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I bet you guys thought we had forgotten all about our Malkin Rap Contest!   Well, we sort of had.  Actually, I had said I was going to judge it and then promptly went on vacation and lost all thoughts of it as the beach-y haze clouded my mind like an ocean fog.  For days I thought of nothing but the songs on my iPod and the pros and cons of different SPF numbers while the Florida sun beat down and my thoughts were like unto tinkling ice cubes in a glass, slowly but inexorably melting away…

But now I’m back and our lovely hostess has reminded me of my pledge to bring my mad skillz to bear on this most worthy and important of competitions.

But before we tear into little Michie, I would like to make a little detour through another part of Wingnuttia first.  I think it is a measure of exactly how overexposed Ann Coulter is that today virtually no one has really run with the fact that she now claims to be the sender of an envelope full of white powder to the New York Times.  (Not that white powder.  Clearly, Ann’s not giving any of that stuff up to anybody for free.  At least, if her current resting weight of two-pounds-less-than-a-bad-smell is any indication, she isn’t.  You don’t get a body like that doing Pilates, baby.  Ya gotta do Peruvian.  Ask Nicole Richie.)

To wit:

"Memo Pad" sent an e-mail to Coulter’s AOL account…

Uh, that’s [email protected], by the way.  Just in case you’d like to drop her a line.

…and according to Bernstein, received a reply claiming that she was the sender of the mysterious powder.

"’So glad to hear that The New York Times got my letter and that your friend at the Times thinks I’m funny,’ she wrote back. ‘Good luck in journalism and please send me your home address so we can stay in touch, too.

"P.S. If we get hit again, don’t forget to ask the NYT if they consider themselves responsible since they have repeatedly exposed classified government programs designed to prevent another terrorist attack.’"

Bernstein concluded: "’Memo Pad’ declined to send Coulter its home address." 

Yeah, good call, Jacob.  She might actually show up at your place and boil up your pet bunny for laughs like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.  Or something.  (See illustration)

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(Fig. 1-A) 

Two months ago, this would have sparked a lefty blogger feeding frenzy, but I think that at this point, we just don’t really care, anymore.  My capacity to hate does, in fact, have limits, ya know.  It just stops being fun after awhile.  Especially now that everybody’s in on it.  I was just saying last night that I’m having a hard time getting my enthusiasm up for a fresh round of bopping Miss Fascist Panties 2003 on her wee, pointy head.  And frankly, what with Melanie Morgan, Pam Atlas, and Michelle Malkin, there’s quite a bit of competition these days for the title of Most Bloodthirsty and Unhinged Lady Pundette.  Ann’s just not that cutting-edge anymore.  We’re sorry, Annthrax.  The truth is we’re just Not That Into You.  It’s not you.  It’s us.  We’re tired, that’s all.  Got a lot on our minds.  Can we hate you extra hard tomorrow night?  You’re sure you don’t mind?

Anyway, back to Malkin Rap.

We’ll start with an Honorable Mention.  It’s not exactly a rap, per se, but I feel it merits some recognition and it’s by our own Evil Parallel Universe:

Come and listen to a story about a girl named Michelle
A poor filipino, barely kept her family fed,
Then one day she was being really rude,
And up through the ground came a bubblin’ crude.

Cash that is, Regnery gold, Freeper tea.

Well the first thing you know ol’ Michelle’s a millionaire,
Kinfolk said Michelle move away from there
Said the Internet is the place you ought to be
So they loaded up the truck and moved to an ISP.

Blogland, that is.
Whiny Ass Titty Babies, Fox News stars.

The Malkin Hillbillies!

Well now its time to say good-bye to Michelle and all her kin.
And they would like to hurt you folks fer not lookin or thinkin like them.
You’re all invited back again to this locality
To have a heapin helpin of their insane hostility.

Wingnut that is. Set a spell. Take your shoes off. Y’all come back now, y’hear?

Mmmmmm, snarkilicious!

But the grand prize (a copy of David Neiwert’s book Strawberry Days: How Internment Destroyed a Japanese American Community) goes to none other than the great PUNAISE, for his deeply funky rap opus, Bitch’s Spew, Parts One and Two.

Bitch’s Spew, Part One

(yo, yo, yo. this one goes out to my homies at the mall)

‘cuz I’m an anchor baby, clown
don’t tell me I’m a squirma
I’ll drag this ship o’ state down
while you stand on terrah, firma

I got my bling thing
put ‘em all in Sing Sing
this gig I got – you can’t touch it
‘cuz I’m tough shit
least that’s what Jonah writ

spinner rims, chrome grill, hella skills
dippity do y’all: waterboard thrills
intern the concern – burn, baby, burn

jeremaiad? ain’t no bull, frog
in the gulag – but not on my blog
comments are for suckas
don’t need no literate mutha-f***as
callin’ me ravin’ mad
cravin’ a shavin, bad

I can’t Gitmo, sad this faction

Bitch’s Spew, Part Two

(yo, yo, uh-huh. this is the basest rich, coming at ya from the spa)

Maglalang’s harangue belong the wrong Gong Show

like W in TANG she need the long bong, so:

I’m Psych-lo-Media Brown, comin’ to town to lay these tracks down.

I spew my slop, certain to faze ya
digga digga bop, flip-flop fantasia*

I muster the bluster, but you gotta pay
I fluster the crust o’ yer socie-tay

conflate the great? you wait
I meld a Markos, fools
free/dumb’s just another word
for nothin’ left but shoes

LOCK & LOAD! (duck and cover)
I AIN’T SCARED! (I need my mother)

(c) punaise – Rhyme Don’t Pay Records

*(sample props to Us3)

Mr. Punaise, please contact the management about collecting your prize, you funky Frawnch mofo.  Thank you all for playing and have a good night.

Oh, and by the way, it is with a very heavy heart that I must announce that My Boyfriend Ralph Reed has conceded defeat in the Republican primary for Lieutenant Governor.  And while this chills my satirist’s pen, I believe that I can safely declare this a victory for Georgia, and for Reality Based Thinkers everywhere.  Goodbye, Ralph!  I’m so, so sorry that your nearly three decades of lies, glad-handing, strong-arming, and professional sleaze-ing have turned to ashes on this day. 

Not.