DEAR MR. BEZOS: YEAH, SO. JUST READ the descriptions of those pics the National Enquirer got their hands on, and should Amazon customers see them — which would clearly be in their best interest — they would, quite frankly, question your business judgment. I certainly do!
I do also have just a few really quite minor suggestions about your Instagram filters, but let’s save that for the bit in the deli when we sign the “catch and kill.”
Alright, here’s the deal: Basically, the “sketch” and “cartoon” options are not considered, you know. Au courant, at least, if you want even a shot at being an “Influencer.” But more on that later.
Honestly? I’d say just a little more contrast. Remember that “brightness” is all about the mid-tones, and jeepers, don’t miss out on the red-eye reduction! Saves you hours in post! Are you getting this down?
Now on to the blackmail bit, and apologies for the delay, which I’m sure must be making you feel a bit antsy.
So, you’ve revealed just a teensy bit more than you intended. Now we know what that bulge in your pants was. We thought it was just a great, big, rolled-up wad of billions of dollars in corporate welfare you got for building your second HQ in New York City — that sleepy, second-rate wannabe town that’s been aching for someone, anyone, but mostly you, to help it break out of that loser mentality that’s kept it beaten down and struggling.
That’s how it’s been in New Amsterdam, right? Ever since the Dutch dropped anchor thinking they were somewhere in southeast Asia, and proceeded to eke out their wretched lives eating tulip bulbs with the dirt still on them, forcing their women folk into sexual slavery — exposing themselves behind plate glass windows as they proffered their freshly-baked Apfelkuchen. Ja, das schmeckt!
But, no. It was your, and you may want to ask the little ladies and kids to leave the room at this point, “semi-erect manhood;” due, I have no doubt, to the “cleavage” on display; and as far as business judgment goes, nice try with the “fully-erect manhood and two great big naturals available when you join ‘Prime.’”
Nice try but no cigar, except with the simulated depiction of oral sex.
My interest, among other things, peaked, just a little, at “nether regions,” and it raised an eyebrow at the felicity of an AMI executive being named “Mr. Pecker.”
Are you serious?
The Peckers consider baby names:
“If it’s a girl, let’s name her ‘Brandy’. It’d be nice to have a stripper in the family, especially if she goes the ‘European-style’ route. If it’s a boy — how about Richard? No?”
Sometimes, Mr. Bezos, life is perfect.
The folks at AMI apparently read a lot of trashy pulp novels from the 1950’s (“She was a Kitten with a steno pad… but a Tigress on the percale sheets!”) and I squirm with delight at their inability to say “penis,” “erection,” or “pubic.”
Even my five-year-old great-nephew can say those! At least, he could before Doug Ford replaced the Ontario sex-ed curriculum with free copies of “Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians.”
Reading the tantalizing, babelicious descriptions had raised my temperature to such a degree that — well.
I had to take things in hand.
Five minutes under a cold shower, which is apparently all my landlord is able to provide this week, has ruined my Galaxy S2. Waterproof, my eye!
Let’s cut to the chase, Mr Bezos, or now that we know each other so much better, how’s about I just call you Jeff? Hmmmm?
Or, sure, maybe just stick with “Mr. Bezos.” Mr. Bezos is fine. Not a problem.
I’m not going to pussyfoot around, here. I publish this on my blog (readership approaching one hundred, it’s possible my mom subscribed twice, but whatever), OR I get free shipping OR next-day delivery, I’ll decide later, on… Well, I dunno.
That iPhone 10 is lookin’ pretty damn tasty, Mr. Bezos.
OK, OK, relax! It was just a thought. No, really, forget it.
Sheesh! Jump all over me or what!
I’ll be fine. I’ll just — stick it in a bag of rice.
OK, so text me. No, call. Yeah, nearly had me putting it in writing, you sly dog! Ha! Nice one! You’re good!
