Tag Archives: Jerold Nadler

Obama’s Zodiac Sign is Cancer! Sucks to be Him!

Obama sucks. We all get that. But then, so does Jerold Nadler – Which is obvious to everyone but Nadler. After all, Nadler got that way by totally sucking – not blowing. See Harry Reid for an example on blowing. Sucks – Nadler. Blows – Reid. Kinda like a 2-cycle engine. But I digress. This story is about Obama and not Jerold the Hut. There’s no question about it – Jerold is not the Droid we are looking for. Move along.  On the other hand, do you know a single person who has ever had to actually “look” for Jerold the Hut? Didn’t think so. He’s right in our grill. It’s not like he blends into the scenery or anything. But enough about GoNadler – Oh, alright, just one little more tidbit about Nadler. In your mind can’t you just see Jerold the Hut wearing full-length red underwear and slopping eats from a can of beans that has a label that says “Beans?” Envision Jerold the Hut scaring children from the local orphanage by removing his teeth and pretending to be the ghost of FDR, his only true love. Eleanor? Eleanor? Come to me, my Eleanor! Oh, sorry, somehow the HildaBeast got fused into this story about Jerold the Hut, uh… Obama. Crap! You ever noticed just how difficult it is to stay on topic? This paragraph sucks! Can’t stay on topic…

So Obama wakes up this morning, looks out of the White House window and sees “The President Sucks” written in the snow in urine. Furious, he calls in the FBI and demands that the perpetrators be found. Later that day the FBI agents return and report. “Well sir,” says the first agent, “the urine has been analyzed and it comes straight from the bladder of Vice President Joe Biden.” Obama goes purple with rage and shouts, “Is that all?” There was a moment of silence from the FBI agent as he was reluctant to respond, but seeing as there was no way out of the situation he relented and continued on with his report. “Well, no sir,” said the agent, “It’s Michelle’s handwriting.” As in “He ain’t heavy. He’s my Hairy Reed.” Which reminds me, what do you call a fake noodle? An impasta!

Which reminds me, again…did you know that sharks have a week dedicated to Chuck Norris? And a month dedicated to Jerold Nadler? I can just envision a shark at the local fast food emporium’s drive-through lane. “I’ll take a Nadler to go, with a side order of Nancy Pelosi and a large Coke.” Now that lunch really sucks. Hey, we just got back on topic! So let’s dissect the reasons for Obama’s extraordinary level of pure suckitude. Humor me here, please. Indulge me in just one little more digression and I promise I’ll get back on topic right after this little intermission. Imagine that Obama is sailing on a pink cruise ship. Also imagine that Michelle is sailing on a purple cruise ship. Everything is fine until the pink cruise ship runs into the port side (that’s “left” for you politically inclined readers) of the purple ship and both Obama and Michelle get marooned! See, it was worth it, wasn’t it!

And now, drum roll please… change we can believe in!

How many Obama Administration staffers does it take to change a light bulb? No one knows, they won’t release the information!

How many of Obama’s thought police does it take to screw in a light bulb? None…. There never *was* any light bulb, don’t you remember?

How many feminists does it take to screw in a light bulb? Hey, that’s not funny!

How many Marxists does it take to screw in a light bulb? None: The light bulb contains the seeds of its own revolution.

How many Socialist Workers Party members does it take to change a light bulb? Four – One to change the bulb, one to write about it for “the paper”, one to sell you “the paper” and another to follow you home and ask why you weren’t at the bulb changing, if you plan to make the next one and if you are still as committed.

How many liberal revisionist historians does it take to change a light bulb? In actual fact, against popular consensus, the light bulb was never actually changed.

How many of Obama’s senior aides does it take to screw in a light bulb? None: They’re supposed to keep the President in the dark.

How many Palistinian terrorists does it take to screw in a light bulb? Two: One to negotiate with the old bulb and one to shoot at it at the same time.

How many Al Gores does it take to screw in a light bulb? One: but he has to have candles and soft music to do it.

How many Liberal Democrats does it take to change a light bulb ? None. “Well it’s not really a question of should we change it or should we not change the light bulb, but more a question of… (blah blah waffle.)”

How many liberals does it take to screw in a light bulb? One liberal and 28 delegates representing all the social, economic, and ethnic communities.

