Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Re: U.S. Having To Return Its Stuff To Rent A Center

President Obama, much respect as I tell you please grow a pair. You say "Call your Congressman." Dude, that's what you do when you're trying to get weed legalized purely for "medicinal" reasons. Boehner and his ilk are whack job dillweeds; they're the kids who got pranked all the time 'cause it was so easy to do. You should be able to run mental circles around them... Wedgie the mofos before the American consciousness is convinced you're the cause of national destruction! Granted our nation's probably never been more gooberish than we are right now (somebody please tell me why the fuck my doctor went to medical school but I've gotta be the one first to tell him about Copafiel and then ask him if it's right for my sexual harassment issues!) and the goobers are so sensitive and defensive now about their goober proclivities that they’d even justify championing a crazy cat lady for important public office, or even Michele Bachman. Granted your scrotum’s choked by the Kobayashi Maru – no matter which way you go, prepare to be fucked. And I’m sure your advisors are advising you on this that and the other in matters of presentation, but search your feelings, dude, you know this to be true: you are being set up as the biggest scapegoat in the history of the United States. Either that or all that “change we could believe in” amounts to about the 85 cents we’re scrabbling to collect under the cushions. I voted for you, I reached out and figuratively touched Oprah’s hand as the nation cried for you (Don’t cry for me, Argentina?) and, barring a sex tape of you dressed as Tigger humping the effigy of Bea Arthur, I will vote for you again. You have done a great deal of good and my brain tells me you’re game for more. Screw the heart, which most people declare holiest of holies. The heart told me to date a crazy chick back in the day. My brain says to you, President Obama, be the Decider. Sweet Greasy Damn, I can’t believe I’m there, but it’s out now. The only earth the meek will inherit will be a toxic, billboard strewn eruption of a boil about to explode, while sex dreams are pumped into the cryo-sleeping bodies of rich folks on their way to Beta Antares. Yay for being meek. I’m not saying pull a Bush/Cheney ramrod (speaking of 2-to-the-head Cheney, I hope he’s pleased at the choice of actor playing him in the Smurf biopic) but definitely stop “leaving” things up to the American public! The American public is easily influenced by Cheetos! Why the hell do you think Boehner always stays orange??? Don’t tell me to call my Congressman. My Congressman’s a dumbass whose only job is figuring out how to keep doing the nothing that comes with the job and making sure his hair says precisely what it should about him on camera. The American public is stockpiling weapons and cheese preparing for another civil war – yes, folks, it’sa coming. Why else do you think (and I’ll be broad here) the rich have spent the last 20 or so years convincing you they have nothing to do with the sad state of your pathetic life, that it’s all those “others” out there, the gays and blacks and hot lesbians and Mexicans and Muslims (which come to think of it, also sounds like some kind of healthy, fibrous cereal hemp-wearing, braless women foist on home schooled children, freaking Commies!) and a liberal media that thinks your stupid, ADD-filled children aren’t God’s way of punishing us for not making sure the Fifties didn’t last? Why else do you think people without a pot to piss in are adamant about the gubmint not providing health care for them, no way sir! Big Gubmint, gays and Tom Cruise are keeping the average Joe down, and Pfizer knows this. Talk to your doctor if you’re experiencing emotional ennui, wrenching anxiety or the onset of righteous illogical tendencies as these may be symptoms of knowing you’re buttfucked. The tipping point’s on its way, President Obama. The thing about tipping points, though, is that things can go either way. The nation either falls and the South rises again (so to speak), or it falls on the soft bosomy-ness of “About damn time; we've grown up.” It’s your call, sir. Daunting as fuck, I know, but that’s why you’re the Decider. Or, as I’m sure some old guy has said at least once, “Don’t play into the hands of folks who keep their hands down their pants.” Wedgie up, sir, wedgie up.

Oh, and say hello to the wife for me!


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