All the best,
Dave “Pecker” Roddis
P.S. I’d be happy with even the 8GB iPhone 10, just so you know. Also, about the semi-erect thing, Cialis works great, with, honestly? only a really small chance of stroke, with just a slightly bigger chance if you’ve taken aspirin in the past ninety days. And if you get the generic ones from India you get 50% off your next purchase. I’ll send you a coupon.
They call it “the weekender,” that’s just man to man between you and me, and I think you’ll find it’s totally worth the risk. Start with half a one first and see how it goes, is my idea.
AS I STOOD NAKED IN MY KITCHEN THE OTHER MORNING, smoking my first Pall Mall Red of the day, desperate for a pee and staring with pink, watery rabbit eyes at the jars of Colombian Roast, Gold Espresso and Special Regular Blend flash-frozen crystals while debating my options—
—whether I should dredge up a greasy mug from the fetid swamp water of the sink, or boil the water on the stovetop (kettle died, see below), add the instant coffee to that and just drink it right out of the saucepan; what particular mutilations I should perform on the person who used up all the milk then replaced the empty bag, in its plastic jug, back in the fridge; and whether I should throw my last shred of self-esteem under the bus and order that penis-enlarging pump with the special rhino-horn cream from Grommet to counteract the gradual and undeniable process of age-related, disuse-related or indifference-related atrophy—
—I asked myself a question.
We’re all adults? I can talk freely?
Why is it, I wondered, that my default blog post, at least eight times out of ten, is a searing analysis of American, rather than Canadian, political shenanigans and social hooligan-ry?
This is what being a merciless and unsparing Skewerer of Modern Times entails, and so as not to put you off completely, I’m not even mentioning the unrelenting stream of hate mail I receive, which basically consists of pink notices from Canada Revenue insisting that I file my taxes from 2012 onwards while simultaneously remitting forty-thousand dollars; and Bell Canada Fibe promotions addressed to “Occupant”.
Then I went for a pee, and at age sixty-odd and counting I damn well deserve to sit down for this one, at which point I dozed off again on the john.
I awakened with a little scream of confusion, which is how I regain consciousness during a Wagner opera, hoping to be well into the final act then realizing it’s only five minutes later; which is to say, in a state of desperate hope followed immediately by despair. Little by little, and with nominal assistance from Facebook and GPS, I managed to piece together my identify and location coordinates; at which point I felt confident enough to make the coffee, finish the pack of smokes and file for immediate attention that day’s final notices, a process that involves stuffing them into an old leather suitcase that I found on the side of the road four years ago.
My morning calisthenics complete, I felt really quite pulled together and ready to ignore my uncomfortable question and blast ahead into my day of doing the next, doh, obvious thing that doesn’t make any money.
Then I logged on.
The headline on Huffington PostCanada sent shivers down my spine, put my heart on the express elevator to the basement and stood on end the clumps of earlobe and nostril hair that I’d missed during my bi-yearly trim. Unmissable, unfathomable, and in what must have been at least a 24-point display font, probably Helvetica or Gill Sans, was the following, confirming that what I most feared had come to pass (and those of you who read standing up may wish to find a spot on the nearest ottoman post haste, lest you topple over in shock and crash into your vitrine filled with priceless Lalique statuettes):
New Brunswick Government Falls!
I did try to prepare you. Now to address a couple of points, while you let the full import of that headline sink in.
You may be wondering about the kettle thing (see above). Americans don’t drink tea and therefore tend not to have electric kettles, which I discovered during my frequent trips to New York City to stay at the homes of random psychotics that I’d naked-Skyped with. I’d be craving a cup of tea and after an hour or so rummaging around their tiny alcove-kitchen I’d finally shriek, “Where’s your friggin’ kettle, by the grace of Judy, Mother of Liza!?”
And the psychotic would stop for just a sec, stare at me blankly, then go back to boffing whatever trashed up, face-down, GHB’d-out piece of street twink they’d picked up online the previous night.
I hope that clarifies about the kettle thing, and always happy to be of service.
