It is Known that the 2012 Republican candidates for the presidency are pseudo-humans, bred and/or assembled by extraterrestrial beings, who have decided that it is fun, for them, to mess with the American electoral process.
Yesterday GOoPer voters in New Hampshire trudged to the polls to cast ballots for one or more of these pseudo-humans. It was expected that Captain Underpants, also known as Mitt Romney, would finish first in the contest. And he did. Of primary interest to those afflicted with a perverse need to follow this extraterrestrially-controlled road show, was the question of whether, when the results were in, The Grub, a.k.a Rick Santorum, would in New Hampshire maintain his position as latest favorite among those GOoPers who cannot bring themselves to vote for Romney.
The nation’s Republicans do not really want to select Romney as their nominee. At last week’s Iowa caucuses, Romney received the same percentage of the vote as he had in 2008. In that year, it was declared that he had been beaten like a gong, as Mike Huckabee finished first, with 34% of the vote; Romney trailed with 25%. This year, also with 25% of the vote, Romney finished first, and was therefore deemed the “winner.” But the sad fact is that Romney actually received fewer votes in 2012 than he did in 2008—30,021 in 2008, to 30,015 in 2012. What this means is that after devoting four years and tens of millions of dollars to wooing Iowa voters, Romney failed utterly to convince any new people to be for him. Several of his former supporters, in fact, drifted away. He is like a boy who spent the entire four years of high school doggedly working to secure a date for the senior prom, and in the end came up empty. He is the very definition of “loser.”
Mitt Romney will never be president. The American people are capable of many things, but not of elevating to the highest office in the land a man whose feet have been screwed on backwards, whose ass is where his crotch should be, and who has had all the bones sucked out of his arms. He is like a rag doll sewn by inebriates. Further, he is petulant, and whiny, and has for decades retained on the payroll an Italian who does nothing but fuss over his hair. He made his fortune robbing people, and, in a nation where vast quantities of humans cannot obtain or maintain a job, he recently pronounced that he feels great joy when firing people. “I like to be able to fire people,” he said, in perhaps the most deranged public utterance from a political figure since Chauncey Gardiner’s immortal “I like to watch.”
There is also the matter of the underwear. Romney refuses absolutely to shed, under any circumstances, special undergarments that he believes his deity decrees that he wear at all times. Many bizarre charges have been leveled against Barack Obama, but never has it been alleged that he is a devotee of Abakua, an all-male Afro-Cuban religious outfit which commands the faithful never to expose their bare behinds to anyone, even when making love. Captain Underpants is basically a milquetoast whitebread variant on these people.
The farm animal, more conventionally known as Rick Perry, will never be selected as an alternative to Captain Underpants. At least not by the GOoPers of New Hampshire. Because too many of those folks possess sentience. And Perry simply does not appeal to such people. New Hampshire GOoPers are old-style Republicans, worried first and foremost about their money, and how to keep it out of the hands of the government, which they fear will fling it freely to winos. Since Perry is himself a wino, New Hampshire GOoPers want nothing to do with him.
Understanding this, the farm animal more or less wholly skipped the New Hampshire contest, concentrating instead on the January 21 primary in South Carolina. GOoPer voters there are new-style Republicans, people who, once abed, toss and turn and sweat and swear each night, because a black man has somehow taken up residence in the White House. Rick Perry, a man who for many years owned a ranch featuring a large rock reading “Niggerhead,” is their sort of fellow.
When the Iowa results returned, and Perry learned state voters considered even Mitt Romney to be Stud Godly when compared to him, he convened a press conference to low mournfully that he would be returning to Texas to “reassess” his candidacy.
Everyone expected the farm animal would from Texas announce that he was leaving the race, as earlier had the goose, Michele Bachmann, who once upon a time had been the darling of the teabaggers who form the core of the nation’s Republican Party. Like the baggers, Bachmann is obsessed with the presence of a Communist Kenyan Negro in the White House. But in the end she could not retain bagger support. Because, over the course of the campaign, the baggers discovered that she is batshit insane. When the results were in, less than 5% of Iowans cast ballots for this functional equivalent of Brigadier General Jack D. Ripper. And so she gabbled goofily off, into that good night.
