Dave Brubeck Quartet - Take Five (Belgium 1964) RIP

THE GOP'S "COME TO JESUS" MOMENT

As the Schnook of Mormon continues to tour the country in his ongoing effort to self-deport what's left of his political future, other Republicans have taken to the public highways to admit that; yes, we got our asses kicked. And, yes, we need to rethink, retool, and readjust. But what is fascinating about all this is that, had they prevailed in the election, they would have come out guns blazing and mercilessly whacked so-called entitlement programs, all in the name of fiscal responsibility. But they didn't win. They lost. They lost bad. So, now the, I guess you could call them, less unreasonable members of the party, have come out and admitted that they need to reach out to non-white voters, whose numbers are sadly increasing. Even with their horrendous polling job during the last election, this has become a stark reality for them.

But as they come forward, all reasonable, penitent, and reflective -- this following four years of stonewalling and intransigence -- one thing becomes obvious: they still don't get it. Their revelation is more of a "Come to Hey-soos" moment. It's about the appearance, not the reality. The presentation, not the policy. For Bobby Jindal, who at one point was the GOP's 'they got an ethnic guy, we'll get us an ethnic guy" to state that "for minorities to like us, we've got to like them" is all well and good. But it's not about being liked. It's not about putting a kinder, gentler, or darker face on the same old dickish policies. It's not about trotting out Marco Rubio to explain how trickle down economics is good for everyone and sell the same rising tide bullshit that didn't work during the Bush years. "We're turning Medicare into a voucher program" sucks just as bad in Spanish as in English.

For all the lessons of the past two presidential elections, they still don't get it. The "gifts" that Romney lamented weren't handouts. Democrats weren't giving out free cheese and condoms out of the back of a panel truck. These were programs that made people's lives better. The one lesson they just won't learn is that it's not about coming off more compassionate. It's about being more compassionate.

Mitt Romney can make an appearance with an African-American group and bust out into "Who let the dogs out" because in his stick-up-his-ass Caucasian mind, he thinks that would be a good way to connect with these people. "I'll sing one of their songs."

As the GOP prepares to retool for 2014 and 2016, I'm sure they're looking to the ethnic bench to see who might be a better mouthpiece. Jindal? Maybe. Most people will have forgotten how pathetically stiff he was in his State of the Union rebuttal. Rubio? Could be. Though the one thing he'll never shake is that he just looks like a dick. Even when he smiles, it's the smile of an 8-year-old who just burned a trail of ants on the sidewalk. Christie? Maybe. And of course there are the gals of the party, who can reach out to women voters. Though their success would necessitate the silencing of the "God planned rape babies" crowd.

So, as they move off the last four years of giving blow jobs to Grover Norquist and take one in the shorts on taxes, while secretly laying in plans to take the government back in the midterms, my advice would be to keep thinking the way you do. Let Rubio visit Iowa. Let Jindal tour the country. You don't need a new product. You just need to retool the brand and find a new spokesperson to reach out to that growing Latino population to esplain how deeply you care. Who knows, maybe Sophia Vergara or the Frito Bandito have political ambitions. And by all means, keep Reince Priebus in the job. What better guy to advance dickish policies, than a guy whose own name is an anagram for pubic sneer.

Oh, and one more thing: to the smug, dick-faced asshole I met at a birthday party a year ago, who bet me $500 that Obama would lose the election, I've been holding this in for a year: FUCK YOU!!!

GO AHEAD -- MAKE MY LUNCH!

Go ahead -- make my lunch! A tuna sandwich on white. I like white. It's not chewy like wheat, so I don't need my teeth. And use the water tuna. Not oil. It's greasy. And cut the crusts off, I don't like the crust. And no lettuce. With a glass of milk. Skim, not whole. Whole milk makes me gassy. And put it on the tray by my chair by the tv. It's a new tv. My kids gave it to me so I could watch baseball. I like baseball. How about that Willie Mays, can he play, or what? Hey, it's not on baseball! I think the night nurse changes it to the Spanish stations when I'm asleep. I don't like the Spanish stations. The men all have thick mustaches and the women are fat and show their big breasts. And I don't understand what they're saying. Where are my pants? I left them on the chair. Who stole my pants!? Oh, there they are. Check the pockets. I had seven dollars in there. Make sure it's there. I think the night nurse took it. Where's my sandwich!? It's Tuesday. I know that. I have to make. Action! Why can't I bring my gun here? I have my rights. It was a gift from the Iti fella I made a western with last century. Besides, it's not loaded. I'm not loaded. They don't let you drink here. The night nurse drinks. I can smell it on her when she rolls me to change the sheets. She thinks I can't but I can. She also looks at my pecker. She thinks I don't notice. But I do.  Where are my pants? The blue ones with the buttons. I don't like a zipper. My pecker gets caught in it. Hurts like the dickens. Dickens? Ha. Where's that sandwich already?! Oh, I'm eating it. Yum. Where's the bathroom, I have to make. Never mind. Go ahead -- change my pants.