Then there’s the bags of milk. I know you’re all thinking, he means ‘breasts’, but, no, these are actual plastic bags of milk, containing about a quart each, that come packed in three’s inside another bag that’s sealed with a twist tie. You also need to buy a cheap jug that holds the bag of milk so you can pour it out, but first you must take the special miniature tool, containing a tiny razor blade set at an angle, that lives on the top of the handle of the jug, and with this special tool you perform a bris on the corner of the plastic bag of milk.
This requires holding the tip of the corner of the bag with one hand, and with a swift, confident gesture and an optional cry of mazel tov, slicing off that tip of the bag that G-D put there for whatever reason, but that you in your greater wisdom have since determined was a design flaw.
I’m goy, so I compromise by performing a bris that is so hideously botched that the bag of milk is whimpering and reproaching me with a look that cries, “Why you do this to me, bro? Why you spoil that beautiful bag/boy thing we had?” I pour milk into my coffee through the torn, ragged, gaping hole, and despite every effort not to, I imagine the torn udder of a dairy cow who saw the dish run away with the spoon, tried to jump over the moon, miscalculated and ripped herself to shreds on the barbed-wire fence.
This is me. This is Canada. We do things differently up here.
Exhibit A: Moment of truth
Read the caption carefully. This is the campaign headquarters of the Progressive Conservative candidate for Premier of New Brunswick, on election night, as the votes come in, and may I just say that provincial stores of Coumadin are surely depleted as these old white guys, median age 173, try to contain their excrement. Or did I mean excitement, I get them mixed up.
Try? Let us give this cartload of pink wrinkles its due: Succeed.
I’m not sure who the dewy young whippersnapper is in the second row, who would seem to be urging them to return to their Beginner Flamenco Class, but I have a hunch that, should they hesitate when presented with their voting card, he would guide their liver-spotted hands to—Brett Higgs? Heinous Bogg? Glans Bipp? At any rate, the other old guy—and help them plant their spidery “x” in the correct square, and no going over the edges.
Exhibit B: Identifying the Liberal
This is Brian Gallant, Premier, or possibly fallen Premier, of New Brunswick. Pretty, yes? Are you kidding? I mean, this is entering serious babe-licious territory. Hunka hunka! Just look at those shoulders! The dimples! The rakish, slightly loosened tie! The sensual, pursed lips that all but scream, “No point in resisting! Run right up, tear open my shirt and suck those nipples! Did I say suck? No, TWIST!”
This means he is a Liberal. Let’s try another example:
Just look at those shoulders! The dimples! The rakish, slightly loosened tie! The sensual, pursed lips that… etc, etc.
Are you getting the hang of this?
To sum up: If you look at a male Canadian politician and pop a woody (women and gays) or instantly resent and revile him (hetero white men) be confident that you’re looking at a member of the Liberal Party.
Brian Gallant, by the way, is celebrating after his victory, or is it his fall, I get them mixed up, by singing a bit of “Mon pays,” the celebrated Canadian anthem by Gilles-Antoine-Saint- Saveur-Tabernac-Marie-Joseph Succer-Le-Coq, to demonstrate that, unlike the liver-spotted Progressive Conservative, he is functionally bilingual.
Bigguns Hainely, or whatever, actually refused to debate with Brian Gallant because he doesn’t speak French. Just imagine! If the same standard applied in the U.S., you’d have had Hillary standing there, with Trump going, “I’m sorry, but I can’t speak English real good and I have no ideas because no one talked to me in the last thirty minutes, so go fry your huevos rancheros! I’m outta here!”
And he still would have won. Because speaking English real good is like. You know.
Snow. All Americans think Canada – up there – snow – socialists – mounties which is shallow but efficient, and leaves you more time to run out and lay waste to some black kids who were unwrapping their Mars bars, but you were absolutely convinced they were reaching for their assault weapons, and how could you be expected to think otherwise?
I get it.
Or shut down birth control and eradicate abortion (except the same number of abortions will take place, just with coat hangers and bowls of dishwashing liquid). You don’t trust killing anything that doesn’t look you right in the eye and scream before it starts bleeding, and you sure as fucktard-ery don’t trust anyone who bleeds for three days and doesn’t die!
