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By the Comics Curmudgeon
Do you remember 'round about a year ago when it was all "hope and change" this and "yes we can" that, and everything was going to be fixed, forever? Ha ha! Obviously all of our problems are intractable and terrible and nobody can fix them, no matter how nice his teeth are. And so, we must muddle on with our sad, grey lives, turning briefly to media sensations for the brief peaks of joy we used to experience during holiday celebrations or sex. Tune in for more grim tidings, after the jump!


As ever, clicking on the cartoons makes them BIGGER CARTOONS!

Let me begin by saying that there was one, and only one, acceptable cartoon that emerged from the whole "balloon boy" fracas, and it was this one. You see, Afghanistan is a light, fluffy, ungovernably mess, floating briskly across the Colorado plain. The media and international community are distracted by its wobbly flight ... but they should be focused on cute li'l Pakistan, hiding in a box back in the attic, with its nuclear bombs and its imploding government! OK, so it admittedly makes no sense, but this cartoon comes from someplace called "the Netherlands," where they probably don't even speak English, so how can we expect them to really "get it," you know? At least they drew a halfway realistic balloon-Afghanistan hybrid thingie.

Meanwhile, back at the White House, things were looking dire. Barack Obama had thought that running an insurgent campaign and then becoming the first black president would fill that hole inside him, make him feel as if he'd accomplished something -- but here it was, nearly a year later, and it wasn't enough. So he decided to take the next logical step in his quest for self-fulfillment and had a five-way with four haggard-looking fiftysomething women in the Lincoln Bedroom. And still: nothing! He just laid there, smoking angrily, either ignoring or unaware of the awkward post-orgiastic silence that filled that hallowed room. How could he get what he wanted, what he needed?

After much introspection, Obama realized that he simply hadn't gone far enough. I mean, a cougar orgy? How, you know, pedestrian. He was the most powerful man on Earth, and he needed to finally admit to himself his true sexual needs. He would dress up as an adorable, cheerful Cub Scout, donning that uniform that felt so innocent and right. He would find a lovable matronly old lady, one who needed his help, help he would be eager to give. Then he would walk her out to the middle of the street, where everyone could see, and feel her breasts. And then -- and only then -- would he be satisfied.

If only Harry Reid were so self-actualized! Maybe then he wouldn't do unsettling, questionable stuff, like wrapping local schoolchildren in toilet paper. What is it with the guy and TP? Does this represent the fact that he sees America's young as people he can poop on? Or is it an anal retentive thing, with the yards and yards of pristine paper the proud proof of his ability to not defecate until he's good and ready? Whatever it is, it's creepy and weird, Harry, and we'll thank you to knock it off.

Man, TPing little kids is just the beginning of the stuff Harry Reid is into. Rumor has it that he has a giant dildo in his office, and when he's done with a hard day of giving in and otherwise screwing shit up, he likes to go back there and rub his butt up against it, for sex. This rumor should be spread as far and as wide as possible, but you didn't hear it from me, OK?

Why am I so nervous about Harry Reid being mad at me? Well, let's just say that I hear that, if ol' Harry doesn't like you, he sends Congress around with a terrible tanker truck outfitted with some kind of awful vampire worm, and they hook it up to you and suck out all your blood. This is absolutely true! They already did it to the poor, innocent insurance companies, who of course have no blood to spare, so imagine what they'll do to someone who really deserves it, like bloggers.

But enough of this grim blood-sucking talk! Let's go back to our happy friends overseas, in the nation of France, where they're drawing mice ... with currency symbols ... for tails ... which represents ... uh, I don't think I understand exactly what they're doing over there, to be honest.

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Well, not really a bar, but a conference, and not just any conference, baybee. We're talking BIO, the annual gathering of biotech execs, policy makers, and scientists put on by the Biotechnology Innovation Organization (aka, not just a lobbying group!). Who has two thumbs and attended the gathering a couple of weeks ago? This Mexican.

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It's a new week in America, and as usual everything is going to hell, because that's what happens when you allow 70,000 "economic anxiety" voters in the Rust Belt, Vladimir Putin, and James Comey to decide an election. We will have many stories about Donald Trump's brutal crackdown on Hispanic toddlers today, but in this post, we must revisit that greatest of Americans, Devin Fucking Nunes, congressman from California, possible literal actual Russian agent and (alleged) cow romancer from all the most romantic novels about cow romance. As the French say, ooh la la FUCKING DEVIN.

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