Chris Buckley Explains What HE Meant by His Snub of McCain and Rub up on Obama

Heavens, Houlihan! How in the name of Hyrcania did House . . . Oh, hello. Dabbling in Geopolitical gamesmanship with estimable film maker Mike Houlihan - whose production of Tapioca premieres at the Gene Siskel Theatre on November 20th, 2008. Click my Post Title, Do! Oh, Do so attend. We were discussing the defection of dandified dabbler Christopher Buckley to the Redistribution of Wealth Syndicate of Camp Obama. Most dyspeptic over this. Salts, Please, Willingham! Now where was I, this certainly not Kansas - Ah yes Illinois -Bold Blue. Buckley, yes.

I could not get Chris Buckley to explain himself per his recent endorsement of Senator Barack Obama, as I did not try.

He is as top-hole a writer, wit, gad-about and nuanced parser as Kid Hope could ever dream of finding in his Redistribution of Wealth library - or as Sarah Palin might say - along with so many of us helots -Lie Barry. Hmmmmm.

Damme! I tried to recall, as best I could, exactly whom Chris Buckley most sounds like - there is a shiney new dime for whoever guesses the literary source for my imaginary journalism ( an homage to Huffington Post):

Chris Buckley, Poison Squirrels! Let's have it!

Hickey -'Mr. Buckley why did you eschew McCain for Obama?'

"You will agree with me that he is not everybody's money."

"There may be something in what you say, sir."
"Cleopatra wouldn't have liked him."
"Possibly not, sir."


You know how it is with some girls. They seem to take the stuffing right out of you. I mean to say, there is something about their personality that paralyses the vocal cords and reduces the contents of the brain to cauliflower.
Scarcely had I entered the sitting-room when I found ... what appeared at first sight to be the Devil, A closer scrutiny informed me that it was Gussie Fink-Nottle, dressed as Mephistopheles.
We do not tell old friends beneath our roof-tree that they are an offence to the eyesight.
Gussie, a glutton for punishment, stared at himself in the mirror.
The female in question was a sloppy pest
There is enough sadness in life without having fellows like Gussie Fink-Nottle going about in sea boots.
A slight throbbing about the temples told me that this discussion had reached saturation point.
I consider that of all the dashed silly, drivelling ideas I ever heard in my puff this is the most blithering and futile. It won't work. Not a chance.
And a moment later there was a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and the relative had crossed the threshold at fifty m.p.h. under her own steam.



My Aunt Agatha, the curse of the Home Counties and a menace to one and all.
she cried in a voice that hit me between the eyebrows and went out at the back of my head.
"Have you ever heard of Market Snodsbury Grammar School?"

"Never."
"It's a grammar school at Market Snodsbury."
I told her a little frigidly that I had divined as much.

I goggled. Her words did not appear to make sense. They seemed the mere aimless vapouring of an aunt who has been sitting out in the sun without a hat.
"You're pulling my leg."

"I am not pulling your leg. Nothing would induce me to touch your beastly leg."

"But why do you want me? I mean, what am I? Ask yourself that."

"I often have."
"I'm hopeless at a game like that. Ask Jeeves about the time I got lugged in to address a girls' school. I made the most colossal ass of myself."
"And I confidently anticipate that you will make an equally colossal ass of yourself on the thirty-first of this month. That's why I want you. The way I look at it is that, as the thing is bound to be a frost, anyway,one may as well get a hearty laugh out of it."

He had been looking like a dead fish. He now looked like a deader fish, one of last year's, cast up on some lonely beach and left there at the mercy of the wind and tides.
It's only about once in a lifetime that anything sensational ever happens to one, and when it does, you don't want people taking all the colour out of it. I remember at school having to read that stuff where that chap, Othello, tells the girl what a hell of a time he'd been having among the cannibals and what not. Well, imagine his feelings if, after he had described some particularly sticky passage with a cannibal chief and was waiting for the awestruck "Oh-h! Not really?", she had said that the whole thing had no doubt been greatly exaggerated and that the man had probably really been a prominent local vegetarian.
"It's the sort of thing you would do."
"My scheme is far more subtle. Let me outline it for you."
"No, thanks."
"I say to myself----"
"But not to me."
"Do listen for a second."
"I won't."
"Right ho, then. I am dumb."
"And have been from a child."

