Bernie Sanders

I frickin’ Hate Bernie Sanders, I don’t need logical reasons and I don’t give you any. {NSFW warning}

But first, a word from one of my cartoon personae, Her Royal Insufferability, The Princess of Happy.

Things I’m Princess-Happy About!

princessOfHappy

  • 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.

“sucking” giggle.

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 —

SPLAT

I frickin’ hate Bernie Sanders.

200w_d

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.

Ready?

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.

~

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“Mon pays ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver …” {Holiday Special, Part I:- I’m Dreaming of a Whitey Christmas}

xmas tree2Very merry happy holidays. It’s the fag-end of

2017, the annus horribilis that saw me narrowly escaping eviction from my home;

Brought my first, and, I guarantee, my last, summons in the name of Her Majesty The Queen to Estreat Court (a special royal garden party, but without the fruity hats and crustless sandwiches, for those who’ve put up bail for their loser friends—only to have the loser friends break their conditions of bail, leaving them at large, and us, their hapless gaolers, in the Superior Court of Justice, undergoing public humiliation for our idiocy in believing that anything would change, ever);

And, naturally, or my name ain’t Murgatroyd McGraw, continued my death-by-roommate via a graduating class of seven new specimens so feckless, so untruthful, so institutionalized in their freaky, senseless behavior and coddled pre-teen expectations, that it’s either a case of

a.  I have the world’s worst bad judgement, or

b.  I’m the problem and should probably move out.

(It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve thought: maybe it’s ME. Or, as expressed by the last roommate, who—having been taken on in order to help me pay the rent on time, never paid the rent on time, then absconded on November 3rd having paid no rent—texted me and said:

“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems”.

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I’m NOT blaming him or anyone for my problems, which are as the stars in the heavens, so numberless they be. I AM blaming him for HIS problem, which is not paying the rent on time.

Yes, no?)

Two thousand seventeen was the year of a whole new cast of fairy-tale characters, Germanic as genocide and grimmer than Grimm: der Führer des neuen amerikanischen Reiches, Herr TRUMPF and his gnädige Frau Melania; and, as the corresponding Shakespearean low-comedy couple, though it’s hard to see how much lower you could get: Wicked Killary, who eats dead babies for tea in her root cellar, naked, seated on a pile of moist, yellowing e-mails; and Obama Satanica, black as coals at midnight, who fucks the babies to death for her with his scaly, forked devil-dick.

I ask you. Could anything be more plausible?  Now, eat your spinach or they’re coming to get you.

It was the year when Truth raised its fuzzy little newborn head, took one look at the orange glow emanating from the Oval Office and died in its cot, and when the real news was more unreal than the fake; a year when child molestors ran cheerfully for office while every third male in the civilized world was unmasked as nothing more than a small, unruly penis dragging along an eight-armed sociopath; and the year, though it feels so very much longer, when Bernie Sanders flailed his arms a lot and blamed everyone else for his problems.

(Hint to Bernie:  It’s your fucking dandruff, you deal with it.)

Meanwhile it’s cold as fuddle-duddle in Toronto, North Korea keeps saying “war”, with the same unnerving conviction as a two-year-old calling everyone “dada”, and it’s our first white Christmas in a few years.

For the White House, it’s the first Whitey Christmas in a while, too; because, hallelujah, Trump has reinstated Christmas, snatched the twenty-fifth December—originally, I believe, a pagan solstice celebration—from the dark, heathen hands of Hussein and “Mike”.allanGardensSnow

Infidels!

Don’t bother to point out that the Obamas had a Christmas tree, offered Christmas good wishes and Christmas prayers and all the Christmas trimmings every year for eight years, with no interruption.  The Facebook commenters are adamant:  “It’s so good to see a Christmas tree in the White House again!”

Every fucking one of them.  It is astonishing, and not a little frightening, to see a bunch of people so convinced against all evidence to the contrary—real, tangible, watch it, listen to it, touch it evidence, on video, on the net, in print—of a complete lie.

Even, presumably, the guy who gushed:  “It’s so wonderful to see the Negativity Scene [sic] in our nation’s capital again!”

You couldn’t make shit like that up.

~

White Christmas.  Genuine, ankle-to-knee-deep snow,

howling Wuthering Heights wind at night, at sunrise snow-silence and at the horizon a veil of pink and blue.

