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Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category


Obama and the Walmericans

On a recent outing to feel the pulse of America, President Obama mingles with the masses. He might have been better received if he’d forgone the casual button down shirt for a dirty wifebeater. A moment after this photo was taken the man pictured called a friend to share his experience. Unfortunately, the man was still talking to the president at the time. Awkward as it was the conversation was recorded, thankfully.

“Hey man, it’s Dale. Yeah, man. No shit? Hang on a sec, Mr. President. I got my buddy Terry on the other line. He’s watching us on CNN. Yeah man, sorry, go ahead. No shit!  That’s hilarious. Record it, dude. Yeah, he’s right here. Yeah man, he totally saw it. He was all like asking about some Japanese dude named Hokusai or some shit. No, man, I told him for reals. I was all like ‘Dude, my buddy Terry did this ink at his shop right here in Jersey. He was all like ‘Whatever’, but then he was cool. Said he liked it. Dude, don’t swell up on that shit, he obviously don’t know jack about tats. Yeah, that’s crazy shit, man. Yeah, that’s Diane. Dude, we hooked up last night. Dude, Obama keeps staring at her dog chain. It’s hilarious. Is she really?! Oh my God your right she is! That’s hilarious. Hey, that reminds me, dude.  Can I get my nipples done next week? Dude, I totally should have done it when I was in there yesterday. Yeah, I know you told me to. Yeah, I know, they’d be all over national television right now. Dude, shut up about it! Damn! Listen dude, I gotta go. No, man, you pick that shit up yourself. I got the president right here, dude. Dude! I gotsta GO! Later. [Hangs up] Shit! Yo, sorry about that Mr. President. What were you saying?”

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E.U. Darling - Colonel Mu'hammar Al Quedahffi (or whatever his name is)

I can remember when Moammar Gadaffi was Mu’hamar Al Quadaffi.  A much more threatening spelling to 1980 American sensibilities. A name worthy of a makeover.  Just as in the aftermath of the Sept. 11 attacks, we finally paid enough attention to Al Queda  to figure out a standard spelling for its leader Osama Bin Laden.  Remember Usama Bin Ladden and all the other derivatives?   Gadaffi got a nice titular tweak along with a wardrobe change, all to match his rapid foreign policy shift.  He’d realized that if he simply stopped bombing airliners, assassinating enemies on foreign soil, and cooking up chemical bombs and dirty nukes western leaders would not only forgive him, but literally welcome him to their dinner tables.  So, he chucked off the Colonel’s garb for a dashiki and a meatloaf of a hat, an outfit that screams jovial oil merchant rather than backwater butcher.  By the way, if you are a dictator of nation with a powerful military at your command, why would you only rise to rank of colonel?  General, at least!  Superior Majestic Overlord even?  Colonel? Come on! You can do better than that.  How about a name befitting his former, if never publicly acknowledged, glory: Superfly?  After all, it’s high time his secret was out. Moammar Gadaffi, Mu’hamar Al Quadaffi, The Colonel, The Nutcase, whatever you want to call him is in fact Jimmy Superfly Snuka.  Just when you thought it was safe to go back into North Africa.  Here’s the proof:

A younger, leaner Gadaffi dominated the wrestling world under the name Superfly Snuka

An older but equally intimidating Gadaffi

A far cry from his glory days for sure.

And just in case you thought the old Colonel wasn't still deadly.

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Is he a chef, a hair model or a bum loungin' back in the kitchen scroungin' off all the leftovers?

The ideal chef?

