When They Go Mi-LO, I Go Mi-LOWER


Just about numero 12,987,664, 325 on my “Wish List of Things to Do” is “give Milo Yanwhateverthefuckhisnameis attention.”

I consider Milo Yanwhateverthefuckhisnameis (from now on, I will refer to him as Y-Mi?”) the female equivalent of Ann Coulter.

Both are rapacious media-whores, whose utter lack of argument or opinion based on any grounds other than an embarrassingly infantile “Oooh! Did s/he really say that!” is so shockingly and stupendously shallow that Republican shill Scott Baio’s grunts as Chachi do seem like Lincoln logs of gravitas in comparison.

Up until now, mercifully, I have deliberately spared myself much contact with the media-mongering and manipulating of Y-Mi? However, last week, Bill Maher had him on “Real Time.”

It would be easy to dismiss Y-Mi? purely on the basis of his working-it-way too-hard dipshitty dandyism–those ridiculous triple-stranded pearls and frosted tips and hammy coquettish sideway glances? That might have worked for Krystal Carrington but barring shoulder pads and Alexis Carrington hurtling mud in his face, Y-Mi? just looked like a smug, spoiled little shitbag playing dress up and seeing if Mumsy would give him some money to go buy another “Millie the Model” comic to get him out of her hair while she swallows another bottle of blues.

However, Bill Maher treated this tiny, taunting, obnoxious tot as though he had something of value to say.

Not only that, Maher was shamelessly syncophantic but I will let others rightfully rake him over the coals. I kept waiting for the moment that Y-Mi? would say something, ANYTHING, that even had one syllable of substance to it. A moment that, alas, like my dreams of a new “Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman” TV movie, never materialized.

Oh yeah, yeah, yeah–I was revolted and couldn’t stand him and yadda yadda yadda. But, mostly, I was bored. It was so obvious he had nothing to say that had any other “charm” than shock-value that I lost interest after 20 seconds. If I want shock value, I will look at those pictures of Donald Trump’s huge disgusting ass in full view as he boards Air Force One, with the added bonus of having that split-ended soufflé of straw succotash that he calls hair blowing every which way but loose.

The Republicans amongst us (and I speak of them in breathless, furtive whispers since I find myself like Kevin McCarthy in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”  terrified that the contagion has spread so wide and far that I will be the next hapless victim if I close my eyes or turn away for one second)–yes, the Republicans amongst us have elevated these D-list douchebags to the top of the world, Ma! At any moment, I expect to be found stumbling on foot while frantically dodging dismemberment during rush hour traffic on the middle of the Gowanus Expressway screaming “They’re here! THEY’RE HERE!!!!!!!!”

And thanks to forever-and-always regressive Republican policy, all those peapods waiting to be fertilized into Republican Rice-a-Roni will be GMO all the way, just adding more Satan-seasoned spice to our Future Shock crock pot.

In fact, as I breathlessly (breathlessly being the operative word here) await the renewal of the Republican environmental Armaged-it-on of coal burning, fracking, deforestation, polluting, poisoning and, the worst of all contaminants, a Ted Nugent tour, I think that my aforementioned reference to the relatively pristine and proper peapod populating is quaintly outdated.

If we want to be honest, the current GOP birthing of the armies of the damned (which include 65 million of our own citizenry), is far more in keeping with the gruesome genesis of the armies of the Orcs that Saruman spawns and then sends out to destroy, demolish and decimate whatever remains of goodness in Middle Earth.

In this scenario, it is Y-Mi? as the ultimate enabler, good only for his complete and utter lack of goodness. And his ability to distract not just a moronic public but a press who think we just want to look at pearls before and as the swine swallow up all the “real” news lurking in the media-mucked manure that passes for porcine petit fours.

So, I see Y-Mi? in his white billowing blouse, pearls flashing and pinky rings aloft while he barks orders through his headset to his slobbering slaves–as they shovel pus-pitted globs of  bashed-brain-and-bowel effluvia into an already turgid tureen of muck and misery that was once a National Park no doubt, a bevy of blighted, pock-marked, oozing living colostomy bags start to belch and batter their way to the surface.

Look, there’s Steve Bannon!  With Donald Trump coming right out of his ass! And Steve Miller kissing it! No, you can’t hide, Paul Ryan! I see you hidden in one of Mitch McConnell’s infected jowls!

As far as I am concerned, this explanation has as much logic to it as far as the origin of the modern Republican species as any other.

Y-Us? is what we should be asking.


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