How many socialists does it take to change a light bulb? One to petition the Ministry of Light for a bulb, fifty to establish the state production quota, two hundred militia to force the factory unions to allow production of the bulb, and one to surreptitiously dial an ‘800’ number to order a conservative light bulb.

How many Democratic presidential candidates from 1988 did it take to screw in a light bulb?

  • (Mike Dukakis) In Massachusetts, my enlightened government has made it unnecessary for people to screw in their own light bulbs, as we have put thousands of former welfare recipients to work for the Dept. of Light Bulb Installation. These employees will come to your home or business and install any incandescent bulb, on only a few months notice.
  • (Bruce Babbitt) It’s foolish to talk about screwing in light bulbs when we haven’t even taken the first step, and that is to remove the old bulb. I challenge my fellow candidates to stand up with me and help me remove this old light bulb [stands, but nobody else does] Hah! What wimps. You guys make Bush look like Rambo.
  • (Richard Gephart) It doesn’t matter whether the bulb is changed or not; it only matters that the new bulb was made in the US of A. Taiwan and South Korea have put up massive barriers to importing US light bulbs; we’ll see how they like it when their bulbs cost $10,000 to screw in here.
  • (Gary Hart) This oblique reference to screwing is an obvious attempt to drag my personal life into this campaign. Frankly, I resent it, and the American people resent it.
  • (Al Gore) As usual, the other left-wing wacko candidates are putting forth solutions that moderate Southerners won’t cotton to on  Super Tuesday. At  least I hope not.
  • (Paul Simon) My media experts tell me I’m foolish for wearing my hair the same way I did in the 50’s. But that’s what Paul Simon’s all about. And I suppose my media experts are gonna say I’m foolish for this, but in all candor, I change my light bulbs the same way I did in the 50’s: my wife gets on a ladder and I turn it.
  • (Jesse Jackson) Changing the light bulb is a partial solution at best. I’m more of a Lone Ranger than a light bulb changer. But even the Lone Ranger had Tonto and Silver, and the shameful fact is that the American Indians of today don’t have enough silver, or gold, or even paper money to allow them to buy into the American Dream or some extra light bulbs. We must ensure that all Americans can light their homes, from the lighthouse to the White House.

How many Kennedys does it take to screw in a light bulb? None: At least until we get some corroborating witnesses.

How many ACORN election canvassers does it take to change a light bulb? None. They’d just go round telling everyone that it’s time for a change but the only way this can come about is if everyone votes for “New Obama light bulb.”

How many Maoists does it take to change a light bulb? One to screw in the bulb and a thousand to chant “Fight Darkness!”

Now this is just too funny to make up. What I am about to tell you is real. Truth really is stranger than fiction. Obama, wait for it, was born on August 4th. That means Obama’s Zodiac sign is Cancer! I kid you not! That’s the truth! Obama is Cancer! Now that’s something I Hope will never Change! Obama Cancered Us! He grows on himself! Hey, there’s 1 Obama, 2 Obama, 4 Obama, 8 Obama, 16 Obama, 32 Obama…yada, yada, yada. So the question is:

How many Cancerians does it take to change a light bulb? None: Cancerians would worry themselves to death with the problem – or perhaps with the Libya problem.

How many Obama voters does it take to change a light bulb? None. Hoping that it would change is quite enough.

Like I said up front, Obama sucks. Changing a light bulb is so easy that a caveman could do it –if he had one. Kinda like us in a few months. Obama is getting rid of incandescent light bulbs. He figures to screw us all. Now THAT sucks!


Barack Obama – an Exorcist’s Nightmare

Is it possible that the pastor was performing an exorcism and Obama came out of someone else? I mean…have we been asking the wrong question all along? We’ve all been so preoccupied with the question of WHERE he was born that we’ve ignored another possibility. After all, we have all been running around on the assumption that Barry was at least born SOMEWHERE! Okay, granted, some of us thought he was spawned, but you get my point. Besides, I don’t believe it. We’ve yet to receive any reports of people watching him swim up the West Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho and lay his eggs under a lily pad near the left bank. So, did we cover all the bases? Kenya? Check! Indonesia? Check! Hawaii? Check, Check! Hell? Come again? Yeah, that’s what I meant. Is it possible that Barack Hussein Obama has never actually been born? Is it possible he is nothing but an evil apparition who currently illegally inhabits the body of a chronically drunken sailor from Queens? Did he ever take a vacation on the far side of the River Styx? Is he Satan’s love child? Is Michelle the Gatekeeper or the Keymaster? Inquiring minds want to know.

