Archive for ‘Suzanna Logan’

July 17, 2009

‘Buying a ticket to see Bruno is paying money to grieve God’s heart’

So says Suzanna Logan, whose summer seems sincerely dedicated to repairing her own heart. As much as she joked about “Big Sexy,” it was in that laugh-to-keep-from-crying way. Or maybe that laugh-to-keep-from-hunting-him-down-like-a-dog-in-need-of-“fixing” way.

Hard to tell sometimes, y’know? Anyway, it’s all my fault. I played matchmaker between Clever S. and the Unwise Latino — hey, who you callin’ racist? — and the unfortunate consequences have grieved my heart.

A smart reporter never burns his sources, so if Big Sexy had called me the other night and, after we had discussed business, we discussed other things . . . well, Your Honor, when a professional journalist speaks hypothetically, that one little word “if” is his Get Out Of Jail Free card.

Nevertheless, there are no accidents, and Miss Logan lost an hour of sleep because she felt compelled to write this:

I’m living what I’m talking. I have an intimate understanding of what pursing God and holiness with all you’ve got can do to a person’s life: It can 180 your direction. I’m living proof. . . .
Of course, I’ll never know who reads this or what they choose to do. But God will. And, in the end, that’s all that really matters.

Just an accident that at 3:20 a.m. ET, somebody clicked through from her site to mine. Just an accident I was checking my SiteMeter before going to bed myself. All of it, you see, entirely accidental.

BTW, Logan: You threw away your gangster movies? Please tell me you didn’t throw away any classic ’40s/’50s noir. Classic noir is . . . it’s like the Parable of the Double-Crossed Palooka, see?

14. And in the Land of the Angels was a dame,
15. Whom the magistrate did accuse of murder,
16. For she had been seen in an inn, taking strong drink with a certain official,
17. Whose wife she was not;
18. And, lo, it came to pass that this high-society character was ventilated with numerous slugs, .44 in caliber,
19. Which the coroner did retrieve after the mortal remains of the departed soul were found upon the shore of the sea called Pacific, nearby the town of Malibu;
20. Straightway the dame was taken to the hoosegow, where the law of that land said she must be allowed to make one phone call;
21. It was a Thursday, and behind a glass door marked with his name, a certain detective reclined in his chair;
22. Though he spake not, yet his voice was heard, as he told the tale in tones jaded, bitter, cynical;
23. Yet all the while asleep, and on his desk was a writing of the Tribune, which in large letters declared:
24. CONGRESSMAN FOUND DEAD; POLICE ARREST ACTRESS HIGHPOINT AFTER HOTEL TRYST; GRIEVING WIDOW MOURNS HEIR TO DAVENPORT OIL FORTUNE.
25. The phone rang and the detective’s secretary, who was some dish herself, answered saying, Axelrod Detective Agency.
26. That’s me, said the voice of the detective who spake while sleeping, and he saith:
27. It ain’t much of a livin’ but at least it’s honest most of the time,
28. Instead of working downtown with those crummy double-crossers.
29. Cops, crooks, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference in this town.
30. So now I’m solo, a private detective.
31. Sounds exciting to some people, but it’s mostly cheating husbands and deadbeat chislers.
32. Small-time stuff.
33. Then the secretary walked in and saith to Axelrod:
34. Hey, Mike. We got a live one on the line. Want me to tranfer it?
35. Sure, Betty, saith Mike, lighting a Chesterfield
36. Before picking up the phone, and
37. Lo, the screen did split, so that the dame was beheld also on the phone, downtown in the hoosegow.
38. Axelrod. What can I do for you? he saith.
39. Mister Axelrod, saith the dame, sorely distressed, I – I – I didn’t do it. I’m innocent — innocent, I tell ya! Jeff and me — I mean, Congressman Davenport — well, it wasn’t what it looked like —
40. Whoa! said the detective. Hold on there a minute, lady!
41. Slow down a sec, sweetheart. I don’t even know your name yet.
42. And the dame, who was a blonde, saith:
43. Oh. I’m — I’m sorry, it’s just that — well, my name is Veronica Highpoint.
44. And a trumpet did sound, and again was heard the voice of the detective, though he did speak not, saying:
45. Veronica Highpoint, big star.
46. Or that’s what they said a couple of years ago, until the gossip columns started in on her and the studio dropped her contract.
47. A dame like that, said the voice of the detective who spake not, but he stopped and saith aloud:
48. So how did you get my number?
49. Jeff — I mean, Congressman Davenport gave it to me, saith the dame Veronica;

50. He said it was important, and if anything ever happened to him . . .

But nobody’s paying me to write this stuff, see? I’m a professional and Logan hasn’t hit my tip jar lately, so this little saga of the drop-dead blonde and the hard-luck gumshoe will have to wait for another day. Today, there’s important business in D.C., and I’ve got to get some sleep. But there are no accidents.

April 21, 2009

Possibly Better Than The Jello Wrestling

by Smitty
In the South corner (geographically), we have The Clever S. Logan, who thinks that the recession may portend a much needed Come To Beavis meeting for the corporate ‘we’:

The kind of economic difficulty that America needs to purge the “spoiled brat” mentality and return to the days of moral and cultural integrity that Tito remembers and I (sadly) do not is one more severe than we are currently having. It cannot be the kind in which people whine about having less money to spend on dinners and movies out. It must be the kind that forces neighbors to band together to meet their bare necessities.


And, in the North corner, we have HotMes, taking just a little bit of umbrage at the spoiled brat call:

I was drawn into conservatism because I got sick of it all. I got sick of the fact that I was working my butt off while the government was taking my money (through taxation) to support those who weren’t willing to sacrifice. They weren’t even willing to work. Don’t forget, I was poor. I have seen abuses of welfare. I was the friend of kids whose mothers were on welfare and used their checks to buy drugs.


