We get sh*t all the time around here because we pick on Michelle Obama. But look, its not my fault that Michelle Obama dresses like a circus clown cocktail waitress from outer space. And that’s on a good day. Half the time, she dresses like she couldn’t find the light in her closet. Or, maybe more of an appropriate commentary on her demonstrated concern for America’s current economic disadvantages: like she couldn’t find her way out of a dressing room at a Neiman Marcus during a hurricane-driven power outage.
At any rate, this has seemingly convinced the whole of the left wing that Ann Romney, who appears to be the nicest lady in history and who dresses like she owns a mirror and a sense of taste, is fair game. By which I mean, possible meat. Like actual game.
Today is her birthday, and while Hilary Rosen has yet to take to the airwaves to wish her many happy returns, many forces for compassion in this country have, and I’m sure the Obama campaign is just thrilled with the new tone being employed in their many, many wishes for Mrs. Romney’s special day.
I’m having a lot of trouble feeling the love here.
Most of the tweets also mention a charming synonym for a ladypart that has suddenly become appropriate to use in polite company. I’m sure the last three generations of feminists are proud to know that women have embraced a euphemism that allows them to be degraded to little more than their own genitalia. Truly an achievement, that was. Something for the history books. Maybe one day, they’ll make a movie about the bitches who first used it so as to mark for all eternity the moment that Womens Lib died a slow and painful death at the hands of the very people who claim to embrace it. Like when that guy who made all the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park got his head ripped off by a velociraptor.