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Happy Friday, Kids! We actually have a veritable plethora of commenting prizes this week, thanks to our having the brilliant idea of holding contest-like things. So before we get to our regular ol' Comment of the Week, we must first present the winners of our other Commenter Challenges, because we decided to actually follow up the "contest" by remembering to name "winners," for a change. And no, we don't want anyone bitching about how we never awarded a prize that one time last summer when we asked for notional road signs warning people not to masturbate while driving, it was a long time ago and maybe we never got any good entries anyway.

[wonkbar]a href="http://wonkette.com/600926/reader-challenge-what-rhymes-with-bag-of-salted-rat-dicks"[/wonkbar]Firstly, and bigly, there was our challenge to write a poem mocking the president of Turkey, for which the prize is a week in a Turkish prison with Peter Graves, watching wrestling movies. Or maybe a Wonkette tote bag. Our overall winner here is "Spurning Beer," who went with the classic Irish haiku form also known as the "Clitterick":

German law is, admittedly, quirky:

For insulting a douchebag from Turkey,

You can end up on trial

In the Nuremberg style,

With a future that's more-or-less murky.

Spurning Beer also scored well with these prose-form observations on the post as a whole:

Wait. There's a German comedian? "Your mama so inefficient...."

First Runner-Up (bragging rights only) goes to "coozledad," with this Chaucerian snippet:

Wan That Erdogan

with his shoures golden

that bag of rat dyckes has beholden,

his suite of clothes bathed deepe in pisse

he eates them like a slyce of Swisse.

And Second Runner-Up (also winner of the Most On-Target Parody subprize, earning the adulation of English majors and little more): goes to "Blank Ron," for this dead-on Sandburgian ode:

Goat Fucker for the World,

Lawsuit Bringer, Promulgator of Calumny,

Player with Ungulates and your Nation's Embarrassment;

Whiny, petty, argumentative,

Man of the Thin Skin:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I

have seen you imprison journalists who criticise you.

And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, you

spent time in prison for trying to turn Turkey Islamist.

And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: Four years

for insulting the president? Are you fucking kidding?

And having answered so I turn once more to those who

sneer at this man, and I give them back the sneer

and say to them:

Come and show me another man

so coarse and vicious and hypersensitive.

Flinging journalists in jail amid the toil of restoring

the Caliphate, here is a vulgar turd set vivid against

civilised leaders;

Fierce as a billy with tongue panting for orgasm,

Bare-bottomed,

Humping,

Pounding,

Drooling,

Shoving, shivering, coming,

Laughing the fearful, vindictive, artificial laughter of

Terror, buck-naked, sweating, ashamed to be Lawsuit

Bringer, Promulgator of Calumny, Player with Ungulates

and your Nation's Embarrassment; Whiny, petty,

argumentative, Man of the Thin Skin and Goat Fucker

for the World.

[wonkbar]a href="http://wonkette.com/600938/can-you-hack-up-words-as-stupid-as-camille-paglia-a-contest"[/wonkbar]Nextly, the winner by acclamation of our "Hack up the English language like Camille Paglia" contest, this truly horrifying production by "Latverian Diplomat," who we suspect may have cheated by actually reading some Camille Paglia. Which means you're damned, but you also win the Wonkette Vagina Dentata Panties:

"One must ask, why all the dysfunction? The very word resonates with Jungo-Freudian obsessions with eros and thanatos. Dis, the god of the underworld. Fun, which is always a euphemism for sex, because the unending, almost unendurable quest for sexual gratification underlies all human please-seeking activities, no matter how adroitly disguised. And unction, is of course, a ritual of the Catholic church, tied up with both death and anointing with oil, which in other contexts is prelude to some truly spectacular coitus. The very word dysfunction is a portmanteau in which our deepest secret desires are packed.

"It is the lure of mort, both petite and grand, that means that democracy is inevitably dysfunctional. Thus, Democrats cannot be trusted, and we are better off yielding to our real desire, a big strong father figure to take us, again and again, wherever and whenever he chooses."