I mean, women are all very well in their place, but seriously, what’s that my-little-visitor-got-the-curse icky nonsense all about? Even Ann Coulter, that embarrassing waste of non-aborted fetal personhood, thinks she’s got balls, but here’s the acid test: Can she write her name in the snow? We thought so! Out of our tree-house, girl-pundit! Your free man-pass is up!
Honestly, I get it.
You get to trill, as you pluck at the petals of a daisy, “Pull out of Syria… Bomb Syria… Russia’s the enemy…. Russia’s not the enemy …. He sucks my cock… He sucks my cock not…” and call that foreign policy because you’re The Man. You Are America and You Go Big and Never Go Home, and Nobody Pushes You Around.
I so very, very muchly get it. No, seriously, I do.
You don’t just reflexively dislike Nancy Pelosi then admit she’s a pretty admirable bit of high-class, high-functioning career politician, and, frankly, kinda hot, too, with her MILF-y, nay, GILF-Y, seen it all, done it all, one-of-the-boys redoubtable air. Oh, no. That’s the Canadian way.
You Hate Nancy Pelosi. Hate her beyond all reason and expression. Nancy Pelosi, despite having all the cred even a social conservative should want—devout Catholic, raised her kids then had her career—is, of course, a Grade A, grass-fed, hormone-free Bitch, and an ambitious, ball-breaking Commie Bitch to boot. And she is sparkly clean; you have nothing on her except the unfortunate accident of her sex, so you willfully set about activating every male brain stem, stirring up its ingrained, atavistic revulsion against any ambitious, powerful, rich, successful female.
She must be styled bitch, because she was apparently born to do what she is doing so well as the single most effective Speaker in living memory, male or female. Think of it: Whatever she has set out to do, she has accomplished. Everything.
She’s so effective at whipping the Dems, so brilliant at legislative strategy, compromising with the insubstantial (abortion amendment) to get the substantial (universal coverage), such a dogged, idealistic, confident, take-no-prisoners, speaking-truth-to-power leader through—how many Presidents? That’s right, and now that she’s in a position to tell her underlings, which is everyone, what to do, they tremble in their conservatard boots and they quake in their rookie libtard pinafores and they do it.
Forget Joan Crawford: Don’t fuck with Nancy Pelosi, fellas. Whoever you are, she’s fought bigger sharks than you.
And that whispery, whooshy, crinkly sound, building in volume as it rumbles from Capitol Hill to Twin Peaks like a crescendo of ruched draperies being flung from the grimy, ante-bellum windows of Tara, is the sound of old white guy scrotums reflexively retracting, and I’m betting only Nancy knows when, if ever, those shriveled testes will ever descend again.
You Hated, still Hate, Hillary. Like the earth is flat, Hillary’s a child-molester; Hillary, who spent half a lifetime advocating for children’s rights and made some of the most important contributions to jurisprudence in that area of law. Like the moon landing didn’t happen, Hillary’s corrupt; Hillary, who took a deep breath and steered her family with whatever dignity was possible through a nightmare of scandal and bad publicity after her white-trash hubby thought assuming the Presidency was like driving a red convertible down Main Street on Saturday night: look at that great piece of tail hey girls wanna go for a spin on this?
Noam Chomsky, George Soros, those old Jews, had you manufacturing consent as they ruled the media and upped the stats from the greatly-exaggerated Holocaust, but you do them one better.
You manufactured the truth.
What’s up in Canadian politics? Trudeau, the Prime Pretty One, the Luscious Liberal-in-Chief, long on talk of reconciliation and global warming until the conversation turns to oil; the dreary, carping Andrew Scheer, sleazy snake-oil salesman of the Evangelical right; Andrea Horwath, whose droid, social democratic heart is in the right place, but who can’t yet pass the Turing test.
Same old, same old, in other words, which is to say same as you guys but with less conviction.
And our alt-right freaks? Thinkkk Faith Goldy, our very own Mädchen in uniform; and that’s a suspiciously Jew-y name for a white supremacette, but we have less people, we need to double up, sometimes.