Before the farm animal reached Texas, he unexpectedly squeezed out a twit, in which he opined that perseverance furthers, and that he fully intended to remain a candidate. His twit included the photo reprinted above, which purports to show him in some sort of running suit. However, he looks to me more like Scuba Man. As if he is preparing to search the underwater wreckage of a Spanish galleon, or perhaps clean out a septic tank.
Most people were confused by the farm animal’s sudden reversal of course. But not readers of this blog. For they are aware that a supermassive black hole has taken up residence in Perry’s head. This hole means that whenever the Perry brain forms a thought, it can be immediately and forcefully sucked away, never to be retained or returned. The farm animal simply didn’t remember that he intended to leave the race. The black hole swallowed all knowledge of this decision.
When he resurfaced, after his Scuba twit, the farm animal was at a firing range in Texas.
He put out a twit about that, too.
Twits are really made for farm animals like Perry. Because they are limited to 144 characters. And some day, black hole willing, Perry may even dimly command that many characters.
“Just relaxing a bit @ Red’s Range before we leave for New Hampshire!” twitted the twit.
The farm animal has several times, out on the trail, fondly referred to his “long love affair” with firearms.
“It was a long love affair with a boy and his gun,” spake this pseudo-human, the unsuccessful result of a Moreau-like experiment involving crossing a man with a steer, an experiment pursued by unknown extraterrestrials. “That turned into a man and his gun. And it turned into a man and his son and his daughter and their guns. It’s, I think, one of the great American traditions.”
Sure. Incest and firearms. That’s a “great American tradition,” all right. Among Ma Barker and such-like.
What it is that The Grub thinks about the farm animal’s erotic involvement with firearms is not definitively known, but he certainly can’t be pleased with it. For the Grub has made it abundantly clear that he countenances only that love that is cabined to marriage, and that is expressed via ejaculation in an act intended to create a new Catholic.
The Grub is in fact in this campaign primarily to downpress pleasure. That is his single issue. Pleasure that is decoupled from babymaking is anathema, and must be Stopped. In a Grub administration, all contraception devices will be seized and heaved into bunkers, which will then be obliterated with flamethrowers.
Spake The Grub:
One of the things I will talk about that no president has talked about before is I think the dangers of contraception in this country. The whole sexual libertine idea[.]
Many in the Christian faith have said: “Well, contraception’s okay.”
It’s not okay, because it’s a license to do things in the sexual realm that is counter to how things are supposed to be. They’re supposed to be within marriage, for purposes that are, yes, conjugal, but also procreative. That’s the perfect way that a sexual union should happen.
We take any part of that out, we diminish the act. And if you can take one part out that’s not for purposes of procreation, that’s not one of the reasons, then you diminish this very special bond between men and women.
And all of a sudden, it becomes deconstructed to the point where it’s simply pleasure.
He is a nutbar. He is like a religious maniac who just stumbled off the Mayflower, enraptured by a whole new world where he can distribute Scarlet Letters. He emerged from Iowa the favored son of Republicans who will not vote for Mitt Romney.
On the great wheel of fortune, no human, in any field or endeavor, remains atop for long. But in the great extraterrestrial GOoPer presidential extravaganza of 2012, the top slot has turned over with fantastic speed. It is like they are working on a warp drive. Within a matter of but some weeks, favored non-Romney status has been conferred upon the goose, the pizza topping, the farm animal, Rugs, The Bedbug, and The Grub.
Going into the Iowa caucuses, The Grub was such a non-entity that he had shortly before nearly been denied the opportunity to participate in one of the 3,489 debates featuring the GOoPer pseudo-humans. This is because he barely garnered 1% of the vote in national polls, the cutoff to ensure that people like Charles Manson, Captain Queeg, and Wile E. Coyote are not allowed onstage.