People don’t like snow any more, because it’s inconvenient, it requires work, it slows you down.  They don’t get snow:  snow on pine trees, snowmen, snow angels, packin’ snow for Roberston Davies’ snowball fights; and fluffy, fresh snow like icy down, each flake, yes it’s true, every single billionth one a different, perfect crystal.

They don’t get winter: Have they never heard tree branches glazed with thick transparent ice creaking like tall ships in the wind, never squinted in pain from the diamond ferocity of light reflecting off a kajillion flakes piled high as a nine-year-old, never tried to open the front door in the morning to find snow has drifted two-thirds of the way up and felt that anarchic, school’s-cancelled joy?

People die in the snow.  That’s also true.

As a child, you awaken one morning, maybe in November, to ethereal silence and silvery light: snow, you think, with a little thrill, and you rush to the window to confirm your prediction, see the cherry tree by moonlight cast indigo shadows on steel-blue drifts. It takes an hour to get dressed for school, in the semi-dark, and your mother makes porridge—oatmeal or Red River or Cream of Wheat—and you walk to school like a plump little Michelin man, you walk to school by yourself, and at lunch time you come home and have Campbell’s tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

They don’t get winter, any more than they get that you don’t eat turkey at Easter or asparagus in December, or that you don’t need “rapid oatmeal” made in the microwave which takes the same time as cooking it on the stove, but less attention and care;

They don’t get that you don’t respond to an invitation to dinner with, “I don’t know, what are you making?” (It’s not about “dinner”, lughead, and I’m not McDonald’s; it’s about spending time with each other, but the concept of “other” doesn’t register with you, and your mind immediately goes to: “what’s in this for me?”);

They don’t get that you don’t respond to “Thank you” with the rejoinder “no praaaahblem!”

My long-suffering friends reading this can go powder their noses, but if you’ve just arrived: Can I tell you my praaaahblem with “no praaaaahblem“?

I say to you, “Thank you.” I’ve offered something to you: acknowledgement that you’ve made an effort, perhaps even a small sacrifice, for my comfort.  Graciousness.

You say to me, “You’re welcome.”  You’ve offered something back to me:  “What I did was not a burden, it was a pleasure.”  Graciousness back, “you” and “you”.  A circle of grace, each person focused on the other.

But say to me, “No praaaaahblem!!” and the circle does not complete.  “It was no problem [for ME”].  It was not a problem, to do what I did.  So you got lucky this time.  But what I did has nothing to do with you.  Maybe someday – it will be a problem, so watch yourself, Murgatroyd.”

~

The primary Canadian personality trait is fortitude.

We don’t expect leadership by default, universal deference, or prizes for the biggest, tallest, best.  We don’t expect the world to jump at our command or dance to our tune.

We expect to survive.

The oldest of us, which would include me these days, know that the rhythms of nature are tsunamis that, indifferent to our preposterous schedules and self-importance, erase human certainty.

With one good blast of snow, one nostril-searing sniff of icy air, one three-hour traffic jam, cancelled flight or broken ankle, you are permanently relieved of

the touching belief that everything is about you.

~

In Which We Discover That Our Suspicions Were Correct: It Was All a Big Fucking Joke! ++ PLUS++ For Happier Mondays, Think Pink!!

alt-big joke

Sanders at the UN?  Hillary for Prez?  Toss a coin, try some Pizza Bianca Monica and… pull the other one, it’s got bells on!

 

Exclusive Story by Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, Girl Reportress
“All the news that gives you fits, in print!”™

May 8th, 2017
WASHINGTON / NEW YORK—

The world is heaving a sigh and chortling itself sick

as it absorbs the events of the past few days, during which it was accidentally revealed that the whole “Trump thing”  was exactly as most people had suspected—an elaborate joke of vast proportions.

As the scope of the scampy subterfuge unfolds, it’s apparent that absolutely everyone was in on it, starting of course, with Trump himself.  It was The Donald, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal, who burst the bubble with one of his quasi-adorable slips.