Think Jordan Peterson, petulant man-boy, rather overly invested in the proper traditional gender-role training of young males, a training which clearly passed him by; a public embarrassment of tired misogyny and silly rants about “political correctness,” discussions that were passé thirty years ago. Mr Peterson holds prissy black-tie town halls—I’m sure he wears his best suits when he flies tourist class or shops the local mall—town halls at which he voices contempt, to his papered house and with a little too much drama, a few too many campy postures, for the liberal worldview that gave him the freedom to voice his contempt in the first place; he clutters up YouTube with solemn diatribes about “censorship” even as he reaches the eyeballs if not the hearts of worldwide audiences.
Oh, Jordan! You’re such a little kidder!
But we haven’t elected Jordan Peterson to anything, because he’s not a politician, yet, just another court jester; just a university professor, and considering what and how and to whom he professes we just can’t take him seriously; we sense the sociopath behind the smile.
See what I mean? Canadians just don’t have the Manifest Destiny mindset; we can’t help fumbling the pass. You set the agenda; we respond, but we’re just too progressive to keep daily tabs on who’s enraged, who’s the enemy and who’s supposed to be more equal than the others.
Celine Dion cries at a Paris fashion show! Now that’s news! Stop the presses! Even snow has us undone; after one January day of usual snowfall for a January day in Canada, it’s #snowmaggedon. We just can’t cope with the apocalyptic anymore.
And that fall of the New Brunswick government? My insomnia is out of control and, relapsed alcoholic that I am, I’m eyeing the bottles of Canadian Club rye, the cans of ginger ale, and I’m licking my lips. God help me if Fredericton ever reduces the opening hours at The Beaverbrook Gallery!
the morning after the U.S. mid-terms is one big macaroni picture
Well, well, well, America. Aren’t we full of surprises. You little freckle-faced rascals!
You’ve done something good. You’ve made a start on redeeming yourself; made a little wobbly-oopsy baby-step towards taking America from a state of total insanity back to the regular, day-to-day state of verging-on-insanity that we all know and love.
Democrats control the House — unprecedented wins for women, women of color, Native, Muslim and LGBT candidates — you’ve been holding out on me, you sly puss! Sincere and heartfelt congratulations.
We won’t, not yet anyway, take on those topics of: Gerrymandering and voter suppression, Republican specialties, and it is a toss-up whether you’d classify these activities as art, for the exquisite finesse in the redrawing of boundaries; or sport, for the breathtaking speed of execution and their brazen exhibitionism. Either way, any close-call vote is suspect, notably in Georgia, where I understand the person in charge of the election’s integrity is also a candidate. Conflict of interest much?
The post-mortems are already underway, but as a Canadian I can just take the day off and spend it sighing with relief. I can still remember — and, youngsters, let me take a second to hook my thumbs behind my suspenders — how my loins shuddered and my flanks trembled from my absolute shock a couple of years ago when, in the wee hours after the election, I heard a crowd of voices outside my apartment on Sherbourne Street, in Toronto — if you’re not familiar with the geography, just think “up there” — then somebody saying something like, “Holy fuck, TRUMP!”, then everyone bursting out laughing.
It was, indeed, holy fuck Trump, and were I to say that you’ve exceeded my expectations by reining him in a little, please note that this is sincere — but also a bit like those desperate compliments you give your friend who’s just made their acting début in the local amateur production of “The Mousetrap,” where they say the line “dinner is served” with the gawdawful stiffness of those who have thought too much about how to say “dinner is served,” then disappear for the rest of the evening.
And you are obliged to sit through the whole damn play because you have to go backstage afterwards and tell them, “Well, gosh, Darlene, I’ll be honest — I never knew you had it in ya!”