In the first century AD, Roman Senator Petronius asserted in his ‘Satyricon’ that the decline of a great empire is anticipated by the celebrity of chefs. When food no longer serves as a daily necessity but an idolized, luxurious, status symbol, the society has grown decadent and, oft times quite literally, too fat to stand. Petronius knew what he was talking about, living in the time of the insatiable Nero. Perhaps there has been no more gluttonous time, until now as is apparent in our appetite for haute cuisine. This certainly was not always the case.  Just as we used to be fully content with one brand of tomato soup, once, not so long ago, we were fully sated with just one celebrity chef – the down to earth if somewhat dowdy Julia Child. Today the cable channels are a veritable buffet of food and cooking shows. Such glamorous chefs as petulant Gordon Ramsay, bodacious Nigella Lawson and the impish Wolfgang Puck have inspired websites, books, blogs and legions of fans. The latter may attribute his fame to giving consumers the sense that they are being fed simultaneously by Motzart and Shakespeare. This is a key point here, because in essence we are talking about society’s sense of style and sophistication. These shows with their highfalutin attention to food and chefs are fed by our desire to feed and our desire to seem refined while doing it.  For Americans, food as theater spotlights their number one passive pastime: consumption. Moreover, this means celebrity aspirations for anyone with an inkling of skill in a kitchen. Shows like American Idol made anyone who can carry a microphone (rather than a tune) believe they had enough pure, raw talent to dazzle the masses. So too shows like The Chopping Block make kitcheneers nationwide believe that with enough gumption and the right combination of spices they will open the next Alinea. Alinea was named the best restraurant in America according to S. Pellegrino.  S. Pellegrino is the maker of “fine dining waters”, an outfit  that also claims to know a thing or two about nice restaurants.

Petronius was right. A society has most definitely lost its way when it begins to glamorize the heating of meats and vegetables to the point that they actually believe there is such a thing as fine dining water. There are only two kinds of water. Clean and good or dirty and bad. Simple as that. As for food, if it tastes good all the better.  But I don’t want to pay too much for it, and I refuse to accept that its preparation is either rocket science or high art. Food is simultaneously a simple human necessity and perhaps the most important and universal tenant of human culture.  However, we should never take it too seriously. Cooking can be and should be fun, not an obsession. Turn off the cooking shows. Toss out the latest chef’s best seller. Anything you need to know about cooking has already been covered by Julia Child. Beyond that, you can look to W.C. Fields for inspiration.  His insight will help cooks of any skill set.  He said, “I cook with wine, sometimes I even put it on the food.”  After all, if this is all just one more signal of our societal decline, a bottle of wine would certainly come in handy.

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Sarah Palin is back in the news.  Not just Fox News either, we’re talking real news here.  She’s up in arms over Rahm Emanuel’s recent use of the word ‘retarded’.   Palin asked on her Facebook page, “Are you capable of decency, Rahm Emanuel?”  Rumor has it she is still sitting around waiting for his reply.  Speculation continues to circle as to why Palin is so upset.  Many suggest it is because she has a toddler with Down’s syndrome and she may find Emanuel’s comment offensive as ‘retarded’ is often used to stigmatize those with mental limitations.  Others wonder if she is not truly upset about the original meaning and usage of the word as cited here from http://www.dictionary.com:

re⋅tard

[ri-tahrd, for 1–3]

–verb (used with object)

1. to make slow; delay the development or progress of (an action, process, etc.); hinder or impede.

–verb (used without object)

2. to be delayed.

–noun

3. a slowing down, diminution, or hindrance, as in a machine.

Perhaps she would find any of these personally offensive, especially definition numbers 1&3, as used in the following sentence examples:

1.  Sarah Palin retarded John McCain’s campaign machine with her ineptitude and general smarminess.

2.  Sarah Palin felt her meteoric ascendance to national infamy had irrevocably retarded her ability to govern the state of Alaska, so she quit.

3.  Fox News retards the progress of journalism each and every day, and now Sarah Palin has joined forces to help retard it even further.

4.  Fox News retards the thinking processes of countless Americans each and every day, and now Sarah Palin has joined forces to help retard them even further.

There is a growing campaign to do away with the derogatory use of the “R-word” – truly a worthwhile movement, long overdue.   Visit http://www.r-word.org and sign a pledge to not misuse the word.  However, it is a perfectly good word to use in the correct context, as in the examples above.  So put an end to the misuse of this word and bring back its proper usage.

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I got some good news and I got some bad news. The good news is this “GLOBAL ECONOMICS CRISIS” is very easy to fix. The bad news is it will require us to use some French words. Watch the video below from our friend at http://www.socioecohistory.wordpress.com

Simple as that. Still not clear on how this works? How about some visuals that Americans find easy to comprehend? – people killing one another.

There you have it. Simple as that. Put on your berets and the most outrrrrrageous French accent you can muster and and say it with me – Force Majeure. No? Not going for it? Okay, let’s just be ridiculously obtuse and criticize the French undeservedly as we simply retitle this great idea. Let’s call it it Freedom Force.

