Focked and Loaded
I think of this ’cause of the news I think I heard that Sarah P. has given her adult consent to perform a 16-page pictorial, “Hunting Bare,” for the gentleman’s magazine, Swank. Hot-cha!
I’m sure that Democratic piss-pot prigs would consider this a blatant appeal for the coveted anti-United States government armed-up-the-jock militia vote, but God bless America, that this country’s bespectacled politically sexiest young grandmother would allow such an eye-load of an honest glimpse into her private life; to be bent over bare-ass naked whilst gutting a big ol’ buck, you betcha.
And then to think that as she is able to see Russia from her Alaskan front porch, I would be able to see her pair of fairbanks displayed in the pages of a lame-stream men’s magazine from the comfort of my living-room davenport, would be to flabber my gast.
Good lord, even to me, one who has voted only Democrat since the Big Bang, I worry that if Ms. Palin, rather than putting out a book called Profiles In Courage, that she were to put out a DVD called Seeing Sarah Palin’s Tits, could I resist such a come-on? Could anyone, white, male, and idiotically be-gunned? Would I, could I, cross party lines and then choose to fill her full to the brim with my hot lead any way I could, repeatedly; then, reload, and drill, baby, drill again and again?
Yeah, what a world. What chance would a guy like me have with a gal like Sarah? Sure, I could shave my head, swallow a case of those pills that are supposed to make a guy’s dick 10 feet long, tattoo a swastika on my forehead and present her with a bouquet of AK-47s, but I’d already be yesterday’s news, so what the fock.
Anyways, I got to run. With our new health care bill getting the green light, I can’t finish this essay ’cause I got to get to my doctor’s pronto and take advantage of this sanity before the Republicans dicker some kind-of-compromise-deal so that the treatment of any kind of cancer will include only the application of leeches to the afflicted’s brain temples and wallet—a cost-cutting procedure, the money saved there will go to tax-cuts for the focking rich.
So I’m off to the doctors, where I plan to get my toenails clipped; a nice shave and a haircut; and also depending on the age and attractiveness of the nurse, I’m thinking of ordering a “full” body massage for which I’ll reciprocate with a hands-on breast exam not to mention the smearing of the pap. Then, I’ll rightfully demand that the doctor peel me a grape right before he gives me a lift back home to my dinky apartment. I think I’m going to love this new health insurance for the people, you betcha.
And oh yeah, don’t forget that this Sunday coming up is the first Sunday after the first full moon following the spring equinox, which means I ought to wish you a happy Easter, if you are so paganistically inclined. Hallelujah, Jesus weekend. If you’re lucky, you might get a day off of work, what the fock.
You know, I could accept Jesus as a son of a god, yeah, the son of a god who never flushed a toilet (sure, god knows everything, but do you think he ever had to remember where his focking car keys were? I think not); but how ’bout a daughter of god? I can and will only accept Marilyn Monroe as my saviour-ess. Now there’s a Second Coming I could get behind, so to speaketh.
Anyways, for you’s Christians coming up with your Easter family celebration, here’s a little story you can share with the kids:
A young bear crawls out of his cave on the first Sunday after the first full moon following the spring equinox. His knees are wobbling. He’s a wreck of skin and bones, with large circles under his eyes and thin as a rail. Mother bear says, “Junior, what’s wrong! Did you hibernate all winter like you were supposed to?” And the young bear says, “Hibernate? Damn it, Ma! I thought you said masturbate!”
Ba-ding! ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.