Douchebag of the Week (Week Ending 4/13/2019) - The Clintons.

"That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire..."
                                                               
                                       -- Rudyard Kipling "The Gods of the Copybook Headings"

For those who may have missed it, seeing as you were probably busy having a life and not too concerned with the comings and goings of a pair of irrelevant slugs, you may have missed the grand premier of "An Evening With the Clintons", sure to be Broadway's next smash hit.

Unless Bill Barr gets off the stick, already,  and the next great drama will be whether Hillary gets fitted -- finally -- for that orange pantsuit....erm, I meant jumpsuit.

There is no shame in this pair of mated douchebags. Certainly not when it comes to the relentless pursuit of money, vagina, and attention, not necessarily in that order.

Speaking of Clintons and Vaginas, the only one it's possible to muster anything resembling a grudging respect for is Chelsea: for she somehow managed to survive nine months of the sub-arctic Hell inside of her mother's womb.

This is what they have been reduced to. It's almost like being at Comic-Con as third-rate characters from this or that really bad movie or television series is mobbed by fanboys eager to cough up good money just for the sake of saying "I was there" during a boring Q&A panel discussion or on the remote possibility that they may have their esoteric questions about the show addressed by one of "the stars".

It's enough to put an Incel off his suicide schedule, for at least one more day.

Seriously, you would need to be either the biggest fucktard on Earth to shell out good money for this kind of thing or the worst kind of boot-licking sycophant, the sort that should be studied by psychologists plumbing the depths of human depravity in order to discover just how hopelessly obsequious a person can become before the individual personality has been cauterized right out of them for good.

Did anyone think that the Clintons were going to tell the truth about anything?

Did anyone believe, even for a second, that they were going to gain some glaring and heretofore unrealized insight into 30 years of graft, lies, blackmail, theft, venality, and egotism already played out upon the public stage?

Did anyone expect that the questions the public really wants answered were even going to be addressed, even obliquely?

Because if I were going to shell out $200 for "An Evening With the Clintons", here's the questions I would want answered:

Did Monica throw a good one?

Why didn't you take Osama bin Laden the seven times he was offered to you on a silver platter?

Has your daily penicillin intake dropped since you've left office, Mr. President?

Al Gore...what the fuck were you thinking?

How many people have you had killed in order to protect yourselves?

Is Webb Hubble Chelsea's real father?

How does it feel knowing that the likes of Anthony Weiner and Paula Jones might possibly be considered heroes in the eyes of history, and you likely won't be?

Was it only 30,000 e-mails?

Didn't anyone explain this whole Electoral College thing to you at any point?

So, I guess Benghazi DID make a difference, didn't it?

The Russian Collusion Hoax -- what did you do, how did you do it, and why shouldn't you go to prison for it?

Because I would ask questions like that.

Instead, you get to pay for the privilege of listening to the Clintons non-answer non-questions pitched by one of their most-loyal lapdogs and be treated to the idea that you are a fucking idiot. You must be: you paid for this. The questions are designed -- the answers rehearsed -- so that you will learn absolutely nothing. You will be subjected to 2 hours or so of pro-Clinton propaganda, suitably pre-digested and vomited forth into your mouth in the manner in which a bird feeds her fledglings, so that you don't even have to think.

And the whole time, all you hear is about how they are "victims".

Give them credit, though: they know their audience well -- it's full of true believers who don't want to take the time and trouble to have to think, or remember events as they happened, to put things into something resembling context, or who even have enough self-esteem to protest that the version of "history" they're about to be force fed is most likely a complete and total fabrication. They WANT to be lied to; they don't expect anything better.

They're liberals, after all.

It's the political equivalent of panhandling. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

No one enjoys dancing upon the graves of self-important Baby Boomers who have been brought low by their own innate sense of stupid more than your Overlord, but I find it difficult to take much joy in this Greek Tragedy at The Beacon for the simple reason that, after nearly 30 years, I have expended enough emotional energy upon Tweedle Redneck and Tweedle Pantsuit and I really could not care less about their ultimate fate (so long as at least one of them sees the inside of a jail cell. I'm not particularly picky about which one). There is no juice in it, and this is yet another reason to dislike them both: their Nemesis brings no joy.

Then again, it brings no sadness, either. It has simply become something which must be done, in much the same way one views an enema, the removal of a wart, or eventually putting the family pet down; an exercise undertaken for it's own sake.

This is the first time we have awarded the prestigious DOW award to a (nominally-) married couple, and so there is some solace in that. Hillary has finally broken at least one glass ceiling. Congratulations.

Note: for those who may have missed a previous installment that was posted ion Facebook while I was locked in deadly struggle with the evil forces of Google, and who may not follow the Overlord on the social gulag of Facebook, you may read it here.