If only Leonard Pinth-Garnell's pedal-powered trash can were still with us. There are no runners-up, because while many other entries sounded quite a lot like Camille Paglia, we were unable to read them, since they sounded so much like Camille Paglia.

[wonkbar]a href="http://wonkette.com/600748/salon-out-salons-itself-wonkette-and-baby-jesus-cry"[/wonkbar]And finally, we come, inevitably, to our actual Comment of the Week, which wins on the merit of its actual comment-ness, rather than having been prompted by some artificial "contest." It is, therefore, the most organic winner, and may in fact... (goddamn that Paglia!). Here's the winner, by "UnsaltedSinner," in reply to Rebecca's piece last Saturday on Salon's Most Salon piece ever:

“When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.”

A. A. Milne

Yes, we're giving that a prize even though it's a real quote. It's our website and we can award what we want.

Runner-Up goes to "TheGrandWaz00," for this elegant variation on the theme of Wolf Blitzer's Favorite Prince Songs:

"Purple Haze"--this is what it sounds like when schlubs try.

We would send a certificate of achievement, but you have no place to hang it, having done away with the Fourth Wall.

Congratulations to all our winners, who should email Rebecca at-sign wonkette dot com with your shipping information, that we may fling prizes your way.

The rest of you suck and should try harder. We mean, we value you more than we can say, and love hearing from you.

Doktor Zoom

Doktor Zoom's real name is Marty Kelley, and he lives in the wilds of Boise, Idaho. He is not a medical doctor, but does have a real PhD in Rhetoric. You should definitely donate some money to this little mommyblog where he has finally found acceptance and cat pictures. He is on maternity leave until 2033. Here is his Twitter, also. His quest to avoid prolixity is not going so great.

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'Bella" by Wonkette Operative 'IdiokraticSubpoenaKommissar'

Sunday already, which means a substantial portion of US America is preparing to be astonished/heartbroken/outraged by the series finale of that show with the dragons, while another portion is just going to stay off Twitter for three days because nothing will make any sense. Yr Dok Zoom tends to come very late to trendy things, so get ready for our own thoughts on the gamy thrones show sometime in about 2023, or never. But we'd be glad to tell you just how much we enjoy the brilliance and humanity of the Cartoon Network series "Steven Universe," which debuted in 2013 and we started bingeing on the Hulu last month, late again.

Hell, we still want to talk about that one Mrs Landingham episode of "The West Wing," which we first watched years after it aired (We finally bought our new used car yesterday, and know one thing: don't drive over to the White House to show it off to President Bartlet). We might even get around to reading Infinite Jest someday. We hear it has something to do with a superhero team and a guy named Thanos. So hey, let's talk about culture and missing out and patching together some knowledge of what's happening anyway.

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Get Me Roger Stone

Roger Stone, his wife would like you to know, is broke. And he is not dealing with it well. Once in khaki suits, gee, he looked swell, full of that yankee-doodle-dee-dum, but now no one calls him Al anymore and he has to stand on a street corner singing "Brother Can You Spare A Dime?"

Yesterday, the conservative but also kind of Never Trumper site The Bulwark revealed the details of a grifty "fundraising" plea sent out by Stone's wife Nydia, begging supporters to give money to the Stones in order to help them keep up the lifestyle to which they have become accustomed.

It was titled "I am embarrassed to write this."

"Dear Friend," begins the missive. "My husband and I have an urgent new problem and we need your help. I told my husband I was going to write you, one of his most valued supporters. I am embarrassed to write this, but I must."

"Mrs. Roger Stone" tells a tale of woe: FBI agents swooping in on them at the crack of dawn to arrest her husband, a subsequent "fake news" feeding frenzy causing friends and fans to abandon the Stones.

"He laid off all our consultants, contractors and employees, and we have 'pulled in our belts' like so many Americans in 'tight times,'" she wrote, sounding for all the world like a plucky working-class patriot, not the wife of a man who made and lost his fortune lying in the service of power.

She should have been more embarrassed.

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