“I expect a concession speech tonight, Bernie,” Hillary rasped, her throat as dry as a turtle’s asshole. “I have the Superdelegates, you crusty old fuck. You cannot withstand their power.”“I’m from the Brooklyn. I am tough. You do not control the Bernie Rev-rev-revolution!” the old man stuttered. The wheeze in his breath sounded like the rustle of beetle wings. She loved listening to him die on the phone.
She stroked its bulging mass and smiled.
“I’m rubbing maple syrup all over my pussies, Bernie. New Hampshire maple syrup,” she said.
“No! You witch!” You’ll feel the Bern for this!”
“Now I’m opening a bottle of Canadian maple syrup.”
“You wouldn’t! You wouldn’t dare!”
“Tariff-free. Bernie. Tariff-free syrup. Hmm. Free trade feels so good on my pornucopia of back-up labias.” Hillary held the phone away as she and the goiter chortled.
“I WILL DESTROY YOU AT THE CONVENTION!” Bernie screamed, but it was tinny and far away on the phone's tiny speaker.
“No you won’t, Bernie,” she said, drawing the phone back. “I’m taking away the millennials. The Tumblristas are mine. All your little college lackeys and dick-drunk bros are mine. I’ll call them sexist if they stay home.”
“It won’t work. They are mine, you dried up old hag. I am the youth movement!” He was so agitated his jowls made a flapping sound as they shook with rage.
“They are going to vote vagina now. AND I HAVE ALL THE VAGINAS!”
She let the goiter laugh into the phone for a long moment before she hung up on his raving and tucked Convenience Phone #17 into her wetly pulsated gunt pouch.
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