Sketchy Sketch of the Politico Timeline

They debut to denunciations of Drudge-ry and Note-ism (accurate), noted by Talking Points Memo and anyone with two neurons trading action potentials.

During the primaries and election, Talking Points Memo amplifies and inflates countless Politico “scoops” because TPM decides to be exclusively “horse race” in their coverage. TPM gets some deserved scorn from The Daily Howler to the sound of one Pinko clapping. Nobody bothers to notice. Nobody bothers to Deep Thought “I wish Josh wouldn’t link The Politico so much.”

Post-election, Talking Points Memo has swung back to issues of policy, as Josh Marshall (and the rest of us) is rightly crapping his Memo pants over the ongoing economic lava attack. In doing so, they have rediscovered the fact that The Politico is just terrible.

How did we end up with this 900 pound gorilla fart under the covers? Politico!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

51 Responses to “Sketchy Sketch of the Politico Timeline”

  • Politico was always going to be a 900 pound gorilla fart.

    It was the Village people (after all these years) suddenly realizing that they could pander to their own worst instincts without needing Drudge to do it for them.

  • I think the Politico stole Pinko’s Emmy (Emmu?).

    I don’t think I have any Memo pants, always a fashionable day late in dollar shorts.

  • Politico, like most things, would be better if it was wrapped in bacon.

  • Now this post is about Politico.

  • or IS is?

  • If Politico blows in the forest and there’s nobody there to read it, does it still leave a smell?

  • If there is a giant comforter, then yes.

  • The tree pun thread is one over, Snag.

    But if you meet Politico in a forest, than it serves well to have hammer, axe, and saw….

  • This thread has clearly met its end. It’s time to turn it into another game thread. Let’s play Write a Neocon Didactic Dystopia Story In Two Sentence Units! The general idea is for everyone to take turns (roughly) writing two sentences of a near-future dystopia-as-perceived-by-neocons.

    I’ll put a four-sentence starter:

    The year: 2020. In a jail cell in a tower high above Seattle, an old man shuffled off his mortal coil unnoticed. A hero of the people, whose name the Islamic Democratic Feminist Party had tried to blot out from memory. It was the end of an era, and a poorer world, now that Dick Cheney had left it.

  • Dick Cheney, who should have died of natural causes at least a decade earlier, had been kept alive through medical science that most of the populace could only dream of affording.

    But the price was a small one for Caliph George Soros-bin Laden, whose objective was to keep his arch-nemesis alive so that he could be tortured gruesomely, day after excruciating day.

  • As the dawn came, it soon became time for his first daily torment, installing solar cell panels on the Unversial Health Care Administration, a place of horror for so many. His guards, Chester and Will, having performed their mandatory morning sacrament, arrived at the dead man’s door to collect him.

  • In his usual routine, Vice President Cheney would be shuttled from his sunlit, spare room in an electric vehicle, one so silent he couldn’t even have the solace of engine noise to drown out his clamoring thoughts. Those thoughts clamor no more as the VPs body lay cold and motionless, yet to be discovered by his keepers.

  • “Oh, he’s dead, how gauche,” exclaimed Chester. “He totally needs some eyeliner now,” remarked Will, adjusting his necklace.

  • The good news is that the recently enacted 100% inheritance tax would allow the state to seize all of Cheney’s hard-earned assets. The GMA (Gay-Muslim Alliance) would be delighted at the recent windfall.

  • Unfortunately for the GMA, Dick Cheney’s death was no accident…the resistance smuggled in a final respite for the old quail hunter.

    Once again, the Ferret-Weasel Alliance (NCFA) managed to snatch death from the maws of Caliph George Soros-bin Laden’s victory.

  • Chester and Will looked up from the scene before them. Scrawled on the wall in Dick Cheney’s handwriting were the words “CABBAGEMALLET, SUCKERS!”

  • I’ve lost the plot, so I will just see how this plays out.

  • (The general idea is that there’s a secret resistance conspiracy of neocons led by Charles Krauthammer—code name, CABBAGEMALLET.)

    * * * (scene change)

    Caliph Soros secretary walked in. “Tonight you’re booked for an abortion party at MoveOn convention center, where you are to give Femi-Sultana Pelosi the first abortion of the night—by the way, do you prefer the rosé or the pesto sauce with that?”

