Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Did you know he was from Brooklyn?

"I want you to rub your mutton flaps on me, Mr. President. I'm from Brooklyn. I can handle it. And I want to pay Negros like you 15 dollars an hour to rub your mutton flaps all over America," Bernie said. Aides all over the room gasped.

"I hear you, Bernie. And I understand," Barry said. "Clear the room."

Aides began to shuffle out. A dildo dropped out of one and bounced limply to the floor.

Barry pointed at the Secret Service guards on the door of the conference room. "You two as well."

"But Mr. President," one began.

"No. Out. I need to speak to the Senator alone." Barry watched as they left as well, securing the doors behind them."

"Tell me more about these mutton flaps, Bernie."

"Mr. President? Have you ever rubbed 29 different brands of deodorant on your balls at once? I am from Brooklyn. I'm tough. I'm a street fighter. And I'm telling you, it's not easy. 10 brands. Anyone can do that. 10 is nothing. Nothing. 15? Now you're talkin'. 15 is a man's number. That's why it should be the minimum wage. Even for Negroes. I love Negroes, Mr. President. That's why I am worried about their balls. Their nutsacks. Cojones. Testicles, Mr. President. I'm talking about testicles."

"The Affordable Care Act mentions testicle care on thousands of pages," Barry said. He could feel the ruin of his penis filling with blood.

"That's not good enough. We need single payer Negro testicle care and deodorizing. Every other civilized country in the world takes care of Negro testicles better than we do. Every one of them, Mr. President." Bernie's hair was swirling on his head like fierce white flames. "And for less money too! Often less than 15 dollars per Negro testicle."

"What about white people testicles?" Barry asked. He began to rub his crotch on the corner of the conference table.

"Reparations! White testicle privilege! Not all be-penised and testiculated Americans deserve to be cared for in the same manner. Whites have gotten enough! I am from Brooklyn. I'm a scrapper. I care about black and brown balls!"

"The points you are making are perfectly reasonable, Bernie. I understand them completely." Barry continued molesting the table corner, digging it harder and harder into his odoriferous scrotum.

"I can smell your balls, Mr. President. I'm tough. I’m from Brooklyn."

Monday, January 25, 2016

As Seen On TV

“This is going to be horrible,” Donald’s hair whispered.

“Stop whining, bitch. At least you aren’t jammed in his back pocket,” Donald’s hat groused.

Sarah stumbled out on the stage, waving to the crowd of braying retards the campaign had recruited from the line of people waiting for blind dates at Frisch’s Big Boy.

“What in the holy fuck is she wearing?” the hair rhetoricalled.

“Dammit. What does it look like? Tell me!” the hat demanded.

“It’s… I don’t really fucking know. It’s like a half cape covered in, I dunno, stainless steel ziti, maybe?”

“Say what? Oh, Christ, Donald! I think he had nothing to eat yesterday except hard-boiled eggs.”

“It jangles,” the hair said, with growing horror. “I think she made it herself, some sort of deranged Bedazzler seizure.”

“I told you we should have got appearance approval,” the hat said.

“Her handlers said no. They said they’d rather shock her back into her crate and take her back to Mooserape, Alaska.”

“Son of a fuck. It’s like Fart City, USA down here,” the hat groaned. “Wait… what did she just say?”

“No clue, dude,” the hair said. “It’s like a homeless street preacher. You just sort of tune her out after a while. I think she rhymed ‘holy rollers’ with ‘rock ’n’ rollers.’”

“I can barely hear down here in assland,” the hat said. “And the crowd noise.”

“They are pretty much cheering and clapping at random,” the hair sneered.

“Sarah is a genius. Sarah is a wonderful. I love Sarah. Sarah is so smart. And the crowd is all geniuses. Geniuses. You two should shut up. You two shut up about Sarah. I don’t care about much weight she’s put on. I love her,” Donald muttered.

“Calm down, Donald,” the hair whispered. It massaged his head to soothe him.

“Yes, calm down,” the hat said. “And please stop farting.”

“I’m not farting,” Donald said, his words almost lost in the torrent of madness from Sarah and the sounds of the crowd touching themselves. “I’m making my butt cheeks clap for Sarah. My dear Sarah.”