Let heavenly choirs sing songs of joy! Let earthly men tremble on their knees! For we have seen the glory of Jim Hoft, the Stupidest Man on the Internet, handing off his crown (the one that says "Stupidest Man on the Internet," DO try to keep up!) to the pure, righteous, fuckin'dumb that is New Blogger on the Block Chuck C. Johnson. Let us rejoice and be glad!

For years -- eons! geologic ages! -- Jim Hoft reigned supreme over our fair land, a man of spite and viciousness who never saw something he couldn't fuck up. (Though he saw many things he couldn't pay the fuck up.) But once he abdicated his throne to become president of the Stormfront Junior Auxiliary, it was time to crown a new king of stupid.

Sadly for those who would have had to fight it out with caps-lock and spittle, one man was so obvious an heir, so easily did he pull his keyboard from the stone, that all other pretenders backed away, tongues sheathed and heads hanging. That man was Award-Winning Journalist Chuck C. Johnson, and sweet Jesus Christ, this guy! He is what would happen if Hoft wasn't just playing dumb (FYI, we have met Hoft, and he is just playing dumb; he knows perfectly well he's lying all the way to the bank) but was actually mentally challenged.

Let's swoosh back in time -- WAVY LINES! WAVY LINES! -- to when we first made the glorious acquaintance of the heir to Hoft's tin-can-and-garbage throne. It seems to have been ... in October of 2013? Were we really so early on the hot tip of human tire fire Chuck C. Johnson? WE WERE! That's when we noticed a hilariously wrong (pro-tip: keep your eyes peeled for what lit majors call a "recurring theme"!) story about our boyfriend, New Jersey Senator Cory Booker (D-Awwww Yeeeah). Get ready for some blockquote!

So the Daily Caller has this scoop, where they go around and look in Cory Booker’s windows and declare the home vacant. And then they are all Zoolander male model style, “AHA! He says he lives here but property records show that it is owned by some lady!” And then Buzzfeed is all, “Earth to Daily Caller, that lady was the landlady and here are some rent checks, and also possibly go to this other home in Newark Cory Booker moved to in late September!” and the Booker campaign was all “orange mocha frappuccino!” And now it is a big spitty mess because the Buzzfeed story declared the neighbors who said Cory Booker didn’t even live there to be “anti-Booker activists” and got one of their names wrong, and then the Daily Caller was all, “AHA Earth to Buzzfeed nice reporting!” and Buzzfeed was all, “Oh okay, here is a correction on the lady’s name,” and the moral of the story is Cory Booker is the worst human being since Josef Mengele gave birth to Nazi Barack Obama.

The real moral of this story, of course, is that Wonkette bloggers should always tag the name of the author of whatever stupid Daily Caller story we are mocking, or we would not even know that was Chuck C. Johnson, because we didn't mention it!

He wrote something else stupid, of course, which we talked about in that same post:

In the story “Newark Activists Say Booker Fire Rescue Story All Wet,” which we happened to follow straight from that first one about how Cory Booker is a carpetbagger who lies about his residency and apparently lives in New York, the activist neighbors believe based on no firsthand information whatsoever, it turns out, and you are not going to believe this, a) Cory Booker did not even rescue that lady from that fire, and b) and this is the terrible part, really, be ready, b)

On Twitter, Booker claims credit as a local Mr. Fixit, with stories that rarely stand up to scrutiny. (Related: Cory Booker breaks promise to help woman with raccoon infestation)

Spoiler: CORY BOOKER DID NOT HELP A LADY WITH HER RACOON INFESTATION. The end. OR IS IT? IT IS NOT! Let's come unstuck in time to July of this year, when next we noticed Chuck C. Johnson.

It was the halcyon days of Thad Cochran's re-election campaign as senator from Mississippi, and some goodly folk were jes' doin' what journalists do: sneaking into the rest home where Cochran's wife had long been suffering from early onset dementia (that is sad, you guys), and taking pictures of her in her hospital bed to prove ... something nefarious about Thad Cochran we guess. It was great! (It was not great.) Chuck C. Johnson? He was balls-deep in it, offering to buy up the photos of the ill, elderly woman, so he could publish them without anyone's consent -- though, sadly, back then we were still paying attention to Ghost Andrew Breitbart lackey and toadstool Matthew Boyle instead of the illustrious Johnson, and did not yet give him his due.

