St. RiK & Pope Cliff Boost Semenhood

Newt Gingrich--so very yesterday--is about as much a papist as a post- Boleyn Henry VIII. Like Henry, Newt was a serial spouser, but went the opposite conversion direction. Newt became a Catholic for love but shucked  his death-do-us-part vow; Henry became a not-Catholic for love but stuck to his do-us part vow.

If you want a real Catholic for President—and who doesn't-- Newt would be pathetically lame in one of your New Year's mitres.

There are literally dozens who support Planned Personhood, the liberal offshoot of the Catholic Anti-Definition League, but damned few who pledge fealty to Pope Benedict XVI I, who played Aloisius Ratzinger in "Springtime for Young Hitler" and Cliff, the voluble mail and drivel carrier, in “Cheers.”

Damned few even know what “fealty” means, but pledge away they do.

Not, not as in “touchy fealty”.

Pope Cliff controls the second best conservative definition of the beginning of life. The best, of course, was written by Moses when language looked a lot like Wingbats and was etched in stone by lightning.

Which brings us, however elliptically, to St. RiK Santorum, previously known only as Special-K, for the street where he has thrived lately, or The Prince of Northern Virginia, which is where he lived while he was living in Pennsylvania. Being half viable in two places at one time is a sure sign on sainthood, beating the crap out of Schrödinger's cat, which only managed to be alive and dead at the same time, way short of qualifying for beatification.

St. RiK was almost solely responsible for redefining life in 2005 and more recently redefining the life of a presidential campaign as only requiring a tortured smile, a wink and a nod, brain function or Lone Star Governorship optional.

St. RiKy must now be taken as seriously as any hat in the ring containing an Angel's Diary. He is in Iowa. The second best place for him. He has shocked even RuPaul, which it pretty hard this side of eight- inch platforms and glitter for mascara. St. RiKy is going to win the Iowa Crocuses, granting him the more rights to the color purple than Whoopie Goldberg's.

Okay. Who? And how?

The “Who” is not important. He could be anybody who hasn't learned how to smile. The “How”?

Semenhood.

St. RiK has more ideas than the other Rick, Gov. Perry, has oops, and they are better, but the winner is the Papal Decree of Semenhood.

To keep this part short, Semenhood means that no abortions are allowed after the semen comes out of the blender, like a pina colada but not as frozen, yet (more on that below). Semen is derived from the New England term “Seaman”, because the tiny—okay, okay, microscopically really big--semen floaters are crazy swimmers like the guys who were pitched into the ocean by Moby Dick. Only one, of course, ends up with the prized coffin, but that is one very long narrative away from the point, even for this Blog.

Semen is a tad of a misnomer. Semen is really just the way an Intelligent Designer always packages spermapaloza, which is where the soul really begins but sounds too laughable to support even bingo. St. RiK believes Semenhood down to his every bone. To know this Semenhood theory, one need only study the Pope's Cliffmail on Semenhood Sanctity. Papist dogma requires that Semen be treated as containing millions of quantum tithers.

As such Semen is only to be time-regulated to a Katy Perry-beat mp3's; is not allowed to be detained on Saturday nights by terrifying French ticklers (uh... whatever those are); and is neither to be frustrated days before arrival by some forearm implant nor sunk downside-up--if there's got to be a the morning after--by the damned French again.

St. RiK and Pope Cliff's fluidy dream has led them to whip out a master plan--know in the Latin as the Bull Semen--to protect Sememhood and they expect to expose themselves soon, probably in New Hampshire, unless it's not too frakkin' cold: American Males are to be herded together and interned (not the 1998 meaning) in a Vatican Naval base in Greenland until all their little semem-borne quarks can be granted proper legal representation and definitely long, long before the next Megan Fox film.

This Bull will accomplish two things: It will lower Greenland two-tenths of an inch and it will save the Pope the draining expense of busing to the polls a trillion trillion new little voters otherwise simply wagging at movie posters.

Here's to Semenhood! And its patron saint, St. RiK! Off to Greenland!

Newt Decrees Ultimate GOP Fall Back

Over its entire personhood, this Blog has wondered how much further its Republican chum wanted turn back their clocks. Beyond, that is, the usual, depressing November hour.

For Pat Buchanan, it was surely back to beginning of “Father Knows Best”.  But back to the 1949 radio or 1954 TV version?

For Antonin “Scaly” Scalia, it was 1788, when the Constitution was being written without anyone's authorization.

For Rick Perry... Uh. (Whisper) The Magna Cum... Carter. 1215. That's it!

Anyway, the wonderment is over.

Relax. It's not that far.

In the eye of Gingrich, that time reboot is a relatively modern 1802.

Ever the historian of record for any Christian Family-After-Family Values Party, Newt pandered back to 1802, this during what was--you hope to God--the last Republican pre-Iowa posture test. The clock face cracked at 1802.  This date was necessitated by Newt's bold plan to place the Personhood Doctrine right up there with the Bible and the Constitution, no matter what Scaly and the Supremes may say.

The Personhood Doctrine, more liberal than that of Newt's new boss, the Pope would even consider, finally establishes for all-time that the right to a separate lawyer begins when an human egg is fertilized. Even on a unisex toilet seat.

To put the Supremes in their place, Newt harkens back to, perhaps, the most famous American Biblical editor and slave-owning race-blender, Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson invented the razor cut and later added pasting, the combination of which he perfected, without an iPad, in rejiggering the Bible, along with any other books and documents that needed his help.

In 1802, Tom Jefferson and his number one Democratic-Republican--ah, the good old days, eh, Newt--flunky, Jimmy Madison cooked up a plan to extend the vacation of the Supreme Court way beyond two weeks and have their newly elected majority in Congress roll back the judicial clock to the the near- Scaly 1789. This very pre-Walmart rollback seemed fair to Tom since he and Sally Hemings were mostly in Paris and could hardly be blamed for that year's Judicial Act. Fair or not, there were, as there always are, nay-sayers.

One such was Billy Marbury, whom this maneuvering deprived of the political job he had been promised by John Adams, who ended up with a better TV movie than Tom or Jimmy ever got, unless you count when Yul Bryner proved he could do more than dance and tick off Moses by doing “The Buccaneer”, in which Jimmy let the British burn the White House. And the Capitol, not that he cared all that much.

Jimmy Madison, not Yul Bryner.

To Newt, Billy Marbury's annoyance with Tom and Jimmy is where time stopped. You have seen this time-freeze thing before on TV, all the way back in '61 when the next stop was “The Twilight Zone”. Newt, himself, manipulated time recently when he began ticking the Palestine clock with the day after the Ottomans took over Jerusalem's best parlors.

To Newt, Tom “De-Biblist” Jefferson and Jimmy “Burn Baby” Madison proved his concept that Congress can do whatever the hell the current President or Speaker (rarely both) wants it to do.

Sorry, Newt, but even your clock has to start again. When it does, Billy Marbury sues Jimmy Madison and gives Chief Justice John Marshall a really sweet case with which to smack Tom and Jimmy around... for a couple centuries. Marbury v. Madison is, for those other than Newt and, maybe, Scaly, the most important judicial document in American HISTORY.

Hey, Newt! Landmark!

Not the tour map.

History!

Okay, okay. Newt. Put down that razor.