The Weekly Standard’s Matt Labash brings the funny.  From “The Bon Jovi Advantage,” July 19:

Kerry kicked off last week’s concert by mounting the stage with new sidekick John Edwards, who has managed to transform himself into Mr. Electricity since the primaries, when many of us in the vulture class thought the too-smooth-by-half Edwards was less suited to sell us his vision of America, more suited to sell us an extended power-train warranty on a Camry. There they stood, two well-tailored, half-windsored Monsters of Rock, before they plunged into the audience. From my perspective in the cheap seats (orchestra seats went for $1,000 minimum, helping reap a record $7.5 million one-night take), it seemed a bit early to stage-dive without the music having started in earnest. But in fact, the tandem just took the stairs, finding comfortable seats where they could clap off the beat for the next two and a half hours.

Jon Bon Jovi kicked things off with some stripped-down Richie Sambora-less versions of his hits. It seemed an appropriate choice, since Bon Jovi was the only man in the sold-out venue who could battle Edwards for top Breck-girl status, with his jojoba-enriched locks. Living legend Paul Newman was up next, doddering out in wise-owl glasses perched halfway down his nose, feisty as ever. A huge fan (I named a son after Cool Hand Luke), I was rooting for Newman, the cinematic icon and deep-pocketed philanthropist who has brought us so much joy over the years through his popcorn and salad dressings. But apparently, there’s some things his money can’t buy. Writers, for instance. Taking the night’s first-of-many whacks at the Bush piñata, Newman mocked trickle-down tax cuts, saying rich coots like him hide their money in a sock. “Why, when the tax cuts were announced,” he said by way of proof, “did the sock market go up 60 percent?”

Praise Ja that Wyclef Jean soon followed to put him out of his misery. Numerous reporters have noticed that Kerry and Edwards have jeopardized the platonic nature of their relationship since getting politically hitched, what with all the arm-touching, hair-mussing, and trapezius-squeezing. Some hoped that Wyclef would croon something suited for the budding romance, such as his song, “I’m the Only Gay Eskimo” (I go out seal hunting with my best friend Tarka / But all I wanna do is get into his parka).

No such luck. Instead, he refashioned lyrics, Babs-style, to “If I was the President,” in which, imagining he was president, Wyclef would get elected on Friday / hire Edwards on Saturday / have a big party Sunday / start the work on Monday. Pedantry, of course, is the enemy of rock’n’roll, so let’s leave aside the fact that Wyclef would actually be elected on a Tuesday, and would have selected his running mate long prior, leaving a scheduling hole on Wednesday. Wyclef’s original rendition offers the sort of clearheaded pragmatism one always relishes when singers dabble in the political arena, with the lyrics ”Find the best scientists / tell them, ‘Come up with an answer’ / I want the cure for AIDS and cancer.” (Note to future Kerry surgeon general: See Wyclef about eradicating cancer.)

The actress Meryl Streep similarly demonstrated geopolitical naiveté, upbraiding Bush for riding shotgun with Jesus on his campaign bus, while discounting what Jesus would do vis-à-vis Iraq. Jesus, Streep reminded us, said blessed are the peacemakers, love thy neighbor as thyself, and turn the other cheek, so that your enemy may smite it also. (Note to future Kerry homeland security director: See Meryl about counterterrorism cheek-turning strategy.) Streep wondered what bomb, during shock-and-awe night, “Jesus, our president’s personal Savior, would have personally dropped on the sleeping families of Baghdad.” (Just a guess, but He’d probably have gone with the AGM Hellfire missile. It has precision laser-seekers and a global-positioning system, plus, the name’s kind of cool.)

Not all were so shrill. The Dave Matthews Band, who most of the youngsters came to see, refrained from heavy-duty punditry, opting instead to prove that white people do the darndest things while dancing, as their fans performed heretofore unclassifiable movements such as Hoist the Shotput, Conduct the Orchestra, and Get Me My Medication.

John Mellencamp took the stage to sing “I was born in a small town,” John Edwards’s longtime campaign song. Unconfirmed reports have it that Edwards is the son of a millworker who actually hails from a small town. At one point, while Bon Jovi held down lead-vocal duties on Mellencamp’s “Pink Houses,” Mellencamp actually trekked to Edwards’s seat for some sort of huggy/chest-bump. With so many blue-collar poseurs keeping company, it left one feeling sorry for Bob Seger and Bruce Springsteen, who must have been unable to knock off early from the factory.

But performers didn’t just provide the gift of song, they also provided the gift of laughter, or tried. Many organizers would’ve opted to hire someone who was, say, funny. Kerry organizers thought it would be better to go with Chevy Chase and Whoopi Goldberg. Chase came out with an empty handcuff link, asking if anyone had seen Ken Lay. He then grew serious–or maybe he was still being funny, who could tell?–offering four-alarm groaners such as “Clinton [plays] sax, John plays the guitar, Bush, the lyre.” Demonstrating the rapier wit that has earned him recent star turns in films like Bad Meat and The Karate Dog, Chase opined that Bush thinks “DNA” means “Daddy knows alright,” and that he is “as bright as an egg timer.”

Goldberg, for her part, worked totally blue. After repeatedly and condescendingly referring to Edwards as a “kid” (“he looks like he’s about 18, card his ass”), she did what could charitably be called a Vagina Monologue: “Nothing has given me more pleasure than bush. . . . Someone has tarnished the word in the name of Bush. We went to war in the name of Bush . . . attempted to amend the Constitution in the name of Bush. . . . Keep bush where it belongs, not in the White House.” Later, a Kerry spokesman told the New York Times that the candidates didn’t necessarily agree with everything that was said tonight, but that performers have the right to speak their minds, since “that’s the freedom John Kerry put his life on the line to defend.”

And that, to quote John Edwards’s laudation of Kerry, is what this night, and this campaign, is all about. It is a “celebration of real American values.” It’s about can-do optimism, a front-porch heartland ethos, and the telling of good, wholesome vagina jokes […]

And yes, when you find yourself on the toilet giggling at a Weekly Standard article, it’s a safe bet you’ve found your way over to the political right.  Where, incidentally, the only thing funny about Whoopi Goldberg is that some people ever found her funny to begin with.