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(The following is a guest post from a former Kool Aid drinking friend who has since been turned by conservative talk radio. He asked me to file this for him here. In the spirit of Bill O’Reilly and everything fair and balanced, ladies and gentleman, my fearless, honest and right friend, Acerbico.)

I will admit that I used to believe in the hopeful message of Barack Obama. I used to think that there was a benefit for working together for common goals.  But, I have seen how things really work.  Like my man Jon Justice said – we can’t all be a bunch of John Lennons.  To attain my present state of enlightenment, I first had to shed the blinders of mainstream liberal media.  Instead I came to rely on the good old radio for fresh objective information. I am not talking about that Soviet run NPR, either! The truth that I have discovered on the fairwaves has made me, not only second guess my loyalties, it has made my sphincter tighten permanently. And in case you can’t tell, you soon will; it has made me really really angry. But more importantly, it has made me truly intellectual, not just “liberally intellectual”, what with all their stupid books.

The radio, it seems, is the only place left where you can find the truth. In fact, here in Tucson, Arizona they make it really easy; they call the one truthful radio station The TRUTH 104.1. All caps are a sure sign that it’s extra truthful and extra powerful. Just like how easy it is to see when someone loves just ordinary freedom or when someone loves real FREEDOM. Then, just to make me feel even more patriotic, they have a morning jock named Jon Justice! He’s always lobbing in his high-pitched artillery, blasting local and national socialists alike. Whew, it’s like starting off the day with the fresh smell of napalm in the morning. The TRUTH 104.1 Then, just in case there is any doubt remaining, they have a clever tag line – Fearless, Honest and Right. See, now that’s what’s called a double entrendre, which is French for really clever. It means that The TRUTH 104.1 is right as in correct but also right as in conservative-leaning in political ideology. Now that’s what I mean about true intellect.

Most Kool Aid drinking libs wouldn’t get that. Kool Aid drinkers are brainless apparatchiks who are unquestioningly loyal to some political leader, party or ideologue. See, it’s a reference to the Jonestown cult who all drank Kool Aid because they were so brainwashed by listening to this Jones guy, and not thinking for themselves. So when my man, Rush Limbaugh tells me what all those wacko Kool Aid drinkers are really up to and what I should think about it, I just shout out “Ditto Rush!” Oh, and for all you brainwashed liberals out there, an apparatchik is a Kool Aid drinker. See how that works? Double entendre! I wouldn’t expect you to understand. There are all sorts of things you couldn’t possibly comprehend.

First of all, you think that Obama is so smart because he utilized the Internet to build grassroots support especially among young voters. Hello! Open your eyes. This may seem like a wise strategy, if you are a socialist, liberal Kool Aid drinker. However in actuality it was a diversion to take the national focus away from the real communication power base – the radio. You all think he is so concerned about internet based support and networks? See, even though he has emphatically denied supporting the Fairness Doctrine, Obama does in fact (according to Rush – Ditto!) intend to reenact a 1949 law to limit the power of the radio waves. Yes, he is that dangerous. And none of you even realize it. You are all thinking Internet, when the real thinkers are all in radio.

Oh, and another thing you liberals are too vapid to realize is that right after he raises all of our taxes, Obama is going to take away our guns and our rights and ability to get more guns. It’s true, and I know it’s true because I heard it on the 104.1 the TRUTH which is Fearless, Honest and Right! About ten minutes after the the major networks announced Obama won the presidency, every gun shop was inundated with orders and they instantly sold out, even slingshots, and the FBI had 47 million requests for background checks for new gun owners, and 97.8% of those requests came from NRA affiliated, Republican registered, National Review subscribers. So, it’s pretty easy to see what’s going on here. Obama is going to take our guns, and his followers are all going to come after us. He will mandate abortions and make everyone marry someone else of the same sex. And the little free bibles in all motels will be replaced with Korans. So, you see, I need my guns to protect me from young pregnant Muslim teens on their way home from the abortion clubs and all the gay guys out there who will try to force me to marry one of them. It is all right there in plain sight… on the radio. You just have to know how to listen.

That is not all I have learned. You libs think your man Obama is so articulate. Well, he doesn’t know how to engage in conversation. All his polite listening, exchanging and discussing, makes him look weak. I prefer the conversational attactics of my man Neal Bortz. He’s a master of a really neat trick of using respectful terms immediately preceding an insult. This way he comes across as considerate but also dominant and RIGHT (in every sense of the word!). Some pinhead called the show recently and Neal said, “You, sir, are too ignorant to articulate your thoughts clearly.” Then he hung up on the liberal putz, before he could even respond. Clearly, Neal won that argument. No room for liberal Gotcha journalism on the radio.

