Dickblog


Thank Jesus, the Boss is finally starting his speech. One more second of small talk with this dago commie and I'd pull my pacemaker out with my bare hands. I mean holy fuck, how can she think I'd want to talk about home gardening? And on a night like this? What straight guy knows what an azalea even is?

That's her problem right there. San Francisco. Too much time hanging out with the gays. They've obviously influenced her agenda. And her hairstyle. That's a dyke-job if I ever saw one.

And I know from homos. I got one in my own family. Raised her myself. And yet somehow they love this guinea princess with her whole family of breeders and me with my queer kid can't set foot in the Bay Area without worrying about getting stones thrown at us. I guess it's lucky for us those limp-wristed sissies throw exactly like limp-wristed sissies or I'd be in real trouble.

OK, let's get this speech on the road so we can vamoose up out of this bitch. I ain't comfortable. All these Democrats. It's like a fuckin' May Day parade on Red Square in here, I swear to God. Nothing left in Congress but hippies and appeasers.

Oh, hey, nice touch playing to the crowd acknowledging Pelosi. Political expediency, OK. Just a few choice... just a... for fuck's sake, let's move forward. She's got a vagina. We know. Yada yada, Madam Speaker, etc. All this time spent "honoring" her and her "accomplishment" of being born lacking a Y chromosome. Fine. Hey, I bet I'm next though. He wouldn't spend all this time talking to her and then totally ignore me, the guy who got him here.

Oh here it comes. Suck in the gut, Dick, he's gonna say something. Get the hand ready to be shook right here in front of every...

Motherfucker. Not even a shotgun joke. Asshole.

He'll get his. I'll make sure he knows. When we get back to the office: Pow! Zoom! Straight to the moon, Georgie Boy. Big Time don't get passed over by no one. No one. I can get blood on this suit. Wouldn't be the first time.

Come on, just fast forward all this shit. Same speech we gave in '01. Promise new fuels, save the poor kids, give health care to invalids and shut-ins, blah blah blah. There's some strong fiscal planning right there. Extend the lives of people who we'd be better off without, using money we could be spending building statues to me in Tehran. What we need is to a program where we hook these old cripples up with a guy with sturdy forearms and a pillow.

Ooh! Iraq! Here it comes, bitches. Get ready for the doors to be blown off this mug. And... standing O in three... two... one...

Oh shit.

Fuckin' Larry the Cable Guy at the Apollo.

Somebody give him the wrap signal, for Christ's sake, before these heathens rise up and eat us. I ain't gonna be no meat-a-ball in Mamma Saccovanzetti here's Executive Branch rigatoni. Big Time ain't goin' out like that. I incline my head just the right way and a guy in the fourteenth sub-basement of the Pentagon gets the signal to light this whole room up with a hundred thousand pounds of ordnance.

That's real power right there. They don't know. What's she got, a gavel? Big gay hammer, that's all that is. She can't touch Big Time. Nobody can touch Big Time.

I hate nights like this. All this reception means is that I’m going to be busy tomorrow setting up some serious shit.

Man, all I know is Lynne better be limbering up. I'm going to be in the mood to humiliate something. And Tim Russert won't take my calls no more.
- posted by Pops @ 9:20 AM