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RIP Mean Old Uncle Rush

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 Limbaughwhom 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).

From Rush Cancer to Trump Virus

How did the traditional conservativism that Rush was born into go down the alt-right toilet along with him? It was sometime in the greed-glorifying Reagan 1980s that this ambitious radioman from a staid Missouri family of lawyers and judges began his auditory assault on America. Rush’s father looked down on the radio business, which could have triggered the son’s fetish for looking down on others, as well as motivated him to try to please authoritarian Daddy figures.

The critical year for mean old Uncle Rush (who was old even when he was young) was 1987, when the FCC repealed the Fairness Doctrine requiring radio and TV stations to provide “equal” air time, point/counterpoint style, for responses to controversial commentary they were broadcasting about the news. This meant stations could let opinionated personalities broadcast whatever they wanted without airing an opposing view—freeing mean old Uncle Rush to blather on without restraint, through the eargasmic magic of radio, the original “theater of the mind,” planting seedlings of hate, conspiracy and disinformation into fertile, fallow brains that would flower into a more blatantly cruel, Fox News-fueled America.

Yes indeed, Rush was a Trumper before there was tRump, when young Don was just a small-time con, a fame-hungry, philanderous, “short-fingered vulgarian” suckling on the rich teat of Daddy’s money. Quite possibly, without Rash Limpballs’ impotent yet toxic seed nurturing racism and sexism—which, though still rampant, seemed as if they were on the way out in pre-Rush, post-modern America—there would have been no President tRump.

I used to think Trumpty Dumpty might appreciate that—at least half as much as he lusts after Ivanka. Turns out he only agreed to meet Rush when he heard the old radioman was “with us all the way.” The Trumpus only likes people who like him first.

Tough to say which was worse: Rush Cancer or Trump Virus.

Once they officially “met,” the two fascistic opportunists became best golf buddies and, in a gross display of mutually monstruous affection guaranteed to own those libs, the Narcissist-in-Chief gave the King of Creeps America’s highest civilian honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom. For those of us who like to think we’re on the decent, truth-honoring side of the Great Dysfunctional American Family, it was an Orwellian moment.

Mean Old Uncle Rush bowed his hoary (or is that wh0rey?) head, ever the poet loyalist to the Emperor tRump, the golden marmalade embodiment of Limpballs’ fervid, racist, sexist fantasies and a nightmare-cum-true for the rest of us.

I’ve said it before, but now that he’s gone, I’ll say it one more time: the Godfather of Modern Bigotry’s greatest contribution to the world is that, despite his various sexual escapades (will we ever know what really happened at that Dominican Republic stag party?), he died child-free.

Thank Goddess old Rash Limpballs lived up to his nickname in that department, and hopefully many of those now grieving his loss will do the same.

Addendum: Spawn of Rush

Though biologically child-free, mean old Uncle Rush did spawn millions of spiritual children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, his sonorous baritone blowing poison-laced “patriotism” into the ears of generations.

One of mean old Uncle Rush’s spiritual great grandkids is ammosexual heartthrobt and Colorado Congresswoman, Lauren Boebert, whom I call Loony Beretta-Brain, with more guns behind her head than I have dildos in my bed.

Apparently jealous of “Margarine” Taylor Greene’s explosive publicity, Congresswoman Beretta-Brain put on her brainy-girl glasses and attended this Congressional Zoom meeting with a pile of artillery behind her. Then she tweeted she was “calling upon Joe Biden to order flags to be flown at half-staff for Rush Limbaugh.”

Jeffrey Toobin got fired for showing his Zoom Dick (perhaps by accident) to his New Yorker co-workers. But Congresswoman Loony Beretta-Brain wins the ammosexual trigger-finger vote for showing off her deadly dick surrogates. She’s even spawned copycats like Don, “G.I. Joe” Jr., broadcasting from his bunker before him own lethal library. No wonder the Colorado Congresswoman who, on the morning of the Rape of the Capitol, tweeted “Today is 1776,” wants to award the late King of Creeps with the Great Dysfunctional American Family’s highest half-staff honors.

Rush Limbaugh softened the minds and hardened the hearts of millions of Americans so loonies like Beretta-Brain could use them for easy target practice.

And so, with all due disrespect: #RotinPiss Rush! Onward and forward with the Bonobo Way

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