So, here’s the deal. You got your common sense back, sort of — though it involved waiting until Trump was literally on the verge of holding a fascist-style parade, I can imagine the armed Boy Scouts in formation and modestly-clad girls performing gymnastics, because healthy women are needed to breed the Amerikanisches volk — and you have partially put a little bit of a check on Republicans run amok —
But—and I have to go here, yes—you just couldn’t elect another ssssshhhhh! black! man! for Governor of Florida, could you? That was way too much to hope for. That’s still just too errrrrr crunchy and difficult to get your heads around. We understand, and don’t forget — baby steps! It’s important not to take on more menschly normal than you can handle at a go. Saving the Free World from Trump is just fine for today.
‘Cause we know how the last black guy worked out, right? I mean, can you just imagine those Klan members’ brains, with those racist neurons and synapses firing back and forth — slave!/POTUS! slave!/POTUS! error! error! error! — until the cognitive dissonance was just too much overheating of the circuits. The greatest cross-burning opp of a lifetime, and whitey’s got mind-frazzle!
And, right on cue, like an army of rejects from a Cronenberg casting call, comes The Awakening. In this riff on The Manchurian Candidate, an entire shadowy doppel-nation of slumbering fascists is stirred into action by the opening words of Obama’s inauguration ceremony. Their eyes take on a remote, permanently glazed appearance as they stock up on ammunition, check the tire pressure, maybe research the End of Days, because what else could this be?
(Your best friend has changed his name to “Biff,” buzzed his hair and joined The League of Pretty White Boys. Next thing you know he’s going skinny dipping in the bayou with his new buds, putting “Gurlz keep out!” signs on his treehouse and getting suspiciously interested in Physical Culture. You can no longer have a meaningful conversation because your values don’t align and besides, it’s really hard to talk when he’s playing “Ein Heldenleben” at full volume…
… And I know, like any marketer knows, that sequels are a shoo-in because they combine just enough novelty with a big helping of the familiar and predictable. In which case, I think it’ll knock ’em dead in Des Moines, how about you?)
All that ugly racism awakened, yet from Obama: class and grace and decency, eight years of taking the high road . Like, what was that crazy-ass American Dream fucktard-ery all about?
I mean, stop the merry-go-round of normal! I need to take my crazy pills and chase them with a big, hot, foaming, rabid Trumpstein of white supremo!
— so, you’ve made a tiny initial act of reparation for the sinking-in-synch of democracy worldwide that Trump has enabled. You’re like the door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman who throws dirt on the lady’s carpet so he can demonstrate how “nothing sucks like an Electrolux.” Or you threw a banana peel in front of good government and it slipped and broke its ankle and now it’s finally off the crutches, and where does that leave us? Right back where we started.
So don’t go all self-congratulatory and amber-waves-of-grain just yet. Keep going, and don’t lose this momentum. Take out your smartphone now and make some movies or even animated GIFs of all of you being happy and jumping around so you have a reference if you forget what momentum means.
Don’t lose momentum. Prove that you’ve learned the lesson:
Democracy is not the default. Goodness is not the default. Fairness and empathy and love and justice are not the norm. These things are precious and extraordinary and they have an exquisitely fine-tuned eco-system, an equilibrium that can be destroyed.
Prove that you know: the fight for democracy is never done. There is no time off.
We will never let you forget that, somehow, you guys were put in charge of democracy— god only knows why — and then someone yelled, “Chicken ‘n biscuits ‘n Red-Eye Gravy!!! AND FRAHS!!!” and you all just spun around and you lost your grip and you dropped it.
Just don’t drop the democracy. OK? Wear rubber gloves if you need a little more traction.
Also, get Young People to vote. If they ask what voting is, tell them it’s something easy that they can microwave and eat right out of the box and someone else will wash up after them.
In fact, tell them that voting is all about them and you’ll do it for them, if they’ll just come along. You’ll have their socks pulled on and their laces tied and their noses wiped and them ready to head to the polls faster than they can say, “That’s so, like. Totally woke!”
Also, make sure Bernie doesn’t run again. For anything. Maybe run for coffees, at least that’ll get him out of the house. But in that case, make sure he’s the only one running for coffee, take care that he knows that you know he’s in charge of the coffee, and if he drops the coffee, just pat his little nutty professor head and say there, there and tell him you didn’t really want coffee anyway.
