The exploratory committee has come back with a dog-choker of a bar bill, the Portobello market magic 8-ball has come up with a big och-aye, the goat entrails are vermiformally encouraging, and the Voices of The Peoples have been heard.
VOTE WONDERCHICKEN! (You know, eventually.)

I inhaled. Read my lips: I did have sex with that woman. I’ve torpedoed more companies than you’ve had hot meals, I avoided military service, I never did stop the drinking. And the Alzheimer’s, well, you know what Nancy says. I am a crook, and I’ve had lustful thoughts about other women.
I am a donut.
But I swear by the Vengeful Bearded Deity of The Midwest, I will emerge from the media birth canal triumphant, only mildly crumpled and sweaty, and wiping god-goo from my forehead, stride manfully forward into the cleansing light of the television cameras.


Join the conversation! 3 Comments

  1. I wonder, sometimes, about the whole voting-guilt/voting pride thingy that goes on here in the U.S. I mean, I get it–freedom and sweetness and democracy, etc.–but, at the end of the day, it’s like voting on whether you’d rather have your testicles–or lady parts, whichever–smashed to atoms by a hammer or gnawed off by a ferret. And to top it off, you’re expected to think that the guy who made the opposite decision is a complete, irredeemable idiot for having chosen so stupidly.
    That being said, if that’s the way it’s got to be, you’ve got my vote, Stav. I’d be proud to have you gnaw off my testicles.
    Wait, I think I mixed a metaphor there, somewhere.

  2. I’d choose the hammer, every time, me.
    Is it OK if I get the Vice President to do the teste-gnawing honors, there, McGee? I’m a bit squeamish that way.

  3. Sure–that’s basically what VP duties are for, no? Cheney’s already chowed on some testes…THE TESTES OF FREEDOM.
    Yeah, I went there.

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