If you haven’t seen this video yet, you must have been on your honeymoon all week knocking uglies together or else you were getting your corpse reanimated. It calls the two most despicable acts of this week, double ass-wipes Robertson and Limbaugh, onto the carpet for the best (and most well-deserved) dress down I’ve ever heard on TV:
My friend Gary said, “I wish he hadn’t sugar-coated this…”, to which I replied, “Keith’s tongue is so honey sweet, he makes me want to hurl, ha ha ha! Poor Pat and Rush, being picked on and bullied for being asinine jerks; it just ain’t fair. Kinda makes me want to put them out of their misery.”
I never get the last word, ‘cuz Gary then said, “While Pat Robertson was spewing his effluent, he had his 800 number up on the screen, begging for money so he could continue to spread his message. I think people should call that number, tie up his lines, ask lots of questions, and NOT send him money.”
Those were some pretty good final words (anybody have Pat’s 800 number?), but these were even better.
Best letter to the editor—evar!
Dear Pat Robertson, I know that you know that all press is good press, so I appreciate the shout-out. And you make God look like a big mean bully who kicks people when they are down, so I’m all over that action. But when you say that Haiti has made a pact with me, it is totally humiliating. I may be evil incarnate, but I’m no welcher. The way you put it, making a deal with me leaves folks desperate and impoverished. Sure, in the afterlife, but when I strike bargains with people, they first get something here on earth — glamour, beauty, talent, wealth, fame, glory, a golden fiddle. Those Haitians have nothing, and I mean nothing. And that was before the earthquake. Haven’t you seen “Crossroads”? Or “Damn Yankees”? If I had a thing going with Haiti, there’d be lots of banks, skyscrapers, SUVs, exclusive night clubs, Botox — that kind of thing. An 80 percent poverty rate is so not my style. Nothing against it — I’m just saying: Not how I roll. You’re doing great work, Pat, and I don’t want to clip your wings — just, come on, you’re making me look bad. And not the good kind of bad. Keep blaming God. That’s working. But leave me out of it, please. Or we may need to renegotiate your own contract. Best, Satan
LILY COYLE, MINNEAPOLIS