“All this emoting over
Barack Obama’s [Homey McCain’s] wonderful, wonderful personality is starting to trigger my gag reflex. What are we electing here, a faith healer?” —Derbyshire
Ann Coulter says, well it doesn’t matter what Ann Coulter says. She hates the candidate. A lot of the hate directed at the liberals must temporarily be diverted to wither the fired up drive of seventy-two year old McCain, whose wonderful home-boy appeal has brought the diverse working middle class whites, blacks, and Latinos who refuse to vote in their own best interest, flocking to his growing crowds of supporters, many of whom are too young to even have driver’s licenses.
Rush Limbaugh says, (absolutely the shortest): He also hates War Hero McCain. Not worthy of the office. Another “phony soldier.” Anyone who allows themselves to be shot down while dropping napalm on the enemies of our children, I mean the parents of our enemy’s children, and then allows themselves to be taken alive, is a
fucking gosh darn fool, and coward, knowing full well the, base and barbarian morals of our Jihadist enemies require them to punish our “phony soldiers” for murdering their children, as our, what do you call them, our real soldiers who fought to bring American freedom to the people of South Viet-Nam, were humiliated by the returning phony veterans against the war, which also attracted the phony soldier John Kerry, who’s medals were undeserved, as were John McCain’s.
They are the real soldiers who, if ever caught by the enemy, they are the brave ones, the ones brave enough to run a foot or two of Bushido steel into their guts, and not deny this proud nation’s people the ultimate sacrifice, after you failed to evade enemy fire and took down your fifth multi-million dollar piece of American hardware, while the
dirty fucking hippies blame America first crowd were busy giving aid and comfort to our enemies while Phoney Homey, friend of the immigrants, especially the Vietnamese immigrants I’m told, did not spare us the humiliation of one of our boys knowingly giving the enemy vital information the enemy needed to kill more of our real pilots, as they risk their lives, to drop more napalm on more children, and their parents.
All ahead swiftly, Dittos.
Kilgore: Smell that? You smell that?
Kilgore: Napalm, son. Nothing in the world smells like that.
Kilgore: I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You know, one time we had a hill bombed, for 12 hours; an when it was all over, I walked up. We didn’t find one of ’em, not one stinkin’ dink body. The smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole hill. Smelled like… victory. Someday this war’s gonna end…
[Kilgore unhappily walks off]