That’s probably the kindest nugget in the bowl. If you want to look at the deranged, diseased heart of liberalism, this is your perfect opportunity.

Be proud, Wonkette contributors and commenters. You’ve truly set a standard.

Via Iowahawk’s twitter – It’s a good thing the author of the “humor” piece has no physical shortcomings ripe for mockery.

Thanks for another classic, Serr8d.

Note: The post has since been removed, so go the links.

Metro Police say Timothy Craig Terry — the schizophrenic 31-year-old who was shot by authorities Tuesday — is in critical condition at Vanderbilt University Medical Center.

The Bellevue man was shot by Metro SWAT officers at 11:45 a.m. Tuesday after he allegedly raised a pistol toward them while he was standing in the breezeway of Waterford Place Apartments the Garden of the dOrcs.

Officers had been in a standoff with Terry since 9:15 p.m. Monday night when his sister alerted authorities that he was off his medication, armed and acting crazy.

Thanks, sis.  If you don’t someone shot, don’t call the police.  It’s at this point that I note that “acting crazy” was not in quotations.

Sadly, King Timmy – Knight of the ER Table -  was not wearing his Mark III Biorestorative Underlay Armor.

At 11:43 a.m., Terry exited his apartment with pistol in hand and sat on breezeway steps facing the parking lot and SWAT officers, according to police. He was ordered repeatedly to drop his gun, which Terry switched from hand to hand. He ignored the commands, started to stand up and pointed the pistol in the direction of the SWAT officers. Believing that Terry posed an imminent threat, SWAT members fired on Terry with their police-issued rifles. He was hit, received emergency treatment at the scene, and was rushed to Vanderbilt Medical Center.

Does it go without saying that they were using “police-issued rifles” or are metro officers using  the pistol that Granny gave them for their 15th birthday that they’ve been waiting to wield on a special occasion?

Either way, through their superior Experience points they were able to register -80 Max Hit Damage on this particular Bellevue Schizo-troll.

This is the second time this year Metro officers have had to deal with Terry’s bizarre and erratic behavior. On Jan. 19, officers were called to Creekwood Apartments in Bellevue after Terry was spotted walking around the complex in his boxer shorts carrying a large sword. Officers found Terry in his apartment with the door ajar. He advanced on police with the sword while yelling nonsense. He refused to drop the weapon and told officers they would have to kill him. A Taser was deployed more than once, which allowed officers to take Terry into custody. He was sent that day for a psychological evaluation.

King Arthur may have been a white knight but he wasn’t a white trash knight.  He did not skulk around Mount Badon in a wife-beater and a pair of boxers.

Were that he did, I might have read about him.

Crack open a six-pack of Salvation and behold. When you say Blasphemy, you’ve said it all:

Sure, the communion is served in a 12 oz. frosty mug and the Body of Christ is pretzels instead of wafers but when Jesus is your designated driver the night can last an eternity.

Though I drive through the Valley of the Shadow of Serpas,
I shall fear no DUI checkpoint.
My liability insurance and alcohawk, they comfort me.

So if you find the three-headed Schlitz Malt Liquor heifer of hell breathing down your neck – rip into a cold one. Ahhhh….and pour a pint on the curb courtesy of your Matador of Mercy.

After all, His Blood’s For you.  Nailed to a bar stool for your sins.

They’re serving after noon on Sundays but closed on Wednesday nights. After all, we have to keep something holy.

I’ll update our full White Trash Wednesday list as soon as I hear from the people still keeping their Coleman kerosene lamps / tire fires in their backyards burning bright.

Honest mistake.

Apologies to the kids for being so scarce lately but bidness called. And when it’s below freezing in Nashville and the expense is authorized for “South Beach”, it’s time to inflate the tires on the double wide and haul my tightly-clenched sphincter down I-95.

To begin, let me say that if you can get passed the omnipresent unch-unch-unch-unch-unch-unch-unch-unch techno blare that is pumped like white noise through every street light, potted plant, patio umbrella, and cocktail napkin (at every conceivable hour of the day and night) that it’s really not that bad of a place to hang out for a week.

You must make peace with the beat . It was there before you and it will be there after you are gone.

It’s like going to Jamaica and realizing that you hate reggae music after you’ve been off the plane for two hours.

The beat is inescapable. The same one from the Girls Gone Wild videos. Best to make peace with it lest it destroy you and find your battered psyche left curled in the fetal position on a bed in the corner of the Delano hotel’s pool bar and getting charged a $300 bottle service.

Of course, maybe paying $25 for an omelet and $17.50 for an accompanying mimosa isn’t your thing. Maybe a stroll along the beach is more your premium cup of green chai tea latte. You can probably sneak in a nice, half-hour walk down the coast for under a hundred bucks if you play your cards right. Still, you’re never too far away from….

Inevitably, Mrs. McMurphy wanted to go shopping. However, even that was cut short after I barely escaped being sexually assaulted by a Macy’s department store mannequin. I repeat….barely.

I need an adult!

Luckily, a lightning-reflexed floor manager’s gaydar had recently been inspected by the local regulatory agency and was in compliance so he realized that I was not indigenous to the area. He quickly dialed a rape crisis hotline who was able to get me a cab back to the hotel for a brief counseling session and some hot, Ghirardelli cocoa.

By the time Mrs. McMurphy finished stroking my head, wiping my tears of shame away, and polishing off the daquiri – it was time to call in our final former Haitian war criminal / tax driver to risk life and what was left of his limbs to get us back to Miami International. His driving glare was fierce. His yellow cab a bolting steed. His nerves were pure vodka.

Ah….MIA. Where the clocks and departure flight times are solamente there for show. Where the only assurance outside of your flight being delayed is that the refrigeration process may eventually find it’s way throughout the concourses so that you can enjoy your $8 12-oz. warm beer within the insulating cocoon of unch-unch-unch-unch as you eventually learn how to instruct passersby on how to make their way to designated smoking areas in spanish.

