First let me say that I think the bulk of the left pretty much
misses the boat when it comes to Rush Limbaugh, who’s name sounds like
a fake invented on the spot by a character in a teen flick set in 1979.
“Uh… my name is… Yes Balderblam, officer. This is my friend, King Crimson Grandmore.” For years, lefties have tirelessly documented the man as the boldest of liars, as though fact has anything to do with dittoism.
Look, for the most part, you’re talking about people who thrive on
being lied to. The kind of person who listens to Rush is the same kind
who believes that the story of Noah’s ark is literally true.
That is, that 3,000 years ago, some fool used a wooden boat to gather
every species of animal on earth from the ice caps to the
equator–including species yet to be discovered by modern science–and
housed and sustained them for 40 days upon said wooden boat, while an
invisible man in the sky, who is all powerful and all knowing and all
loving, decided to kill everyone on earth because he was disappointed
at how they turned out. Additionally, not only did no one but Noah have
a boat, the omni-omni being who created perhaps an infinite number of
galaxies, each with billions of stars, many of which contain solar
systems with planets and moons, oceans and continents and, in at least
one case, ecosystems with billions of millions of species, composed of
billions of cells and countless molecules, composed of mercurial
particles that continue to befuddle the greatest of human minds — this
being, has as his primary concern whether some dude on planet earth is
putting his penis in another dude’s mouth. Seriously, this all knowing,
all powerful being created a boundless universe of unlimited
complexity, so that he could fret and wring his hands over the
reproduce practices of a single species on a single dust particle of a
planet. Supernovae are mere ornaments hanging about the core issue of
the universe. Did little Timmy touch himself last night, especially while maybe thinking about little Billy? This is the mentality of Rush’s audience.

Now, the response to these kinds of people is supposed to be like, “Rush
misstated the facts pertaining to the involvement of the United States
in the Nicaraguan civil war during the 80s.” Or, “Mr. Limbaugh
misrepresented the preponderance of scientific opinion pertinent to
global warming.” As if these observations will shake someone who
believes that earth is younger than the pyramids into reality. Fuck
that. Rush is about spraying a satisfyingly warm jism of falsehood onto
the eagerly awaiting maws of nano-endowed, mentally deficient dupes.
People who can’t hold their own in a reality that includes competitive
gene pools, and therefore get off on the idea of throwing people in
prison or sending them to war. You don’t use facts against this bunch,
you use the back of your hand.

But here’s what I don’t get. Rush is the mouth piece of the hombre myth.
He is the mask of right wing cunts who are afraid of every fucking
thing. He’s supposed to portray their cowardice as machismo. You’re a
watery, bloody, leaking, pussy who’s so afraid of terrorists that he
would shred the Constitution to avoid a 1/50 million chance of being
killed by Al Qaeda? You’re so afraid of crime and/or black people that
you want to lock up troubled twelve-year-olds for life so they can
never ever get you? You’re so intimidated by sex that you would
actually block efforts to prevent STDs? You’re so afraid of death that
you have to pretend that you’ll wind up floating on a cloud with Grams
and Gramps, Jesus and the cat that got run over when you were eight?
Rush’s job is to convince you that, you, fruitcake, are in
actuality a tough guy. You’re tough on terrorism. You’re tough on
crime. You’re not weak and afraid, but abstinent. You’re strong in your
faith. It’s those whiny liberals who are the wimps. Horseshit.

Rush is supposed to represent the macho face of conservatism,
boldly stamping out wimpy, wishy-washy liberalism. And yet, he is
obviously the biggest pussy in the entire universe. That is
what baffles me. Even if Rush never made it to radio, I would know him.
When I try to imagine some jiggling, white bread imbecile in Missouri
who spews crumbs and “tough talk” platitudes at his family across a dinner table
strewn with Boston Market to cover up the fact that he’s often
frightened by the sound of his own farts, Rush’s face comes directly to
mind. And I think it would even if I’d never seen him. Try to imagine
Rush voluntarily entering a fist fight with an able bodied male
remotely his own size. It’s nearly impossible. Now try to imagine him
saying, “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” to a midget who just smacked
his mom across the face. Fits perfectly.

Of course the facts support the image. Rush has trouble
finding and keeping women, even with his fortune and fame. He sat out
‘Nam with a cyst on his ass. He was hopelessly addicted to prescription
drugs for his hurt back and had to undergo the most extreme forms of
rehab to get off them. Moreover, he bought them illegally — which I
have no problem with except for the fact that he has stated
Oxycontin users deserve jail time because they are robbing sick people
of relief. This is your rhetorical John Wayne? Good luck, pussies.

About Plexico Gingrich

Plexico likes to gamble. He writes for a boxing site which you can visit: here
Follow him on twitter: @ruthlessreviews