Your Servitude Is No Longer Needed

I actually watched Dennis Miller’s monologue tonight. Now that his ill-fated show, "Meet The Puss," has been cancelled, I want to watch him try to squirm his way back into the good graces of the fan base he shat upon to become the poster boy for Benedict Arnold’s Lap Dog Society. He came close to making a joke about your President tonight, but the microchip implanted in his brain delivered a visible jolt and he redirected the jab to Russian President Putin. Safe play, Dennis. You slid into third, but the roar of the crowd provided the necessary distraction for your republichristian buddies to move home plate out of your ballpark. Game called on account of duh.

Your handlers gravely mistook your new audience’s level of comprehension. You may as well have spoken Esperanto. The educated, broad-minded audience that you divorced years ago was able to follow your rants. But once you rolled over like a puppy seeking a belly scratching, you should have traded your dictionary for haircuts. There’s no point in preparing a finely-cooked steak of a commentary when it’s destined for smothering with A-1 sauce. You should have spoken their language. Monosyllabic words in short sentences.

Will you be given a consolation job now that you are in exile? Fox News expert analysis of First Lady fashion? Warm-up act for GospelPalooza? Stand-up gigs and valet parking duty at Bill Frist’s mansion parties?

Don’t come a’ runnin’ back here, Denny Boy. Burned bridges can’t bear the weight of lobster and bourbon sell-outs. Loosen your tie and cuff-links, kick off your tasseled loafers, rent an anthology of your Weekend Updates, and cry yourself to sleep.