEYOND ALL RECOGNITION! ANOTHER SKIN GRAFT-TACULAR HOMER FOR WILLIAMS! Paul O’Neill: EVERY TIME I SEE YOU HOMERING I GET DOWN ON MY O’NEILL’S AND PRAY! Chad Curtis: HE HIT THE BALL INTO THE STANDS WITH HIS BAT! Brett Gardner: THE CONSTANT GARDNER! STARRING RALPH FIENNES AND RACHEL WEISZ WHICH I HAVE NOT YET SEEN BUT IS IN MY NETFLIX QUEUE!
I’ve been blessed to call so many great moments in Yankee history. But if I have one more wish, it’s to record an album of my home run calls with a full orchestra. Nelson Riddle will have to arrange, of course.
What would my own home run call be? I’m glad you asked. I think it would go something like this.
Sterling steps up to the plate, wearing his custom-made wool pinstripe Botany 500 suit. Two men on, two out, we’re in the bottom of the ninth, and the Yankees trail by two. Theeeee pitch is BELTED TO DEEP LEFT-CENTER FIELD! THAT BALL IS HIGH! MMM-IT IS FAR! MMM-IT IS GONE! STERLING POUNDS ONE! THE JOHN BACKS UP–A HOMER, THAT IS! A STERLING SILVER PERFORMANCE! JOHN JACOB JINGLEHEIMER SCHMIDT, HIS NAME IS MY NAME TOO! STER-LING UP SOME TROUBLE! JOHN JOHN, THE PIPER’S SON, HIT A HOMER AND AWAY HE RUN! YOU’RE SOME KIND OF MONSTER-LING! MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE AND JOHN, BLESS THIS HOMER WE JUST WON ON!
Sex and the City 2 has now been unleashed upon the world. Judging from general public opinion (i.e., people I follow on Twitter and Facebook), the backlash against this movie is so enormous, I wonder if anyone is going to see it in either a non-ironic fashion or without the express purpose of pissing themselves off.
Personally, I have no plans to see it and, god willing, never will. Then again, I always swore I would go through life without seeing an episode of Two and a Half Men, but a flat tire and a Strauss Auto Parts waiting room conspired to break that vow. But even with this willful ignorance, I’m sure that all of the negative reviews/reactions are completely on the mark. Particularly this hilarious, Haterade-drenched review in The Stranger.
It’s not the woman-y-ness of the SATC franchise that bugs me. I object more to the City part of the title, because the New York on the show resembles no reality known by 99.9% of New Yorkers. It’s the perfect Giuliani-era show, because like Rudy’s administration, it has no use for anyone who makes less than seven figures a year (or anyone of color, either). In SATC, New York is a glittery playground full of cosmotinis and obscenely priced shoes and gourmet cupcakes, where the non-rich only exist at the peripheries as nannies, waiters, and fuck-toys.
(I also don’t understand why the show has such a huge gay following when all of its gay characters are outdated, flamboyant, queeny stereotypes. But that’s not really my battle to fight.)
However, as Julie Klausner points out here, I’m clearly not the market for this entertainment. It’s meant for lady-types, and I’m not a lady-type. I can criticize it all I want, but I’m not sure doing so is useful in any way. It’s almost as pointless as going to a restaurant and judging the steak served to the guy at the next table.
And is SATC really any worse than most popular culture, which is overwhelmingly aimed at guys? Truth be told, the Dudertainment out there is every bit as lame and infuriating. Just look at this small list of phallocentric glop and tell me it’s any worse than SATC. Go ahead, I dares ya.
Entourage: I have seen no more than 15 cumulative minutes of this show, almost all of it in YouTube clips. Nevertheless, I feel qualified to say this: It is one of the worst things human beings have ever made, right behind the hole in the ozone layer and the BP oil spill. I can’t fully divulge what I want to do to everyone associated with this show, because it might be considered prosecutable hate speech.
The stakes for this show could not be lower or more homicide-inspiring. Rich, famous assholes want to get richer and more famous. There is not a single person on this show that I would cross the street to piss on if they were on fire. The fact that Entourage is exclusively aimed at men is perhaps the biggest argument against penises ever made.
THERE’S A GUY NAMED TURTLE ON THIS SHOW! I DON’T KNOW WHY THAT PISSES ME OFF, BUT GOOD LORD, IT PISSES ME OFF!
Just look at this. Look at what these people did with cameras and lights and bajillions of dollars. Look at this and tell me these people don’t deserve to be waterboarded.
