Disqualified Death’s Head Commences Vomit Launch

His mind is clear, but his soul is mad.

—Apocalypse Now

The Clintons—Clinton I, Clinton II, and now even Clinton III, for, yea, verily, Chelsea too has recently announced she, yes, will seek public office—are not mad, exactly.

At least not until recently.

But there has always been something deeply Wrong about them. They are yahoos, okies, nutbagnobodies, who always felt they were as good as everybody else—which is fine—but the way that has manifested is by them trying to clamber into the Midsummer Night’s nest of Titania.

That, it has never really worked. For, even through Pucked Oberon’s enchantment, Titania—and, by extension, all we awake and aware rest—have always perceived the Clintons for what, at root, they are. Asses. Humans with heads of donkeys. Shitting in the nest. Braying. Trying to run off with some jewel or other.

Just as Eric Hothem, whom the disqualified death’s-head of Clinton II nicked, under the name “Eric Hoteham,” to mask her bunker email kerfuhrer, served the Clinton Royals as once and future bagman and madthief, paying hush-money to a Clinton I brother, to keep his mouth shut, and wheeling onto the Ryder trucks White House furniture the Clinton Royals had decided was really Theirs, and not the American people’s.

Maybe once upon a time, way back there, Clinton I, and Clinton II, they wanted to do something for The People. But all and every that they have every demonstrably done, has been for themselves.

Anyone who has become even glancingly subsumed in history will instantly recognize such people: dynastic families, richly interested only in nutsperpetuating each other. Moving kin, from throne to throne.

The Clintons are shit-kicking ur-humans who at the county fair somehow or other fantastically grabbed the brass ring and then through bad twisted magic rode that right into the castle.

And never will they let that go.

For this piece I gathered for weeks numberless articles about Clinton II’s “fuck you” email system at the Department of State, but I no longer feel inclined to go anywhere near such, for such but plays only into these people’s hands.

For they love to get you all lawyerly, all factorly, all newsily, where they can forever lose you, in a fog of dancing (naked, in Bill’s case), around about what “is” is. That is what they do.

Speak as example this piece from the veteran Clinton-fellator Laurence Lewis (like all Clinton-loyalists, nutsLewis is a deeply dishonest man: in 2007-2008, on Daily Kos, he consistently and repeatedly lied he had that year no preferred presidential candidate [this because Clinton II was not on that site “kool,” and it is so desperately important to Lewis, as it is to anyone who, like he, has no centered soul, to be “kool”]; then in February of 2008, when the Kos site had clearly swung to Obama, Lewis flounced off to peddle his flaccid wares to other sites, where he belatedly admitted his allegiance to Clinton II; then, past January 2009, once Obama had been inaugurated, Herr Lewis immediately returned to Daily Kos, to indefatigably and repeatedly thrust knives into The Black Man’s back).

In the above-linked “Clinton II Is Totawwy Innocent!” piece Lewis twists and turns and swallows and upchucks and cites ceaselessly to fellow true-believer vomit-launchers like David “I Once Made Money From Hating Clinton II But Now Make Money Loving Her, In This I Am The Opposite Of The Toe-Sucker Dick Morris, Who Once Made Money Loving Her, But Now Makes Money Hating Her; Basically ha haWe are Both The Same” Brock, and ineffably boring pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floor of sunless seas blogger “Woman! Woman! President! Woman! Woman!” Heather Parton.

These people cannot write; they are all asleep. In their fitful, febrile dreams, they are Crowned, as Clinton II is Crowned, swept into the castle, to serve there as perfect bleating sheep.

Being asleep, they are not awake to the fact that Clinton II is, these days, stone mad.

That the plain truth barking mad fact of the matter transcends all the lawyerly, newsily, factorly “is” is pinhead dancing: the woman has quite simply drifted loose of her moorings, is out of her gourd.

Which is the Purpose and Meaning of the photographs of the disqualified death’s head Clinton II scattered in this piece up and down the line.

Look at the eyes.

Woman needs to be in a white house. But not that on Pennsylvania Avenue. More like that on Alabama Avenue.

In psychic world, one learns that living humans, especially those consumed of ambition, are easy prey for “beings”—disincarnated souls disinclined to move on out into the great wide open, but instead intent on occupying living bodies, to there fuck up all and every.

The photographs reproduced in this piece, the first four taken from Clinton rightII’s “fuck you email” press conference, display to anyone with discernment that this woman is packed with beings.

She is these days but a shell, transporting a load of dead and dead-bent fuckwads. Ready to rumble.

Her twin, Bush III, who is combined with Clinton II in the strange and unusual Bushton body, he is the same. Angry, the beings in this paunchy motherfucker. Ready to bomb some shit. Just Because.

Fortunately, neither one of these bad-sperm stone-mad dynastic rejects is going to move into the White House.

Lord knows what sort of freak or geek the American people will select in their stead. But that they shall select neither Clinton II, nor Bush III: for this, we may get down on our knees, and pray.

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