You know you remember that song (and probably that movie). But you don’t know the latest version.
Let’s go to Jesus’ General and let him explain to our tender ears the background on Ofjoshua‘s great invention, Patriot Pampies.
Our Lady of the Concentration Camps, Michelle Malkin
Hugh Hewitt, Townhall
Bob Owens, Confederate Yankee
Pamela, Atlas Shrugs
Biggus Dickus, Blue Crab Boulevard
Ace, Ace of Spades HQ
Allahpundit, Hot AirDear fellow Fighting Keyboarders,
After seeing our reactions to the capture of various vaseline-wielding senior citizens and brown people in ninja costumes, my wife, Ofjoshua, suggested that we might consider creating a product that would prevent us from soiling our pants. She even came up with a name for it, “Patriot Pampies.”
Although I promised I’d run it by all of you, I don’t think much of the idea, myself. I’m not ashamed of the sudden incontinence I experience when I see a swarthy person. The dark stain that radiates from my crotch isn’t an external display of fear. It’s a warning symbol to all around me that I’ve spotted a potential terrorist and will report him or her to the State Security Apparatus the moment I stop shaking enough to dial my cellphone.
I like to think of it as a kind of self-awarded medal, a “Dark Stain of Valor” or “DSV” if you will. It’s a commendation that almost anyone, no matter their class, can obtain. Just as Sen. Specter wore it deservedly and proudly when he attempted to pass his warrantless wiretap legislation, so did Allahpundit when he risked a coronary reporting on the “Ahmadinejad virus” and the dangers of petroleum jelly. Their respective stations in life made no difference. Each earned the DSV solely on his own merit.
I guess, I’m not really giving Ofjoshua‘s idea a fair hearing. I suppose there are advantages to wearing Patriot Pampies. They’d save us a little in laundering costs and the French would stop laughing while pointing to our crotches (although I still get a lot of that even when I haven’t soiled myself).
So what do you think? Would you buy Patriot Pampies if they were available?
Or would you rather wear your Dark Stain of Valor, proudly, like me?
Heterosexually yours,Gen. JC Christian, patriot
So much for background. I think these things would sell like hotcakes, myself! Since everything in America eventually gets super-sized, including the children, it was inevitable that the sanitary pad was destined for bigger and … uh … bigger things.
Now if only I could get some of them on that CC list to try the tampons, we’d really be onto something.
Particularly if they put them in their mouths.
In any case, Corrente has taken inspiration from the General’s call for DSV-wearing patriots to stand up and be counted. And he’s set it to music, of which we present a slice here.
Stain alive, people, stain alive.
Pissing Our Pants
(sung to the tune of “Staying Alive”)Well, you can tell by the way I stain my pants
I’m a patriot: just read my rants
Muslims make me want to hiss, when they come at me
I start to piss
And now it’s airtight, it’s inside
I have hung onto my pride
We just want to all be safe
But when I walk I tend to chafeWhen you are so frightened the tension is quite heightened
You’re pissing your pants, pissing your pants
Feel the bladder leakin’, everybody freakin’
And we’re pissing our pants, pissing our pants
Ah, ha, ha, ha, pissing our pants, pissing our pants
Ah, ha, ha, ha, pissing our pants…Well now, I get moist and I get dry
Sometimes in back I “bake a pie”
My body sometimes like to twist
I’m leakin’ from every orifice
And now it’s airtight, it’s inside
I have hung onto my pride
We just want to all be safe
But when I walk I tend to chafeSaw a brown person. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yeah
Saw a brown person. Somebody help me.
Somebody help me, yea. Pissing my pants.
Brings a tear to the eye, don’t it?
In fairness, not just for Haliburton and Osama bin Laden, who was discovered to have shorted airline stocks just before 9/11, making himself an estimated $3,000,000.
($27,460) three hours after the soldiers were seized by the Lebanese guerrilla group on July 12.
From the Archive: 
of the gene pool. Mount Pleasant runs south along Main from Dysfunction Junction at Broadway right up to the peak of the Mount itself, which up around King Ed, in Queen E Park. Broadway is actually Ninth avenue and King Ed is twenty-fifth, but nobody calls them that; it would be like calling John Wayne “Marion.” It’s a nice, working-class place with neat little old houses, maybe in need of a coat of paint or two, and big, rambling Victorians with truly elaborate gardens and lowrise apartment buildings full of Filipino immigrants and poor families who all gather on the patio at the cocktail hour for a little ballroom dancing. It’s quite a sight, I tell you; looks like a really, really casual wedding every single night. Jeans and sweats are good enough for most, and some of the youngest have been known to waltz in Speedos, at least when the sprinkler is going on the lawn. The middle-agers are the best dancers, but the expression on their faces makes them look like radio-controlled evil clones or something; lighten up people!
They say if you stand at the door of the Ritz-Carleton long enough you will see everyone on earth pass by. Well I say if you sit at an outside table at the Mount Pleasant Starbucks long enough you will see everyone in the neighborhood at least once, and probably at least one person you haven’t seen in twenty years, no matter where you’re from. It is the centre of the cosmos, at least on a very microcosmetic scale. There I learned all about how Pugs aren’t the snotty little wretches they seem to be; a woman tied her tiny FooFoo to one of the tables and the little critter was so game and friendly that it dragged the table thirty feet around the corner so it could say hi to everyone. Remember, this thing is the size of an ankle boot.
raincoaster 