Transformers: I don’t know what’s worse: the movies themselves, or people who complain that their suckitude has somehow retroactively ruined their childhood. Transformers was never any good, you guys. It was just on TV when you were a kid. Don’t confuse nostalgia for quality. Most of the things you liked when you were 8 are not any good. That’s why you don’t have fluffernutter sandwiches for lunch everyday anymore. At least I hope you don’t.
Comic Book Movies: Yes, there are many lady-types who like comic books. But the recent spate of movie adaptations are clearly aimed at the BOOM! POW! Dude Audience. This trend has resulted in one masterpiece (The Dark Knight) and two entertaining movies (the first two Spider-Man flicks). All the rest of these movies are thoroughly expendable. You could have not made any of them and the world would have kept on spinning just fine. They either eschew any kind of story so stuff can get blowed up real good, or they try to cram way too much back story and exposition/origin tale in a vain
effort to woo the Nerds (who will hate it anyway).
Like how The Avengers movie has been setup/teased in the last slew of films based on Marvel comics. A large chunk of Iron Man 2 involves Nick Fury trying to woo Tony Stark into The Avengers. And by the end of the movie, he’s still thinking about it! It’s okay to stretch out resolution across five or six issues of a comic book. It’s NOT okay to do that in a movie. That’s like if George Lucas devoted huge portions of the Star Wars prequels to discussions of trade tarriffs. Oh, wait…
Ultimate Fighting: Take boxing, add kicking, subtract the troublesome rules and sense of fair play, and voila! All sports are, in one sense or another, a form of combat. Ideally, they are a sublimated form of combat, where man’s desire to kill and maim is channeled through a proxy (the team you root for). They shouldn’t be televised bar fights, which is what ultimate fighting, for all intents and purposes, is.
So before you take a big dude-dump all over Sex and the City 2 (which it probably deserves, mind you), just think of all the Pure Garbage aimed at your own nutsack.
Here to present his opinion on why a Super Bowl in New York is a bad thing is A Giant Douchebag.
I’m only gonna say this once, because time is money, capisce? Especially my time. I make more caysh in one afternoon than you do all year. I don’t know who you are, but if you’re 98 percent of the population, what I just said is true.
The Super Bowl should NOT be in a cold-weather city in an outdoor stadium in the middle of December, or whenever the hell the Super Bowl is. We have a Super Bowl so titans of marketing like yours truly can go schmooze and hob nob with other titans of marketing for a week. If you have it in a city like New York, I’ll be freezing for those 30 seconds when I’m getting out of my limo and climbing into the stadium shuttle bus.
Some people think snow and cold weather are great for football. Hey numbnuts, get your dicks outta your ears and listen: I could give two shits about football. Same goes for everyone else who goes to the Super Bowl. We’re here to party on the company dime and be seen. If everyone else in the industry gathered around a steaming pile of diarrhea, I’d go to that, too, and I wouldn’t have to pretend I like a buncha thyroid cases in spandex running around, either.
New York’s great, don’t get me wrong. Where else could I spend so much dough on so little? I know this place in Soho that sells $7000 fortune cookies. The same exact ones you can get from a take out place. I bought one, cuz I could and you can’t.
But how am I supposed to pull up to some hot club in my Maserati in New York winter weather? You know what road salt does to a Maserati? Of course you don’t, because you’ve never seen one. My Maserati’s even more special than all the other ones you’ve never seen, because mine has a special paint job. Oils mixed by Da Vinci. No shit. I have to get it recoated every time the temperature goes over 75 degrees. Costs me a fucking fortune, not that it matters to me.
Here’s the other bad thing about New York: the people who work here aren’t thrilled to see you. There’s too many big shots here already, so when an A-list mad man like myself shows up, no one gives a shit. Not like other Super Bowls I’ve been to. When I went to Jacksonville, I paid six guys to carry me around on their shoulders from club to club. In Detroit, I ordered foie gras at this one restaurant, ate it, and paid a waitress to let me regurgitate it back into her mouth, like a bird.
You can’t get away with that in New York. The waitresses there are all uppity. Even the strippers act like they got dignity!
Hold on, I gotta take this.
NO, I SAID 6:47 FLIGHT, NOT A 6:48 FLIGHT, YOU STUPID CUNT! I SWEAR TO ASS-RAPING GOD, IF I’M ONE SECOND LATE TO SUNDANCE NEXT YEAR, I AM GOING TO MAIL YOU MY SHIT IN A BOX FROM ASPEN AND MAKE YOU EAT IT, AND MAKE YOU VIDEOTAPE YOURSELF EATING IT SO I CAN WATCH IT WITH THE WEINSTEIN BROTHERS!
