For a year without wide stances, it was a surprisingly strong field. The Tiger Woods story unfolded like a classic noir movie, with new twists emerging by the day. John Ensign needed his parents to pay off his mistress. Mark Sanford got caught at the airport following a visit to his Argentine firecracker. And Carrie Prejean went from “opposite marriage” to solo performance art.

And Rod Jetton? You don’t know him by name, but “Green Balloons” should be adopted as a safe word by all right-thinking Americans.

And the winner is…

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Funny story: As soon as the award categories were announced, we got calls from reps for Bobby Jindal and Michael Steele, insisting they be named Teabag finalists. But they’re not really wingnuts, we explained. No matter, said the reps — they want to be seen as wingnuts. Fine, we said. Soon as the funds show up in our account, they’re in.

But there’s a difference between monitoring a volcano and being one. Just ask Chuck Norris, who will tell you that the only thing between the Virgin Mary and an abortion was a blessed lack of socialized medicine two millennia ago. Or Orly Taitz, for whom not only is the trial out of order, but the judge, the appellate court, and the entire judicial system.

And the winner is…

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It says something about feminism that women became the face of the Republican Party this year. And it says something about us that we somehow managed not to call them all bitches at one point or another.

Consider the temptations: Sarah Palin dropping Death Panels into the healthcare debate. Michele Bachmann dropping conspiracies into the Census. Virginia Foxx dropping racism into just about every sentence she uttered. And Liz Cheney just dropping in.

And the winner is…

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It’s hard to imagine a Mylar Gasbag without Bill O’Reilly. Or Sean Hannity. Yet they’ve both been so overshadowed by Glenn Beck, it’s also hard to imagine what Fox News was like without him.

Much easier to imagine Fox without Lou Dobbs — America’s other Great Orange Satan — since Geraldo Rivera swears he’ll start throwing chairs if Lou shows up at the door. Lou shows up here because of his fabulous descent into birtherism, as well as his ongoing efforts to upstage Pat Buchanan in anti-immigrant demagoguery.

Rush Limbaugh gets a seat at the finalist table for starting the year wishing Barack Obama fails — and not having to take it back. And just to prove the Mylar Gasbag is all about attitude, not just political slant, we’re sharing the love with Chris Matthews, who’s so fucking annoying that we challenge ourselves every day to turn on the tube a split-second before Beethoven’s Ninth starts.

And the winner is…

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The Awards Committee had a difficult time narrowing down every government and multinational corporation on Earth to just a few finalists. It was ultimately decided that the only way to do justice to the hundreds, if not thousands, of worthy nominees was to select a few organizations as representative of their fields.

And thus we honor America’s Health Insurance Plans, representing the well-heeled forces arrayed against healthcare reform. Blackwater/Xe, fronting for the American mercenary industry. ExxonMobil, keeping climate-change deniers well-fed. And the National Organization for Marriage, whose goal is to prevent marriage wherever possible.

And the winner is…

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We may not be able to point out their countries on a map, but we know international talent when we see it — at least when it’s able to penetrate the near-impermeable barrier of American media. So until the last foreign bureau lays off the last journalist, we pay tribute to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who managed to steal an election and spark a revolution; to Silvio Berlusconi, who shows us how dangerous Rupert Murdoch could be; to Hugo Chávez, whose claim to fame here is not sharing books with Barack Obama, but setting off wingnut alarms whenever his name is mentioned; and Muammar Gaddafi, who still hasn’t finished his UN speech.

And the winner is…

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Fuck Neil Patrick Harris. Just fuck him. He promised he’d have this great song-and-dance number to open our show, and he’s nowhere to be found. Did he get the fucking memo? Does he know we’re starting at seven in the morning, and not seven at night? Does he know the Today producers just told us to fuck the satellite feed if we can’t get Harris on camera stat?

Shit. You — yes, you, hauling that crate of awards. Do you tap? No? Fuck.

Well, um — oh, hi! Welcome to The 2009 Stinque Awards for Achievement in Infamy! We have a great show planned for you today, just as soon as — well, just as soon as you imagine it! Yes, we’re reviving the glory days of radio, so close your eyes, click your heels, and let’s get started!

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