Fred Thompson can shoot beams out of his eyes so hot they can burn through Superman.
Archive of entries posted on April 2007
In your face, IRS! That’s less than I saved on Coca-Cola after I was diagnosed with epilepsy last year and stopped drinking caffeine, you bloodsuckers!
Owing $142 on April 16 is almost as good as owing $.01 or $.00. When you’re talking about thousands of dollars in tax liability, $142 is so immaterial that I can say we’re practically at $0 tax liability (I mean, we’re still going to pay it so both worthless parties can spend the money on pork and social programs in which I don’t believe), and at the same time, we didn’t give the feds an interest-free loan. I think that’s 3 out of the last 4 years for me that I can think of. Or something like that.
Yee-haw!
Eat that, moneymongers!
Desperate Measures
According to a new report, sex ed classes that teach only abstinence do nothing to delay the average teenager’s first experience with intercourse.
Since doing “the marital” leads to naught but woe, suffering, and empty promises of “I’ll call you”, and all government programs are equally useless, we must do more to protect our children. Here are my suggestions on how Biblical-type knowings may be more effectively prevented:
- Viewing of any kissing scene from “The Golden Girls”
- Don Imus masks (Rutgers only)
- Thinking about baseball – specifically Tommy Lasorda
- Master Lock™ brand genital piercings
- “Friend of Sanjaya” t-shirts
- Being a white man on a dance floor
- Viewing “Shaved Britney”… either end
- Free car with your first driver’s license, but it’s a Yugo
- Or you can take the Vespa
- E-mail address containing “@aol.com”
- Community service: peep show mop boy
- Chess club membership (voice of experience here)
Of course, the best way to prevent pre-marital sex is to avoid spending the night with Michael Jackson, but that sorta goes without saying.
WSJ Today
If you happen to read the Wall Street Journal today, read the letters to the editor on page A13.
The last one? Mine. A response to Case Closed: Tax Cuts Mean Growth by his eminent Fredness.
But seeing my words in black and white on dead tree media. It’s hard to believe.
[BSEG]
Sure you can read it online too, I mention the Laffer curve. But its in print too
Update: Am I looking for kudos? Virtual cookies? Pats on the back? No, I am really saying “HAH! My words are in the WSJ and yours, not so much. Neener, neener, neener.”
State of the Frank Report
This is the part of the blog where I write about my day for those interested.
To further my plan and kill Aquaman in an elegant and — if I may say — a poetic fashion, I’d first need some radio jamming equipment. I had a dealer downtown who often dealt in electronics of questionable legality, but before I got there, I noticed a pair of eyes in a window three stories above me.
Damnable monkey eyes. Staring at me. Boring into my soul.
Apparently the lone survivor had followed me, deciding to attack me when I was away from home… when I was more vulnerable.
I pulled out my .45. If the monkey wanted to end things now, I was game.
I charged into the apartment building, running to the third story and counting doors until I was pretty sure I had the apartment the monkey must have hid in. I then kicked in the door as I disengaged the thumb safety on my gun.
The family inside screamed at me. “It’s okay; I’m a popular blogger,” I told them as I kept my eyes down the sights of my gun looking for monkey movement.
I heard scurrying and fired two shots through the wall.
“Maybe we should call the police,” the mother there said.
I grabbed the cordless phone from her and smashed it against the wall. “They’d only get in the way.” I heard a window open and ran into the kitchen. The breeze billowed the drapes and I looked out the window for the monkey expecting to see him scurrying down the a pipe.
A cabinet popped open behind. I spun around and tried to aim my gun, but I was too late. I got off one unaimed shot before two monkey feet slammed me in chest sending me out the window. I plummeted towards the streets, smashing into a soft top car. Through pained-filled eyes, I could see the monkey jump out the window and fly off in a little monkey hang glider.
Outsmarted by a monkey. It was not a good day.
“Having trouble, Mr. Fleming?”
I recognized the voice. It was Aquaman. I groped around me until I found my gun. I then put it back into its in-the-waist holster and rolled off of the car. “I’m doing awesome. How are those swimming lessons at the Y working out for you?”
He glared at me. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”
I shrugged. “What? Is it suddenly illegal to fall out of a window?” I walked off to finish my errand.
I still can’t believe his obsession with me; it’s not like he actually cares about some dead monkeys. It’s not my fault what happened to you last year, Mr. Curry, but, when you die, it will be by my hands.
That I swear.
Perspective on stolen dreams
Twenty-oneAt least thirty-one students had their dreams stolen this morning. Not by a bad joke from an un-funny man. By an evil person (or persons).
Our prayers go out to the families of the victims and also to the witnesses of the shootings. How very sad.
Racial Slur Time!
I have to say that this whole Imus thing makes me a little worried. With humor, we’re always pushing the boundaries, and, if I’m not careful, I could end up the object of condemnation. Thus, to make sure I don’t say something racially insensitive, I’m going to focus all racial hatred on a group I won’t get in trouble belittling: The Irish.
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The Irish are, by all measures, an inferior race. According to an Oxford study, the Irish are genetically prone to violence. Plus, they are incapable of higher mental feats usually associated with human intelligence. Teaching algebra to an Irishman is as big a waste of time as trying to teach a cat to use a butter churn. Further study of the Irish’s DNA proves they are actually more similar to a weasel than a Englishman.
