Ode To A Moonbat

Art Buchwald. 1925-2007. Never met a loon he didn't like. Or a gun he didn't hate.

You may find some of his more recent agglomerations of dysentery here.


When television was in its infancy, Mr. Buchwald was on many a talk show, and I recall asking my mother why the man spoke so funny. "Shhh," she replied. "He has a speech impediment." My father would chime in that he spoke as if he were chewing on a wet dishrag because he was a humorist and trying to be funny, so we SHOULD laugh at him. I tried to, I really did, but I couldn't understand a third of what he was saying at any given point in time and was always playing catchup to the last punchline. Once his politics became known, laughing with or at him was neither here nor there because the mans visage, nor cries to disarm every living soul on earth except for the police, were permissable fare at our house. They laughed along with him until coming to the conclusion that his politics were no joke.