The old joke goes something like this:

Bill Clinton dies and is on his way to Hell. At Hell’s gates he meets Satan. Satan tells Clinton that Hell is full, but that Clinton will be replacing one of the current inhabitants, and he will be given the choice of who he will replace forever in Hell.

Three doors appear before Clinton. The first door opens. Behind it is Van Jones. He’s being forced to pound big rocks into little rocks. Upon seeing Van in this predicament, Clinton cringes and says, “I feel his pain! I don’t think so.”

The second door opens. Behind it is Ted Kennedy. He is bobbing for automobile parts in a large pool of dirty water. Grimacing at the filthy scene, Clinton says, “Not for me.”

The third door opens and behind it is Pee Wee Herman. He’s naked and bound hand and foot. Kneeling before him is Monica Lewinsky, doing what she does best.

“I can handle that!” Clinton proclaims enthusiastically.

“Very well,” says Satan. “Monica, you’re free to go.”

Perhaps the joke is really on Barry, not Bill. Let’s examine the evidence and see if we can lay the rumors to rest. The charge – is Barack Hussein Obama a resident of the underworld?

The Trap Door Theory

Three men die and arrive at the Pearly Gates – Obama, Barney Frank, and CDNnow, a conservative blogger who lived through the years of the Obama presidency. St. Peter is there to greet them. St. Peter motions for Barney Frank to step forward. “What is your name?” asks St. Peter. “Barney Frank” answers the esteemed Congressman from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. “And what did you do on earth?” inquired St. Peter. “Well, let’s see,” said Frank. “I helped destroy the banking industry, I looked the other way while my roommate ran a gay prostitution ring out of my basement, and I tolerated Ted Kennedy for years, but that’s all water under the bridge by now,” replied Frank. “Go to Hell!” said St. Peter, pulling a giant lever that opened a trap door under Frank’s feet and down Frank went to roast his weenie over a bed of hot coals. St. Peter motioned for Obama to step forward.

“What is your name?” inquired St. Peter. “Barry Soetero,” replied Obama. But I changed my name to Barack Hussein Obama so I could qualify for the 72 virgins.” St. Peter wasn’t impressed. “And what did you do on earth?” St. Peter asked Obama. “I implemented communistic healthcare, held beer summits, and took far too many expensive vacations on the public’s dime,” answered Obama. “Go to Hell!” said St. Peter. He yanked the big lever, the trap door opened beneath Obama’s feet and Barry was sent plummeting down to join Van Jones and the Crazed Sex Poodle.

By this time CDNnow was getting nervous. St. Peter motioned CDNnow to come up before his desk. CDNnow walked gingerly forward, checking for trap doors as he approached the divine personage. “What is your name?” demanded St. Peter. “My name is CDNnow,” he replied. “And what did you do in your life?” asked St. Peter. “I lived through the Obama presidency,” replied CDNnow. “Come on in!” said St. Peter, swinging open the pearly gates and admitting CDNnow to Heaven. “You’ve already been through Hell!”

I’ve got to hand it to St. Peter – he sure knows how to call ‘em! I’m tempted to tell a joke here about a small shovel and relate it to St. Peter’s decision-making ability but I will forgo the temptation – which is a real shame – because the way I understand it temptation is the first step towards repentance. Perhaps I should tell the joke anyway. After all, I know I won’t go to Hell. I repent too damn fast! Naw, it’s too explosive. Look for the clues. Figure it out for yourself. Use your noggin. Nuff’ said.

Barbed Wire – or Kicking Against the Pricks

One day God was out riding the range and decided to ride along the fence line that separates Heaven from Hell. After riding for quite some time he came to a point in the fence where the barbed wire had been torn down. This upset the Almighty to no end. As he was fuming, the Devil came riding up on the other side of the fence. “I demand that you fix this fence immediately! I know that you are the one who tore it down,” said God. “Cry me a river” replied the Devil. “What are you going to do if I don’t repair the fence?” By this time God was fit to be tied. “If you don’t fix this fence I’m going to sue!” cried the Lord. “Oh yeah?” replied Satan, “And where are you going to find any lawyers?”

