Archive for November 4th, 2017

Former DNC Chair Describes Clinton II Woman As Moron Made Of Wood, Reeking Of Death

Former Democratic National Committee head Donna Brazile has published a book in which she describes the Clinton II woman during the 2016 presidential campaign as a moron made of wood, reeking of death.

Brazile paints a scathing portrait of Clinton as a candidate whose campaign was badly mismanaged, took minority constituencies for Democratic Presidential Candidates Debate At Dartmouthgranted, and made blunders with “stiff” and “stupid” messages. The campaign was so lacking in passion for the candidate, she writes, that its New York headquarters felt like a sterile hospital ward where “someone had died.”

Brazile writes she knew the campaign was Doomed when she realized the staff wasn’t fucking, and discovered that out in the country there was about as much enthusiasm for the Clinton II woman as for a double root canal.

As she traveled the country, Brazile writes, she detected an alarming lack of enthusiasm for Clinton. On black radio stations, few people defended the nominee. In Hispanic neighborhoods, the only Clinton signs she saw were at the campaign field offices.

But at headquarters in New York, the mood was one of “self-satisfaction and inevitability,” and Brazile’s early reports of trouble were dismissed with “a condescending tone.”

Brazile describes the 10th floor of Clinton’s Brooklyn headquarters, where senior staff worked: “Calm and antiseptic, like a hospital. It had that techno-hush, as if someone had died. I felt like I should whisper. Everybody’s fingers were on their keyboards, and no one was looking at anyone else. You half-expected to see someone in a lab coat walk by.”

During one visit, she writes, she thought of a question former Democratic congressman Tony Coelho used to ask her about campaigns: “Are the kids having sex? Are they having fun? If not, let’s create something to get that going, or otherwise we’re not going to win.”

“I didn’t sense much fun or fucking in Brooklyn,” she deadpans.

She confirms that Clinton II campaign chief Rooby Mook was a numbnuts bumbler who sat around all day in his male harem wanking with numbers in tubes, even as out in the Mongo regions legions of shambling, grunting MongoRoids were preparing to knuckledrag out of every haint and holler to plunge the country into the Dark Ages.

Mongo Declares Gonad-Grabbing “Freedom Of Expression”

Mongo has decreed that when he walks up to women to “grab ’em by the pussy,” he is engaging in “freedom of expression,” a right guaranteed by the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.

This assertion is included in a new court filing that also maintains that when Mongo publicly damns as liars the legions of women he has violently sexually assaulted, he is merely expressing “a political opinion,” likewise protected by the First Amendment.

Summer Zervos, one of some 56,678 women Mongo has over the years wantonly Weinsteined, is suing Mongo for defamation. This is because Mongo repeatedly and publicly called her a liar, after she stated that when she sought a job at his company, Mongo grabbed her and kissed her and mauled her DNEK0x5U8AAtjkX.jpg-largebreasts with his micro-fingers—which is Mongo’s standard interviewing technique for female job applicants (so long as the women do not manifest melanin).

Mongo is represented by Mark Halfwitz, a malpractitioning tosspot who has disgraced the practice of law for decades on behalf of Mongo. He is the genius who ham-handed Mongo’s libel suit against Timothy O’Brien, after O’Brien maintained in print that Mongo is in no way a billionaire, his actual income in truth closer to that of a wharf rat peddling Sterno in an alley. Halfwitz not only lost the suit, but allowed Mongo to sit for a deposition wherein O’Brien’s lawyers extracted from Mongo admissions that on more than thirty separate occasions he had deliberately lied like a dog.

Halfwitz formerly represented Mongo in the lifelong sexual predator’s futile pursuit to prove he is not a Rooski. But Halfwitz was heaved out of that clown car when he went wild on whiskey and started screaming at strangers in email. Among the many wise and considered legal arguments Halfwitz sent into the tubes were:

Fuck you. I’m on you now. You are fucking with me now. Let’s see who you are. Watch your back, bitch. Call me. You are such a piece of shit. Don’t be afraid, you piece of shit. Stand up. If you don’t call, you’re just afraid. I already know where you live. I’m on you. You might as well call me. You will see me. I promise.

