Iowahawk is back (sans comments, apparently), from an alphabetical tour of our great land:

Jonah helpfully points out (as do others) that today is not only Earth Day, but Lenin’s Birthday.

Coincidence? Yeah, that’s what those watermelons want you to think.

[Update at 12:45 PM EDT]

I just realized that it’s actually worse than that. The original Earth Day, in 1970 was on the centenary anniversary of his birth.

Amidst pathetic whines about plagiarism, Iowahawk has released some previously unseen redneck haiku.

Or maybe, since the Oscar debacle, book and movie sales haven’t been going too well? After all, Monroe’s only a couple hours from his home town of Davison…

These images aren’t the whole reason, but they sure didn’t help. And they’re pretty darned funny.

These images aren’t the whole reason, but they sure didn’t help. And they’re pretty darned funny.

These images aren’t the whole reason, but they sure didn’t help. And they’re pretty darned funny.

Evil comic genius Iowahawk has managed to quit stuffing ham hocks, corn on the cob and strong Hawkeye beer in his face long enough to discover another old teevee script from the seventies featuring that renegade authentic native American, Chutch.

Iowahawk has a tribute to Dan Rather–the final chapter of the career of Inspector Dan:

Luckily, the tubby guard at Hinderaker’s bank was asleep, and I was able to quietly duckwalk past him to the elevator bank. When I arrived at his penthouse offices, Hinderaker and Johnson were sharing a nasty chuckle, as they added another cup into their birdseye maple trophy case.

“I thought I smelled some fried MSM bacon,” laughed Johnson. “Why don’t you move along to to the Old Discredited Anchorman’s Home, Rather? We’ve got a testimonial dinner tonight.”

“Yeah, Danno, it’s a little invite-only shindig called Blog of the Year,” sneered Hinderaker. “Black tie, class all the way. Now scram, because we’re due at Gingiss for a tux fitting.”

“Why you filthy, non-journalism degreed…”

Something snapped, and I ran headlong across Hinderaker’s sumptuous oriental rug, ready to unleash my fury on the two laughing blog thugs. I soon found out that the carpet was not fixed to the polished parquet underneath, and I went sliding across the room and slammed into a bookcase. I heard birds as a 16-pound volume of the U.S. Banking Code beaned me hard on the head. Momentarily dazed, I stumbled backward, flipping over Hinderaker’s desk and lodging my head in his deadly trashcan.

“Ha ha! The funny man is funny.”

I was blinded by the trashcan, but I knew that pipsqueak voice anywhere. It was Gnat, Fargo Jimmy’s pintsized gun moll.