Caligutard on Staggering Bender as World Descends into Bankrupt Anarchy

Desperate Man-Dog Caligutard Sucks Down His 11th Pisco Sour in a Wanton Display of Display that Repulsed Heads of State at the the Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) Leaders' Summit in Lima

Caligutard Throws Back His Pisco Sour in a Drunken Display that Repulsed Heads of State at the the Asia Pacific Economic Cooperation (APEC) Summit in Lima. Is Hitler's Banker's Grandson Celebrating His Incompetence with a Return to Spewing Public Drunkeness Like a Dimwitted Frat Boy?

Pathetic imbecile Caligutard is spending his last days as president in a state of alcoholic stupor, grabbing at the juice like the self-pitying, self-deluded sackless bag of emu shit he is, all the while cackling in twisted delight at the unfolding chaos around him. The repellent weasel-faced sadist is, however, such a bundle of righteous self-hatred it’s hard to interpret what set up this latest exhibition of public drunkeness.

Could it be he is burdened by some sense of responsibility for leading America to its doom, cratering the world economy and driving all of western civilization to cannibal anarchy? Nah. Down deep, he loves inflicting pain, death and destruction and, like all Republicans, he wants to feast on human flesh, the poorer and more desperate the victim, the better.

Could it be he is feeling the rejection of the entire world’s leaders, who regard him as an completely fuckwitted, worthless and incompetent orangutan?   During the APEC meeting in Lima, world leaders leapt away from the Caligutard like a sneezing plague carrier. You have to check out this film of the APEC leaders strolling out for a group photograph. Presidents and prime minsters were running from him as if chunks of shit were falling out of his pants legs like a homeless alcoholic in the last throes of demented incontinence. It’s royally emetogenic.

Everyone at APEC Hates the Caligutard Because He is a Criminal Fuckwit [CNN]

No, medicating a sense of rejection isn’t probably it either. Deep down, he digs it. He is a pariah, a destroyer of worlds completely devoid of the need to do anything right. His sense of wanton entitlement is vast beyond all human comprehension. Handed the world on a silver tray, he throws it to the floor and stomps it. Caligutard’s hatred of humanity is so deep, so psychopathic that he swoons at being able to disgust and repulse the leaders of the civilized world.

Could it be he is simply relieved not to have to pretend he gives a flying fuck about fucking Jesus and listen to snakehandlers raving and pretending he is dry when in fact he spends every waking moment thinking about getting some juice down his throat, the sore cracked feeling haunting him as he drifts through the day, barking the platitudes and meaningless catch phrases Cheney told him to memorize, losing to Barney at checkers, listening to the press corps ask questions they expect him to understand and fielding calls from his dad calling him a loser and hanging up on him?

Yeah, after 8 solid years of Jesus and hiding his hip flask, he can get solidly wasted again, blow lunch and pass out face down in his own juicy chunks on daddy’s lawn like the halfwit WASP frat-boy fucktard he is. It’s obviously been building for a while. Reports have been oozing out of DC political blogs and supermarket tabloids that the Caligutard has been drinking in private increasingly over the past couple of years and that the pretzel incident was really a case of the Caligutard drinking himself into such a horrific state, he keeled over unconscious. Come January 21, he’ll be back on the bottle full-time, back from an 8-year hiatus of pretending to be president.

That’s my theory anyway and I may harbor some influential prejudices that color my cast iron objectivity. What do you think, Stinquers?


You can take W out of the bottle but you can’t take the bottle out of W.

I can see Laura and him sleeping in separate beds if they aren’t already (at least according to the Wayne Madsen report and the National Enquirer) before the ugly devorse.

Right, Laura’s usual W bender maneuver is to check into the Mayflower and pestork the president’s own Marine marching band.

@FlyingChainSaw: Emetogenic – nice use of GRE vocabulary words.

@SanFranLefty: It seemed to fit. It really has come to this: the president of the US has become so despised that heads of state avoid him like a chronic infection.