Central American Airlines, with help from a strong tailwind, was finally able to pull their loose shit together long enough to bounce the Boeing 737 down the runway and get me back to the home of Jesusland’s publisher.

A final word to the seemingly late 20s gentleman who decided to keep his reading light on so that he could finish reading Harry Potter on the 3am redeye:

There is no excuse for a grown man to be reading books about the quest to obtain the Enchanted Magic Wand. It is offensive. For a week, I walked up and down Lincoln, met more gay people than I ever had in my entire life but nothing…and I mean nothing could hold a Diesel-jeaned, bedheaded, silver ring on your middle finger candle to watching a grown man reading a Harry Potter book in public.

Find a cabana boy to call your own. Start your own boutique or take up antiquing and you still have a shot. But for that most serious of transgressions, you are out of the Man Club ™.

You’re out.

A class 5 Hucktastrophe just tore a line through the mobile home park of Mitt-mentum didn’t it?

It’s getting me in about 10 minutes so if you hear a funky-ass bassline in the distance be sure to grab any guns, cash, and assorted chirren/womenfolk on the way to the basement, Preston. Hucktastrophe is coming your way.

Don’t mess with a Missionary Man.

In Donkey Disaster Pr0n, heavy rains evidently stopped Obama voters from outnumbering Clinton voters in Tennessee.

Because the weather only effects one candidate’s voters, right? It’s a meteorological C-O-N….spiracy.

Damn, racist rain.  If Obamessiah was already President we could prosecute it for a hate crime.

“The hoary doctrines of Anglo-American civil asset forfeiture law that have been resurrected like some jurisprudential Frankenstein monster, from the dark recesses of past centuries.”
[...]
“In my view, a drug ‘war’ has been perverted too often into a series of frontal attacks on basic American constitutional guarantees – including due process, the presumption of innocence, and…unrelenting government assaults on property rights, fueled by a dangerous and emotional vigilante mentality that sanctions shredding the U.S. Constitution into meaningless confetti.” Henry Hyde, Forfeiting Our Property Rights: Is Your Property Safe From Seizure?

That’s a great quote from Henry Hyde regarding the outright abuse of power by police departments and prosecutors in leveraging asset forfeiture as a punishment of first resort against innocent and guilty citizens alike when it comes to drug crimes. To begin, how do you defend yourself when everything you are worth is taken from you?

In a perfect world, there are little angels on the shoulders of the S.W.A.T. team when their guns are drawn and your property happens to be worth a lot of money that can conveniently be auctioned off and placed in their budget. But sometimes those angels get stuck in traffic.

Naturally, I was perplexed today when I heard that everyone’s 2nd 3rd 4th 5th 6th favorite state legislator, Doug Jackson (D – Dickson), is introducing a law that encourages asset forfeiture if dog fights take place on your property. Finally, someone taking a stand on the tough issues. And he’ll give the money from the auctioned assets to animal shelters. He cited asset forfeiture for drug crimes as the logical progression for extending that punishment to other crimes.

A real life Hillbilly Robin Hood.

Does this demand nomenclature on my part? That, as an owner of several spoiled and well-behaved dogs, the idea of raising them to kill each other for money is beyond odious.

A crime that already has a punishment that simply needs to be enforced instead of amplifying the ability of the state to seize someone’s property because of the unpopularity of their crime.  Prohibit them from having pets if that makes you happy but this suggested punishment far outweighs the crime.

Some may remember Doug Jackson as the man who made national headlines in his crusade to keep us from jacking off to death at those precocious “Girls Gone Wild” videos that run in an endless loop on Comedy Central after dark.

Funny, Mr. Jackson certainly did not have trouble asserting his property rights when his then 16-year old Girl Went Wild a few years ago and a black suitor threatened to encroach upon her protected wetlands.

But one good quote deserves another:

History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.

-Some dead commie

Congratulations Doug Jackson. Today, you are that farce.

Greetings from the Young America’s Foundation gala.

Just kidding. And for the sake of everyone’s delicate sensibilities, assume every link is unsafe for work and don’t click on a single, filthy hypertext markup.

For the red tie, blue blazer set…this is what’s called “going native”. Featuring special guest Nashville P*ssy (who unfortunately didn’t play this amazing Turbonegro cover) working the crowd over as a warm-up for hometown hellbilly Hank III and the Reverend Horton Heat. The Reverend who, by definition, is most likely the root of global warming.

A welcome sermon against the Church of Ecosecular Fascism.

My pre-emptive strike on Thanksgiving. Not throwing up in my living room floor and crashing through the coffee table will be thanks enough.

In today’s edition of White Trash Wednesday™, we share the story of the Father of the Year candidate who went to get his rocks off at Nevada’s famous Mustang Ranch and left his 2-year-old daughter in the car while he made his deposit.

Fortunately, the girl will be ok, unlike the countless kids who’ve been left in Memphis-area day-care center vans. She got lucky – just like her “dad”.

That’s class, baby.

When it’s time to party,
I don’t let nuthin’ get in my way!

NEW YORK – Jack White and his wife, Karen Elson, are the parents of a baby boy.

The couple’s second child, named Henry Lee White, was born Tuesday, a publicist for the White Stripes frontman said Wednesday.

True to his lo-fi indie roots, White immortalized the event by taking pictures with a Polaroid SX-70 Instant Camera and recorded the the baby’s primal birth scream on a #68 Edison Experimental Phonograph and will be dubbed to Betamax at the Easley-McCain recording studio in Memphis.

Family and friends can expect the vinyl copy of the historic day to be delivered by Pony Express some time in Early 2008. God willing and the creek don’t rise.