"And, anyway, no matter how much you may behave like the deaf adder of Scripture which, as you are doubtless aware, the more one piped, the less it danced, or words to that effect, I shall carry on as planned. "
In build and appearance, Tuppy somewhat resembles a bulldog, and his aspect now was that of one of these fine animals who has just been refused a slice of cake.
The discovery of a toy duck in the soap dish, presumably the property of some former juvenile visitor, contributed not a little to this new and happier frame of mind. What with one thing and another, I hadn't played with toy ducks in my bath for years, and I found the novel experience most invigorating. For the benefit of those interested, I may mention that if you shove the thing under the surface with the sponge and then let it go, it shoots out of the water in a manner calculated to divert the most careworn. Ten minutes of this and I was enabled to return to the bedchamber much more the old merry Bertram.
"I don't want to seem always to be criticizing your methods of voice production, Jeeves," I said, "but I must inform you that that 'Well, sir' of yours is in many respects fully as unpleasant as your 'Indeed, sir?' Like the latter, it seems to be tinged with a definite scepticism. It suggests a lack of faith in my vision. The impression I retain after hearing you shoot it at me a couple of times is that you consider me to be talking through the back of my neck, and that only a feudal sense of what is fitting restrains you from substituting for it the words 'Says you!'"
"Oh? I didn't know that."
"There isn't much you do know."

"Tut!" I said.
"What did you say?"
"I said 'Tut!'"
"Say it once again, and I'll biff you where you stand. I've enough to endure without being tutted at."
"Quite."
"Any tutting that's required, I'll attend to myself. And the same applies to clicking the tongue, if you were thinking of doing that."
"Far from it."
"Good."

And as for Gussie Fink-Nottle, many an experienced undertaker would have been deceived by his appearance and started embalming him on sight.
I remember when I was a kid at school having to learn a poem of sorts about a fellow named Pig-something--a sculptor he would have been, no doubt--who made a statue of a girl, and what should happen one morning but that the bally thing suddenly came to life. A pretty nasty shock for the chap, of course.
"Oh, look," she said. She was a confirmed Oh-looker. I had noticed this at Cannes, where she had drawn my attention in this manner on various occasions to such diverse objects as a French actress, a Provençal filling station, the sunset over the Estorels, Michael Arlen, a man selling coloured spectacles, the deep velvet blue of the Mediterranean, and the late mayor of New York in a striped one-piece bathing suit.
When I was a child, I used to think that rabbits were gnomes, and that if I held my breath and stayed quite still, I should see the fairy queen.". Indicating with a reserved gesture that this was just the sort of loony thing I should have expected her to think as a child, I returned to the point.
Though never for an instant faltering in my opinion that Augustus Fink-Nottle was Nature's final word in cloth-headed guffins, I liked the man, wished him well.
Then he rose and began to pace the room in an overwrought sort of way, like a zoo lion who has heard the dinner-gong go and is hoping the keeper won't forget him in the general distribution.
Contenting myself, accordingly, with a gesture of loving sympathy, I left the room. Whether she did or did not throw a handsomely bound volume of the Works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, at me, I am not in a position to say. I had seen it lying on the table beside her, and as I closed the door I remember receiving the impression that some blunt instrument had crashed against the woodwork, but I was feeling too pre-occupied to note and observe.
"Goodbye, Bertie," he said, rising.
I seemed to spot an error.
"You mean 'Hullo,' don't you?"
"No, I don't. I mean goodbye. I'm off."
"Off where?"
"To the kitchen garden. To drown myself."
"Don't be an ass."
"I'm not an ass.... Am I an ass, Jeeves?"
"Possibly a little injudicious, sir."
"Drowning myself, you mean?"
"Yes, sir."
"You think, on the whole, not drown myself?"
"I should not advocate it, sir."
"Very well, Jeeves. I accept your ruling. After all, it would be unpleasant for Mrs. Travers to find a swollen body floating in her pond."


"Jeeves," I said, and I am free to admit that in my emotion I bleated like a lamb drawing itself to the attention of the parent sheep, "what the dickens is all this?"
I wouldn't have said off-hand that I had a subconscious mind, but I suppose I must without knowing it, and no doubt it was there, sweating away diligently at the old stand, all the while the corporeal Wooster was getting his eight hours.
If you can visualize a bulldog which has just been kicked in the ribs and had its dinner sneaked by the cat, you will have Hildebrand Glossop as he now stood before me.
"I've been through hell, Bertie."
"Through where?"
"Hell."
"Oh, hell? And what took you there?"

"Beginning with a _critique_ of my own limbs, which she said, justly enough, were nothing to write home about, this girl went on to dissect my manners, morals, intellect, general physique, and method of eating asparagus with such acerbity that by the time she had finished the best you could say of Bertram was that, so far as was known, he had never actually committed murder or set fire to an orphan asylum."
"The boy is the father of the man."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about this Glossop."
"I thought you said something about somebody's father."
"I said the boy was the father of the man."
"What boy?"
"The boy Glossop."
"He hasn't got a father."
"I never said he had. I said he was the father of the boy--or, rather, of the man."
"What man?"

