A Bad Year For The Big Dog

Dear America,

Well, this year has been quite a ride. And by “ride” I mean “shit sandwich.” First, I got to go stump for my wife to turn the Clinton legacy into the Clinton presidential legacy, and what did I get for my troubles? My base either calling me a racist, an old fart, or an irrationally angry, egotistical, racist old fart. And then I lost my title (“The First Black President”)–which, by the way, I learned I never really earned–to the real deal. And rather than said “real deal” coming into office with a metric ton of baggage and people all ready to hate him, it looks like people really like this guy. Like really, really like him. And Hillary and I couldn’t find anything to prove they shouldn’t.

So, yeah, that’s great.

And my prize for all these travails is now to help out Hillary with her new SoS post. Translation? I’ve been instructed not to fuck up her chances at a Nobel Peace Prize. So I get to lie low, which I nakedly looove to do (but I do love to do nakedly…wokka wokka!).

But this just tears it.

A Nobel, an Oscar, and now Al Gore has won a Grammy for Best Spoken Word Album.

Al Gore??? AL GORE????? THIS GUY Has Won a Presigious Award Given For SPEAKING WORDS COMPELLINGLY???????????

The man so boring he couldn’t even charm his way into winning his home state in 2000? The man whose voice has been linked to Ambien by every hack comedian ever to perform at the Catskills?? The man who was felt to be so utterly without charm and sentiment that the visage of him kissing his wife immediately joined the Michael-Jackson-Lisa-Marie-Presley kiss as creepiest ever??? (only to be outdone by Liza and her ever-gay then-husband, but I digress)

And why didn’t Tipper try to ban that album? Jesus, it’s terrifying!!! And what will we tell our children if they listen to it and come to us wondering how human beings can be capable of such atrocities against living things? Should we show them pictures of the Holocaust and say, “You’re all grown up now, Timmy, mah boy??” WORK with me here!

This makes me so mad, all I want to do is nail an eight-mile-high stack of 14-year-olds in the back of Ron Birkle’s private jet, but apparently that’s off-limits nowadays.

So, thanks, America. Thanks for a great year. I hope you’re happy with your charming man-boy president and his gorgeous-but-stuck-up wife (WHY won’t she return my calls?). And I hope you’re happy with your fat-and-weirdly-Botoxed award-winning Tennessee madman. And if you’re not, don’t come crawling back to me cause I’ve moved on.

Fuck you very much,
B.C.