Politics: We Now Rudely Interrupt Your Festive Holiday Spirit

Listen up all you lint-brained hordes of South Florida.  Yes, the calendar shows that week’s end is the high holy day of gift wrap ripping and gut stuffing, but I ain’t in the mood to be dispensing goodwill, chocolate chip cookies, and fa-la-la-la-la’s to you dumbshits, nitwits, and addle-pated morons.

Not after a year that witnessed a calamity in the Gulf, a feeble economic recovery, a vitriolic (at times downright nasty) temperament in the national political discourse (from inside and outside the Beltway), and a debacle of an election.

That last one many of you lunkheads had a role in, and you know who you are.  I suspect many of you were more distracted by whether or not Bristol Palin’s twinkly toes were going to walk off with the Dancing with the Stars championship than by the diabolical efforts this year of her mom to foist her personally-endorsed Tea Party loonies and wackos on a national electorate that, well, in some places, guzzled down the Koolaid tea and sent some of these Bozos to Washington.

And how can we overlook what happened right here in our own back yard?  Hope you like your new guv as much as my fellow journalists and I will enjoy keeping an eye on his slippery, oily, Nixonian proclivity toward secretiveness and flimflam.  Boy oh boy, is it going to be an interesting four years with the magnifying glass on Slick Rick.

And YOU geniuses picked ‘im!

At least you located the rare good sense to raise some citizen Cain and demand the recall of Carlos the Arrogant and, potentially, some of the county commissioners.  This compliment is tempered, however, by the admonition that you never should have re-elected these disappointments (some of them, repeatedly) in the first place, which would have spared everybody having to ass-kick them the hell out of County Hall now.

So, no gingerbread cookies or milk of human kindness to wash it down with for you ignoramuses this holiday.  But I do have some five-day-old rancid egg nog incubating some salmonella that I’d like to force down your throats.

I’ve happened upon something here that I bet WikiLeaks hasn’t got:  Santa’s Naughty List of 2010.  I don’t think the holly-jolly guy would mind if I played Julian Assange for the moment and leaked some of its contents:

For BP and its former CEO TONY (“There’s no one who wants this thing over more than I do, I’d like my life back.”) HAYWARD, not lumps of coal in their stockings, but  tar balls.

Framed copies of Obama’s 1961 Hawaiian birth certificate to all the TEA PARTIERS.

A herd of vengeful Alaskan moose surrounding the bed of SARAH PALIN as she wakes up on Christmas morn.

A bad case of laryngitis for GLENN BECK.  A very bad case.  The kind that prompts one to consider a career change, from broadcasting to, say, one where you don’t have to talk to anyone who can listen.  Like mortician.

A “build-it-yourself” lemonade stand kit, to help former CNN’er RICK SANCHEZ in his next career pursuit.

For playing a shell game with the City of Miami and Miami-Dade County in order to con the municipal types to fork over taxpayer dollars to fund their new stadium (Hidden profits?  What profits?  Not under this shell.  What about this shell?  Nope.  Not there either.), THE MARLINS’ DAVID SAMSON & OTHER OWNERS get from Santa a year’s supply of cow manure delivered by dump truck and unloaded onto all their BMWs and Benzes.

For CARLOS THE ARROGANT ALVAREZ, and his Mini-Me, County Manager GEORGE BURGESS, Santa promises more free time.  Lots more.  It’s coming, boys!  Be patient!

An ethics probe up his kazoo – and a subsequent criminal indictment (please! PLEASE!), too – for County Commissioner / Airport Construction Firm Honcho / Conflict-er of Interest PEPE (I see no conflict here) DIAZ.  Plus laser surgery to correct his impaired vision.

Congratulations, SEN. MAJORITY LEADER MITCH (My greatest priority now is to make sure Barack Obama is denied a second term) McCONNELL:  You now have the distinction of being the most dyspeptic, noxious member of the august body of 100.  We’ll find your face pictured for the dictionary definition of the word “sourpuss”.  Santa rewards this grouch with a coupon in his stocking.  One for a free fingernail extraction using a pair of pliers.  All ten.  One digit at a time.

Obviously still bitter and still not over his 2008 shellacking at the hands of a rival he still despises, SEN. JOHN McCAIN this year took flip-flopping and made it an Olympic sport.  From his reversals on immigration and campaign finance reform to bank bailouts and “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” he pandered like it was going out of style, in order to save his ass in his tough re-election bid.  Santa rewards you, John, with a free congressional junket on a Navy carrier.  You get to bunk in a cabin full of gay Mexican-American sailors.

Poor outgoing Attorney Gen. BILL McCOLLUM.  No sooner had the ink dried on the president’s signature of his health care bill into law than Bilious Bill stormed to the courthouse steps and hollered, “LAWSUIT!”, launching one of several attempts from A.G.’s around the nation to bring health care reform to a screeching halt and keep the status quo.  You know, where Americans have to fork over an arm and a leg to be able to afford treatment for their arm and a leg.  This ought to cement my credentials with the voters, Bill reckoned.  Wrong.  They instead went for Slick Scott in the GOP gubernatorial primary.  Without a spiteful lawsuit to pursue and no promotion to the top job, Santa thinks Bill has been walloped enough.

For denying Nobel Peace Prize recipient Liu Xiaobo the opportunity to dine on filet mignon at the winners’ banquet in Oslo but instead relegating him to a bowl of Ramen noodle soup in his prison cell, future prison cells of their own to the leaders of CHINA.  One of these decades, America’s commie bastard debt owner and credit lender will learn to respect human rights.  One of these decades.

For taking LeBron’s departure for Miami so badly, so juvenilely, the CLEVELAND (8-20) CAVALIERS’ FANS would have gotten something reproachful from Mr. Claus – but he figured that residing in Cleveland was punishment enough.

About Charles Branham-Bailey

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