So, what to do of these Irish who could break out into violence at any moment and are incapable of being reasoned with? The only solution is to call them racial slurs. Some suggestions:
Mick
Paddy
Shant
Spud
Bog-Jumper
Coal-Cracker
Turf-Cutter
Pot-Licker
Potato-Eater
Mucker
Fumblin’ Dublin
Giant Leprechaun
Kermit
Drunk
What’s your favorite slur for this inferior race?
Daily Fred Thompson Fact
Nappy Headed Ho dead at age 76.
Daily Fred Thompson Fact
Daily Fred Thompson Fact
Malkin Factor
Since Bill O’Reilly is busy in Ireland getting drunk and fighting (it’s still okay to be racist towards the Irish, right?), Michelle Malkin subbed for O’Reilly last night and tonight. I haven’t watched tonight’s yet (I’m tivoing the 11pm repeat), but last night she did great. She also got called a prostitute to her face which made for good TV.
According to this site, she got huge rating subbing for Bill. I think she does great on hard new analysis (not so much on softer stuff like when she once subbed on FOX and Friends). Instead of replacing O’Reilly, I think she and Kirsten Powers should replace Hannity and Colmes. That would make that hour much smarter and much much more attractive.
State of the Frank Report
This is the part of the blog where I write about my day for those interested.
Many think that Aquaman’s ability to command the creatures of the sea is something magical, but it can be quantified scientifically. Like any other signal that goes through the air, it operates on a specific frequency. And when I know that frequency, Aquaman will die.
Reading up on how brains operate, I was able to limit down the possible frequencies in which Aquaman’s telepathy might operate. I then set a frequency scanner by those parameters.
“Dear, I’m heading out to stalk Aquaman.”
She reluctantly turned her attention away from her soap opera. “You still have the monkey to kill.”
“And die it shall, but the monkey I most want off my back right now is Aquaman. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”
“I’ll try to notice.” She looked back to her show and waved me away.
At the zoo, Aquaman’s CSI friend had left (I was careful; there was nothing to find), but Mr. Curry was still staring at the ashes of the monkey cages as if he could command them to give him answers. It was an obsession — and a very unhealthy once since it was going to cause me to kill him.
“Whatcha doin’?” My interrogator was a chubby child eating cotton candy. He stared at my frequency scanner with the incomprehension of a dog watching an opera.
“Did your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?”
“No.”
“Probably because they hate you because you’re so fat and are hoping some stranger will do you in.” I noticed a nearby tank. “I’ll honor their wishes.” I snatched his cotton candy and tossed it into the tank.
“My candy!” He waddled towards the tank, leaned over the railing reaching for his cotton candy, and stretched his arms out for until gravity won over.
At the sound of the splash, I faded into nearby crowd. “A kid has fallen into the stingray tank!” a woman shouted.
Aquaman ran forward for the rescue. “Just stay still and they won’t hurt you,” he told the blubbering child. Stingrays were an extremely minor threat, but instinctively Aquaman must have told them to move out of the way, because they fled as he reached in.
And my scanner caught the signal. It wasn’t enough data to properly breakdown how his telepathy worked, but it was enough for my purposes. By the time Aquaman had used his super strength to lift the wet dumpling to safety, I was gone.
Enjoy this minor act of heroism, Aquaman, for it shall be your last.
Week in Peeps
MKH has a cute, short video of peeps acting out this week’s news. I always thought puppets were the best educational tool, but I guess peeps work as well.
Oh, get over yourselves
Warning: This is a rant. If you’re one of those whiny peeps who just can’t handle it when IMAO gets ranty, you have this thing on the right-hand side of your screen called a scroll bar. I assume you know how to use it.
I’m over this racist bullcrap. I’ve been over it since about five minutes after Imus apologized the first time. After the first apology, there should have been no more apologies, and he absolutely NEVER should have groveled to Hypocrites Extraordinaire and Self-Proclaimed Masters of the Universe Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson. Note to Sharpton and Jackson: There is only one Master of the Universe, and his name is Jack Bristow. Neither of you comes close to being Jack Bristow, so move along now and crawl back into your racist, seedy little holes. Mr. Sharpton, you can go back to flinging around racial epithets about Jews and Whiteys. Jackson, well, you just go back to being the King of Slime.
Now, at first I felt bad for the Rutgers women’s basketball team, which everyone has already forgotten about. They’re now just “the Rutgers team”. What sport is it they were playing before this turned into the Sharpton/Jackson Circus and Spotless Barack’s Presidential Hot Topic? Oh, and did anyone notice that not all of them are black? Just wanted to mention it, because I doubt that Al and Jesse picked up on that, since they spun this whole thing as just another way for white men to keep black women enslaved.
But see, if I were one of the girls on the basketball team, I would just want it to go away. Yeah, ok, I was called a (k)nappy-headed ho in front of Imus’s eight listeners, and that’s incredibly insulting and very inaccurate (look how nice my hair is). Oh, and remember my accomplishments on the basketball court? I rock, and nobody remembers that!
But this. This is over the top.
Meanwhile the Rutgers women’s basketball team appeared Thursday on the Oprah Winfrey show to discuss the controversy. “Not only did he steal our dreams, he hurt our character of Rutgers University, our state, and all who have been associated,” Rutgers Head Coach C. Vivian Stringer said on the show.