I admit it, I am helpless when it comes to commenting on Republicans when they so thoroughly bushwhack (see footnote, later) themselves. They are hopeless buffoons, or to echo the mystic guru of the ages, Bugs Bunny, "What a bunch of maroons."
One of the latest, of course, is Baron von Hairpile, trying to insert both feet, and most of his lower torso, into his mouth -- ahhh-gain -- by tangling himself up with a Faux News spokesdroid, in a gushing geyser of unfiltered brain goo direct from Mr. Lip-Spanky's so-called thought-and-speech centers.
Dear me. Go look up what he said. Uck. Definitely not very presidential, there, Bubba.
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In Star Wars terms, we could re-christen The Donald -- please allow me the honor of personally delivering the magnum bottle of champagne over the famous, oddly-coiffed head -- and call him Bubba Feet...
Bubba Feet, a strange, scalping headhunter and backward backwoodsman with interests only in blonde pelts, be it his own or anyone else's. The story lineage would be that Bubba Feet is purportedly human, having pulled himself up by his father's stolen bootstraps, and who has a combination of Mad Cow -and- hoof-in-mouth disease, and is only very distantly related to Boba Fett, the bounty hunter.
This works right in with the latest from the Bloom County 2015 comic strip, in which Donald followers are dubbed "StormTrumpers."
And, in yet another triumph of serendipity, Bloom County fans have chimed in, adding even more insight to the free-for-all: One notes that "trump" is UK slang for breaking wind, while another notes that StormTrumpers are "all white, mindlessly follow a great evil, and can't hit anything."
Trump-stormers certainly can't aim their thought processes very well, so it's impossible for them to even aim at an idea, let alone hit it.
Myself, I am tempted to go with sturm-und-trump, or, maybe, sturm-und-drang troopers -- or, to simply jam everything together, ala Germanic compound-word-fashioning, as sturm-und-drang trumpers.
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When these slapstick moments happen to Republicans -- which is most of the time -- I can't help but laugh at them, while pitying them, even as they get knocked from pillar to post, sailing headlong, far down to the hard tarmac below, far from their self-vaulted heights setting them atop Olympian pedestals, where they and followers have carefully placed them, unbalanced as all get-out.
Talk about schadenfreude.
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