  • “I assume all the abortions will be gay abortions” said Soros.

  • “We have certification from the GMA, sir,” said Buckley. “By the way, sir, we have a tiny problem.”

  • “A problem?” asked Soros.

    “W.’s escaped.”

  • Soros looked up startled and said, “Get me Jane Hamsher.”

    * * *

    It was widely believed by the public and the government that after the Great Disarmament of America, Cheyenne Mountain had been abandoned.

  • “By Allah’s pentatesticles, was he not strapped to the Segway? Was he not in the room with the extra doors that were not really doors?”

  • W. was enjoying his freedom after that narrow escape. He would make his way to Cheyenne as soon as someone showed him how to read a map.

  • As he stood on the side of the highway, rotating the map and giggling as the “N” turned upside down, a lime green Hummer Hybrid pulled up. The door opened, revealing a young, clearly pregnant teenager wearing a faded “Lick Bush in ’04” t-shirt.

  • “Huh huh,” chuckled Bush. “You goina Colorado Springs?”

  • “I have to,” she said. “James Dobson’s my babydaddy.”

  • “My name’s Juno Palin,” she said. “Just throw those guns in the back and hop in.”

  • * * *

    W. woke up in the back seat with a start and noticed that the car was parked on the shoulder of the road.

    The woman peering through the window at Juno said, “Privately-owned transit permit, por favor?”

  • W. reached for one of the guns, raised it at the woman, and fired. A large flag with the word “Bang” shot out of the barrel, stopping an inch before the woman’s face.

  • “You’re lucky I’m not Dick Cheney,” said W. “He’d have shot you right in the face.”

  • “Please step out of the car, señor. This area is under the sovereignty of the Republic of Aztlán.”

  • Yo quiero Taco Bell,,” W. replied.

    The female officer’s mouth dropped as she said, “You know of the sacred Gordita Scrolls?”

  • On the other side of the country, Rumsfeld scrabbled at the rubber walls of his cell. “Greet me, for I am the Liberator,” he keened.

  • “He’s been like this for the past seven hours,” said Anne, “and we haven’t gotten a single worthwhile prophecy out of him.”

    “Increase his dose,” said Krauthammer.

  • Rummy saw the needle and hissed. “What have you done with my Precious?”


    “OK, we have enough,” said Krauthammer, a glint of joy in his eye.

  • Annie pushed Krauthammer’s wheelchair down the hallway. “Now this thread is about Politico” she said.

  • “Who cares about a web log?” said Krauthammer. “The Internet was banned seven years ago.”

  • Meanwhile, Chester and Will were finishing the makeup on Dick Cheney’s corpse.

    “He looks so much more human now, don’t you think?” asked Chester.

  • Christopher Buckley’s voice behind them said, “Excellent job. Now you are shortly to be graced with a visit by His Liberal Holiness for instructions on a special mission.”

  • “I know you,” said Will. “Your dad went to Yale and didn’t like black people.”

  • Buckley was taken aback. “Well that hardly narrows it down does it?”

  • “Your dad was right about the dangers of integration,” said Chester. “It was only a matter of time before the first black president would strip the vote from white men.”

  • “It wasn’t the disenfranchisement that bothered us,” Buckley mused. The nationalization of the oil companies is what drove us to take up arms.”

  • “In any case, white gays are still eligible to vote, so I don’t know why you’re complaining. So here are your formal feather boas that are appropriate attire in the presence of His Holiness.”

  • W. smiled at the officer and said, “I know the Gordita Scrolls by heart.” “Chapter 1, Verse 1: The Pet Goat,” he intoned with as much gravity as he could muster.

  • Chester looked up at Will and held out his hand. “Look, this guy is obviously an oak; hand me a hammer, axe, and saw.”

  • (The tree thread is over there.)

    The officer sank to her knees. “O Señor Father of Amnesty, I did not recognize your face!”

  • Heh heh heh giggled W.

    Wanna massage?

  • Quickly, W returned to his Substance McGravitas persona:

    “A girl got a pet goat. She liked to go running with her pet goat.”

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