Poo Poo Splatter

This is Fred Goldman after he was asked by Judge Egg Roll to please trim the raccoon on his face, because he's influencing the jury by being such a colossal douchebag.

This is Fred Goldman after he was asked by judge Egg Roll to please trim the raccoon on his face, because he’s influencing the jury by being such a colossal embarrassment to his son.

 

The big steaming plate of knowledge I’ve recently consumed has left me diarrhea’ing nonstop brilliance out of my domepiece as usual, so watch out or you might get sprayed.

 

Must Dash – I watched “The Secret Tapes of the O.J Case: The Untold Story” last night, which was the most damning assemblage of evidence imaginable for the certain guilt of that murdering, bungling armed robber, but even more outrageous is the ri-goddamn-diculous mustache of Fred “Lucky Me” Goldman.  This muthafucka is still rocking that absurd curly Q foolishness like he’s straight out of a goddamn cowboy movie.  And then I remembered in a flash the horror and the uproar that ‘stache caused back during the case.  If you’ll remember, they almost had to declare a mistrial because everyone in the courtroom kept uncontrollably laughing.  He was forced to flee from the courthouse immediately and perform the fabulous trimming job pictured above.  Now here we are twenty years later, and blimey, it’s still there.  It’s like the goddamn thing’s welded to his face.  Even more obscene though is that hipster douche holes have been increasingly starting to rock that same bizarre monstrosity on their faces over the years, like they’re bareknuckle boxers from the 1800’s.  Ironic, because that form of facial hair certainly makes me want to punch them in the face.  But as for Ron’s beloved furry treasure, I wonder if you gave him a Sophie’s Choice of his son or his mustache, which would he choose?

 

A Dunce By Any Other Name – The funniest political ad of all time was on the other night.  No, it wasn’t Michael Dukakis’ ad with him wearing the Spaceballs Darth Vader helmet as he looked laughably out of place in an army tank, it was Jeb’s.  That’s right, Jeb.  You know how every fuckin politician in the history of mankind has campaigned with their last name?  Well, not Jebby boy.  His big bro destroyed the Pube family name so utterly and completely that the fuckin guy has been forced to pretend to campaign like he’s goddamn Madonna or Prince or something.  In Oliver Stone’s excellent film “W.”, it the near final climactic scene (plot spoiler, but fuck you it came out in 2008), George Jr. has a nightmare that he’s sitting in the Oval Office and suddenly in strides his father.  George Sr. is not pleased, he sneers his greeting and begins popping out a couple long jabs that he stops just inches from the bewildered and cowering president’s face.  He continues to harangue his eldest son until he concludes with, “You ruined it.  The (omitted) family name.  Two hundred years of work, for Jeb.”

Holy shit, Stone is a prophet.

 

Crapnel – While we’re on such lighthearted topics, let’s talk about murdered children.  In one of the more meaningless gestures in recent memory, some stupid statue of some stupid little kid who got killed in the Boston Marathon Bombing was recently unveiled to the misty eyes of millions, and the rolling eyes of me.  Look, I get the supposed sentiment behind it, and it’s certainly Jared from Subway’s favorite statue, but making some dumb little kid out to be a hero simply because he got killed is just asinine.  During the speech they kept saying how “brave” the kid was.  He’s brave because he got blown up?  Tell that to the little kids we blow up every day with goddamn drone attacks.  The most irritating thing of all though was the insipid way in which he was depicted: holding a sign that refers to “peace” in some sappy take-the-high-road-even-though-I got-blown-up-by-dirty-towel-heads horseshit.  How the fuck do you know he would feel that way if he were here today?  If he was standing a couple inches to the left, maybe he would have just gotten winged, and then might justifiably be taking his ass down to the nearest recruitment office the second he turned eighteen.

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