But time marched on, and we could no longer blithely ignore the contributions to civilization and society of our boy-king, Chuck C. Johnson, seeing as how he was just racisming all over the Cochran race. (Johnson, duh, was a supporter of Cochran's primary opponent for the Republican nomination, teabagger Chris McDaniel, who still hasn't, to our knowledge, conceded).

Where there is post-racial America, there is Chuck C. Johnson, award-winning journalist.

Not to brag, but you know who ELSE is an award-winning journalist? ME! That's who! I have won all kinds of awards n shit from the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies and EVEN the Orange County (CA) Press Club, like "Best Political Columnist" and "Best Sports Story" and "Totally Prettiest Yuh Huh Shut Up," and we all know how that worked out for me. (Poorly. It worked out poorly for me. I am almost as bad at journalism as Chuck C. Johnson!)

Chuck C. Johnson went on to get many, many, many more things wrong this year, but we are a little tired of ctrl-v'ing at you, so we'll just hit some highlights:

And that is Chuck C. Johnson for ya. If he wrote a story, it's guaranteed to be not only wrong in both details and premise, it's also certain to be morally icky while patting itself on the back for BREAKING! (wrong and incorrect) news. Once is blogging. Twice is ... blogging. All the times, and you get crowned. Viserys-style!

(Don't do that, it's against the rules.)

Rebecca Schoenkopf

Rebecca Schoenkopf is the owner, publisher, and editrix of Wonkette. She is a nice lady, SHUT UP YUH HUH. She is very tired with this fucking nonsense all of the time, and it would be terrific if you sent money to keep this bitch afloat. She is on maternity leave until 2033.

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Guys, it's been one more shit day in a shit week in the fifth shit month of another shit Trump year. Which is why I need to remind you that it's not ALL shit out there! Oh, sure, it's MOSTLY shit, but you know what isn't shit? YR WONKETTE, and the strange community of strange internet people who have made getting through all this shit a bit more tolerable, that's who and what. Which is why you should give us money, so we can keep whanging away at the walls of shit with our shovels and laughing at the shit getting all over, because one of these days we will get it all cleaned up or at least not be up to our waists in shit, and we can all laugh about what a crazy fight it was, as St. Molly Ivins always kept reminding us.

In case you're new here, let me just remind you that Wonkette literally got me, Yr Dok Zoom, out of what wasn't quite poverty, but was pretty much paycheck-to-paycheck desperation. I started reading the site shortly before Barack Obama was elected, began commenting sometime in his first term, and submitted a story tip to Rebecca a few months after she bought the site for 47 dollars and a sandwich (I now understand it was a bit more than that). It was Memorial Day 2012, and she wrote back she was busy with some "stupid thing I have to do for some muneez," but would I like to try writing a blog post myself? "I understand if you say FUCK NO. But maybe you are thinking FUCK YES?" And then she warned me she paid only in Ameros. I did, the post was forgettable but OK, and then I wrote a thing (borrowed from now long-lost comments) that went semi-viral, and suddenly I was that hottest thing in publishing, a freelancer!

In less than a year, Rebecca asked you all to buy me to be your very own pet blogger, and my life suddenly became incredibly good, like as good as an Abba song. It's as good as "Dancing Queen." Thanks to the timing of the whole thing (and to Barry Obama and Nancy Pelosi), I actually had health insurance for the first time in years, a not inconsiderable thing. And you had an Editrix who was not working 12 hour days six and a half days a week and drinking too much from stress. Your continued donations helped hire Evan full time and Robyn and Bianca part time and a whole raft of freelancers, and now Rebecca is down to eight-hour days, five and a half days a week, and drinking because there's a madman in the White House and everything's terrible.

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There is a very normal article circulating on the internet right now by a fella named Don Boys (that's not the joke, the jokes are coming), who is both an insane batshit preacher, and also an insane batshit former member of the Indiana House of Representatives. (Also sometimes he blogs at the Daily Caller about how Mike Pence really went balls deep into the gay agenda when he swore in that insane batshit gay guy Rick Grenell as America's ambassador to Germany.)

This article, of course, is about Pete Buttigieg, because what are anti-gay buffoons obsessed with right now? Pete Buttigieg. Boys (still his name) is primarily concerned not with the simple fact that Buttigieg is gay, but with how gay Buttigieg really is. IN THE SEX WAY!

Well, Don, since you asked!

Shall we dive into this thing without the proper prophylactics? We shall.

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