A Song to Describe How it Felt to Learn of Andrew Breitbart's Death -- And, yes, I know this is petty but it's a tough fucking world and you're supposed to make it more sane, honest, loving, and compassionate -- not less.

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Saintorum

It's ironic for a guy who hates sex as much as Santorum to so deliberately and gleefully fuck himself. But that's what he's doing. Having sat out much of the early rounds in this Star Wars bar of a Republican primary as one goon after another dissolved into irrelevancy, now that someone's actually glanced over at the sad, pear-shaped, weak-chinned gnome nursing a soda pop and walked over to chat him up, suddenly he thinks he's pretty. Suddenly, he actually thinks the world wants to hear his vision for America instead of just getting a hand job in the parking lot. And so he's gleefully shooting his mouth off.

No public education, because it puts un-Godly ideas in people's heads and is "an anachronism." As opposed to schoolin' based on a literal interpretation of a 2000-year-old book. No pre-natal testing because it detects Down Syndrome fetuses so they can be sucked out before they can enter society and smile adorably. No birth control because it interferes with God's plan to mass produce Christians. No pre-marital sex because it doesn't mass produce Christians. No gay sex because it doesn't mass produce Christians. Someone needs to explain something to Ricky -- Nobody cares! To most of us living here in the 21st century, these are non-issues. We're past that. The culture wars are a dodge. Political misdirection. Something Karl Rove and company dreamed up to fire up the hicks and propel themselves into office so they could go about the real business of Republican rule: making themselves and their friends rich. Like the so-called "fair tax." Everyone pays the same. Sounds fair. And Americans believe in fairness. But the trick is that the rich simply want to pay less and if the price is other people getting to pay less as well; well, who gives a fuck?

So for a quick, shining moment, the media took a look at Rick -- A guy who was born too late to follow his true calling as a judge at the Salem witch trials. One look at that smug, patrician scowl and you can see him leaning over his bench, pointing an accusing finger at some poor waif and shrieking "burn her!" And while the thought of him anywhere near actual power sends a cold shiver down one's spine, there's a part of me that would like to see him get the nomination. First off, just to wipe the sense of entitlement off Romney's face and that Nero-like sneer off Gingrich's. And as for Ron Paul -- who cares? He's a primary skin tag. Yet, he has the unique distinction of being the one Republican candidate who, if you listen to him for 5 minutes, he makes a lot of sense. But when you listen for 10, you realize he's out of his fucking mind.

So, if by some fluke the Republican faithful become so enthralled with their pet culture warrior that they drip Santorum on one another and nominate the weasel -- well, then -- great. I'd love to see the little shit on a debate stage with the president. It's one thing to preach to the retarded choir that attends these debates about the president's private "environmental theology." It's another to stand on a stage and debate the man, at which point the country will see him for who he is -- the mealy mouthed kid who talks tough on the team bus on the way to the game, then gets into the game and gets his ass kicked.

But that fantasy will probably have to remain as such because as Santorum continues to fuck himself via the act of talking, the punditocracy has once again focused on Romney, a guy whose calling in life is to sip a ginger ale in the clubhouse of a restricted country club. So instead of another round of culture wars, we'll have to endure another half-year of Mitt standing on stage in his mom jeans, flashing that excruciating smile as he painfully and pathetically tries to connect with actual people while firing up the base with the boogeyman du jour -- Obama's war on the rich! Obama's war on religion! Iran getting the bomb! Government taking your freedom! Immigrants taking your jobs! Be afraid of the intelligent black guy in the white house! But pay no attention to the Mormon behind the curtain.

Though maybe Santorum will take the Veep slot under Romney where he can fight the culture wars to his sanctimonious little heart's content and take his rightful place in history as the second coming of Dan Quayle. Heads up to the gay couple on Modern Family -- you've been served.