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Wednesday, July 30, 2008

A Special Message From John McCain

My friends, when I said a few months back that I would run a dignified, honorable campaign against my opponent, I had no idea that people would remember that down the road. I barely remember what I had for breakfast, but it's usually oatmeal. These people with The Goggle on those internets, they bring up this old stuff we were all supposed to have forgotten by now. I don't think that's fair. Who cares if I said 100 years or 10,000 years before? Now I'm saying 16 months, but Maliki's 16 months, not Obama's 16 months. Fuck it, it's done when I say I want it to be done.

It's Mother Nature's practical joke on men that as the hair on our heads thins out and disappears, it shows up everywhere else in bunches. I had no idea my ass could get so hairy; every time I take a dump and go to wipe, it's like trying to get peanut butter out of a shag carpet. You just gotta run the bidet for about ten minutes and hope for the best. My campaign is a lot like that.

The thing is that it turns out to be a bit more difficult than I expected, to run on premises of "change" and "big ideas" when neither one is really on the table. But folks, the simple fact is that if my opponent would stop hating the troops, would stop babbling like a retard in the presence of foreign leaders, would stop flashing his snatch in public, losing custody of his kids to K-Fed, and hanging out with Nicole Richie, I'd stop picking on him. But he continues to do those things, so I will continue to hold them against him, even though Cindy was a Simple Life fan from day one. I myself did not really get it.

I do not think America needs a president whose life is a well-known celebricircus, and who is coddled and pampered by the media like I wish I could be. Otherwise, we might as well just vote for one of The Two Coreys. I can never tell those two apart, but one of them does that Sunglasses at Night song that I do sometimes for Senate karaoke night. And the day Ted Stevens' Tainted Love fails to make me pitch an old man tent in my undergarments is the day I give all this up, my friends. One thing I know about those Coreys is that their antics would have gotten them killed in the Hanoi Hilton. Charlie doesn't do rehab.

Bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran.

And what my esteemed and unspeakably naïve opponent fails to realize is that it's a world full of Charlies out there, waiting to fuck your shit up just for bombing a few villages. Iran is Charlie Central right now, a Third World butthole that poses an imminent existential threat to us. The only thing standing between this Imadinnerjacket fellow and domination of the region is a few hundred Israeli nukes and the promise of American backup.

Only a fresh-off-the-turnip-truck dipshit like my honorable opponent would fail to recognize the unique mortal peril Iran, with its vehemently pro-American populace and regional self-interests, presents to us at this late hour. The only thing these people understand is a swift kick in the ass, and I promise you, my friends, that I am a giant foot, and I will drop a bunion on them that will set them straight.

That reminds me. Have you heard the one about the Iranian terrorist who tried to blow up a bus? He burned his lips on the exhaust pipe.

And my distinguished rival, who lets out big ol' wet beer farts in his commie church and tells his fellow congregants to "smell the change comin'", is as treacherously ignorant about domestic policy as he is about foreign policy. He doesn't seem to understand the success of the current monetary policy we have, that the only way to make sure that there is a class of people who will pay twenty or fifty grand to have a rubber-chicken dinner with me at some glamorous hotel, is to make sure that they remain obscenely wealthy enough to have that kind of money to throw away.

My friends, it is quite a tribute to our greatness and opportunity that a small, insular class of people with their own systems of education and health care can come to a fundraiser and drop three to ten times what the average Joe makes in a year. Only by maintaining our return to Gilded Age levels of economic disparity can we insure that millionaire hedge-fund managers can sink and loot mortgage funds and send their kids to prep school. This is important, at least as important as keeping those towelheads in line.

They say that Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's momma is so fat, she uses pillowcases for socks. I nailed a huge chick like that once on leave in Subic Bay, a 400-pound Filipino broad. It was like throwing a hot dog down a hallway made of sweaty cookie dough.

Rock the Casbah, rock the Casbah.

In conclusion, my friends, let me just say that I have all the respect in the world for my opponent's integrity and love for his country. I just don't get why he has a Che Guevara poster above his bed, or why he sired a quadroon love child at the Playboy Mansion last summer. But that's the business of him and that wife of his, and I suppose these questions are for you, friends, to resolve at the ballot box. I have every faith that you will make the right choice, especially when I blow your minds and grit my teeth, and pick Jesus as my running mate. Let's see the Appeaseocrats top that one. This is Johnny Mac's time to shine!

I'm John McCain, and I approve this message.

2 comments:

Kimberly said...

You realize it's going to take DAYS of drinking straight vodka to get that first image out of my head, right?

funny article otherwise, but damn..

Marius said...

Bravo, Heywood. You've outdone yourself, man. Four hundred elbees of sweaty cookie dough--damn, dude!