Speaking to Australian Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull,  Trump opined:

Right now, Obamacare is failing. I shouldn’t say this to our great gentleman and my friend from Australia, because you have better health care than we do —

Oopsies!!!  And this only moments after the Republican-controlled House voted to dismantle Obamacare, the better-than-nothing sorta-healthcare kinda-system which had brought almost-affordable though short-of-satisfactory protection to millions of America’s uninsured, or so those scallywags had convinced themselves.

The cat was out of the bag, the ball was rolling and who knew if the fun would ever stop as Trump, clearly unable to contain his delight, began—to use a theatrical term—”corpsing”, or breaking down with nervous, uncontrollable laughter: a weirdly appropriate term considering the circumstances.

This quickly triggered his Australian counterpart, who seemed to appreciate the delicious irony—heck, let’s give the man his due—the lunacy to rival the Marx Brothers’ best, of Trump praising single-payer, tax-funded health care.  Pull the other one, it’s got bells on!

” ‘Course it’s all a big joke!” Donald admitted when we called him after his Turnbull photo-op for an explanation. “Oh, my ribs and death panels! Are you guys retarded or what? Lemme – oh god – lemme catch my breath here…!”

He continued, “It’s a joke, just as sure as I’m a Ph.D. Magna Cum Laude in Mediaeval English Literature! And I am! Princeton, Class of ’82!  Would you care to read my ground-breaking dissertation on the uses of proto-feminist iconography in Chaucer?

“The Times Literary Supplement called it a page-turner that not only rivals Moby Dick—it surpasses it on every page in scope and ambition!  Not bad for a poor farm kid from Nebraska, right, Vlad?”

“Da!  Da, baby!”  Even by phone it was unmistakably Vlad Putin, butmellow ?

“Listen,”  Putin continued, “Cuddles now going, yes? I makink fresh blinis and any minute Liza’s comink over, she is then teaching me Fosse neck, jazzing hands and something pikantnye with a chair. This Leessa! She is introducing me always charming homosexuals whom I love every day more!”

Putin a sultry romantic with a newly-awakened taste for well-aged trouser snake and the occasional gay icon?  That bad boy routine was all a big blustering charade after all!

Intrigued as all get-out, we turned next to the redoubtable* Bernie Sanders. We’d already experienced our beloved Nutty Professor on CNN as he turned his signature beet-red and threatened Trump with “holding him” to his comments on healthcare.  What did our trouble-haired also-ran have to say for himself?  Did he realize the scope of the deception?

Sanders confessed, “Yep, it’s true—Hillary, Cuddles and I—oh, Cuddles? That’s what we call Donald—yep, we’ve been planning this little escapade since 1980! We never thought you’d buy that I was presidential material!

“C’mon dudes!  Socks with sandals, dandruff on my corduroy jacket lapels and that vague but persistent urine-y old-guy smell—Seriously?  And talk about age!  Christ Almighty, never mind the nuclear codes, I’m lucky if I make it to next Tuesday!!

“I’m just sorry we didn’t get to do that prank—you know, when I kit up in a Mao suit, address the General Assembly of the United Nations and then halfway through I unwrap a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich because ‘my blood sugar is low’, then lecture them on five-year planning!  Man, I wish I coulda taken a run at that one, just to have seen their faces!”

Wiping the tears of hilarity from his cheeks, he added, “Do you think I’ll be able to get a refund for these Birkenstocks?  The fuckers are killing my feet!  No wonder the Krauts won World War II!”

Our final port of call in our exposé of Washington wacky dust was the Clintons’ palatial estate in upstate New York, where it appeared that an enormous “come bare as you dare party” was winding down.

“Y’all come on in to the Yellow Drawing Room”, said Hillary in her characteristic Arkansas drawl as she opened the front door.  The former Miss World and college-drop-out-made-good, her hair damp and slicked back, her voluptuous curves barely masked by a Martha Stewart bath sheet, waved us in with a welcoming gesture.

“This ol’ cluster-fuck’s been going on since the election”, she said with an endearing giggle as she padded bare-foot across the parquet. “Or rather, the ol’ coin-toss.

“You see”, she explained, “we decided the winner by tossing a quarter, best two-outta-three, and whaddaya know, it was Cuddles!  Then it’s just a question of makin’ sure the press gets sent the right results.  You get mah drift?

