Shorter Barack “Malcom X’s Illegitimate Son Driving a Lavendar Car” Obama:

Look into my eyes bitchez, not at the curled testicles in my clenched fist of hate.

Trust me, that’ll all make sense after I rob you of a few moments of your life and recompensate you with some minor mental and emotional scarring.

Just as every day the tide brings in the putrifying flotsam and jetsam of wingnut dementia, today is no exception. And so it is that we at The Toot have to take out the trash and tack some addenda to the bill of particulars that a mere four days ago stood at:

Marxist Muslim Arab Jesus Black White Terrorist Technocrat Racist Do-Gooder Liberal FDR Stalin Hilter Commie Fascist Gay Womanizing Naive Cynical Insider Noob Boring Radical Unaccomplished Elite Slick Gaffe-Prone Pedophile Pedophile-Seducing Liberation Theology Atheist Etc. & Anti-Etc.

First, the always insightful Witless Shrugs has kerninged the kernels that few were brave enough to finagle and has established, quite persuasively I might add (with pictures!), that Obama is secretly…Malcom X’s illegitimate son.  That’s the type of crazy that stands out on a psych ward.  But, as our hero Sisyphus discovered, it gets worse.  Or, at least, that you’re never really done dealing with this same monotonous bullshit day in and day out. 

Speaking of which, via Cole the Repentant, comes…no master says must not link…fight against negra mind cont….must not link…resist blaculoid…you are a chicken…must not gaze into zombie Malcom’s eyessss:

Obama has not even won the election, yet here is a 67 page, 192 footnote pdf file titled “An Examination of Obama’s Use of Hidden Hypnosis Techniques in His Speeches.” Deep in the spittle, you can find insights such as the following:

“Worse yet, his hypnosis probably has at least some effect on millions. Jews voting for the candidate endorsed by Iran, Hamas, Farakhan, and Khalidi should be a wake up signal that something is not Kosher.”

As impressive as those entries are, the buzz in Real Americawood is that this post, replete with flaming asshole fantasies and crushed testicle dreams (there is so nothing gay on this dude’s continuum), is potentially Golden Winger-worthy:

There is a scene in Flannery O’Connor’s 1960 novel The Violent Bear It Away, wherein the protagonist, a 14-year-old boy, is picked up hitchhiking by a man in a lavender automobile. The man plies the boy, Francis Tarwater, with whiskey and reefer. When the boy wakes up he’s lying in a field with his pants around his ankles, and his asshole burning. I won’t get into the Catholic allegory in that story, or the implication that the man in the lavender automobile is Satan, or Tarwater’s own inexorable slide into fundamentalist prophecy. I will aver, however, that I find the story relevant. Hold that thought [curv: must I?]. [...]

I mention this because I firmly believe Barack Obama absolutely loathes my kind. This man will not be content to win the presidency. He will spend his waking hours thereafter not pursuing the legitimate goals of state, but punishing those who would dare to oppose him…

The inevitability of Barack Obama has rendered the sane lycanthropic, the skeptical bemused, the disputatious fearful. It is no coincidence that formerly reliable conservative pundits are jumping the McCain ship like bilge rats in a galley fire. Most people attribute this craven capitulation to elitism. Noonan, Frum, Chris Buckley, that dithering Converse finishing school twit Kathleen Parker, they’re elitists! No, they’re not. Or that’s not what is compelling them. They are fucking afraid. Afraid to be the last dissenting voice in the face of the Hope and Change juggernaut. The Chinese kid versus the tanks in Tiannamen they are not. They are elitists, but they are cowards first and foremost. We don’t need them. And, unfortunately for them, Obama doesn’t need them. Therefore I will speak their names no more….

Did I mention this man hates me? You and me? Yes he does. Why? Because he can. Yes He Can. Beneath that cool persona is a megalomaniac. Cool? Like Stalin after a purge, emotionally and sexually spent. Like Saddam after a torture session, dozing in his chair with someone’s genitals curled in his fist. Like Pol Pot after a petit mal seizure, mumbling a litany of the dead. Cool that way.

So I will cast my pathetic vote, and ramp up my relocation to the mountains. Reduce my footprint. Carbon? That will be a nice byproduct, but I mean my personal footprint. My credit footprint. My interface with authority footprint. I’m researching micro-hydro water turbines for that stream, windmills for water, a half-acre patch for vegetables, a few goats, and a bison. Just because I want a fucking bison. My address? Fifty rounds up that gravel road.

I do hate to sound Randy Weaverish. But this is the fundament of my world view right now.

Speaking of fundaments, remember that guy in the lavender automobile?

Precisely. The whiskey of Hope. The jokesmoke of Change. I am Tarwater. We are all Tarwater.

But in all serious, um, where’s my whisky and reefer?  The pants don’t come off until I’m properly plied goddammit!