Hard hitting journalism (Obama's dog. Also some hobo kicking)

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I cannot believe people actually care about this.

My people, Cain. What has become of my people?

They're tired, poor, wretched, and huddled.

Exactly what we placed the advertisement for...They meet the listed requirements.

LOOK.  THE AD IS STILL UP.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

So, yeah, that's what we put in the job ad, that's who applied.

You can hardly blame them now.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

And if you're a plutocrat, that ad makes PERFECT SENSE.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

I cannot believe people actually care about this.

My people, Cain. What has become of my people?

They're tired, poor, wretched, and huddled.

Exactly what we placed the advertisement for...They meet the listed requirements.

LOOK.  THE AD IS STILL UP.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

So, yeah, that's what we put in the job ad, that's who applied.

You can hardly blame them now.

It's such a beautiful poem, really. And useful for trolling Teabaggers.

[The Good Reverend Roger]

I cannot believe people actually care about this.

My people, Cain. What has become of my people?

They're tired, poor, wretched, and huddled.

Exactly what we placed the advertisement for...They meet the listed requirements.

LOOK.  THE AD IS STILL UP.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

So, yeah, that's what we put in the job ad, that's who applied.

You can hardly blame them now.

It's such a beautiful poem, really. And useful for trolling Teabaggers.

For attracting them.

Keep your storied pomp.  We don't need none of that pomp. 

Also note that it doesn't say shit about "intellectual dissidents" or "exiled philosophers" or anything like that.

[Ben Shapiro]

I cannot believe people actually care about this.

My people, Cain. What has become of my people?

Freedom has spoken.