The burdens of specificity

Some people like to use "moonbat" as a catch-all descriptor for out to lunch left-wingers of every stripe. But I like to keep it as a loving term for people with a demented world-view and a toxic brew of anger, paranoia and alienation. I'm sure there's ample overlap, but I see the creepy Obama cultists as their own separate category. They're not as malicious as a general matter, they're simply batshit crazy.

Stone cold loopy.

Bug-eyed loons.

Before this election my closest encounter with booby hatch narcosis was when my friend Charlie - an actor, figures - coaxed me into being his plus one for the final night of a Landmark Education Forum seminar. That's evidently how they recruit new cultists. And even though I maintained a cool exterior at the event, I was in desperate need of a colostomy bag because keeping from pissing all over myself with laughter was one of the greatest challenges I've faced.

Fortunately, after being hopped up on Kool Aid my buddy's antibodies eventually kicked in and six months later he was as embarrassed as a blackout drunk waking up beside an obese toothless crack whore with an Ernest Borgnine tattoo above her vajayjay.

First up is a teacher captured by a Scandinavian documentary crew scaring the crap out of a little kid in her class who supported McCain by saying the kid's father will never come home from Iraq if he's elected. School teachers are not the sharpest pencils in the box in general but this lady's pencil has an eraser on both ends.



And this, well, it pretty much speaks for itself.



If instead of widespread buyer's remorse kicking in this sort of cultish sentiment actually spreads like the Ebola Virus, please kill me. Slowly, quickly, whatever. Carve a frozen fish into a pointy spear and stab my testicles until I bleed to death. Strap a meat vest on and leave me for the Grizzly Bears. Singe my flesh with a blow torch then lock me in a room to starve to death while Barry Manilow is piped in 24/7. I don't care how, just. fucking. kill. me.