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.)
"Memo Pad" sent an e-mail to Coulter’s AOL account…
Uh, that’s email@example.com, 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)
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:
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
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.