Hard Write Turn: Karen H. Pittman's Weblog

Karen Hathaway Pittman is a freelance writer and poet whose work is widely featured on the web. Her style is as acerbic as it is witty. Occasionally resplendent, often raucous, always refreshing, her no-holds-barred, tell-it-like-is commentary not only informs – it entertains. She's the Lay's Potato Chip of political punditry, with a spicy twist: You can't read just one! Bon appetite!

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Location: United Kingdom

Karen Hathaway Pittman is a writer, poet, and interior designer who lives with her husband and cat in London, England. She is currently compiling her essays into book form, tentatively titled Hard Write Turn, and is working on her first formal collection of poetry, The Awful Colossus of Longing. She is also the author of the soon-to-be-released interior decoration book, The American Pied-a-Terre: Creating Old World Charm in Your Apartment, Townhouse, or Condominium. Whatever the project, Karen pours all of her considerable energy into it. Her writing is nothing if not passionate. She'll amaze, appall, and even anger you, but she'll never leave you bored. All poems and creative excerpts posted on this site are copyrighted and may not be reproduced without the author's permission. All rights to all materials replicated herein belong solely to the writer, unless otherwise noted.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Britney Hussein Obama Spears

By Karen Hathaway Pittman
© July 29, 2008

Oops, he did it again: fresh out of a tone-deaf rehab-session with the Democrat Congressional caucus, Britney Hussein Obama Spears is right now noisily sucking back all the available airtime on my TV, Pac-man-style, filling it up with his obscenely flapping face … and his fluffy meringue fillips.

That's right, baby, you got it: this nimble, deftly dancing juvenile performance artist extraordinaire has just finished hitting me over the head – one more time – with yet another throaty rendition of his number-one platinum remake, “Yes, We Can!” Followed (and preceded) by the obligatory uh.

Somebody please tell this guy the needle's stuck. I mean, how many more times can we stand to hear this same syllable being played over and over? In between raptly choreographed, rehearsed refrains, this flaccid-tongued phenom is st-st-stuttering his way, it would seem, into the White House.

Well, it beats rapping. And tottering over in the middle of your Vegas comeback act.

And the gimme-more media is just lapping it up!

And why not? He’s the MTV candidate, the potential Prez with pizzazz. Word to the wise: this fist-pumping mutha’s manufactured.

And what he offers would be truly toxic, if it had legs just half as sturdy as Ms. Spears’, even on her drunkest day.

What, pray tell, does this Woodstock wunderkind, this latter-day inside-out Mr. Mojo Risin’ shame-on-the-man shaman, deign to give us? Why, platitudes with an attitude. Behold: “We are poised on the brink of historic change.” “I was against the surge before I was for it.” “Hope is our only hope.” And lastly, the inimitable, “Yea verily, I am a citizen of the Milky Way.”

Gag me with a tune.

Messiuh-like, our staritz-starlet gives the phrase “boob tube” new life, and sets his starry-eyed Tsarinas swooning. The paparazzi press sings fawningly along. I keep waiting for Chris Matthews to plunk down a leg-thrilling record-smashing 14 mill for the first photographs of Brithussama’s twins – normally held in Hillary’s lockbox. If this guy gets any higher on his own fumes, I’m going to call in Mel Gibson for an intervention.

And if his suit gets any emptier, he’ll soon be the Invisible Man of Manchuria. Even when stoned, the Britstar has a few more syllables in her lexicon then he does on a dry day, and way more platforms in her closet to run on.

Our Rasputin of "The Real World" (and I’m talking the TV one) had no time in private to hang with the troops, but, when his AP handlers told him the cameras would be rolling – surprise, surprise, Sarjint! – he went out of his way to bang on the hoops! (It was for a good cause – his own.) Nice to know he’s got his priorities in order.

And that should make us all feel better. After all, feeling better is what it’s all about. I don’t know about you, but the next time Allah-whatever-Izod threatens to smack-down Israel, I’ll feel better knowing Dr. Feel Good has his finger on his sphincter. And when he calls in the Joint Chiefs of Staff to charge them with their next unconstitutional military task, they can all take a good long toke from the SONG BONG (think George Carlin here): "
It’s a small world aaaaaafter all, it’s a small world aaaaaafter all, it’s a small world after aaaall, it’s a smaall smaall weeeeeeeeeerld. Uh."

Like Britney’s wild wild world post-breakdown, this would all be some big joke if it weren’t so serious. Time to sober up, girlfriend, and get real about what’s at stake: nothing less than your life, especially if you happen to live, like I do, in the all-inclusive international community of Terror Hills. (Lest you think I overstate my case, may I remind you of the way you felt on the morning of 9/12.)

This Teleprompter Titillater, this facile Phillip Marlowe of the Microphone, may be laughing all the way to the whorehouse, but (my clever quips aside) we shouldn’t be. Do we really want conservative talk radio silenced in favor of tired liberal retreads? Obama’s oldies-but-goldies can’t save us when he confiscates our guns. Reparations? Sure. Come Elvis, Martin Luther King, or Casey Kasem, this dark knight is out to prove he’s no Slave 4 Us. And the dysfunctional mess he promises to make of the Supreme Court makes Spears’ custody battle with Kevin Federline look like an especially endearing episode of "Leave It to Beaver."

So go ahead. Cast your Idol ballot for this year’s flash-in-the-pan, if you dare. Youth of America, don’t despair: at this rate, you’ll soon be able to just text in your vote. And hey – that rocks!

As for me, I’m sticking with my old soft shoe, my dependable if dowdy Tony Bennett, the one I know won’t skip in the clutch. I’m phoning in my vote for the one and only contestant who has actually cut a record in real life: John McCain.

But then … that’s my prerogative. ▪

Karen Hathaway Pittman is a freelance writer and poet whose political commentary is widely featured on the web. She lives in London, England with her husband and cat. Her work is archived online here: http://karenhpittman.blogspot.com. You may email her at ltpkhp@aol.com.


Anonymous A. M. Siriano said...

So nice to have you back, Karen. Great first entry for the re-entry!The Obama love-fest is an amazing spectacle, to be sure. The mainstream media are on him like white on brown rice, but considering the coverage, Obama should have a far more formidable lead. The fact that McCain continues to trail him only by a few points gives me some hope that our war hero's rather boring campaign will succeed in the end. I'm praying that Mr. Rove is in there somewhere offering advice.

July 30, 2008 11:05 AM  
Blogger bjtexs said...

I really like your poetry but I've missed your passionate, edgy commentary. "Gag me with a tune." Ha!

I hope you are back for the election season and look forward to more slicin' and dicin'.

July 31, 2008 10:41 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...


Have lived and worked in Chicago for 20 years, I know and have met Obama. He is not manufactured. True, he may not be your cup of tea politically, but he is real.

You, however, look like you've had surgery on various parts of your manufactured body. And your racist garbage is oh so easy to spew while you live a pampered life in a London flat with your cat.

Where do you people come from?

Go back to your rock and leave serious discussion to the grownups. Perhaps you can do some, you know, actual reading in real newspapers...perhaps a few law books or something worthwhile.

August 19, 2008 2:12 PM  

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