rants

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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Gee, don’t come rushing at me all at once, like a Handel chorus

smoothie

Veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor. Strawberry = you.

Well! (he spluttered).

This is a fine how-d’you do!

I work myself to the bone getting all sacrilegious, spend literally minutes in Photoshop desecrating the memory of possibly the 10th-greatest plummy English contralto who ever lived, blend it half-heartedly together into a veritable smoothie of sophomoric humor that would make a reader of Harvard Lampoon blush, and what thanks.

Not even a flicker of furious placard-writing activity from the Phelps family; No snooty, outraged editors at Gramophone magazine canceling my remaining issues; No high-minded “disgusted, Tunbridge Wells” complaints, not even a sad little WordPress unsubscribe¹.  Nada. Plenty o’ nuttin’.

A great big world so full of “NO” it could make Dame Janet herself take up a second career in lap dancing.  (Dame Janet Jackin’. Off her high horse and onto yours.  So to speak.)

A great big world so chock-full of “so-what, dude?” it could make a co-pilot take an Airbus filled with over-stimulated adorable teenage choristers on their first trip away and apple-cheeked adorable grannies clutching Tupperware containers of brownies in their lap lest the icing should get dislodged during turbulence, and face-plant it into the nearest Alp.  As if!

When it comes right down to it.  Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?  Like, Hello-o-o-o – ! Over here, darling, other person who exists!  Lips moving that aren’t your own!  I mean really.

But never you mind, Murgatroyd. Your pathetic attempts at making amends by text message come too little and – at 3.37 AM – way too late.  I’m resilient.  I’m a survivor. I’m filled with pluck, grit and spunk.  Or at least I was on Saturday night which I assure you is the last time I’ll try to get laid by a shift-worker in a chicken-processing facility. While on the job!

It’s all the more grist to my application-for-lifetime-and-beyond-PTSD-benefits mill, cause guess what?

You are just the strawberry on my smoothie, babe.  Naked.  Or even better, in your saggy, made-at-home-yet-still-just-as-crappy-as-if-made-by-Third-World-slave-labor American Apparel Y-fronts.

And one more thing since I finally have the floor and will miracles never cease you’ve paused for breath:  Jesus WAS white.

You know how I know?

The Bible tells me so.


¹ Update:  Between starting this post and finishing, someone DID 
unsubscribe.  Which would seem entirely to put the kibosh on the 
already pretty thin premise of the piece. This might flatten 
a lesser man.   But self-esteem, no matter how rooted 
in fantasy it may be, always 
wins the day.  So nice try.  Little Miss Unsubscribe.