The Forest

Department of Political Un-Correctness

We’re Okay If Kim Jong-un Fires Missiles As Long As They Hit:

The Geico Pig.  Question:  When you already have a cute little spokesman (spokes-lizard?) with a catchy Cockney accent, why would you add a repugnant one who talks like an annoying teenager?

Call us hopelessly ossified, but we really don’t want to see (or hear) Maxwell ever again. If you disagree, click here: Friend The Pig

Friends of the Geico Pig. Yes, there really are people who give “thumbs up” to the company’s blatant announcements of its latest commercials cleverly disguised as Facebook posts.  Including a young woman proposing marriage to the hirsute snouter.  If you’re actually looking at that page you’re either:

1. Researching the decline and fall of American culture. (This covers The Forest’s butt.)
2. At the end of your rope for things to do other than leave your parents’ basement.
3. A moron.

Gretchen Carlson’s Teleprompter.  As the co-host of the Fox & Friends morning show chimed in with her pals excoriating President Obama for his gun control efforts, this Hairdo in Search of a Heart reflected on the economic ramifications of a ban on high capacity magazines: “The companies producing those devices would have to cut jobs!” 

Did those words actually come out of her mouth?  If we vaporize the machine she reads off of, will she just go away?

Mitch McConnell’s Campaign Strategists.   What to do when polls show your candidate is the country’s least popular senator?  How about suggest using Ashley Judd’s struggle with clinical depression in hopes of discrediting her as a candidate?  Really?  Then have your boss holler for the F.B.I. when he gets caught agreeing to it.  Really. 

Anthony Weiner’s Campaign Funds.  The scariest thing about this source of $100,000 for a poll to determine if a guy who Tweeted images of his crotch is now viable as a candidate for mayor of New York City is that there’s still more than $4 million of it left.  

The Double Gulp.  Granted, we have to give the health-conscious virtuosos at 7-Eleven kudos for downsizing this penultimate paean to sugar shock from 64 ounces (That’s half a gallon, but who’s counting?) to its current, slender 50 ounces.  (Whew! Now we’ll have room left for Little Debbie Cloud Cakes.)   And a state judge did throw out New York Mayor Bloomberg’s edict to ban soft drinks over 20 ounces.  (We’ll sleep better tonight.)  But, still, why not just melt the damn thing and leave the answers to our soft drink dreams where they belong: in football length hallways of two liter bottles?  Just adjacent to the thoroughfare of potato chips you’re standing in.

The Supreme Leader Himself.  Which, hopefully - given the state of the People’s Republic’s technology - is not off the table.