Gotta roll. Meeting a Murdoch for lunch. Can’t remember which one, doesn’t matter.
A Giant Douchebag demands to know if you know who he is.
Governor McDonnell here! I wanna let alla y’all know that April is officially Confederate History Month in the Great Commonwealth of Virginia. Or Virginny, as my grandpappy used to call it. He didn’t have much of what you might call book learnin’, and he liked to get in fights with parking meters, and he used to drink gasoline with his evenin’ vittles, but he was still a good son of The South. Though he mighta been born in Springfield, Massachusetts, now that I think about it. But I’m not here to talk about the past. I’m here to talk about history!
Confederate History Month will celebrate all the brave men who defended their homeland against invading aggressors from a foul foreign land: The North. Yes, Northerners are different from Southerners, and that’s the way God intended it. If not, why’d He put the North all the way up there?
The South believed there should be two Americas. Those who liked snow and books could have The North, and those who liked mint juleps and rigid social strata could have The South. Just like another proud son of The South, Colonel Sanders, thought Americans should be able to enjoy extra crispy and original recipe.
But for some reason, The North didn’t like this idea. How else could The South have proved the merits of this glorious experiement unless we seceded and took up arms against our former countrymen? If you have a better idea, I’m all ears!
We have many exciting events planned for Confederate History Month. First, we’re gonna take down all these damn Yankee stars and stripes and burn ’em, just like our ancestors did. This will be okay because I declare for the next month that Virginny ain’t a part of the Union! Then we’re gonna replace them wretched things with the good ol’ stars and bars. Hang ’em from every window in the governor’s mansion! And then we’re gonna crank some Molly Hatchet.
One thing our celebration will not involve is any mention of slavery. I don’t think it was a significant part of Confederate history. Some might say it’s the reason why the whole war started. And when I say “some”, I’m referring to every historian ever. But that doesn’t make it significant.
Is milk a significant part of cheese? Is water a significant part of ice? Once something is transformed into something else, what caused that to happen is of no concern to us. History isn’t about figuring why things happened. It’s about puttin’ on funny ol’ timey costumes and charging 20 bucks a head to look at an old cannon.
And while we’re at it, let’s get rid of those ingredient panels on boxes of food. They just mess with your mind!
I’m also introducing legislation to celebrate the heroes who resisted that second heinous act of Yankee aggression, the so-called Civil Rights Movement. I want to honor the brave men and women who blocked high school entrances and turned hoses on protesters, and even the ones who did something as simple and noble as throwing eggs at children, so Virginians could continue to enjoy those lovely signs we took the time and care to hang on separate water fountains.
Did some bad things happen in The South during the Civil Right Movement? Beats me! The schoolbooks I grew up reading never mentioned it, and neither will any schoolbook produced under my administration. But I will add a special chapter on the bands of the 1970s and why Molly Hatchet remains a shining beacon of rockitude. And I will also commission a new cover to these textbooks painted by Frank Frazetta.
It was a Fox News-ian tactic: say an extremely controversial thing that will play well with your core audience, but say it in such a way that allows you to deny (technically) saying it when the other side gets its feathers ruffled. Except that in the world of sports “journalism”, you can write such things and not face any consequences for actions that would result in censure in virtually any other arm of the fourth estate.
Here’s a few choice quotes designed to sow doubt in readers’ minds:
Reyes says he told the feds he didn’t get human growth hormone from a Canadian doctor named Tony Galea, often regarded as a patron saint of HGH.
Yes, I remember when the Pope officially canonized him as such last year. Galea is under investigation for HGH distribution, but I don’t think that makes him the “patron saint” of the shadowy substance any more than I’m the patron saint of Cheez-Its because I can’t stop eating them. (Though I would totally accept the position were it offered to me, or existed.)
[J]ust because Reyes now has a problem with his thyroid gland, and is in New York City for sophisticated testing on it, does not mean those problems were caused by any kind of synthetic drug in his system.
Although the tone of my article, and this snotty sentence, indicates I totally believe they were.
Nobody should be surprised that people are looking to draw a line from Galea to what showed up in Reyes’ blood tests.
