That sound you just heard: a 21-cork champagne salute.
I come to Luttigate.
Every hour that goes by, the more depressed I get. It's not that I'm mad about not being appointed to the Supreme Court. (I mean, I am, but this is much bigger than that.) It's that the President of the United States, whom at this point I wouldn't allow one of my clerks to hire as a manual laborer, had to choose such a sycophantic lightweight to fill what would have been my seat. The only possible distinction that Hairy-Ette might hold is she's the first Supreme Court nominee whose eyeliner is thicker than her curriculum vitae.
Memo to Hairyette: if you can't take the heat, get your ass back in the kitchen.
The President of the United States just proved beyond a shadow of an unreasonable doubt that he's the most moronic organism in the history of life on earth.