“Frankly, I was relieved!  I gotta whole bunch of new pizza franchisees opening next week and I’m workin round the clock on product development —that’s right!  It’s always been mah dream to bake! Y’all try this lil ol’ sample now—”

Clinton held out a plate piled high with various silver-dollar-sized nosh.  I chose one at random—was that mozzarella?—and popped it into my mouth.  “It’s delicious, what’s with the funky smell?”

“Shhhh!  Top Secret!  It’s the Pizza Bianca Monica—all white, but boy does it leave nasty stain on your shirt!  Damn!

“Anyways, what with the tension of keeping this whole surprahz under wraps, we’ve all been a bit frazzled, y’all know how it is. So Billy and I decided to call in a few favors, if you get my drift and just – ”

We were interrupted by the appearance of James Comey and Paul Ryan, both wearing nothing but a light beading of sweat, who without so much as a by-your-leave whisked Clinton away to what they called the “Interactive Discussion Room”, apparently located somewhere in the upper floors –  traditionally forbidden to the press.

“Hey!” Clinton shouted back to us as Ryan and Comey carried her up the celebrated circular staircase. “These boys tell me it’s tahm for mah double-teamin’!  Woo-hoo!!  Hey, y’all know how to shoot me up?  We’ve got just the best crystal in from Palm Springs—and it’s makin’ me me feel sooooo—reckless —!”

Looking crazed and dishevelled, Bill Clinton and his playmate Ivanka—having finished at least the first round of discussions by the fireplace—and chortling fit to bust, scampered up the stairs behind them.

But Hillary – was it possible?- had one more surprise under her bath-sheet.  Bless her ol’ cotton socks!

“You know about Billy?— Whaddaya think honey, shall I break it to them? Shall I?

“Well, y’all finally maht as well know—Billy, he’s mah cousin, right?!  You betcha!  Old Arkansas tradition!!”   And with a final guffaw, they were gone, leaving us standing speechless in the foyer.

Laugh?  Laugh??!!

We nearly died.

~

With reporting from Glossolalia-Jeezus “Real” McCoy, girl journalist.

— AP / Reuters  ©2017

UP NEXT: “Barry” Obama takes up smoking.  That li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal.


And speaking of Helen Keller,

HAPPY MONDAY EVERYONE!

pink

But especially:

To the women everywhere–

Banish the black! burn the blue ! and bury the beige! – from now on ….

Think Pink!
Think Pink when you shop for summer clothes –

Think Pink!
Think Pink when you want that “quelque chose”!

The redoubtable* Kay Thompson, who oughta be inducted into the Homo Hall of Fame as an honorary gay man, was Judy Garland’s vocal coach, which tells you a lot, and, when not flailing her arms about while talking and calling it “cabaret singing”, also wrote a series of children’s books called “Eloïse”, about a little girl who lives at the Plaza Hotel in New York.

Yep, the Plaza Hotel. From these humble beginnings, Eloïse sallies forth to have Pirate Adventures, among others, though we must forever regret that Thompson shuffled off this mortal coil before updating us with “Eloïse Gets Shtupped While Unconscious At Studio 54″.

The opening musical number of Funny Face, “Think Pink”, features Ms Thompson, plus her swirly-skirted minions—who for reasons never explained speak in unison, like borg—and a virtual steam room’s worth of  butch-dancin’, Bronx-talkin’ “we’re not gay, no way!!” male dancers dressed in overalls.

Please, I beg you, before watching, turn out the lights, put down your Bayeux tapestry restoration work and resolve to give this gem your full attention. For this is not just another musical number, oh no.

This is one of the supreme camp moments in cinema. It is the Sistine Chapel ceiling, it is the Cellini “Perseus Holding the Severed Head of Medusa” of camp.  Often imitated, usually by me around 3AM when I think everyone’s left, but rarely equalled

except by the crack-addled ad minions of the late Eatons department store who, in their desperation for another ball of hard, not to mention their jobs, churned out an eye-popping parody, “Aubergine”, a paean to the Pantone© spot color used in the soon-to-be-dead-as-a-beaver-tail Eatons branding.

And I have the dinner plates to prove it.

Kay-lounging

Kay Thompson, casually, you know. Lounging. On her bed. The way we all do.


*redoubtable:  If anyone is aware of the meaning of this word, which just kinda sounded good at the time, please contact the News Desk. —G.-J. “R.” M.