Besides, isn't there something in the book of rules about a man may not marry his cousin? Or am I thinking of grandmothers?

"My dear Tuppy, does one bandy a woman's name?"
"One does if one doesn't want one's ruddy head pulled off."
I saw that it was a special case.

I was reading in the paper the other day about those birds who are trying to split the atom, the nub being that they haven't the foggiest as to what will happen if they do. It may be all right. On the other hand, it may not be all right. And pretty silly a chap would feel, no doubt, if, having split the atom, he suddenly found the house going up in smoke and himself torn limb from limb.
He expressed the opinion that the world was in a deplorable state. I said, 'Don't talk rot, old Tom Travers.' 'I am not accustomed to talk rot,' he said. 'Then, for a beginner,' I said, 'you do it dashed well.' And I think you will admit, boys and ladies and gentlemen, that that was telling him."
"The fellow with a face rather like a walnut."
Nature, when planning this sterling fellow, shoved in a lot more lower jaw than was absolutely necessary and made the eyes a bit too keen and piercing for one who was neither an Empire builder nor a traffic policeman.
"She loves this newt-nuzzling blister."

Newt Nuzzling,Sir? Why I never . . .well, rarely. Dear Old Pup, now, what Wode he say? Tah!

John McCain: Cindy McCain - Citizen First - First Lady Later.

Associated press Photo of Cindy McCain in Burma where she gave the military junta some Hell.


Texas Democrat and Patriot, Miss Taylor Marsh, talks about the core values of Cindy McCain.

Get this:

Cindy McCain is pictured in Vietnam, also quoted criticizing Burma, taking a page from Hillary Clinton's playbook: "I don’t understand how human life doesn’t matter to somebody. But clearly, it doesn’t matter to them.”

Meanwhile, Michelle Obama was doing "The View."

Seems to me to paint very stark and competing portraits of two important political wives. Mind you, Michelle Obama has the intellect to equal Cindy McCain's outreach. But the fact is that this isn't where the Obama campaign gurus wanted Mrs. Obama to go. It's a pattern with Democratic message people when it comes to our nominee's wife. . . . Michelle Obama has previously earned very critical reviews around here for her impolitic statements, so I was pleased she did "The View" to round off edges that appeared early on in moments on the trail that were beyond abrasive. But at the same time I wondered why this couldn't have been accomplished in a manner that was less "Leave It To Beaver," illustrating Mrs. Obama's passions and her purpose instead. I can't be the only one sensing that the Obama camp is having a Theresa Heinz Kerry, Hillary Clinton moment, telegraphing they're uncomfortable with yet another strong spouse who might scare middle America and doesn't know quite what to do about it. But reverting to traditional stereotypes never seems to work, because it doesn't fit the woman. It's also not very original or creative, instead a throw back. That's what was wrong with "The View" appearance yesterday. It was Michelle Obama airbrushed.

Juxtapose that against Cindy McCain dressed down in Vietnam, then talking about Burma's disrespect for human rights, and you have quite a contrast.

Authenticity meets image concoction. First lady auditions are ugly.

John McCain: Take Baby Alex, John McCain, because His Mom's Nuts!

Patholgically 'Sincere' Mom - holding Chubby Cherub: Hi, John McCain. This is Alex, and he's my first. So far his talents include trying any new food and chasing after our dog. That and making my heart pound every time I look at him. So John McCain, when you say you would stay in Iraq for 100 years, were you counting on Alex? Because if you were, you can't have him

John McCain: He is beautiful! Looks like Karl Rove but moves around alot quicker. Hello, Alex! Dog Chaser, eh Buddy? Look, chase women! just kidding.

Alex, I'm going to give you some straight talk and I hope that your Mommy is listening because she has not blinked for the last few minutes.

Guess what Alex, I'll be 173 years old and you will be 100 1/2 years old, because this year's election allowed me to bring an end to a very necessary and horribly mismanaged War. You will not need to go to war in Iraq, because that country will be at peace by the time that you are in pre-school, Alex.

Alex, I see that you are looking at the tall good looking young Secret Service agents that walking around your Mommy, who is still smiling and has not blinked yet. sotto voce: apprehend -gently medical evacNow. [gently and slwoly taking Alex from the fixated and ridid mother]

Now, I am going to give you a ride on my lap ( shoulders are killing me); Man you are a chub - more like Fatboy Keith Olbermann without his diaper changed -Karl the Architect is a 'feather merchant' next to that Bellowing Blimp. Naw, you're a nice little man, Alex.

