Friday, April 11, 2008

This past week, I added a number of new links to the side of my blog that I frequent regularly. In light of these, I've decided to promote them individually over the next few weeks in the hope that you will enjoy them as much as I do.

One of the websites I added recently is a humor site called The Nose on Your Face. I don't recall exactly how I came upon it, but I'm certainly glad I did. This website is purely partisan and conservative, although I would prefer to call it logical. Anyway, I deeply enjoyed today's post, called "Richard Warman, Esquire: A Dr. Seuss From Beyond The Grave Tale." I hope you like it too.

For those unfamiliar with the serial-lawsuiterer (serial sewer, anyone?), this will give you a nice heads up.

In maple leaf land roams a man most unique

So sit back and relax, for your interest he’ll pique.

He goes by the handle Richard Warman, Esquire

But others might call him a professional crier.

Yes, Richard has endured greetings far less than warm,

Why? Many say it is simply poor form.

Or maybe it’s just that he’s misunderstood,

For in his heart Richard only strives to do good.

I am quite perplexed by these terrible letters,

From those not accepting their Islamic betters.

Are burkas so bad? Must women learn?

Why make flags flammable if they weren’t meant to burn?

“Free speech” is always their rallying cry,

But please, is it “free” if your words make me cry?

For that is the crux of the matter you see,

Richard has a soul far more gentle than thee.

He holds housefly funerals, gets choked up by rain!

Far more than Bill Clinton, he does feel your pain.

He hugs the crushed chips in the big bag of Lays,

When he heard Waldo was lost, he sobbed nine long days!

And if there comes a time that you must controvert him,

Please use sticks or stones, ‘cuz words surely will hurt him.

More likely to sip a cosmo than a lager,

What really gets him verklempt are those neo-con bloggers.

Oh the words that they use oh those words, words, words, words!

Each one that they write gives me fits, flots, and flurds!

Don’t they realize just what their scary ideas might do

If there were no Richard Warman protecting you?

That Ezra Levant published Mohammed cartoonies,

Free Dominion is chock full o’ right wingy loonies!

Kate McMillan’s mean prose always gives me a frown,

And Kathy Shaidle maintains that I pee sitting down!

Did you know Jonathan Kay of the National Post

Is Hitler’s first cousin, far more vicious than most?

With his pluck and his grit, Richard takes on these cads

Else their cruel words leave hapless folks feeling quite bad.

At the top of the heap is that villain Mark Steyn,

Who I’ve chosen to let slide just this one time.

That Steyn is a scoundrel, he fills me with dread,

But damned if I can get that man out of my head!

That distinguished beard, oh-so-perfectly groomed

The accent that’s made many mere mortals swoon.

South African? British? I can’t quite detect,

But when he speaks, ‘neath my belt the blood all defects.

That hiney, those pecs, fairly make me scream out,

“Hey there big guy, you been working out?”

But alas, as you see, I’ve begun to digress

(As often happens to me from his pure Steyninesss).

Though briefly distracted from his most noble of causes,

Richard Warman, Esquire takes the shortest of pauses.

Then quickly returns to the business he should,

Filtering mean speech for the far greater good.

Tis a burden quite great, to you I confess,

Having always to judge for my country what’s best.

If I let my guard down for even a sec,

Why your minds would be filled with the most vile dreck!

What, you might ask, drives this warrior on?

What makes him right wrongs from late dusk until dawn?

Some say as a child he received one wedgie too many

From Dalton, Ned, Zeke, and that one-legged dwarf Benny.

He limped home that night, quite embarrassed and swollen,

And commenced extracting his briefs from his colon.

And when he was calm, and his insides undressed,

He looked in the mirror and whispered one word: “unless.”

Unless I fight back, unless they all pay,

Other kids might get super-wedgies today!

Or-even worse- someone might speak to them curtly,

And leave them with feelings all injured and hurtly.

Or, horror of horrors, disagree with their themes,

Rendering their lives battles ‘gainst low self-esteem.

So pay they all must, for I will make a stand

How much? I’d say roughly ’bout fifty grand.

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