I’m not surprised that people make such assumptions in blog comment sections or on sports radio. This morning, I heard the douchetacular Craig Carton scream at a doctor who dared suggest there wasn’t enough evidence to make this logical leap. But I am surprised that such accusations–which have no shred of evidence to support them–are given credence in a major newspaper like the Daily News.
Is there a way human growth hormone could have contributed to Reyes’ thyroid problems? There are doctors who think so. Would they ever say HGH definitely caused Reyes’ problems? No, they would not.
No, they would not say that because diagnosing a person you’ve never treated and revealing that diagnosis publicly would be a total violation of everything you learn from day one in medical school.
“Good medicine is about eliminating possible causes,” Dr. Lewis Maharam – a doctor of sports medicine who has made sense about performance-enhancing drugs for years – said yesterday. “It’s about differentials, making a list of possibilities and then eliminating them one by one. But there is a possibility that human growth hormone could cause a spike of thyroid hormone levels.”
There’s also a possibility that it could give you the ability to fly or learn ancient Sanskrit or grow an extra set of arms. These things are all highly unlikely, but there’s no reason to think they’re impossible, right?
The negative side effects of HGH use aren’t well known, because HGH isn’t legitimately prescribed often, and most of its use is confined to the murky underworld of performance enhancing drugs, where users are reluctant to participate in clinical trials. So hell, why not say it could cause your hands to turn into saltines? You can’t definitively say it doesn’t do that, can you? I rest my case.
Also, Dr. Maharam “has made sense about performance-enhancing drugs for years”–I didn’t know you could specialize in Making Sense. Is that a lucrative practice? Is it any more lucrative than badgering Tiger Woods, which he also seems to specialize in?
Lupica closes out his piece by unfavorably comparing Reyes to Jimmy Rollins and Derek Jeter. He notes that Reyes played only 36 games last year and Jeter has never played fewer than 119. He fails to mention that Rollins had a terrible year last season. He also doesn’t mention that from 2005 through 2008, Reyes played at least 153 games every year, and played 160 games twice (something Captain Intangibles has never done). Because all of these facts would not jive with the well-established narrative of Jose Reyes as malingerer and malcontent and–now added to the pile–drug cheater.
I don’t think Lupica has anything against Reyes, necessarily. This is not an attempt to railroad him so much as it is an attempt to stir up controversy and sell some more papers/get some more page hits (which I am indirectly contributing to, I suppose). And in the grand scheme of things, writing a shitty, wildly speculative column on Reyes is pretty low on Lupica’s list of offenses.
He’s risen to the heights of the sportswriting world, yet is still apparently haunted by jealousy and a fear of being outshone. What could possibly cause a man to behave in such a manner? I have no idea what personal demons Lupica may have within him, but I don’t think you can eliminate HGH use from the equation.
I have absolutely no evidence that Lupica has used HGH. And I also have absolutely no idea if HGH could even cause such emotional neediness. But I don’t have any evidence to refute these things either, do I? Lupica painted Reyes guilty by association on evidence just as flimsy, so I see no reason why I can’t do the same.
WASHINGTON, D.C.–Senator Jim Bunning saw his impressive streak of heartless bastardry end at just over five days, a new legislative record, late Tuesday night. Since last Thursday, the Republican from Kentucky had single-handedly held up legislation that would extend unemployment benefits to millions of Americans. The streak was made even more remarkable by Bunning’s age, and the fact that he did it for no obvious reason other than to be a colossal prick.
The exhausted congressman told reporters in the Senate locker room, “I think I even surprised myself for a while there,” shortly before flipping the bird to each one of them individually.
“I think some of us questioned his stamina,” said House Minority Leader John Boehner. “After all, Jim’s no spring chicken. But to be that much of a cruel, insensitive jerkoff for that long…wow, I think I’d have trouble doing that.”
The previous record of consecutive prickitude was held by President William Howard Taft, who refused to let relatives of victims of the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire bury their family members for four full days. “I shall not reward these insolent whelps for leaving their appointed posts before nine hours of work, fire or no fire,” Taft said.
While Bunning’s streak did not cause quite as much misery, it did last for a longer period of time and show a similarly callous disregard for human life. For the purposes of legislative records, a stretch of dickery can’t simply be waged for mere personal reasons, such as greed or ambition. The pure assholery must have no seeming purpose except to promote suffering.
Before his career in public service, Bunning was a major league pitcher whose exploits on the mound earned him a plaque in Cooperstown. He was best known for pitching a perfect game in 1964, which he later credited to a lucky glove made of orphan skin and the tears of Vietnamese refugees.