I was a happy political pundit

I was a happy conservative commentator. You've probably heard of me. Jan Cooter? I was a political pundit for fabulous Faux News. I made those amoral liberals wish they’d never been born. I had a tongue like a razor strap and a mind like a …really sharp thing. Bleeding hearts? Ha. Bleeding psyches when my day was done.

You've most likely read my books:

The Liberal Democratic President is a Sexual Deviant and Scumbag


The Liberal Democratic President Masturbates in a Closet in the Whitehouse While Watching Animal Porn While You Foot the Bill


The Liberal Democratic President Is Guilty of Every Carnal Sin Ever Conceived of By Mankind


The Liberal Democratic President Should Be Executed for Treason

Or my newest book:

Only America-Hating, Liberal Gay Bastards and the Hirsute Women Who Secretly Desire Them Speak Ill of the Republican President

My books were a smashing success. I ruled the charts (in Mississippi). I embarked on a strenuous tour of the Bible Belt. Every magazine with me on the cover sold in the triple digits (at Nascar events). I got steamy letters from men like this.

Then one day, it ended.

Some bastard liberal, pinko-commie America-hating, Bush-bashing, Africa-loving, gay-agendized journalist (and I use that latter term loosely. In my view, real journalists use the free speech God gave them to support America!) found this picture of me in my college years with a certain dictator from the middle east.

Oh, I tried to deny it. “Look at the hair color,” I said. “So not me.” But it was me. The dictator testified to it in court. (That was the only thing the old fart ever admitted, damn him.)

Now, Faux News won’t even let me sweep up. The last people who tried to book me for a speaking engagement were the Activists for Reviving Apartheid Now (ARAN), and they only offered me $30 and a room at Motel 6.

I feel so cheap. I mean, where is the president, the administration? I practically prostituted myself for you! And where are the Faux guys? I bared my arms and legs for you! Where are the Nascar dads? (Actually, keep those sweaty, mulleted bastards away from me, will you?).

Woe is me.
(P.S. If anybody out there could, like, introduce me to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, contact me here.