I’ll buy it. Look at the way he’s holdingclutching that drink in the photo. Even if they had the foresight to serve him a Pisco Maria out of deference to the Boy King’s office – and knowing Alan Garcia’s history, I doubt it – he’s pawing at that glass like it is the last drop of rum left on the Bounty.

Laura is busy buying up all the cartons of Luckies she can get tax free before they have to turn in the keys, while Junior is drooling over the wine cellar Fredo has been stocking for him back in Crawford.

The Texas Observer has a few pictures and videos of the Caligutard that showed him drinking and it is clear he is a morbid alcoholic. They all drink the same way. They hold the glass so the walls are parallel with their throats. They don’t drink as much as they pour the stuff down their own gullets. They can’t get the juice fast enough. Caligutard in that picture is really doing everything he can to stop himself from just emptying the glass into his throat in one flush.

@FlyingChainSaw: Donde estan los fotos?
Oh, and way to make me homesick for my Austin liberals. I love the Observer. Jim Hightower is a total mensch. And did you see on the election photo jam that my St. Francis of Assisi shrine includes my hero (and fellow dog-lover) Molly Ivins?

That man has been drinking since 9/11. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

@Signal to Noise: We’ve all been drinking since 9/11. We’ve needed it because of the man.

@rptrcub: @Signal to Noise: My alcoholism reared its pretty head on 11/7/00.

@String Bikini Theory: Mrs. Prom gave me the Spy Magazine book for my birthday (a big coffeetable book, part history and recollections from the editors and writers, and filled with reproductions of classic articles and features), and today I re-read an article I first read in 1989, about the Irony Epidemic, the “hetero-camp” airquotes thing Letterman was in the forefront of, and which we all live. And in one of those great Spy charts about campy trends, like serving your guests Ho-Hos, was “the resurgence of the after-work cocktail.” I had completely forgotten, but think back, the Martini, the Manhattan, the after-work cocktail shaker ritual, we all got into that as an act of pure camp, embracing the dead ritual our parents practiced in the 50s and 60s.

But the funny thing I realized reading the story is that I have completely forgotten the campy snarkiness that was involved in simply making and drinking a martini in 1989. What we discovered was that the old ritual we were making fun of was a truly worthwhile and often necessary ritual, and sometime between 1989 and today, all irony vanished, we, I at least, forgot the retro-chic original motivation to making after work cocktails, and they became a completely sincere ritual for us. For me.

Thats kinda mind-blowing.

@rptrcub: @SanFranLefty:

I held out until March ’02. I could deal with everything else sober, but watching video of bombs falling in Iraq was it and I had to reach for the 40 of Old E. (I was in college and broke. Don’t you judge me.)

Fortunately, alcoholism is a requirement for a career in journalism.

@Signal to Noise: Thats what I took from Mencken. I love his ode to being “gently stewed.”

Here is the holy writ of my own personal religion:

Portrait of an Ideal World
HL Mencken

That alcohol in dilute aqueous solution, when taken into the human organism, acts as a depressant, not a stimulant, is now so much a commonplace of knowledge that even the more advanced varieties of physiologists are beginning to be aware of it. The intelligent layman no longer resorts to the jug when he has important business before him, whether intellectual or manual; he resorts to it after his business is done, and he desires to release his taut nerves and reduce the steam-pressure in his spleen. Alcohol, so to speak, unwinds us. It raises the threshold of sensation and makes us less sensitive to external stimuli, and particularly to those that are unpleasant. Putting a brake upon all the qualities which enable us to get on in the world and shine before our fellows – for example, combativeness, shrewdness, diligence, ambition-, it releases the qualities which mellow us and make our fellows love us – for example, amiability, generosity, toleration, humor, sympathy. A man who has taken aboard two or three cocktails is less competent than he was before to steer a battleship down the Ambrose Channel, or to cut off a leg, or to draw up a deed of trust, or to conduct Bach’s B minor mass, but he is immensely more competent to entertain a dinner party, to admire a pretty girl, or to hear Bach’s B minor mass. The harsh, useful things of the world, from pulling teeth to digging potatoes, are best done by men who are as starkly sober as so many convicts in the death-house, but the lovely and useless things, the charming and exhilarating things, are best done by men with, as the phrase is, a few sheets in the wind. Pithecanthropus erectus was a teetotaler, but the angels, you may be sure, know what is proper at 5 p.m.

