There’s Absolutely Nothing Wild About HarryYou may have noticed the other day, that Michelle Malkin pointed us all in the direction of a brand new blog—not just any blog, but a blog promulgated, written and fomented by Mr. Moderation himself: Senator Harry Reid.
Normally, I wouldn’t even take the time to acknowledge a democratic blog by which those with any latent clinical depression could decide to administer the coup de grace before venturing another paragraph, but I must. I must because of the complete and yawning gulf that rests between Harry’s blog title, and the awful written atrocities contained therein.
For the record, the blog is titled “Give ‘Em Hell Harry.”
Upon reading the blog, one must conclude that the only actual hell the senator can unleash with a pen is when he’s crafting legislation—because this blog is just plain worthy of literary perdition--no Bema seat, no Great White Throne, nothing.
What’s even more enjoyable is the fact that Harry’s only written two entries to date. The first nearly put me into a persistent vegetative state in and of itself.:
The Bush Administration’s response to America’s energy supply problems leaves our future in the hands of the oil companies.
Senate Democrats have offered a better plan to reduce our dependence on foreign oil and to ease the impact of record high prices on American consumers. Instead of joining us, the White House and the rubber-stamping Republicans in Congress blocked the Democrats’ plan to make this country more energy independent by 2020.
Whew man. I can feel the incandescent, stygian heat rolling off the river Styx, Harry. Belial doth cower—especially when you go after those slimy wraiths in the petroleum industry:
Recently, a lobbyist from the American Petroleum Institute (the lobbying arm of big oil) was overheard at a bar saying, “we’re the richest trade association in town.” That comment sums up their response to record gas prices before and following Hurricane Katrina. As gas prices shoot up, they’re counting their money and buying drinks for their friends.
I’m already wondering if Al Franken hasn’t been commissioned to ghostwrite for the guy. Fortunately for Harry, the ebbs and flows of blogging allow him to put down that Faustian pen of his and take a breather, by treating us to a picture of a billboard showing us the URL we had to already be at in order to see it in the first place:
I do have to admit, that seeing Harry's name superimposed over what appears to be the Lake of Fire to be comforting for some odd reason.
C'mon Harry. Even you can do better than that. I want passion. I want you to roll up those billboarded blue sleeves of yours and force me to hide my children in the cupboards with your firebrand, keyboard calamities. I 'm extremely disappointed in you.
But you don't have to listen to me. Now that I read the comments section, it seems a few people have read this and concluded that you have actually unleashed the black horse of the Apocalyspe by sage skill. All except for this clueless sychophant, who decided to write a magnum opus longer than Donald Trump's prenup.
Be afraid, Very. Harry's out there with a scathing wit and a mind to filibuster. Run to the hills.
UPDATE: Apparently, Harry's a little more prolific than I had thought. If you click on the entries themselves, they sort of unfold into a much longer hypnotist's mantra. More hellish vociferating from the 9th pit.
Related: Harry's Huffington's Toast Rampage: I Am The Storm Bringer