In the words of the venerable Senator from Arizona, “remarkable.” Leave it to “that one” to make things personal.
I, unlike some, am a credible journalist. Sorry, if my hard-hitting tactics were too professional and well-informed for your liking. Sorry, if the truth is a bitter pill to swallow. Sorry, if the curtain of lies has been torn down and the all-powerful wizard/Voreblog has been revealed as nothing but a farce. These smear tactics are nothing more than a last ditch effort to save face, to win over those independents out there yet to pick a side. I understand. You realize the tide is flowing against you, and that something has to be done. I know, let’s turn the table on our opponent, somehow make them the bad guy in the eyes of the people. It’s a Swift Boat world out there, and Voreblog is just living in it.
Top Banana Galore did not deserve this treatment. He is an innocent here, like Chelsea Clinton back in 1992. Why don’t you call him ugly, while you’re at it? The unfortunate spawn of an unqualified candidate? Banana is our child, and, yes, I brought him into this whole mess, but you had no right, Sirs and Madams. NO RIGHT! He is indeed illiterate, like all animals with brains made of playdough and leftover bedazzler gems. There is no kitty kindergarten to enroll him in. We are phenomenal parents here at Mindless Comfort. Banana is fed, his box is scooped regularly, and when he sticks his bottom in the air like a drag queen, as if to say “Who loves Kitty?,” we scratch his little head and say, “We love Kitty, even if you are gay.”
What we do not do is exploit our beloved pet. We do not take his good name and use it for personal gain. What if Scooter was sued for libel? What then? Would you take the fall, admit your obvious ghostwriting, or would the ensuing debt be placed on the trembling shoulders of a kitty working for catnip? My money is on the latter. Your day in court will come. You are the Barry Bonds of the blogosphere — an accomplished, known-liar, born without the ability to admit wrongdoing. The proof is in the Jello© pudding, guys. Come clean now, or lose the respect of Bill Cosby.
“What proof,” you ask? Here you go:
I love cats, don’t get me wrong. Banana is one of God’s babies, sent down to bless us with hours of biscuit makin’. But, just like Mr. Thomas, he is simply a cat, born without the ability to speak, read, or write. This is not something to ridicule, something on which to turn our noses down. We hug the stuffing out of these little bastards because of their idiocy, not in spite of it.
You can continue this charade if you want, but the population is not going to fall for these shenanigans, this ballyhoo, this tomfoolery. Eventually, they will turn against you, begging for the truth. Scooter (you) says come to the Vorehouse to witness his (your) genius in person? Why, then, in your invitation, have you openly admitted that Scooter will be locked in the basement during said visit? What are you hiding? The truth, perhaps? But, nonetheless, I will visit your humble abode this Saturday, with my lasso of truth in hand. Professionalism ahead of friendship, that’s my motto. That, and “Good to the last drop.”