But when the Iowa results were in, The Grub had finished but 8 votes behind Captain Underpants. He was reborn.
The opposite fate had recently descended upon The Bedbug. This creature, also known as Newt Gingrich, had suddenly been yanked off the top of the wheel of fortune, and had a stake driven through his heart, courtesy of some $4 million in television ads broadcast throughout Iowa by friends of Captain Underpants. These ads scuttled The Bedbug’s candidacy by reminding voters of the truth about him. Reminded of these truths, self-evident, Iowa voters deserted him in droves. He was like a once-popular drum major caught feverishly masturbating under the bleachers, as he watched the cheerleaders work out.
These ads so enraged The Bedbug that he is now determined to go Vlad The Impaler, destroy Captain Underpants by any means necessary. He has even taken to denouncing Captain Underpants as a “vulture capitalist”; the farm animal, between black hole seizures, has taken to braying the same.
The unprecedented weirdness of Republicans attacking one another for making money hand over fist like good capitalists, this is so strange and unnatural that it caused Rush Limbaugh on Tuesday morning to put out a public call to all available maids, to deliver unto him as many Oxycodone as possible. For he wished to suffer a relapse.
Man, it’s going nuts out there. All these attacks on Romney, Bain Capital. Here we have capitalism being attacked by Republicans, capitalism under assault by Republicans.
That the Oxycodone was successfully delivered was evident later in the program, when Limbaugh was heard to hallucinate: “Occupy Wall Street was created by Obama specifically to campaign against Romney.”
When the New Hampshire results were in, they tracked nicely with that state’s old-style-GOoPer predilection for money.
Finishing first was Captain Underpants, who had in the private sector demonstrated that he would prefer that people die, rather than that he miss out on a penny. Rugs, known also as Ron Paul, came in second: he appeals to cranked-up GOoPers so concerned with currency that they don’t much believe in it unless it comes in gold, and who would cut off all ties to the outside world in the fear that, otherwise, little brown people might come here to steal all the money. Rugs’ convictions in these areas are so strong that many GOoPers are able to overlook that he is also a slave-holder and Hebrew-fearer who would Occupy Womb Street. And then in third there was Jon Huntsman, a sort of decent fellow who the Hampshiroids figured would look out for their money, without periodically entering a fugue state during which he would feel compelled to publicly display a fetus, or sink a rock reading “Niggerhead” into the White House lawn.
Hunstman peaked there in New Hampshire. He will never reach such heights again. Certainly not in South Carolina, site of the next GOoPer primary. For the GOoPers in that state are primarily driven by their fear and loathing of the black man, and Hunstman actually had the effrontery to work for him, serving as Obama’s ambassador to China. It is probable that on the day of the South Carolina primary, fewer people in that state will vote for Huntsman, than will have sex with animals.
The Bedbug, who finished fourth in New Hampshire, with but 9% of the vote, is hoping to resurrect himself in South Carolina; he has, after all, consistently hated black people longer than anyone else in the GOoPer field. The Grub, who came in fifth in New Hampshire, also with but 9% of the vote, is figuring he can secure votes from South Carolina’s many Jehovah fetishists. But he is, with these people, in truth doomed. Because such South Carolinians are primarily of that Protestant persuasion that separates “Christians” and “Catholics” as if they are two radically different forms of being. Too, The Grub has over his career been so singularly obsessed with the notion that no one should achieve orgasm unless it results in the birth of a new Catholic, that he has not devoted sufficient time to whomping on black people. The farm animal’s prayer is that the voters of South Carolina will elect to select not only a racist, but a racist who is dumb as a rock.
It is at present unknown, how long this extraterrestrial road show will go on. But it is inevitable that at some point Captain Underpants will emerge as the GOoPer nominee, and that he will then go on to be defeated by Barack Obama. Already happened.