The Doctor Is Finally Friggin' In...

Now then...grab your boys and cough. I need to see if this place herniated during my absence.

Really, though, this blog might actually be bloody better off if I just stay away. It's a sad state of affairs when the guests are cooler and get more comments than the host's stale retreads (though I knew all along they would and thusly invited the fellows to hang about for a bit because of their talents).

Alas, however, contrary to the popular refrain from Cheech and Chong, Dave is indeed here, man.

It was a perilous journey up into the Great Lame North, but I made relatively easy work of things. The poor blue states never knew what hit them. And before anyone realized I'd been around, they were all staring at the 1-20-2013 sticker on the back of the family Caravan, wondering what fortune teller had just sped south past their creepy little yellow smart cars at 80 mph (their top speed of 6 mph making all 112 1/2 barely breathing horses under the family Caravan's hood look like they powered the friggin' space shuttle).

And I didn't even get any dirty looks...which should tell you how fickle indeed the poor starving and over-taxed blue staters really are, deep down inside, once ACORN's left town and the locals have had a chance to peek at the sun for the three months it's around, contrary to the warnings of the impotent anthropomorphic global warming freaks walking about, trying to thumb a ride to the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, only to find out they need a friggin' paying ticket, and the cops will stomp their ass if they try to force their way in free all legacy horror-show like.

Someday I'll have to tell you the story of how I could have been the first baby to dance to Jimi Hendrix's version of The Star Spangled Banner, live, if it weren't for my savvy father.

Anyway, I'd like to say my mission succeeded in the smoting down of the evil Ed Rendell and the odious Arlen Sphincter and the cretinous John Murtha. I'd like to say that on my way past the Beltway I slipped on the ole Ninja getup and sneaked into D.C. and tossed a bucket of water on the Wicked Witch of Congress and watched her shriek "My Botox! My Botox! My Botox!" as she melted into a pool of toxic waste. I'd like to say I ran that nasty old Obugger back down into that fissure from hell he crawled out of, shoving Rahmbo and his Dr. Mengele wanna be brother down after him. I'd like to say that during our return through West Virginia my trusty shotgun shredded every "Robert Byrd Highway to Nowhere" system sign we passed. Hell, I'd like to say that I single handedly rolled back 66 years of ruinous liberal assaults on the Constitution and restored the grace of the Republic for years to come.

A fine dream indeed, but lies they'd be if I boasted such triumphs were true. (One of these days I'll have to vacation in Grand-dad and Granny land when the bastards we elect are in town, so I can stop by on the way up or down and wreak utter havoc.)

I did, however, tell one brash Noo Yawka liquor store vendor to "fuck off. You can get your business from someone more deserving of your abuse, like a union Democrat thug," after he wouldn't let me look at a little bottle of Wudka that would have been perfect for a few martinis on a hot summer's day on mom's back porch.

So I went cow tipping instead.

And for all the fine cows that ended up lying sideways (btw..."cow tipping" is a friggin' myth...it doesn't work, but if you try it on a bull, he might just tip you, head over friggin' heels), I'd like to say each one reminded me of Mike, Matt, and Innominatus for holding down the fort with grace and style and humor and dignity, even if it put them on Obugger's new report-thy-neighbor list.