Somebody did not really like Rush:
FEBRUARY 26, 2021
RIP Mean Old Uncle Rush
BY
SUSAN BLOCK
Here’s a “little item”: A Death in the American Family.
Ding Dong, the Blowhard’s Dead.
“
Little Item,” I should explain, was the deceased’s lame attempt at
slut-shaming me. But before we get into our personal “
relationship,” let me just savor how karmically fitting it is that Rush Limbaugh, the Godfather of Modern Bigotry, met the Grim Reaper (not
Mitch the Bitch for the Rich—the other one) in the middle of Black History Month. It also happened to come as a lovely late
Valentine for those of us this King of Creeps tried to slut-shame, a nice
Lupercalian spank to stimulate a Rush-free
Bonobo Spring.
Mean Old Uncle Rush was that archetypal uncle you can’t trust—not with the painkillers in your medicine chest, nor with controlling his compulsion to bully your guests at the dinner table, nor with telling the truth about anything. What a toxic bombastic gasbag.
But what can you do? Mean Old Uncle Rush was part of the family, the five century-old, all-American family of exploitative explorers, genocidal
settlers, Native-killers, slave-owners, nature-abusers, KKK members,
Nazi sympathizers, imperial
invaders,
bomb droppers and
Oath Keepers. You know,
that side of the family.
Mean Family Values
It’s
embarrassing for many of us who like to think of ourselves as being on the *other* side—especially we who assert (without much evidence) that America is “better” than such bigotry, exploitation and cruelty. It’s hard for us to admit that Rush really was one of us, a prominent member of a long line of mean old American uncles, and sadly, he’s far from the last.
He had skills, of course (don’t we all?). He could be funny, old Uncle Rush, in a mean way, excelling at turning that old journalistic motto—to “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable”—on its high-minded head. Mean old Uncle Rush was all about making the comfortable even more comfortable, especially, the comfortably powerful, and he seemed to
sadistically relish “afflicting” the already afflicted—the different, the weak, the poor, the sick, the disabled, the immigrants, the minorities and the disenfranchised—with that deep, father-knows-best, slightly folksy baritone you couldn’t help but hear booming from your redneck neighbor’s pick-up truck.
Even when he turned from regular radio to podcasting, and even when mean old Uncle Rush was totally deaf (probably poisoned from listening to himself), it was all about that avuncular storytelling voice, like a spoonful of barrel-aged, vanilla-bean brandy laced with cyanide.
If you didn’t listen too carefully, that voice even made a twisted kind of sense… at least to your neighbor. Sense or nonsense, old Uncle Rush was mean, wrong and evil, and pretty much everything he said was mean, wrong and evil, and if you kept listening to him, pretty soon you’d think “mean, wrong and evil” was actually nice, correct and moral.
Similar to what goes on at so many dysfunctional American families’ dinner tables, mean old Uncle Rush dominated the conversation—
every morning back in the day—to the detriment of almost everyone else trying to get a word in or just eat their hash browns in peace.
Media Cancer
Now, at the not-so-ripe-old age of 70, mean old Uncle Rush’s place at the table is empty, and both sides of the American Family are saying farewell,
lower the flags, godspeed, good riddance,
go to hell and R.I.P. That could spell “Rest in Peace,” “Rest in Power” (the least logical; I mean, who
rests in power?) and “Rest in Piss” or
#RestInPiss—the hands-down
Twitter favorite… sometimes followed by
#RotinPiss; indeed, the collective craving to urinate on mean old Uncle Rush’s grave is remarkable.
And so I join together with my fellow American brothers and sisters to pay my *disrespects* by virtually
sprinkling my own
golden contribution into the embalming fluid…
Friends, Humans, Media Junkies, lend me your eyeballs,
I cum to bury Rush—not to praise him.
Rush Limbaugh
—whom I nicknamed “Rash Limpballs,” figuring he needed that
Viagra to counteract all the Oxycontin and Montecristo Cuban
cigars shrinking his
gonads—is dead.
I don’t usually like to speak ill of the dead—unless the dead really made me ill. And Rash Limpballs really made me ill. For over 30 years, he gave me auditory heartburn, and now that he’s gone, I feel like I just took a Tums.
Is that so wrong? Can’t I righteously dance on this evil clown’s grave… in
piss-retardant latex
boots?
