Robertson says he leg-pressed 2,000 pounds

According to the CBN Web site, Robertson worked his way up to lifting a ton with the help of his physician, who is not named. The posting does not say when the lift occurred, but a CBN spokeswoman released photos to The Associated Press that she said showed Robertson lifting 2,000 pounds in 2003, when Robertson was 73. He is now 76.

You hear that, Barry Bonds? You listening, Mark McGwire? Who needs steroids, when you’ve got JESUS? The Son Of Man is the ultimate performance enhancing drug. And believing in Jesus is totally legal, and is authorized by all major sporting authorities. (At least until the Jews and the Democrats get done with their War On Christmas and set their sights on The Battle Of The Jesus Muscles.)

Pat Robertson, shortly after shotputting a freight train over the Grand Canyon.

Here’s an example from my own life. Last Sunday, I was taking my normal after-church stroll through a meadow of daisies and wheatgrass. Suddenly, lo and behold, I stumbled across a small lamb pinned under the chassis of an overturned school bus. At first, it seemed like all was lost. There was no way I could find the strength to lift the bus off of the poor, helpless lamb.

Then, the most miraculous thing happened. The clouds parted, and a shaft of golden sunlight beamed from the sky, warming my face with its gentle glow. And suddenly, everything changed. I was able to drown out the distracting cries of the children trapped in the burning bus, and focus all of my energy on saving that little lamb.

I squatted down, wrapped my fingers under the bus’ twisted bumper, and looked up to the sky, praying for Jesus to give me strength to lift the bus. To my amazement, Jesus’ face appeared in the clouds, and he spoke the divine words of grace that allowed me to find my inner strength:

“Lift, motherfucker! LIFT! C’mon, you pussy! You can do it! Lift that bitch, you fucking pansy! Lift it or daddy will never love you again!”

Suddenly, my legs trembled with the strength of a thousand mountains. Or buffalos. Or mountain buffalos. I forget exactly which. The point is, there was a lot of them, and they made my legs feel real strong. I thrust my legs against the earth, lifting the bus several feet off the ground.

“Run, little lamb! Run free!” I proclaimed, tears of joy streaming down my face.

The lamb looked up at me with a look that seemed to say, “I would, if my legs weren’t shattered with multiple compound fractures. But thanks anyway.”

I looked around to see if anyone else was around to help, because I was, you know, still holding up the bus.

“Little help, here?” I called out. “Anybody around that can pull the lamb out from under the bus?” Seconds passed. “You. Kid over there was your hair on fire. Gimme a hand?” No response. “Anybody?”

Then a voice rang out from behind me.

“I’ll help you, my son,” the voice said.

It was Jesus. He was wearing Zubaz lifting pants and a half shirt, which was sort of unexpected. And he had a tan. Looked like one of those orange-y spray-on bronzers. But boy, was he buff. His pecs were like barn doors.

“Jesus,” I said, my voice strained by the weight of the bus, “can you save the little lamb while I hold up the bus?”

“That’s not a bus,” he replied. “That’s your futon mattress. And that’s not a lamb. It’s a Twinkie. And stop calling me Jesus. My name is Marco.”

The moral of the story? Know how your story is going to end before you start writing, because otherwise you may end off going off on random, sleep deprivation-induced tangents that are neither insightful nor particularly funny.

Rumsfeld on defensive over Iraq

“I’m not in the intelligence business,” Rumsfeld said.

Folks, never has a more true statement been made in Washington.

I think it took tremendous courage for Mr. Rumsfeld to stand up in front of the world and say, “Hey, you know what? I’m kind of dumb. Really dumb, actually. I mean, I can be just shockingly, mind-numbingly stupid.” I’m paraphrasing, of course. But the truth of the statement still remains:

Mr. Rumsfeld is an ass clown.

Other audience members in Atlanta were gentler. One asked about “what happened in your childhood to make you the man you are today? This might help some parents, because you’re a great man.”

This gentleman asked the very question I would have asked if I had a chance to address Mr. Rumsfeld directly. As a parent, I’m interested in ways that my child can grow up to be a dishonest buffoon who is directly responsible for the death and/or torture of tens of thousands of other humans. That’s not the sort of thing they teach at Gymboree.

“Torture, kill, repeat. Good boy.”

Sure, I can send my kids to pre-school to learn how to count to ten, or to learn outdated concepts with no practical application in day-to-day life, like “sharing” or “compassion.” But what nobody ever tells you is how to teach your child to have a complete disregard for human life.

I’ve tried all the normal things, like making them kill and eat a stray cat, or teaching them to burn fur off rabbits with a hairspray blowtorch, or sodomizing neighborhood kids with splintered broomhandles tied to an American flag. For some reason, though … my kids just don’t seem to “get it.”

Some people say it’s because my kids are under three years old, but I think that’s bullshit. No child is too young to learn how to torture and flay another living thing. Or at least to brainwash his younger friends into doing it for him.

That’s why I would ask Mr. Rumsfeld, “What did your parents do to you to turn you into such a flawlessly amoral psychopath? I mean, you lie to the faces of dead soldiers’ parents without so much a batting an eyelash. The technical superiority of your soullessness is just breathtaking. How do you do it?”

I’m sure his answer would have something to do with his mother forcing him to watch her suck off the family horse to get enough sperm to put in his baby bottle, since they were too poor to afford baby formula.

Or his father pressing his face against a red hot waffle skillet as punishment for not murdering his quota of homeless men for the week.

But those are experiences most people in the Bush administration share. What I want to know is what truly unique child-rearing techniques his parents used to breed the ultimate REMF.

Video Shows Al-Zarqawi Fumbling With Rifle

His fellow fighters and associates appear similarly inept in the newly released footage. One reaches out to grab a just-fired weapon by the barrel, apparently unaware that it would burn his hand. The camera quickly pans to the ground and then away.

“His close associates around him … do things like grab the hot barrel of the machine gun and burn themselves,” [Maj. Gen. Rick] Lynch said. “Makes you wonder” about their military skills.

Whoa-ho-ho-ho!! That is fucking HILARIOUS!!! Grabbed the barrel of a hot rifle?! ROTFLMAO!! What a bunch of morons! Those guys don’t know ANYTHING about fighting a war. What a bunch of terror-diots!

(See what I did there? I took “terrorists” and “idiots” and made a new word out of it just to mock them. Ann Coulter taught me that one over a lunch of red wine and broiled Iraqi war orphan.)

No wonder we were able to go in and stabilize Iraq so quickly.