This is actually common Mongo-lawyer communication. For instance, another longtime Mongo mouthpiece, Michael Cohen, towards a publication that reported, correctly, that Mrs. Mongo Vol. I had stated in a sworn deposition that Mongo had raped and assaulted her, sprayed the following rabies:

I will make sure that you and I meet one day while we’re in the courthouse. And I will take you for every penny you still don’t have. And I will come after your Daily Beast and everybody else that you possibly know. So I’m warning you, tread very fucking lightly, because what I’m going to do to you is going to be fucking disgusting. You understand me?

You write a story that has Mr. Trump’s name in it, with the word rape, and I’m going to mess your life up for as long as you’re on this frickin’ planet. You’re going to have judgments against you, so much money, you’ll never know how to get out from underneath it.

Cohen was never considered for inclusion in the clown car of shysters wanking impotently to prove Mongo is not a Rooski, because Cohen is himself a man Rooski radioactive, and everyone, even among the Mongos, knows he is going to go into the penitentiary.

The Mongo Is Not A Rooski clown car is currently steered by Abbott and Costello, dimbulbs given to frequenting restaurants infested with journalists, there to grouse loudly that other lawdogs in the clown car are feloniously concealing documents from the Muellers.


How I Learned I Am A Lesbian

I’m a newly single, 34-year-old lesbian, and I have a list of relationship deal breakers. I keep it on my phone, where an alarm reminds me to reread it each month. On this list are 49 (so far) personality or lifestyle traits I now know, from excruciating experience, that I’m so unwilling to negotiate—they can kill even the sweetest, most tender bud on the vine of romance.

After a particularly bad date this year, I went to a bar with a friend. We laughed as she read the list aloud and joked about adding pettier items to it (wears Keen sandals to a first date/can’t come up with a thomasina3single hobby besides “hanging out with my friends”).

We were tipsy by the time she got to No. 29: “Loves cats and has a cat that only lives inside/has more than one cat.”

Her voice faltered on this item. I took a sip of my cocktail. My friend looked up at me.

“You’re going to die alone,” she said.

It’s important to keep blunt people in your life. She’s right. I’ve long since accepted it. I’m a lesbian who hates cats, and I am going to die alone.

Do you know who mostly owns cats? Women. Queers. Not all women, and not all queers, obviously, but go on, I dare you—try being queer and hating cats and looking online for dates. So many queers on Tinder or Her or OkCupid are obsessed with their cats. Sometimes they will post pictures of their cats as their only profile picture. The picture they want to show to prospective lovers as representative of who they are? A tabby wrapped in a blanket.

Even if there’s no cat picture on their profile, even if you meet that rare someone who doesn’t show you cat pictures on their phone immediately on your first date, nine times out of 10, you will walk in their front door and see a haughty, fluffy tail moving away from you. “Oh, that’s Shadow,” your new date will say. “I got her with my ex. Watch out when you go around corners—she likes to play-attack.”

I am consistently amazed at the number of people who think it’s cute to be pounced on in the dark, in your own home, by something with razor-wire claws.

Cats go to the bathroom in a box inside your house, kick their own feces, which can be riddled with nasty viruses, and then hop on counters where food is being prepared or wander lazily on dining room tables, where food is served and eaten. People seem fine with this. People I cannot date.

Cats get litter between their toes and track it all over the house, so the pleasure of being barefoot is ruined at every gross, gravelly step. If you are dating someone who allows their cat in bed with them, then see above: Cats kick their own feces, so now there is both cat litter and cat feces in the bed. The bed is where sex and sleeping happen, by the way—important activities to share with someone you’re dating.

I’ve often wondered why women and queers love cats so much, and in the end, I think it might be this: It’s possible we’ve been conditioned to love and perform labor for creatures that don’t necessarily love us back, care about our needs and may even wish us ill. Like all of us in the dating world, intrigued by the person who doesn’t want us but is terribly, terribly cute and elusive and gives us just enough hope to continue the pursuit.

Krista Burton

When I Worked

November 2017
« Oct   Dec »