Other things you should all be aware of: He’s not an American citizen. He was born in an Al Queda training camp, up in Northern Manitoba, and his half-brother is David Ayers. Don’t be fooled by his undeniable lack of experience, Obama is personally responsible for the nosedive the country has taken over the past 8 years. He will start a secret police force that is loyal only to him. It will be called the Fist Bump Force. Oh, and their little fist bumps won’t be so cute, let me tell you! Obama wants to paint the White House black and then move it, brick by precious brick, to Kenya. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac are really secret relatives of Obama and the $700 billion went to their personal bank accounts where they were quickly converted into Cuban pesos. There are so many items on his secret agenda. I don’t have to to list it all here, or even to think about it very carefully. Thankfully I don’t have to. I have some RIGHT thinking friends who can do that for me. You won’t read about these things in the newspapers or on your precious new-age “Internet”. No, because they are controlled by a the liberal media. Which is just fine with me, because I don’t much care for reading anyway. Besides, it’s all out there for public consumption, provided by the voices of TRUTH on the radio! The true, American, all caps HEROES of the American Airwaves! USA! USA! USA! Ditto!

Submitted by one who never submits!

-Acerbico

morans

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True! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? I am a political junkie after all. This election season has been like no other; can’t you see that? The feverish election had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the blue states and in the red. I heard many things in the battlegrounds. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I tolerated the woman. She had never, as a white male Christian, wronged me. She had never given me the insult she lavished upon my neighbors. You know, those people? For her oil rebates I had no desire. I think it was her voice! Yes, it was this! Her voice resembled that of a vulture — a thin-pitched shrill, hovering high and sticky with a toxic sugar. Whenever it crawled in my ear, my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to rip the speakers from my television, and thus rid myself of that voice for ever. But… for a time, I could not bring myself to do it. I was a nighthawk of political televised commentary. It drove my wife bonkers. But not as bonkers as you might say it drove me. Yet you would be wrong. As I have told you, it was my super-sensitivity rather than any deviant lunacy!

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded — with what caution — with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to her ideas or her supporters than during the whole week before I silenced her. Around the office water cooler, I coolly praised her and her feisty running mate. And every night about midnight I turned the television on ever so softly! And then, when I had made an adjustment of volume just sufficient for my ear, I closed my eyes so that no sound could be heard in the silence but her words in a tiny piercing voice like that of a droning mosquito. Yooou Betcha! The voice would buzz in my ear alone, in the silence, in the darkness. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I listened in! I tuned it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb my wife’s sleep. It took me an hour to hear an entire ranting rally. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when her strange messages were ringing in my ears, I tweaked the treble ever so cautiously — oh, so cautiously — cautiously (for now her voice sounded like a jigsaw through a pie tin), I tweaked the sound just so much that a single thin whine sliced through my brain, frying several synapses. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight. But, when I tried to dismantle the box, I found it was quite complex and the speakers difficult to separate, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the woman who vexed me but her evil message and that piercing piercing voice. Her r’s could make a pirate cringe and give up the sea. Yet every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the office and spoke courageously to her followers, calling her by name in a hearty tone, and praising how marvelously she’s riled her latest crowd. So you see they would have been a very surprised gaggle of loons, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I fried my brain with her cackling accents, as I contemplated disemboweling my televisions sound system.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in tuning the sound. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than that knob did. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I sat, focusing her voice little by little, and she not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps she heard me, for if she could see Russia from Wasila, perhaps she could hear my thoughts from Virginia, or even Ohio. Now you may think that I drew back — but no. The room was as black as pitch but for the blue glare from the screen (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of terrorists), and the slicing whine of her voice that sautéed my ossicles and pounded my eardrum like Tito Fuentes gone bongo-berserker! And yet I kept fine tuning it on steadily, steadily.

I had her voice reeling, and was about to completely melt my brain, when my thumb slipped upon volume knob, and my wife sprang up in the bed, crying out from the bedroom, “Who’s there?”

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear her lie down. She was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as riled perhaps hearing the whirring of a horde of flies buzzing in a distant field in another state.

