Tear Off the Filter and Smoke It Like a Man

Last Friday, after the election day love tap from the louder and more baffled sectors of the electorate,  the President met with Congressional leaders for a power lunch, to determine where things go from here. 

 

What the Prez said: 

 

"Compromise". "Bi-Partisanship". "Work Together".

 

The hell with that. Tried it. Six years ago. Eight years ago. Two years ago. Didn't work. The Republicans gave the Tea Party chimps the car keys, and floored the accelerator. 

 

So fuck nicety. You can't reason with those assholes. No sense wasting breath. Prez needs to ditch the Emily Post routine, and just drop the hammer: 

 

"Everybody comfortable? Got a drink? Some cookies, maybe a protein bar? Alright...let's get down to business. 


First of all, let's remember one thing...I got more votes by myself than ALL of you motherfuckers put together. You MIGHT want to keep that shit in mind. 


Second...see this? It's a pen...MY motherfuckin' pen. It can initiate executive actions, and it can veto your foolishness, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it. It's called CHECKS AND BALANCES, motherfuckers, and it means I'm swinging the biggest dick in the room right now. And it ain't going to shrink for two more goddamn years.


Third...McConnell...what the fuck are you grinning about?  You got your nuts wedged in a car door, and Cruz over there is just aching to swing it shut. You think I'm going to let "compromise" get in the way of him slamming the goddamn thing? 


HELL, no...I'ma let that batshit crazy son of a rat-fucker loose. I want every one of that clown's supporters, every goddamn one, to wake up every day, turn over, kiss his cousin 'good morning', then start stewing about the fact that there's a coon loose in the White House.  


You understand that, Cruz? I want them to feel that shit, every goddamn day. Every fuckin' minute of it. Let that fact sink in and burn the hair right off their shriveled-up, uneven, lily-goddamn-white scrotes. I'm here, in the same office where once sat that addled fuck Reagan. And there ain't a goddamn thing they can do about it.    


Hear that, Mitch? I'ma see to it that you have a million-peckerwood army screaming for your scalp if you so much as smile at my ass with "compromise" in your heart. 


So you throw your bullshit around, all you want...make 'em think you're using me like one of those three-dollar Kentucky whores you use to kick-start your husbandly duties. I don't give a fuck what those three-toed troglodytes think...just let 'em go off and be happy, and slurp possum rectums, or whatever the hell you hillbillies do.  


But, goddamn it, when the rubber hits the road, you be prepared to play ball MY way, motherfucker. You want to keep your bullshit position, you come at me with your hat in your hand. You toe the goddamn line, and you don't even THINK about reaching for something you know you can't get.

 

Otherwise, I'm gonna slap my arm around your shoulder, grin like we're old circle-jerk buddies, and see to it that the photo is sent to every goddamn penny-ante "Weekly Shopper" in every red state in the Country. 


'My MAN!', the caption is gonna read. In great, big, bold, black letters. 


'Compromise'? That means Mitch is going to toe the line...or I'm going to split your party, son.


If it don't fuck things up on it's own. 


So stop sitting there, with that stupid smile, drooling like a syphilitic turtle, and get your scrawny ass in gear. 


Finally...Boehner...you crying, orange motherfucker. What is it with this "playing with fire" and "gonna get burned" rhetoric?


Bitch, you ain't doing shit. You couldn't even control goofy fucks like Daniel Issa or Louie Gohmert...hell, you had Michelle Bachmann running wild in the idiot fields, and you couldn't handle her lame ass. Hell, Eric Cantor gave you fits, and that little fuck couldn't even get re-elected. 


Now you want to thump your concave chest and threaten ME, motherfucker? 


Bring it, punk ass. Bring along your big brother Mitch, if that makes you feel good. Bring Rance Priebus and the whole goddamn RNC. 


I'll pull your goddamn assholes inside out, and feed 'em to the feral cats on Pennsylvania Avenue. 


Now, ya'll get the FUCK outta here, and let me finish cleaning up the mess you bitches left.

 

Oh, and tell Lindsey Graham that the next time he swishes his whiny ass back into town from Carolina, bring me a carton of Newports. You bitches are intensifying my nicotine cravings."

 

Now...That is a compromise I can get behind. 

 

 

Like us on Facebook and become enlightened. Or some such shit.