So yesterday we played an insane little game called Find Today’s Worst Politico Article Ever. And the Crasstalk Army rose to the challenge. You risked turning into David Broder-esque Beltway Zombies and actually spent time looking for the crappiest pieces of Politico crap that ever got crapped out.
Here’s the worst of the worst (remember, this is just one day’s worth of Politicrap):
Semicarbazone and Epuff both suggested Bristol Palin’s Memoir: ‘Not Afraid of Life’
Essentially, this is a 4 paragraph article mentioning when the book is coming out, followed by a short blurb by a publisher. In fact everything in this article is probably going to be found on the inside sleeve of the book.
Except the conclusion of the article, of course, which states: “On Tuesday morning, Bristol posted on her Facebook fan page for the first time since December.”
Semicarbazone also suggested this hard-hitting interview with Andrew Sullivan.
HidingInCanada submitted this one, mainly due to its lulz-worthy headline: Rahm Emanuel Taps Desiree Rodgers.
KnightOfTheBurningRiver submitted this piece of Mittens-related hackery. Do people actually read this crap? I refuse to believe it.
Semicarbazone found that Politico has basically given up and is now just stealing its Sarah Palin news from The Times of India.
Pssshwhatever found Politico obsessing over Eliot Spitzer’s awful CNN show in Aspbergian detail.
But there could be only one winner on this day, and that goes to Epuff, for nominating this thing. Amazingly, Politico figured out how to connect Charlie Sheen, Mike Huckabee and Chris Matthews into a fine bouillabaisse of SEO linkbait crappiness:
Two and a Half Mean: Huck says Matthews like Sheen
The awful play on the words. The use of a colon. The rhyming. As Charles Barkley would say, “that’s just turrrrible.” The rest of the article just repeats a few dumb soundbites that Huckabee made right before eating his fifth Hardee’s burger of the afternoon and fucking his cousin. Of course, Politico doesn’t actually ever take sides. They just repeat what the pundits say. See, journalism is easy when you’re as even-handed as Politico is! And if you can throw Charlie Sheen into the mix, go for it!
So congratulations to Epuff on winning our first-ever Politico contest. Here’s a little something I wrote in her honor. I think it really capture’s Epuff’s essence.
And yet we had no ideal Mistress stretching her form up to the clouds, nor yet a cruel Queen to whom to offer our corpses twisted into the shape of Byzantine rings! No reason to die unless it is the desire to be rid of the too great weight of our courage!
We drove on, crushing beneath our burning wheels, like shirt-collars under the iron, the watch dogs on the steps of the houses.
Death, tamed, went in front of me at each corner offering me his hand nicely, and sometimes lay on the ground with a noise of creaking jaws giving me velvet glances from the bottom of puddles.
“Let us leave good sense behind like a hideous husk and let us hurl ourselves, like fruit spiced with pride, into the immense mouth and breast of the world! Let us feed the unknown, not from despair, but simply to enrich the unfathomable reservoirs of the Absurd!”
As soon as I had said these words, I turned sharply back on my tracks with the mad intoxication of puppies biting their tails, and suddenly there were two cyclists disapproving of me and tottering in front of me like two persuasive but contradictory reasons. Their stupid swaying got in my way. What a bore! Pouah! I stopped short, and in disgust hurled myself — vlan! — head over heels in a ditch.
Oh, maternal ditch, half full of muddy water! A factory gutter! I savored a mouthful of strengthening muck which recalled the black teat of my Sudanese nurse!
As I raised my body, mud-spattered and smelly, I felt the red hot poker of joy deliciously pierce my heart. A crowd of fishermen and gouty naturalists crowded terrified around this marvel. With patient and tentative care they raised high enormous grappling irons to fish up my car, like a vast shark that had run aground. It rose slowly leaving in the ditch, like scales, its heavy coachwork of good sense and its upholstery of comfort.
We thought it was dead, my good shark, but I woke it with a single caress of its powerful back, and it was revived running as fast as it could on its fins.
Then with my face covered in good factory mud, covered with metal scratches, useless sweat and celestial grime, amidst the complaint of staid fishermen and angry naturalists, we dictated our first will and testament to all the living men on earth.