Presently, I heard from my darling wife a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief — oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. The thought of her in the White House. I say I knew it well. I knew what the woman from Wasila felt, and pitied her although I chuckled at heart. I knew that she too had been lying awake ever since the first inception on the national stage, when she had accepted a duty she had no claim to. Her fears had been ever since growing upon her and that of her maniacal base. She had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. She had been saying to herself, and frothing fans, “It is nothing but the darrrrned Liberrrals in the chimney, it is only a pesky terrrr’rrrist creeping around,” or, “It is merely a Gotcha Jourrrnalist with her probing microphone.” Yes she has been trying to comfort herself with these sustaining fears; but she had found all in vain. all in vain, because Truth, in approaching her, had stalked with its glowing light that enveloped the victim. And it was the hopeful influence of the unperceived light of Truth that caused her to feel, although she neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of the real “real America”, that could stomach neither her spiteful words nor that piercing, piercing voice.

When I had waited a long time very patiently, finally my wife had gone back to sleep. I resolved to turn up the volume a little — a very, very little tweak of the knob. One half-tick higher on the dial – this one goes up to eleven. So I turned it — you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily — until at length a single dim wavelength like the thread of the spider shot out from the speakers and shot straight into my brain.


It was a spoken shriek, cackling, whirring open like speedboat on blocks, and I grew furious as I listened upon it. I actually saw the tone with perfect distinctness — all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the woman’s face or person, save that lipsticked mouth that spewed forth such sibilant sound!

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, slow sound, such as a mad dog makes when cornered. I knew that sound well too. It was the humming of the old television’s speakers. It increased my fury as the buzzing of fluorescent tubes incite the clerk into insomnia.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the volume knob motionless. I tried how steadily I could to maintain her tone upon my ear. Meantime the hellish hum of the speaker increased. It grew longer and thicker, and louder and louder, every instant. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! — do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this from a near-silent darkness sent me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the humming grew louder, louder! I thought my heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound would be heard by a neighbour! Or worse yet, perhaps a supporter of the shrill woman! The time had come! With a loud yell, I threw open back panel of the TV and lunged at its innards. It shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged it to the floor, and pulled the heavy speakers from the trunk. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the sound wailed on with a muffled reverberation. A remnant of her voice entwined with the electric hum of the speaker. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The television was dead… and with it, the voice. No pulsation. Tone dead. This sound would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the appliance. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. And my wife never stirred.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye — not even my perceptive wife’– could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out — no stain of any kind — no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o’clock — still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, — for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of Republican headquarters. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night, and he’d woke to discover a yardsign vandalized; suspicion of terrorists had been aroused; information had been lodged at the office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, — for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream and my wife had slept soundly though. I took my visitors all over the house, even showed them my Country First campaign posters. I bade them search — search well. I led them, at length, to a chamber, where I showed them more campaign treasures, secure, undisturbed, and virulent. They seemed particularly pleased with my postered socialist puns! In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them, I was a supporter and not in fact a communist nor a terrorist, but a God-fearing capitalist of blind allegiance to the morals and values of the Party. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness — until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

No doubt I now grew very pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. I supposed that I was likely sounding much like her. Yet the sound increased — and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, SLOW SOUND — MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A MAD DOG MAKES WHEN CORNERED. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations, as if I were in attendance of one of the rallies; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed — I raved — I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder — louder — louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! — no, no. They heard! — they suspected! — they KNEW! — they were making a mockery of my horror! — this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! For those too reminded me of her! I felt that I must scream or die! — and now — again — hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! —

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! — tear up the planks! — here, here! From my television, from these speakers! — it is the incessant shrillness of her hideous voice!”

Needless to say the Republicans left my house quickly. They’ve not returned or bothered to call anymore. Not even robocalls. My wife was peeved about the television, and the floor boards. But we got new carpet out of it. Also, we decided not to replace the television. That was a great decision. It has been exceedingly good for our relationship. I sleep so much better. I’m not up late every night “taking in the news”. Best of all, I don’t hear that voice all the time. That voice. That piercing, shrieking voice! That insidious sound…

At least I don’t hear it as often.

Behold! A great animated version of Poe’s original Tell-Tale Heart:

http://vimeo.com/1825328?pg=embed&sec=1825328

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