As a
bonobo sapien, I don’t applaud killing any humans or other apes. But what I’m talking about is celebrating the natural demise of a
dehumanizing, sexist, racist, homophobic, warmongering, climate-change-denying, ammosexual, oligarchy-fellating, downward-punching, toxic bitch whose wiseguy terms for women’s rights activists ,“Feminazis,” and environmentalists, “tree-hugging wackos,” became part of the rightwing lexicon. Rush begat
tRump, Fox News, Alex Jones,
Ben Shapiro and a zillion other racist, mendacious, imperialist,
slut-shaming, left-blaming noise machines cheerleading the radical rightwing of the Great Dysfunctional American Family, and we are all the worse for it.
Rush Limbaugh was himself a cancer, his malignant viewpoints metastasizing through the body of American culture… right up until he was taken out by another, more powerful cancer.
Warning: Be wary of certain limp-
dick-compensating
fetish objects, like semi-automatic weapons and big, smelly cigars. They can kill you.
Puffing on his beloved Montecristos, Rash Limpballs
denied smoking causes cancer just a few years years before it killed him. He also maintained COVID-19 was a “
common cold… weaponized” to harm
Daddy Trump who won the 2020 election. All of this wouldn’t amount to more than a cantankerous Uncle’s ravings, except they have been penetrating the soft auditory cortex and rearranging the mental furniture of
some 15,000,000 listeners weekly for the past 30 years.
Slut-Shaming Fetishist
The King of Creeps was also the Sultan of
Slut-Shaming. Judging from his prurient tone, I’d say he had a
fetish for it. Take the time he infamously asked:
“What does it say about the college co-ed Susan Fluke—who goes before a congressional committee and essentially says that she must be paid to have sex—what does that make her? It makes her a slut, right? It makes her a prostitute.”
Oh My Goddess, so much twisted longing, sadism, denigration and misinformation to unpack! Too much for this little anti-eulogy. But first, let’s respect the living, and the woman’s name, which is
Sandra Fluke—not Susan. Second, she was speaking about the need for government subsidized reproductive health services.
That, to mean old Uncle Rush, made her a prostitute.
There’s nothing wrong with being a prostitute (though “
sex worker” is the preferred term)
or a slut. Some of our greatest, least environmentally destructive, most
bonoboësque humans are sex workers and sluts.
I myself am a slut. Though I reserve intercourse for my
husband of more than
28 years, and in the
Coronapocalypse, I stay 10 feet from everybody else (except the
nurse who just vaccinated me, which involved penetration, but alas, didn’t turn me on), I have in the past enjoyed many erotic activities with a
variety of partners.
But please don’t
slut-shame me to support your sexist, racist, mendacious agenda.
That’s exactly what the King of Creeps did, of course, calling me a “little item” (trying to compensate for his own
little item) in his creepy overpriced newsletter, mocking people with
Post-Trump Sex Disorder in a bid to sell said newsletters, as his slobbering sidekick, Mark Steyn, cackled like a
frat bro over Rush’s silly rhyme for
Trumpocalyptic pain: “Dysfunction Junction.”
Maybe someone
caught with contraband Viagra just after getting busted for “
Hillbilly Heroin” shouldn’t make fun of people with sexual problems.
But nothing was too lame or hypocritical when it came to “owning the libs,”
cuckolding the left and making
me the butt of Rash Limpballs’ bad jokes. Thus, I had no choice but to
rebutt his butt good; at least, it was good enough for mean old Uncle Rush to cry “uncle!” and take down the whole slut-shaming shit show.
Dittohead Wh0re-Shaming
Score one for sluts in the ongoing Sluts vs. Hypocrites War, and fast-forward to tweeting in celebration of Rush getting flushed, when one of his trolling minions all-too-predictably tries to… slut-shame me:
@MikeSta97368517Feb 17 Replying to
@DrSuzy and
@SandraFluke
In other words you are the hate filled bigot who is literally attacking a person who just died. How low of a wh0re are u
Of course, Mike is a “dittohead,” Rush’s pet name for his beloved braindead callers who’d just say “ditto” to whatever trash talk he was spewing. I have to laugh at how Mike “literally” spells “wh0re” with a zero, though I can relate, as I try to trip up the
Big Tech Censor Bots myself. Yes, Mike and me and you are more alike than we are different in our big
dysfunctional American Family. Death brings grief, relief or an unsettling mixture of both. I’m on the
Bonobo Way, and Rush was going the other way, so I’m relieved he is
out of the way. But I feel sorry for poor deluded dittoheads like Mike, most of whom are now ammosexual MAGAts jacking off to Colorado Congressman Lauren Boebert (more on her in a bit).
