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Move over Ben Shapiro, because it's safe to say that Yer Wonkette, collectively, is simply head over heels for Charles C. "Chuck" Johnson, the brave not-a-blogger (HE'S AN AWARD-WINNING JOURNALIST!!!) who has attached himself to the Mississippi Senate runoff controversy like a particularly tenacious hagfish. Johnson does not care for Thad Cochran! Not even the teensiest bit! But I'm not going to get into the whole "who is right and who is wrong" thing, because unlike Charles C. Johnson, I am JUST a blogger, no "Webbys," so what do I know? What I do know is that RIGHT NOW is clearly Johnson's moment in the sun. So many people paying attention to Chuck and mentioning him in Tweets 'n' such! Alas, enjoy it while you can, because you know about redheads and the sun, right? Join me after the jump, and we'll get deeper into Charles C. Johnson. HAWT.

Charles Johnson! Charles Johnson. Charles C. Johnson. Charles C. CHUCK Johnson. Charles C. CHUCK Johnson. Charles C. CHUCK CHUCK Johnson. Charles C. CHUCK Johnson. Charles C. CHUCK CHUCK CHUCK Johnson. Charles C. CHUCK CHUCK Johnson. Charles C. CHUCK Johnson. Charles C. CHUCK CHUCK CHUCK chuck CHUCK CHUCK CHUCK chuck Johnson. Charles C. CHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCKCHUCK

*motorboat speeds majestically off into the distance*

And don't you forget it! Charles C. Johnson is an actually an award-winning journalist! And an actually an don't you forget it! I won't, because 1. I'm jealous, and 2. I'm totally jealous. You guys, Charles C. Johnson won the prestigious Eric Breindel Collegiate Journalism Award, which is the award given to collegiate journalists who "best reflect the spirit" of Eric Breindel. How many of you can say that? Do you know how many Wonkette writers have won that? NONE. Seriously, not even Snipy. He also won the "Robert Novak Award" which is actually the Robert Novak Alumni Fund Fellowship, for, presumably, best reflecting the spirit of Robert Novak. Again, Charles C. Johnson: 1; Wonkette bloggers: 0.

I am now going to write a poem about Charles C. Johnson:

There once was an award-winning journalist named Chuck

Whoa, stop! OK, I am NOT going to write a poem about Charles C. Johnson.

Speaking of spirit reflections, Chuck C. Johnson was walking down the halls of power one day when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a mirror. Mesmerized, he stopped to gaze at the lifelike visage. "Who is that?" he wondered. Then a tiny voice whispered in his ear, "That's the future of journalism!" And so then, with all the confidence of a lion in a coliseum, he proceeded to his Twitter account, where he called Haley Barbour "fat." And it's true! Haley Barbour IS fat. Journalism! Can somebody please give Chuckles an award? I mean, an additional award? Isn't there, like, a Twitchy Ben Shapiro Fellowship or something? Is there a Pulitzer for retweeting?

Charles C. "Chuck" Johnson may not be a blogger, but my goodness, the kid sure can type! Don't you want to fund his typing? He's got, like, a kickstarter for a gofundme or something, so you should give all yr moneys to Chuck! You want hard-hitting journalism? Are you sure? Here's Charles C. Johnson clarifying some of his recent journalism: "There is no proof that [my wild new NRSC accusation] is true," he explained to a handful of non-award-winning journalists, "but there is no proof that it is not true." YES. I am standing up in my chair and Cheering 4 Chuck™ right now! Ow, it's a swiveling chair and I fell and hit my head.

And don't you forget it! Oh, grrrrrrr, I'm just so mad at those snooty corporate "Ben Jacobses" and "David Weigels" saying mean things about our Chuck (they're all still bitter over that Robert Novak thing)! And the nerve of that Brett Logiurato, perched atop his plush, cash-filled mattress at Business Insider for reporting that somebody called our Chuck a "megatroll"! And all those other so-called journalists who point out that Charles C. Johnson pays his sources and sometimes that doesn't work out so well for him? You know who else pays for people to talk to them? Oprah. And who is the new Oprah? Charles C. Johnson is the new Oprah. And he will bury you all:

Imagine that! What if it were true? What if, in five years, the last journalist standing was Charles C. Johnson?

GOOGLE HIM, PRICK.

Cuddles 'n' hugz, Princess Sparkle Pony.

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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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