All this is so obvious that I marvel that no utopian has ever proposed to abolish all the sorrows of the world by the simple device of getting and keeping the whole human race gently stewed. I do not say drunk, remember; I say simply gently stewed – and apologize, as in duty bound, for not knowing how to describe the state in a more seemly phrase. The man who is in it is a man who has put all of his best qualities into his showcase. He is not only immensely more amiable than the cold sober man; he is immeasurably more decent. He reacts to all situations in an expansive, generous and humane manner. He has become more liberal, more tolerant, more kind. He is a better citizen, husband, father, friend. The enterprises that make human life on this earth uncomfortable and unsafe are never launched by such men. They are not makers of wars; they do not rob and oppress anyone. All the great villainies of history have been perpetrated by sober men, and chiefly by teetotalers. But all the charming and beautiful things, from the Song of Songs to terrapin à la Maryland, and from the nine Beethoven symphonies to the Martini cocktail, have been given to humanity by men who, when the hour came, turned from well water to something with color to it, and more in it than mere oxygen and hydrogen.

I am well aware, of course, that getting the whole human race stewed and keeping it stewed, year in and year out, would present formidable technical difficulties. It would be hard to make the daily dose of each individual conform exactly to his private needs, and hard to get it to him at precisely the right time. On the one hand there would be the constant danger that large minorities might occasionally become cold sober, and so start wars, theological disputes, moral reforms, and other such unpleasantnesses. On the other hand, there would be danger that other minorities might proceed to actual intoxication, and so annoy us all with their fatuous bawling or maudlin tears. But such technical obstacles, of course, are by no means insurmountable. Perhaps they might be got around by abandoning the administration of alcohol per ora and distributing it instead by impregnating the air with it. I throw out the suggestion, and pass on. Such questions are for men skilled in therapeutics, government and business efficiency. They exist today and their enterprises often show a high ingenuity, but, being chiefly sober, they devote too much of their time to harassing the rest of us. Half-stewed, they would be ten times as genial, and perhaps at least half as efficient. Thousands of them, relieved of their present anti-social duties, would be idle, and eager for occupation. I trust to them in this small matter. If they didn’t succeed completely, they would at least succeed partially.

The objection remains that even small doses of alcohol, if each followed upon the heels of its predecessor before the effects of the latter had worn off, would have a deleterious effect upon the physical health of the race – that the death-rate would increase, and whole categories of human beings would be exterminated. The answer here is that what I propose is not lengthening the span of life, but augmenting its joys. Suppose we assume that its duration is reduced by 20%. My reply is that its delights will be increased at least 100%. Misled by statisticians, we fall only too often into the error of worshiping mere figures. To say that A will live to be eighty and B will die at forty is certainly not to argue plausibly that A is more to be envied than B. A, in point of fact, may have to spend all of his eighty years in Kansas or Arkansas, with nothing to eat save corn and hog-meat and nothing to drink save polluted river water, whereas B may put in his twenty years of discretion upon the Côte d’Azur, wie Gott Im Frankreich. It is my contention that the world I picture, assuming the average duration of human life to be cut down even 50%, would be an infinitely happier and more charming world than that we live in today – that no intelligent human being, having once tasted its peace and joy, would go back voluntarily to the harsh brutalities and stupidities that we now suffer, and idiotically strive top prolong. If intelligent Americans, in these depressing days, still cling to life and try to stretch it out longer and longer, it is surely not logically, but only instinctively. It is the primeval brute in them that hangs on, not the man. The man knows only too well that ten years in a genuine civilized and happy country would be infinitely better than a geological epoch under the curses he must now face and endure every day.

