Philly Blunt

Freelance writer. Editor and web-video producer. Former Atlantic City Press and Philadelphia Weekly staff writer, City Paper managing editor/columnist and Dougherty for Senate campaign manager. Comments welcome here or emailed to brianhickey9 [at] hotmail. Now on: Facebook (Brian Hickey, in Philly) Twitter at www.twitter.com/brianhickey Flickr at http://www.flickr.com/people/brianhickey/. Be sure to check out Hickey on Divorce Court: divorcecourting.blogspot.com.

27 February 2009

If I may interject...

You know, I just can't delve into the journo-blogger battle right now.
Why? Oh, because once-loaded D.C. Republicans (aka those who drove the economy into the f'in stained urinal with Bin Laden Pisscakes still sitting by the drain since their babyboy President couldn't accompish the mission of finding the dude who killed thousands of Americans) seem to think THE CLASS WAR IS COMING! THE CLASS WAR IS COMING!!!

Predictably, Republicans complained - much as they had done during last year's presidential campaign - that Obama was pitting the haves against the have-nots.
"The era of big government is back, and Democrats are asking you to pay for it," House Minority Leader John A. Boehner (R., Ohio) said. He suggested Obama's proposed tax increases would reach deep into the middle class, despite repeated administration statements that tax hikes would be limited to families making more than $250,000 a year.


I'm wonderin' if THE CLASS WAR! would be the same as a cripple fight outside the South Park, Colo. Henry's Supermarket. God, I hope so. Because if the war's startin', I can't go all brass-knuckles on tha richfolk until my skull bones are reinserted under my head skin.
J-J-J-Jimmmaaay. Wow, what a great audience.

And, the inspirational commentary:


Now if you'll excuse me, I'm heading downstairs to watch that rad North Carolina/Duke documentary on HBO. And if I see some monocle-wearing scrote in a Blue Devils T-shirt walking by the house, THE CLASS WAR will start with my sneaker-clad heels (get it?) delivering a Jersey Curb Sandwich to the mouth of the aforementioned scrote.

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