Lloyd Bentsen's 1988 Quayle Zinger Doing Him No Good Now
With the exception of Halloween, I've been waiting for this date to cross the Gregorian Rubicon. It is during such particular chronological alignments that my literary finesses become stark and penetrating.
I'd like to mention that any guffaws and artistic umbrage with Al Gore's movie is not my fault. I quit his camp about the time he started emulating rhyming black preachers. Also, the script, dubious assertions, and hyperbolic statistical handlings bear not my fingerprints. And believe you me--I'm all for global warming. Just not in a photo-op with Beardo the Weirdo. That guy will ruin my reputation.
Which reminds me. When the late Treasure Secretary shuffled off this mortal coil, he thought that overplayed zinger from the Dukakis campaign would be enough to spare him the pit. He was wrong. Willie Horton did the obligatory hopper-toss honors. I thought the irony was all there, myself. Even worse, he's now debating Sam Kinison for the next 10 million years--And I've already removed the "I knew Lenny Bruce . . " bit before he even gets a chance to interlope another backhanded insult.
Although I will admit, the potential for a sudden fit of clap-handed approbation from an adoring press pool is growing by the day. Jennings will be here, just as soon as he finished writing that twelve billion word retraction on his Jesus biopics. He's really glad he deferred to Gnostics and bisexual priests for "continued godhead coverage," let me tell you. He's the most trusted man in . . . well, let's just say in the earth.
Lastly. I am not--nor are any of my henchmen--directly or indirectly responsible for Katie Couric's career. Ditto for any of Hillary Clinton's speeches. And I'm especially not responsible for that birth-control voice of hers. Rumor has it Chelsea was conceived during a cold month and smack dab in the middle of a laryngitis pandemic.
Ever since I got kicked out of Heaven in Isaiah 14, I've been bitter. Bitter, bitter, bitter. But I don't let it get the best of me, despite the death threats I receive constantly. I simply defer to the most celebrated triumvirate on the planet:
I'm through, with doubt,
There's nothing left for me to figure out,
I've paid a price, and i'll keep paying
I'm not ready to make nice,
I'm not ready to back down,
I'm still mad as hell
And I don't have time
To go round and round and round
It's too late to make it right
I probably wouldn't if I could
Cause I'm mad as hell
Can't bring myself to do what it is
You think I should
Have a nice day. Stooge.