Moreover, there is no need to admit that the moderate alcoholization of the whole race would materially reduce the duration of life. A great many of us are moderately alcoholized already, and yet manage to survive quite as long as the blue-noses. As for the blue-noses themselves, who would repine if breathing alcohol-laden air brought them down with delirium tremens and so sterilized and exterminated them? The advantage to the race in general would be obvious and incalculable. All the worst strains – which now not only persist, but even prosper – would be stamped out in a few generations, and so the average human being would move appreciably away from, say, the norm of a Baptist clergyman in Georgia and toward the norm of Shakespeare, Mozart and Goethe. It would take æons, of course, to go all the way, but there would be a progress with every generation, slow but sure. Today, it must be manifest, we make no progress at all; instead we slip steadily backward. That the average civilized man of today is inferior to the average civilized man of two or three generations ago is too plain to need arguing. He has less enterprise and courage; he is less resourceful and various; he is more like a rabbit and less like a lion. Harsh oppressions have made him what he is. He is the victim of tyrants. Well, no man with two or three cocktails in him is a tyrant. He may be foolish, but he is not cruel. He may be noisy, but he is also tolerant, generous and kind. My proposal would restore Christianity to the world. It would rescue mankind from moralists, pedants and brutes.

@Signal to Noise: Wasn’t that March ’03? I only remember the exact time because I was in Havana when the U.S. went to war in Iraq, and lemme tell you, it’s a little surreal to read Castro’s diatribes in Cuban newspapers, watch CNN International, and drink 35 cent mojitos all at the same time.

@SanFranLefty: Most definitely. I was stone cold sober (wouldn’t even start drinking for another two years) and taking time off from studying to attend candlelight vigils with other peaceniks.

@SanFranLefty: shit. In my defense, it only seems like the ramp-up to invading Iraq took six months instead of the year and a half it actually was.

Well, I’m glad we all got that straight. From FCS’s feuillton I got the impression that alcoholism was a bad thing.

@Promnight: Ah, beloved Spy. That would be the Chevy Chase cover, would it not? Must have been about the last moment you could feature him without being “ironic” about it.

Although my favorite cover remains Bernadette Peters as a fabulous dumpster diver. The Bruce Willis preggo cover got all the attention, but it was merely clever.

But to the point: As Gawker Media exiles, we certainly live in a world Spy created. Yet I take some issue with the claim that Spy manifested the irony epidemic it critiqued. (Never mind that Graydon Carter went on to Vanity Fair.) There’s irony, and then there’s “irony.” Spy was about deflating pretension, which is very old-school, and there was a lot of late-80s pretension to work with — among hipsters as well as the moneyed. The manner in which they did it was revolutionary — literally a game-changer in publishing — but the impulse was traditional satire. We who were raised on Mad and National Lampoon found Spy to be the next evolutionary step.

Or maybe that’s just me. I’m still a child of the Seventies —the world stopped with Reagan’s election, and I’m still waiting for it to resume. The retro fads of the Eighties passed me by (starting with the proto-retro toga parties of college), and if I enjoy mixed drinks, it’s because I enjoy mixed drinks, not because I’m trying to recapture some Mad Men past I never lived. If I enjoy Fifties graphic design — from Saul Bass movie titles to UPA cartoons to Chuck Jones’ theft of UPA cartoons — it’s because they’re good, not because I’m forever lost in the “New Frontier” video.

So, back to the top: If you enjoy your cocktails as cocktails, more power to you. And if your tastes sometimes overlap the fad du jour — even if the fad du jour brought them to your attention — well, we all gotta start somewhere. It’s when the poseurs move on that you realize something more substantial is at work.

He only likes white meat, so he always lets Cheney suck all the blood out of his victims before feasting on their flesh.

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