Tuesday, September 30, 2008


Here, just copy mine: Dear Emma, this is not your fault. You deserve a better husband and the kids deserve a better father, not a crooked failure like me…”

“Quit smoking? This country’s goin’ down the shitter faster than Paul Newman's cancer spread in a race car. My plan? I’m movin’ to flavor country. Don’t tell my wife.”

His mom teaches high school drama uptown.

It’s hard to say whether this guy is that upset, or he’s a criminal that doesn’t want his face shown on TV.

It’s not even raining—the worldwide markets are just that fucked.

You know the stock market’s fucked when crowds of spectators start gathering outside, in case some sort of visible, physical event might happen.

Then again, everyone watches NASCAR for the crashes too.

This is the first time that even this guy is worried he might loose his job.

“No, I’m selling handjobs on second life. Two bucks a pop.”

“Two dollars? What the hell—she’s says she’s an Obama supporter.”

Now more than ever, John’s faint, orange sideburns seem especially pointless.

Future quote: “Yeah, I used one of these in my last job. No, it didn’t have a button for spinach dip or hot wings, but it was basically the same idea.”

“I’d like to make a sports metaphor, but I don’t think a team’s ever lost by 777 points before. Maybe the Saints? Oh, I got it! This is a like a Saints game during Katrina—there you go.”   

“I’ve got a crisp, new five dollar bill for the guy who makes the next trade!”

“Hell yeah! Five dollars!”

“Hey, can I use that five dollars to make the trade and then win it?”

“I’ll buy that five dollar debt. Anybody want to buy five shares of one-dollar debt? Get in early!”

If that goofy shit on the right smiles like that one more time, I’m going to break through this picture, punch him in his fat throat, and bludgeon him to death with one of those phones.

“Honey, I want you to gather all your things, get the kids, and load up the car—then light it all on fire. No! You listen to me, honey! I know what I’m talking about! Now!”

Monday, September 29, 2008


Judd Gregg (R) looks like he just spit Mitch McConnell’s own semen back into his mouth, which to date, is the grossest and perhaps most accurate metaphor for this financial crisis.

Everything’s fine!”

“Everything’s fucked!”

You know we’re fucked when all the politicians start using the open hand, “calm down gesture.”

It’s like they’re bad magicians showing us they’re not palming anything, when we all know it’s up their sleeve.

“It’s Sunday, I’m at work, what the hell else do you want from me?!? 

“Oh Barney!”

“Hurrumph, Barney no like work on Sunday.”

That’s the thing about working on the weekend—even if you get nothing done, you still have that smug sense of self-satisfaction.   

So this is government transparency? A photographer forced to lurk outside the window?

“Maybe I don’t say this enough Condi, but over the past 8 years, I have had a fucking blast!”

Oh shit! Cameras! Sad face! Sad face!”

Crap, it’s the press!”

“I can’t do this.”

“Fine! Stop poking me, I’ll go back out there!”


“Nah, fuck it.”

“Fuck you George! I’m in charge of the money now!”

Friday, September 26, 2008


Saturday, the House and Senate return to work, and in a classic grand standing gesture, both houses lock themselves in Congress and pledge not to come out until the reach a deal.

With McCain, Obama, and Biden all locked inside, Palin decides she’s in charge.

“I’m a hero!”

Bush is cool with it. He’s been looking forward to a break for a while.

Palin decides to meet with foreign leaders, not because she has any business to take care of, but since she did it once this week, it’s her largest avenue of experience.


“India, what’s that?”

“It’s the world’s largest Democracy.”

“Democracy? Now you’re making up silly words!”

“Have you seen Russia? I have. It’s really little, but if you look hard, you can see it.”

“Say, would you like to attack Iran? You know you can if you want to.”

“Who the fuck was that?”

Later at 6:30 Saturday night, Palin announces that she went to the bank, and it was closed.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m freaking the heck out!”

With out realizing that banks are always closed at 6:30 on a Saturday night, America freaks the fuck out and riots.

Back in India, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh watches the whole thing unfold. He realizes what’s going on and feels bad for America, so he sends us a mercy nuke.

The mercy nuke strikes at 12:01 AM Sunday morning. We’re all dead, but probably better off than with Palin in charge.