I think of this ’cause of the news Ithink I heard that Sarah P. has given her adult consent to perform a 16-pagepictorial, “Hunting Bare,” for the gentleman’s magazine, Swank. Hot-cha!
I’m sure that Democratic piss-pot prigswould consider this a blatant appeal for the coveted anti-United Statesgovernment armed-up-the-jock militia vote, but God bless America, that thiscountry’s bespectacled politically sexiest young grandmother would allow suchan eye-load of an honest glimpse into her private life; to be bent overbare-ass naked whilst gutting a big ol’ buck, you betcha.
And then to think that as she is ableto see Russia from her Alaskan front porch, I would be able to see her pair offairbanks displayed in the pages of a lame-stream men’s magazine from thecomfort of my living-room davenport, would be to flabber my gast.
Good lord, even to me, one who hasvoted only Democrat since the Big Bang, I worry that if Ms. Palin, rather thanputting out a book called Profiles InCourage, 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 idioticallybe-gunned? Would I, could I, cross party lines and then choose to fill her fullto the brim with my hot lead any way I could, repeatedly; then, reload, anddrill, baby, drill again and again?
Yeah, what a world. What chance would aguy like me have with a gal like Sarah? Sure, I could shave my head, swallow acase of those pills that are supposed to make a guy’s dick 10 feet long, tattooa swastika on my forehead and present her with a bouquet of AK-47s, but I’dalready be yesterday’s news, so what the fock.
Anyways, I got to run. With our newhealth care bill getting the green light, I can’t finish this essay ’cause Igot to get to my doctor’s pronto and take advantage of this sanity before theRepublicans dicker some kind-of-compromise-deal so that the treatment of anykind of cancer will include only the application of leeches to the afflicted’sbrain temples and walleta cost-cutting procedure, the money saved there willgo to tax-cuts for the focking rich.
So I’m off to the doctors, where I planto get my toenails clipped; a nice shave and a haircut; and also depending onthe age and attractiveness of the nurse, I’m thinking of ordering a “full” bodymassage for which I’ll reciprocate with a hands-on breast exam not to mentionthe smearing of the pap. Then, I’ll rightfully demand that the doctor peel me agrape right before he gives me a lift back home to my dinky apartment. I thinkI’m going to love this new health insurance for the people, you betcha.
And oh yeah, don’t forget that thisSunday coming up is the first Sunday after the first full moon following thespring equinox, which means I ought to wish you a happy Easter, if you are sopaganistically inclined. Hallelujah, Jesus weekend. If you’re lucky, you mightget a day off of work, what the fock.
You know, I could accept Jesus as a sonof a god, yeah, the son of a god who never flushed a toilet (sure, god knowseverything, but do you think he ever had to remember where his focking car keyswere? I think not); but how ’bout a daughter of god? I can and will only acceptMarilyn Monroe as my saviour-ess. Now there’s a Second Coming I could getbehind, so to speaketh.
Anyways, for you’s Christians coming upwith your Easter family celebration, here’s a little story you can share withthe kids:
A young bearcrawls out of his cave on the first Sunday after the first full moonfollowing the spring equinox. His knees are wobbling.He’s a wreck of skin and bones, with large circles under his eyes and thin as arail. Mother bear says, “Junior, what’s wrong! Did you hibernate all winterlike you were supposed to?” And the young bear says, “Hibernate? Damnit, Ma! I thought you said masturbate!”
Ba-ding! ’causeI’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
