Hate. Haaaaaaate. Gaaaaahhhhhh....

So Karl Rove, that pasty-ass motherfucker, is in charge of the rebuilding of New Orleans. That's good. Because what The City That Care Forgot needs now, more than anything, is someone who truly cares.

I hope you've read that entire page. (Blogging has its pleasures. Like Arianna, I'm not on the record, so fuck you, Karl, you pasty-ass motherfucker.)

Seriously, what an asshole. This guy says more assholinine things than Josh Lyman. And Josh Lyman's a fictional deputy Chief of Staff. Karl Rove, that pasty-ass motherfucker, is very much real.

But you know what else is real? This. I'm a stone former, and have been since age 19, so believe me when I tell you that human man can endure no greater pain (aside from, perhaps, sawing his testicles off with a coping saw or sommought like that) than passing a kidney stone. Imagine moving a piece of jagged mineral deposit the size of a Grape-nut (not kidding, my first seriously was) through your kidney and your urinary tract, feeling it move all the while, when all you want to do is drink water to piss it out, then die. But all you can do is drink water, then puke. Then become dehydrated from puking, then need to drink more water. But you're so sickly that you can't keep it down, so you puke the water up. Which dehydrates you...

ONE HOUR LATER

...water, so you puke again. That's the singularly masculine pain (women get them, but rarely) involved in passing a kidney stone. And the best part is this: You get one, chances are you get them for the rest of your sniveling, weak life.

That's pain. And it couldn't happen to a pastier-ass motherfucker than Turd Blossom.