As some men are especially sentient and the Earth flings itself through space but gets pretty much nowhere, it’s once again time for Right Wing News to rate “The 20 Hottest Conservative Women In The New Media.” [last year.] Ta-daa. Ptew ptew, smile when you say that. If this game sounds neanderthal and beneath your evolution-appointed grasp, don’t you bother. It’s harmless and it’s easy to understand. Men stare at pictures of women and then they rate them. Not the pictures, the women – rating the photographs would be decent or perhaps adult and hoist the entire exercise into the milieu of ‘art’ which is liberal stupid Jane Fonda handjob Viet Cong. The lists are e-mailed, and the News posts the results.
If you end up the number one woman on the list then you are the hottest. If you end up the number twenty woman then there are nineteen other ladies preferable to whatever you are. Really, number one is so much more beautiful than you that it’s a silken mercy to put you on the list. On any ‘pretty’ list. You more properly belong in an industrial catalog of catastrophes needing a pneumatic digging or a merciful tsunami of hot scalding lava. Asian napalm, if your hair looks a jungle. We should all probably just agree you’re far better suited as a serial contestant in a tournament of “yeesh.” Your unsettling appearance and wild strabismus throw weighty sand upon the sexual interests of gentlemen who (seriously) call themselves ‘Ace’ or ‘Ass-Rocket’, as well as ‘Colonel Mustard’ and comedian Steven Crowder who, with the face epilepsy and animal graces, palsies the masses. And why shouldn’t your appearance be commented upon? What other thing should men of clay do? Heh? Timeless truths are laid bare by the pursuits of mutual dignity and respect and by the universal reverence for human life.
Now I will not be as insulting as the oglers of these ‘hot women.’ No sir. How is it sane of me to gaze at the shape and form of a particular human being and render judgment? Why would a person do that? Where on Earth would it be civilized to label a person a ’9′ over an ’8′? An ’8′ as opposed to a ’7′? Who came up with ‘numbers’ and their hegemony of hierarchy? Where’s the logic in being slung out a catpiss slingshot, which is where I’d rather be than paying a visit to a Romney voter in her boudoir? Nowhere. It cannot be found.
So I will not gaze at Hot Official Number Twenty, except twenty is now three bigger than Right Wing News can count, at Hot Official Number Seventeen the cellar-dweller Sarah Durand . .
. . and then plead with the judges against the inclusion of a Sith upon the list. What is it doing at Lake Halcyon I wonder? The phalanx of Imperial Storm Troopers though restless remain out of sight. This one is pregnant upon the leg. A wide berth is afforded here as the force of Satanic nature soon seeks out Master to aesclorp his brains, making way for the new. Also I would not glance at Hot Official Number Seventeen Number Two Scottie Hughes . .
. . and congratulate her on being the most fetching escort in West Orange, New Jersey. You imagined wrought-iron stitching on a teddy a Southern Gothic vestige. You were right. But the UPS drivers at the industrial mall are all in their early twenties, flush with cash, and wild about Anne Rice. And I wouldn’t look at Hot Official Number Seventeen Number Three Michelle Malkin . .
. . if it would save Bambi from a forest fire. Nor would I watch Hot Official Number Seventeen Number Four Rachel Marsden . .
. . and assume she’s using an iPhone to cheat the Jumbotron trivia at the Greater Skokie Jungvolk Rally (Question Five: How many Jews run Hollywood? Answer: All of them.). Eine kleine rrrowwr. Nor would I behold Hot Official Number Seventeen Number Five (really guys?) Jodi Miller . .
. . and wonder aloud why Loki is so clearly cruel. Why oh great one? Why make her clearly insane? Thy powers are greater by a wide margin over thy judgments. As well, I would not happen to spy Hot Official Number
Sixteen Fourteen Number One Two Ashley Herzog . .
. . because she would obviously spy me first. Even floating noiselessly 10,000 miles above us in Middle Earth Geosynchronous Orbit, she would see me first. She carries San Pelligrino everywhere with her as the limitless soul-pools, like puddles orphaned by a thunderstorm to a pitiless desert sun, evaporate life sustaining moisture. They say the eyes are mirrors, and these could blind a bat. A bat napping in an arctic sunset. And finally, I would not use my own eyes to gaze upon Hot Official Number One Number One Kayleigh McEnany . .
. . and then say anything at all. No sir and ma’am. Not offer a single syllable about a Fox News plaything – I won’t do it because I happen to be civilized. The ragged trifles of American Ubermen already have it hard enough (you know what I mean). And finally, and finally, regarding Hot Official Number One Number Two Dana Perino . .
. . the White House spokeswoman who grew up unaware of the Cuban missile crisis, that historic humdrum where the world nearly went up in a hurricane of nuclear flame and ionizing radioactivity. I will not posit that Dana wears that charming necklace as a conservative emblem. That each precious stone represents the headless bodies of a hundred children now interred in the playground of her hero, George W. Bush. Or that each is a symbol of a thousand soldiers’ limbs lost in action and left behind only to feed the desert vultures. Or that each is a reminder of the ten thousand rehabilitation hours it takes for a wounded Marine to learn to tie his shoes again after suffering a traumatic brain injury. As badges of honor go, it’s quite lovely.