Aging reactionary insult comic and one time Larry Summers plaything Laura Ingraham topped the best seller lists for months with what her fellow goons referred to a "humorous" view of the Obama family.

Whenever shrill, hate-filled reactionaries tell you something written by one of their own is hilarious, from Westbrook Pegler's libels to Rush Limbaugh's latest drug-fueled tirade, you can be sure that's it's a grueling slog through the crudest imaginable racial, ethnic, and sexual stereotypes.

We already know from Stephen Colbert that Ingraham get big yucks from Michele's supposed lust for ribs.  He or someone on his staff had to actually open the covers of this garbage, but we're not going to sully ourselves with Ingraham's side-splitting tales of coal in the White House bathtubs, or the President's eternal search for the only three things that any African-American male is interested in, according to conservative God Ronald Reagan's Secretary of Agriculture, Earl "Mr. Entertainment" Butz. You'll have to search that one out for yourself.

It's bad enough that the grisly Dartmouth grad can peddle this toxic brew, but what's really "funny" is that hundreds of thousands have bought this book and are presumably enjoyed reading it.

And here's the punch line: They're all going to the polls in three weeks to elect a bunch of whackjobs who make Laura Ingraham sound like Harriet Beecher Stowe. Ba-bing!

You'd have to go back to Lot, or perhaps Neville Chamberlain, to find someone who made a more obviously idiotic choice than the former Prime Minister of Her Majesty's Government, who decided in 2002 that he could do business with George W. Bush.

If you or I had so thoroughly disgraced ourselves by our uncritical support of Bush's insane Iraq war and our subsequent silence as we watched the hundreds of thousands of deaths and crippling injuries caused by Shrub's Mesopotamian delusion, we'd probably retire to an obscure monastery off the West Coast of the British Isles to atone in silence every single day for the rest of our lives, or at least we would if we were Catholic.

We guess they don't make Catholics the way they used to, since Blair, a recent convert to the Pope of Rome, decided instead to parlay his disastrous and lethal decision into millions of dollars in royalties. His response when asked to apologize for the havoc he helped to wreak: "S*** happens."

In the words of his predecessor, it appears that Tony Blair has missed the bus. Of course, he's better off than the people of Iraq, who ended up under it.

There's an old adage in the book trade that you don't want to be the second war criminal to publish a book in any given season, because it will hurt sales. So more bad luck for Bush-loving Condi that she has to follow on the heels of Tony Blair's opus, reviewed above.

We gather that this memoir represents Bush mouthpiece Rice's effort to gain readmittance to the human race. Perhaps for that reason, our authoress ends her maiden effort just as she is being admitted to the Bush White House to commence eight shameful years of incompetence, toadying, and outright dissembling in the service of some dumb white guy.

Instead of those years, which for others with some moral fiber in less benighted Administrations would have been the high point of the author's life, she speaks instead of happier days: growing up in a violent, segregated, narrow-minded, hate-filled Southern backwater.  

Apparently, she had parents who inspired her and whom she loved. That's probably true of many of the 600,000 who died or fled their country in fear of their lives as a result of her craven refusal to stand up to the idiot warmongers who bulldozed her into an indefensible war of choice. But none of those Iraqis got to write self-aggrandizing memoirs because many of them, like Condi's moral sensibilities, are dead.