Point taken. Now let’s put it to a logical syllogism:

Obama is a lawyer.
Lawyers go to Hell.
Therefore, Obama went to Hell.

Okay, that works!

The Exorcism Theory

Let us all bow our heads in mercy and forgiveness for that drunken sailor. After all he is not evil in and of himself. He’s merely had an evil spirit that has been redistributed to him. See, socialism sucks! Given that the sailor is an innocent victim we shall regard exorcism more as a cure and less of a punishment. In Islam, an exorcism is called a Ruqya. Which is quite convenient…giving rise to such phrases as “Ruqya, Obama!” and “Ruqya too, Harry Reid!” Oh, did you hear the one about the dispossessed Libyan terrorist? No Sheikh!  – Or the one about the naked ghost? No Sheet! Or the one about the naked cowboy? No Sheep! I just threw that last one in there as a variation on a theme. Anyway, let’s get back to the exorcism. I do tend to get carried away at times and I apologize for that.

I’m not Beetlejuice so please forgive me if I butcher the proper technique to perform a Hawaiian exorcism. I could have also performed a Kenyan or Indonesian exorcism but hey, I wanted pineapples in the ceremony! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a Hawaiian holy man with a background in Demonology? They don’t grow on palm trees, folks! And the few that do exist tend to be rather weird. I’ve yet to meet a normal paranormal. And still I found success. On the island of Ni‘ihau, commonly referred to as The Forbidden Island, live about 130 natives and one Hawaiian exorcist. It isn’t easy to get there…or cheap. I arranged for a helicopter to drop me off. I would have taken Mrs. PolarCoug along but she wanted to fly out a week in advance on a second helicopter, and drag the kids along with a bunch of bodyguards, too. Gee, that scenario sounds familiar. Now where could I have heard that one before? Strange. Anyway, back to the story.

Upon landing I discovered that Ni‘ihau isn’t fit even for miscreant liberal crybabies. And yet, that is where I found Lei Pupoo, who refused to tell me how he got that name and I don’t blame him. In his mysterious yet mystical way he told me that he became a Hawaiian exorcist shortly after the Ni‘ihau Incident in World War II. It seems a Japanese fighter pilot crashed on Ni‘ihau and went about terrorizing the local inhabitants for about a week. Naval Airman 1st Class Shigenori Nishikaichi took part in the second wave of the attack on Pearl Harbor. He flew off the deck of the aircraft carrier Hiryu and had the bad misfortune to run into some American bullets…got to know them on a first name basis. He made an emergency landing on Ni‘ihau, nearly plowing over a native man standing on the beach. Life is a beach sometimes, isn’t it? To make a long story short, he overpowered a guard, stole a shotgun and a pistol and headed back to his plane. A native named Kaleohano happened to be in the outhouse at the time Nishikaichi came running by on his way to his airplane. Pupoo was in the basement at the time and saw the hole thing. Kaleohano made a mad dash for safety out of the outhouse and Pupoo stayed right where he was – looking for relief butt finding that what happens in the outhouse stays in the outhouse.

Wow, that was a long paragraph. Let’s take a break for a moment and then we’ll get back to the story.

There was once a country boy who hated using the outhouse because it was hot in the summer and freezing in the winter…plus it stank all the time. The outhouse was situated on the bank of a creek and the boy determined that one day he would push that outhouse into the creek.

So one day after a spring rain the creek was swollen so the little boy decided today was the day to push the outhouse into the creek. He got a large stick and started pushing. Finally, the outhouse toppled into the creek and floated away.

That night his dad told him they were going to the woodshed after supper. Knowing this meant a spanking, the little boy asked why. The dad replied, “Someone pushed the outhouse into the creek today. It was you, wasn’t it, son?”

The boy answered yes. Then he thought a moment and said, “Dad, I read in school today that George Washington chopped down a cherry tree and didn’t get into trouble because he told the truth.”

The dad replied, “Well, son, George Washington’s father wasn’t in that cherry tree.”