We can all have a laugh, but I’m going to come down on Monique’s side in the argument. While it may be possible to show substantially that modern Americans are indeed a bunch of crybabies, sweeping generalizations about anything other than brooms remain fraught with peril.

Thus, the question of whether person “A” is a dirtbag and person “B” is not is really bearish. We need to get to know them on an individual basis, and offer the solid encouragement required to get them to judge themselves and decide to avoid dirtbag-hood. My name is Chris, and I approve of this message. However, the real judge here is Cynthia Yockey, so we’ll have to await her final take on the matter.

March 20, 2009

Ever wonder why the letters ‘O,’ ‘M’ and ‘G’ were invented?

She is strictly neutral and objective and therefore offers herself as an impartial referee in the Jello wrestling catfight grudge match, The Fight for Big Sexy. Yeah, I know, life is like a box of chocolates but — Holy Cthulhu! — I never thought it would come to this . . .

March 20, 2009

Another amazing alumni success story from The Other McCain School of Blogging

Not only did one of my clients get more than 8,000 hits in just her first 15 days of blogging, but she also finally got Big Sexy to send her that box of Godiva chocolate:

Everybody give her a Rule 2. Yes, that includes you, Monique. You can get your revenge in the Jello wrestling match later.

March 10, 2009

How Not to Get a Million Hits On Your Blog, And Not Score With Hotties. Ever.

First, accuse Suzanna Logan of being a homophobe.

Next, try to walk it back when you belatedly realize she’s hot.

Then, jump into her comments like you’re completely obsessed with her.

Finally, do a roundup post, displaying to the world that you’ve spent your entire day making a complete fool of yourself. Oh, and along the way, be sure to call her “sweettits” and include a lame Photoshop of you with her.

When you’re through doing that, go to a Castro Street glory hole, offering up your rump to complete strangers, while bragging that you’ve got more than 25,000 hits on your blog in the past 13 months.

Losers. They’re born that way.

P.S.: How do you know that Suzanna is so intolerant of homosexuals? For all we know, when Suzanna and Moe get together to watch Jason Mattera videos, they drink a few pina coladas, share their feelings of desperate loneliness, break out the digital camcorder . . .

By the way, Little Mister Loser, did you see how Moe body-slammed Megan McCain? Moe also smokes Marlboro Reds. NTTAWWT.

UPDATE: William Jacobson diagnoses a new BRD (Blog-Related Disorder), SiteMeterenFreude:

“deriving pleasure from the failure of other bloggers to generate traffic”

He swears he’ll never succumb to this one, but I needed an outlet for my ailing spleen between David Brooks columns. Since swearing off Douthat-bashing for Lent (and I’m not even Catholic), I find myself easily provoked to punk-smacking. So when this idiot wandered into my crosshairs, he was automatically going to get it like Carlo got it from Sonny Corleone.

What’s making it worse is that my friends are taunting me, egging me on, for the sheer voyeuristic thrill of watching me rip a new one on some unsuspecting victim. My old “friend” Ken Hanner just sent me an e-mail containing precisely one sentence:

Ross Douthat is on Washingtonian Magazine’s list of Most Influential People Under 40.

Yeah. (Grit teeth.) Congratulations, Ross! I’m shaking the tip jar and hustling T-shirts, and you’re so gosh-darn “influential”! I wish you all the best!

God help the next “centrist Republican” idiot who says anything nasty about Rush, Ann or Sarah. The Fierce Populist Ad Hominem Hammer From Hell is ready for ’em, with an aching spleen full of punk-smacking bile.

UPDATE II: You see what happens to a guy when he’s not “influential”? His own minions start plotting against him in the comment field. Watch it, Logan. It’s against my religion to punk-smack a girl, but if you don’t want those Godiva chocolates, maybe Michelle Lee Muccio does.

UPDATE III: A commenter helpfully informs me that bile comes from the liver, not the spleen. OK, so I didn’t major in biology. It’s a blog, not a scientific journal. However, I do know where babies come from.

March 9, 2009

Idiot liberal guy: ‘I take it back, because she’s a hottie’

“Clearly, a perceived sexual orientation bias by someone else is akin to blasphemy, but blatant sexism when they’re the ones dishing it out? Well, that’s just par for the liberal course.”

Clever S. Logan, in response to an idiot who rescinded his condemnation of her alleged “homophobia” after seeing her photo

(See, this is my fundamental career problem. I’m too ugly to merit an apology from anyone.)

UPDATE: William Jacobson has decided to help mentor the Minions of Evil. Which means he also must give some Rule 2 to Moe Unique Hits. They come as a pair, Bill. (I can never resist a double-entendre.) It’s OK to employ the Rule 5 effect with Logan, but don’t deny Moe her FMJRA.

March 5, 2009

Too hot for the White House?

My latest Taki’s Magazine column:

Some just-published research suggests that the incontestable hotness of Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin hurts her chances of becoming president, which is a sore disappointment to her admirers at Conservatives4Palin, and also to me. Never mind any discussion of Palin’s political leanings or qualifications. It just seems to me that if America is going to elect a woman president, she might as well be a hottie.

Please read the whole thing. Remember, I’m the guy who got a quarter-million hits in September on the strength of “Sarah Palin bikini pics.” Rule 5 has been very, very good to me.

ET SEQUELAE: The Hottie Who Would Be Gonzo tells her tale.

ET SEQUELAE II: Now Richard’s begging for a second chance. This could become interesting.