Okay, for the record, I definitely feel bad for the folks who knew the stakes, voted accordingly, are going to lose their health care coverage -- and possibly, you know, their lives or their kids' lives -- because of a smattering of angry rust-belt retards.
But let's not take the bait on worrying about how many Drumpfkins are going to lose their coverage. Seriously. It's barely worth reporting, much less showing concern. Fuck them, every last one of them. Fuck their black lungs and slipped discs and groaning knees. Fuck their congested hearts and rotted colons and the limbs they lost to type-π dia-beet-us.
I don't "like" or "hate" these people, I simply don't care about them. At all. I don't care if their jobs come back. I don't care if they've lived quiet lives of desperation for too long and have just given up out of frustration. I don't care if their unemployed, thirty-year-old, five-kids-by-four-guys-in-six-years daughters are whoring themselves on Craigslist for oxy and fentanyl. They've made themselves clear, they made their choice, are being unbelievably insufferable about it, and deserve everything they're about to get.
They can live on cat food and wipe their worthless asses with their "Fuck Your Feelings" t-shirts for all I care. It has nothing to do with their race or economic status or regional accents or even political beliefs, to the extent that they have any of the latter; it has everything to do with the fact that it was more important to them to fuck over the caricatured fag libruls of their fever dreams, than to pay attention and simply not vote for the most transparent caricature of a con-man carny imaginable.
I tried vainly not to listen to a perfect example of this the other night, as my wife and I tried to enjoy our anniversary dinner at a decent restaurant. There's nothing like listening to the drunken cunt at the next table, sauced from a pre-dinner visit to the bar, ramble on and on and fucking on about the "dream team" Clownstick was assembling, while her husband haggled with the waitress over the check (and ultimately stiffed her on the tip, natch).
While it was mildly entertaining trying to simultaneously tune her out and to pick up what she was struggling to slur about Griss Griszdy (hic!), the only satisfaction to be had, watching her and her henpecked spouse lurch toward the exit with perfect timing (i.e., just as our food arrived), was in knowing the likely outcome for a fiftyish, hard-living female. Not being quite old enough to get away with her stupidity like some of these worthless rubes, and jump on Medicare just when Dear Leader cuts them off from Obammycare, she'll likely face the consequences of an adulthood spent smoking and drinking (you can generally tell) sooner rather than later.
Or not. I honestly don't care either way, but I also don't want to see any bullshit pity pieces when it happens. And since they are hellbent for leather in making sure everyone is held accountable for their dumb life decisions and poor impulse controls, this seems like a perfect opportunity to hold them to that.
We all know who they'll blame and won't blame. Doesn't matter. Fuck them. When the numbers are run in a few years, and they're dropping like flies, tired from all that winning they were promised, I will fucking vote for more Clownstick, just to make sure these dopey motherfuckers either learn their goddamned lesson, or are no longer around to fuck their country over out of pure spite and stupidity.
Fuck. Them. Stop trying to figure them out, stop trying to win them over. Rationality does not work with irrational people. You want to be compassionate, save it for someone or something that deserves it, go volunteer at your local animal shelter, donate to Planned Parenthood, plant a tree. It's wasted on these dopes. If they saw you dying in the road, they'd swerve their coal-roller at you.
[Update 11/30/16 10:10 PST: Speaking of crazy Clownstick-voting cunts. The asteroid can't hit soon enough.]
But let's not take the bait on worrying about how many Drumpfkins are going to lose their coverage. Seriously. It's barely worth reporting, much less showing concern. Fuck them, every last one of them. Fuck their black lungs and slipped discs and groaning knees. Fuck their congested hearts and rotted colons and the limbs they lost to type-π dia-beet-us.
I don't "like" or "hate" these people, I simply don't care about them. At all. I don't care if their jobs come back. I don't care if they've lived quiet lives of desperation for too long and have just given up out of frustration. I don't care if their unemployed, thirty-year-old, five-kids-by-four-guys-in-six-years daughters are whoring themselves on Craigslist for oxy and fentanyl. They've made themselves clear, they made their choice, are being unbelievably insufferable about it, and deserve everything they're about to get.
They can live on cat food and wipe their worthless asses with their "Fuck Your Feelings" t-shirts for all I care. It has nothing to do with their race or economic status or regional accents or even political beliefs, to the extent that they have any of the latter; it has everything to do with the fact that it was more important to them to fuck over the caricatured fag libruls of their fever dreams, than to pay attention and simply not vote for the most transparent caricature of a con-man carny imaginable.
I tried vainly not to listen to a perfect example of this the other night, as my wife and I tried to enjoy our anniversary dinner at a decent restaurant. There's nothing like listening to the drunken cunt at the next table, sauced from a pre-dinner visit to the bar, ramble on and on and fucking on about the "dream team" Clownstick was assembling, while her husband haggled with the waitress over the check (and ultimately stiffed her on the tip, natch).
While it was mildly entertaining trying to simultaneously tune her out and to pick up what she was struggling to slur about Griss Griszdy (hic!), the only satisfaction to be had, watching her and her henpecked spouse lurch toward the exit with perfect timing (i.e., just as our food arrived), was in knowing the likely outcome for a fiftyish, hard-living female. Not being quite old enough to get away with her stupidity like some of these worthless rubes, and jump on Medicare just when Dear Leader cuts them off from Obammycare, she'll likely face the consequences of an adulthood spent smoking and drinking (you can generally tell) sooner rather than later.
Or not. I honestly don't care either way, but I also don't want to see any bullshit pity pieces when it happens. And since they are hellbent for leather in making sure everyone is held accountable for their dumb life decisions and poor impulse controls, this seems like a perfect opportunity to hold them to that.
We all know who they'll blame and won't blame. Doesn't matter. Fuck them. When the numbers are run in a few years, and they're dropping like flies, tired from all that winning they were promised, I will fucking vote for more Clownstick, just to make sure these dopey motherfuckers either learn their goddamned lesson, or are no longer around to fuck their country over out of pure spite and stupidity.
Fuck. Them. Stop trying to figure them out, stop trying to win them over. Rationality does not work with irrational people. You want to be compassionate, save it for someone or something that deserves it, go volunteer at your local animal shelter, donate to Planned Parenthood, plant a tree. It's wasted on these dopes. If they saw you dying in the road, they'd swerve their coal-roller at you.
[Update 11/30/16 10:10 PST: Speaking of crazy Clownstick-voting cunts. The asteroid can't hit soon enough.]
3 comments:
Wow. Just wow, Haywood.
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