–    Legends of America

Pupoo wasn’t so lucky. He WAS in that outhouse. And there he stayed until he was rescued a week later. During that time he went through Hell. Or rather, Hell went through him. He emerged a new man and decided to devote the rest of his life to exorcising the demons that possessed his fellow Hawaiians. After all, a river ran through it and he was determined to get to the bottom of the problem. The end. Not the end of the story – just “the end!” Yeah, THAT end. Well, not quite the end, that Japanese sailor? He ended up getting his face bashed in. That’s what happens when angry Hawaiians apply high velocity rocks to one’s head (true story).

So here I was more than 70 years later, beseeching Lei Pupoo to perform an exorcism upon a drunken sailor from Queens. I was determined. “I want it all. I want it all. I want it all. And I want it now!” I told Pupoo. “I thought you said Queens, with an ‘S’”, he said. “I’m confused. Is it Queens or Queen?” I assured him it was the borough and not the band. “So much for Mercury rising,” replied PuPoo. And then he got down to work.

Pupoo began the job by cooking up his favorite recipe. He called it Ted Kennedy casserole.


  • 1 cup of dark brown sugar
  • 1 cup (2 sticks) butter
  • 1 cup of granulated sugar
  • 4 large eggs
  • 2 cups of dried pineapple
  • 1 tsp baking soda
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 1 tsp fresh lemon juice
  • 1 cup coarsely chopped walnuts or pecans
  • 2 cups all-purpose flour
  • 1 bottle Jose Cuervo Tequila (silver or gold, as desired)

Pupoo sampled the Cuervo to check its quality. He then took a large bowl, checked the Cuervo again to make sure it was of the highest quality by pouring one level cup and taking a drink. Then he turned on the electric mixer and beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Then he added a teaspoon of sugar and beat it again…and again…and again…and again…and again. At this point Pupoo decided it was best to make sure the Cuervo was still okay so he downed another cup, just in case. Then he turned off the mixerer thingy. He broke two eggs and added them to the bowl and chucked in the cup of dried pineapple. At that point he picked the frigging pineapple off the floor and mixed it on the turner…wow, that Cuervo was really getting to him! Whenever the dried pineapple got stuck in the beaterers he just pried it loose with a screwdriver. At this stage of the food preparation Pupoo sampled the Cuervo for tonsisticity. Then he sifted two cups of salt, or something. Then it was time to check the Jose Cuervo. Then he shifted the lemon juice and strained his nuts. He added one table, a spoon of sugar, or somefink. Whatever he could find. He greased the oven, turned the cake tin 360 degrees and tried not to fall over. Then he beat off the turner. Finally, he threw the bowl out the window, finished off the Cose Juervo and made sure to put the stove in the dishwasher.

It was time. Pupoo prepared the inner chamber for the exorcism. He lit 24 ecologically friendly candles and placed them in a circle around the drunken sailor – who obviously wasn’t going anyone’s way, let alone mine. A backlit portrait of Janet Napolitano was strategically placed behind the sailor’s head and the empty bottle of Jose Cuervo was placed between his legs. Finally, a bit of sand scraped up off the floor of Lenin’s Tomb was sprinkled on the sailor’s dinghy, if you know what I mean.

Calling on the blessed name of Karl Marx, Pupoo began a slow and ponderous chant:

Oh, Satan, wondrous one!
Bring out of sailor, your blessed son!
Bring him fast and bring near,
Bring him with a keg of beer!

Out of Kenya, out of time.
Out of Harvard. On our dime.
Out of Boston, Out of bucks.
Out of money, just our luck!

Rise up now and quick appear.
Rise up Barry, show no fear.
Raise our taxes, feel our pain,
Raise yourself now, don’t complain!

The candles blew themselves out. The bottle shattered into a thousand pieces. The grains of sand aligned themselves in a row pointing towards the sailor’s chest and the picture of JanPo disappeared with a rushing sound that reminded me of the Trans-Siberian Railway rolling around a curve somewhere near Lake Baikal.

Slowly, a hideous apparition arose from the sailor’s chest. What the crap?! It’s the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man! I just got slimed! I noticed he was wearing the sailor’s hat and a cute little red bandana.

“I was expecting Obama!” I yelled at Mr. Marshmallow. Then the giant marshmallow morphed into the most disgusting creature I had ever seen. It looked eerily like a cross between Nancy Pelosi and Jerold Nadler. “I was expecting Obama!” I screamed again. The giant slug turned its massive head, wiped the Botox off its lips and responded to me with a thunderous voice.

“There is no Obama. Only Zuul!”