Hey Red State Lunatic: You are greatly mistaken as to what poor animal was screwed by whom

You would think, as lurid a thing as bestiality is to most people, that the details of such an event would be unfortunately burnished in our memories. To all the other folks, such are things that migrate across the psyche into the murky pool of sparks and romance, of charged feelings and the reasons for living. Small-talk in the stall, someone’s hide on your skin and their hay on the floor–and aren’t they a lucky bunch? [*pause for shudder*] Apologies.

Either way, no matter who you are, you’re not likely to forget something of that ‘nature’. And, already again, I apologize.

So what the hell is wrong with Erick Erickson? He is the Editor-in-Chief of the right-wing mega-website Red State. Because no matter what group of sexual proclivities his lounge around in–and given wingnuts’ tendency to ‘project’ when agitated, I’m pretty sure it’s now crystal clear–he completely bungled his lunatic Twitter-ing.

Upon hearing of Supreme Court Justice David Souter’s decision to retire from the highest bench in June, he sent this:

ewerickson: The nation loses the only goat fucking child molester to ever serve on the Supreme Court in David Souter’s retirement.

He apparently thought better of it, if that’s genetically possible of him, and deleted it. But then, recalling the bastard left-wing bias of such thingamjigs as mega-servers and memory chips, realized he now looked like both a fucking loon and a fucking wuss. So he chose to throw his lot forever in with the former:

ewerickson: LMRM: The nation loses the only goat fucking child molester to ever serve on the Supreme Court in David Souter’s retirement.

…’LMRM’ being the acronym for ‘Let Me Repeat Myself’. Emphatically looney. And appointed with class to burn. And there, in a wing-nutshell, is the entire site of redstate.com.

Because, as usual, Erickson the Child-and-Animal-Rape Insult Tweeter was also completely, totally dead-wrong: HE is a mule fucker. And HE is the Ultra-Republican running for Governor of Georgia, and HIS name, no kidding, is Neal Horsley.

That bit of tastes-for-surname, you will find, momentarily, would be like calling Rod Stewart…’Rod Blondley’, or Paris Hilton…’Paris Infra-Red-Technology-ley.’ Like calling Britney Spears…’Britney Keep-the-Cameras-Low-and-the-Shutter-Speeds-High-Boys-Because-There’s-Just-Nine-Nightclubs-To-Go-ley’. Because Horsley has long been telling anybody he could ‘collar’ how, when he was an 11 year old farm boy, he doggie-styled a mule. And then it ‘relieved itself’ on him. And, already, once again–I apologize.

"When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend is a mule," he said, adding, "You experiment with anything that moves when you are growing up sexually."

You do? NO–you do.

Santa Maria
–he makes it sound as if sexually assaulting the unfortunate livestock were part of a farm boy’s routine chores. Yes, there Neal goes, loping across the farm property, getting spotted over the fence by a friendly neighbor.

–"Say, boy, watcha got goin’ on there?"

[..best Opie voice..]"Well, finished the mule rapin’ jus’ now. S’pose I’ll start in on the milk cows–they been kinda fussy."

Hey, I’m just a suburban kid now living in the Big City. But there’s no way–no way in hell –that anyone can convince me that this is Southern Farm Life:

–"Son–you walk the barn this morning?"

"Hogs need some sloppin’, and the donkeys some diddlin’. Maybe other way ’round–they don’t partick’ly care y’know." *shrug*

No, I’ll tell you, I do not want to imagine how this ‘normal’ life could possibly manage to carry on. But then, I lie: So that’s our typical high school Senior, he and a buddy cutting class to hang and cop a smoke? This is the sort of bragging that feeling-oats teenagers would drop on each other?

–"I tell ya, pal–my first? Boy, howdy, Katie Ann Bates. In the back seat o’ my Daddy’s ’57 Chevy. You?"

"Back o’ Blue Devil, my Daddy’s mule."


Okay, enough. But this same lunatic wants to secede from the union, would kill his son to do so, once posted the names and addresses of abortion doctors on the net, and cheered on their assassinations. All in all, a real Southern Gentleman.

Just imagine what the guy could do to your state, Georgia. It’s not like he hasn’t made some ‘mistakes’ before, you know? You can also imagine what sorts of responsibility he’ll take for the assault on your good name and reputation by how he ‘explained’ his bestiality: "..if it’s warm and it’s damp and it vibrates–you might in fact have sex with it."

NO–you might have sex with it, Santa Maria! But it leaves me puzzled as to how our poor mule ended up as Neal’s particular victim, given its minimally vibrating nature (..an epileptic? Too horrible a double-whammy to consider).

I’d like to think it was a Freudian slip, an associated bit of Horsley’s last memory of the animal. The Resplendent Ass, having recognized him trying to slip into the paddock for a second shot, immediately bolted. Horsley quickly followed and, as he wildly gave chase across the open pasture, beheld a blur of the object of his affection, his victim’s haunches. As they furiously pounded away, they dashed his hopes of ever corralling and penetrating them again. No, never again.

Which means he must have found some other way to act out his considerable perversity. Politics. You should be very careful, Georgia, there’s no telling what your potential ‘Governor’ is really up to. You too, Kentucky, no telling how "neigh"-borly he’ll get: I doubt you’ll be much pleased with watching Centaurs verbally taunt and then run rings around your Derby entries for the next ten thousand years.

Hey, Peach State–he used to fuck watermelons too. Surprised?

[Cross: thump and whip]