I mean, you dropped the democracy, you’re no one to judge.
Because I would say, work on your universal health care. Work on this one concept, so you can shout those words in, say, a crowded theatre, without someone screaming back “Satanic Socialist Hillary Communism Obama!” and you’ll have taken an important first step. Leave the hygge and the full-frontal free-meatballs-for-all social democratic platform with lingonberry sauce until you’ve got a little more practice under your belt. K?
And please, it’s alright. No, honestly. Don’t apologize about your little mishap with the world’s peace, order and freedom.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) have tweeted a photo of a muffin that has ruined muffins for everybody.
Trumpticks, with their tiny minds and even twinier hwands, can totally spoil your day should you accidentally ingest some of their toxic ideas, which have been described as “completely indigestible”.
The merest nibble on a half-baked Trumptick can cause Alzheimer’s-like confusion, inability to deal with progress and a compulsion to spew out any old dumb, offensive nonsense the second it occurs to you. Advanced symptoms include pulling weird faces while standing in front of a lectern, shrinkage of the brain to pin size, and lopsided hair that takes on a repellent, orangey sheen. Pretty soon you’re running to your kids’ school with guns for all the teachers, compulsively pressing elevator buttons and phoning out for Korean barbecue with “the nuclear option”.
If you see a Trumptick that’s latched onto you, DO NOT SQUEEZE ITS HEAD, which is empty anyway, and kind of a gross out. Take a big pair of tweezers and pull slowly while chanting, “This is how to make America great again”. It’s a lot easier than you think.
Once you’ve done that, just call Nancy Pelosi. She can’t help, but, you know.
But first, a word from one of my cartoon personae, Her Royal Insufferability, The Princess of Happy.
Things I’m Princess-Happy About!
I ride the vanilla ice-cream sky in a cotton-candy fuelled rocket ship shaped like a cartoon turret window. Yeah bite me, commoner!
If I try hard enough I can move my face a few pixels to the left and up, so I have two faces. Unlike you, who just keep your pixels in one spot for the same effect!
When I vilify you, my words come out already colored with a rainbow gradient. Your words are just one color. Hard to describe, but if BORING could barf, that would be it. Giggle!
Despite the, you know, rainbow gradient, I’m not a homolesbo. Even if I were, there’s only room for one in the cartoon turret. Sigh! You, on the other hand, are a narcotic dog’s breakfast of flapping wrists, shrill second-hand opinions and entangled power tool cords.
I eat nothing but candy canes stolen from blameless, well-behaved orphans and the occasional piece of Laura Secord® Buttercream Fudge, and after I do, my breath smells like minty buttercream heaven. Big kiss, lots of tongue! AHLLLLLLWLLALALALLL ! You could eat nothing but honey straight from the comb and still wilt a vase full of gerbera daisies at fifty paces with a single exhale!
In the land of Happy, there is no tooth decay. There are no teeth, either, but whatever. I’ll make do with sucking and gumming.
What’s even more galling, I laugh, or more accurately, giggle an insouciant giggle when I see a large ice floe looming up and realize I’m veering off course in the high wind and might very well end up splatted on the ice floe or impaled on a frozen tree branch on the way down. Maybe you should try that!
Not the impaled bit, the insouciant giggle. Are you always this high maintenance, my loyal subjects???
Time for luncheon! Mmmmm, my favorite! Buttercr —
I frickin’ hate Bernie Sanders.
And even though I don’t need any logical reasons, any more than you need reasons why Hillary makes your blood run purple and your eyes bulge, or reasons why you volunteered for the “Let’s Kiss Trump’s Great Butt Better Again” duty brigade, I’ve listed the main, perfectly-valid illogical ones here.
I frickin’ hate Bernie Sanders because:
Bernie Sanders has great big oversized Stanfield Y-fronts with skid marks on them. In his underwear drawer.
Bernie Sanders emits moist little farts when he’s sleeping, which is all the time but especially when he’s dreaming of (a) eviscerating capitalists, or (b) licking his wife, Jane’s, gigantic, sagging tits.