Alex, your Mom still has not blinked and the nice Secret Service Agents assigned to my -just a sec, Alex - Cindy, take the little man for a while - Special Agents, please get this poor woman some attention, ASAP. Poor thing. She must be drugged or on something. She's like Tom Cruise for Crissakes, or Andy Dick. Creepy. Those Moveon.org Hollywood clowns did this to the poor woman.

Alex, Me and Mrs. McCain will stay here until your Grammy and Gramps get here. Want to see some scars, Kiddo!

Cindy McCain: Not on your Life! Oh, he is a Dollie, Yes You are Alex! Behave, John. This is on You Tube.

John McCain: Yes Ma'am. Oh, Screw Tube! Like that Alex, Old Pal? Alex, let me tell you a thing or two about the Cuban who tortured me.

Cindy McCain: John, I mean it! Now Knock it off! My goodness he is a fatty.

Secret Service Agent Alex's Mom is sedated and the Grandparents are in Transit.

John McCain Alex, Look No teeth! Just like you. Commies knocked mine out.

Cindy McCain: That's it Mister! No more Starbucks, today.

John McCain: Cook With Me -Huffpo's David Weiner & Bitter Clinging Peaches Ragout!

'Dave quit wiggling!'




David Weiner one of Arianna Huffington's trained purse puppies, squeaks that Cindy McCain lifted recipes from the Food Network!!!!!

Click my post title for Weiner World!

On a section of McCain's site called "Cindy's Recipes," you can find seven recipes attributed to Cindy McCain, each with the heading "McCain Family Recipe." Ms. Handel quickly realized that some of the "McCain Family Recipes," were in fact, word-for-word copies of recipes on the Food Network site.

Boy, that alliterative 'S' sound - Cs Ss and Sthuch - really pops off the paragraph!

Sounds like steam escaping!

Dave grip it. I'll bet that Cindy McCain's book shelves, at times, contained books from the Public Library.

Dave - Cindy McCain is . . . she's a woman Dave; one of them Female Girls. The kind that marry men. I married one them myself. They are strange creatures. They follow recipes!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cindy McCain, Senator John McCain's Easy On the Eyes Better Half, has done what every American Woman has done - she has stolen recipes from someone else. That is what women do, Dave. Every American woman, from the time the first Winsome Wench of the Prairies snitched pages of the Farmer's Almanac on 'Black Kettle Biscuits and Gravy from One Ounce of Fat Back Bacon for Five' has taken recipes from Nana, Busha, Grannie, or Aunt Gert, you know the one who acts and looks like Jane Addams, or Louie Anderson, snatches snack synopses.

On the other hand, John McCain and the balance of American Men cook, roast, dice, chop, saute, stew and boil from the heart.

Bam! What's in the Ice Box Kids? Step off! I'll Holler when it's done!

Today,

Dave Weiner & Bitter Cling Peaches Ragout

Wash Your Hands! Yeah, I know you wiped 'em good, but wash the damn mitts. quit pouting - it's healthy. Now . . .

Take Weiner and toss - good and hard - on the cutting board. Pound - repeatedly -about eight minutes - no reason, just do it. It is from the heart and not some purloined recipe, after all.

Take Bitter Cling Peaches - Bitter -like most Americans Cling -to Faith, Guns, Each Other and Peaches 'cause I likes them! Bitter Clings can be found all over the country - not just parts of Pennsylvannia.

With dull knife, make a incisions into the Weiner - no reason. Then Chop, Dice and Mince.

Heat oven to 425o - Take 18" Frozen Home Run Inn Pizza from the Ice Box. Place frozen Pizza on center rack, directly; do not use the dip-shit pizza pan with holes that Aunt Joan gave me for Christmas in 1990. Place directly on rack - Oh, for really dumb guys - place the pizza and not the cardboard in the oven. You'll need the cardboard circle to cut the pizza. Set timer for seventeen (17) minutes - no more; no less! Let cool.

Now~!

Mix Dave Weiner thoroughly with Bitter Cling Peaches and toss into a metal bowl. Take it three doors down and feed it to the perpetually pissed off German Shepherd owned by the retired school teacher from CPS who peers out of the curtains every time a train passes - which is about every eight minutes in this neighborhood.

Take the Pizza from the oven - guys use oven mitts and slide the cardboard under the cooked pizza and cut into mostly rectangular sections and not Slice Wedges like a faux Brooklynite - we're Chicagoans for Crissakes! Feed the kids! Serve with Filbert's Root Beer or Green River.

John McCain could whip up a batch of David Weiner and Bitter Cling Peaches Ragout and feed it to an unhappy dog. It is what good guys do. The recipe would be in a much better place than on the pages of Huffington Post. A dog's colon is about the right fit for one of Arrianna Huffington's purse puppies.