The sound Bernie makes when emitting the moist little farts is that of his ass lips resisting, then parting suddenly to emit a steady vibrating column of intestinal gas. When he’s in practice, it’s usually around a B-flat below middle C.
Sometimes, right before Bernie shakes someone’s hand on the campaign trail, he reaches around, shoves his hand right down his pants, touches his asshole to see if it’s clean, then sniffs his fingers.
If Bernie ever talks at the UN, they’ll have to announce his name, “Bernie”. BERRRRR-NIE. And everyone will shudder because it sounds so fucking unstatesmanly and retarded. BERRRRRRRRRRRRR-NIE! Bernie wouldn’t ratify my treaty! Bernie didn’t wash his hands before eating his tuna salad! Bernie wears the same dirty socks every day with his Birkenstocks, Bernie picked his nose and ate it! Ewwwwww!! Bernie Bernie BERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-NIE!!!!!
Bernie Sanders has never molested a 13-year-old boy or girl, he just thinks about it every so often, then throws on his nasty, soiled raincoat and goes for a walk on a nature trail with no pants on to “rub it out of his system”.
Bernie’s most successfully energized before a big speech when he’s gotten his wife, Jane, to hate-fuck him with a big, black strapon dildo that he’s nicknamed “Michelle”. He likes Jane to wear a rubber Hillary mask when she does this.
When Bernie ejaculates all over his wife’s gigantic tits, he screams “Allahu Akbar!!” So. True.
Bernie stretches out his arms and makes big up and down patting movements during a speech when he wants to make it absolutely clear that he’s full of seven pounds of fresh horse shit he ate just that afternoon.
Bernie has a nasty, fake, mirthless smile that shows off to perfection his irregular, yellow, coffee-stained old-guy dentures. When he smiles, he looks like a goblin proof-of-concept that was dropped from Lord of the Rings because it was too scary for mature adults.
Bernie blows at least one new recruit to the National Rifle Association every Wednesday, at their club house. He takes out his unsoaked, reeking dentures first, so he can give a nice, wet, sloppy blowjob with saliva gobbing down his chin in long, stringy, mucous-y strands.
Right after he gives the sloppy blow job, Bernie gets his campaign manager to find a millennial he can surprise with a “sploodge kiss”.
When he’s relaxing from the duties of campaigning and spreading horseshit, Bernie likes to get nekkid and show off his masturbation technique on Chaturbate, under his top-secret special screen name
“Smelly Old Trotsky Fart Exhib Lenin Chihuahua-Penis Marxist Gooner Perv 4 Retarded Fucking Asswipe Millennials”.
Bernie has bequeathed his patented “masturbation tweezers” to the Copenhagen Sex Emporium and Museum of Deviance, along with his jizz-stained copies of “Das Kapital” and “Myra Breckinridge”.
Bernie has great swathes of long, funky, greasy, yellowing pubic hair enveloping his balls like sage grass. It’s at least two inches long, even though his gigantically fat wife Jane has begged him to “manscape” from inside her gas mask.
Bernie gives off a strong old man in the retirement home whiff of stale urine while sitting in the Senate on hot summer days. Also on cold winter days. Which is why nobody ever sits near him or pays any attention to him. When he wants to stand up and leave the Senate, he has to bribe an intern to pry his ass off the chair with a metal spoon.
Bernie is behind every incident of improper male touching that’s been outed in the past six months. In fact, his hideous, fraud-committing wife, Jane, has “Me” tattooed on her left ass cheek, and “Too” on the right, with plenty room left over for the the hash symbol and maybe the first two chapters of “The Female Eunuch” in a display font.
But the main reason I hate Bernie Sanders is that he’s lying, snivelling, arrogant, bad-smelling, ignorant, gammy-legged, limping, small-dicked old-guy snotty perv LOSER spawn of Trump who couldn’t get a dog to piss against a fire hydrant if he demonstrated.
Which, I’ll have you know, he’s been arrested two hundred and thirteen times for doing.