Come January 20, 2009, we will be but one heartbeat away from a retard in the White House. Forget the imitation moron who currently inhabits 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue – I am talking about the first real-live, honest-to-goodness retard scampering, clawing, and defecating throughout the Oval Office and beyond, and yes, this takes into account at least the final six months of Reagan’s reign. John McCain, currently and seemingly a picture of health, that is, if one ignores the good portion of his mug that appears to have faced the hasty release of the Ark of the Covenant, is still an old man; really fucking old, in fact. Consequently, there’s a good chance that in the coming four years, he’ll go to bed one evening, receive a peck on his decaying, OPS-ridden cheek from his Stepford First Lady, and never wake up. Fuck it, man, the odds are in favor of just such a scenario, and it should send a collective shiver down our éclair-like spine that upon Iron John’s death, funeral procession, and burial, our Commander-in-Chief will be a former swimsuit model from Alaska, Sarah Palin, who loves life so darned much that she’ll cheerfully bring it into the world regardless of its ability to ever – and I mean EVER – tie its fucking shoes. That’s what we face, and as usual, the American people will speak with a commanding drool.
Let me reiterate: we are one heartbeat away from having a retard in the White House. No, this isn’t an episode of Saturday Night Live, and no, we are not on Candid Camera. Now officially beyond parody,
America is about to take the ultimate gamble: putting a retard in the White House. It’s bad enough that President Palin will have to interrupt cabinet meetings to breast feed – or actually pull out her tit during the meeting itself – but worst of all, the creature on the other end of that tit will be a knock-down, drag-out, shit-faced Downie. A droopy-eyed, hug-obsessed, brain-pureed retarded American of the most ridiculous vintage. While the world burns, cities flood, and terrorists storm the gates, matters will be put on hold while Madame President chases the little bugger around the Lincoln bedroom to make sure he doesn’t piss all over the ambassador from Italy. And did I mention the little bugger’s name is Trigger? By all means, saddle the half-wit with the name of
America’s most famous horse, Governor. Are you laughing yet? Wipe away those tears, my fellow citizens, because the circle is now complete. Follow the line closely, and you’ll see an uninterrupted chain from General Washington to Corky Palin, America’s Child. Songs, parades, and commemorative plates await, and let me be the first to pre-order the official replica plush toy.
I know, I know: now we root against all hope that McCain survives his term. Thrives, in fact. But we haven’t had a chief executive die in office for over forty years, and we’re decidedly overdue. It’s likely Grandpa will exceed JFK’s lightning-quick thousand days, but any more than that is asking the universe to show more compassion than usual. He’s as good as dead by his third year, and the cocktail waitress in seal fur is waiting in the wings. And when her snot-covered hand takes its position on the Holy Bible to be sworn in as our 45th President of the United States, the sound you hear will not be uncontrolled sobbing, but rather my deafening applause. Isn’t this the road
America’s been taking for at least a quarter-century? Didn’t we have to expect an unrestrained retard flailing like a tornado on the south lawn at some point in our political lives? Or a lumbering, gibberish-speaking maniac tearing the Rose Garden to shreds as mommy dearest shrugs absurdly, all while the sheepish press corps roars its cackling approval? Oh, the things kids do! Admittedly, I expected an autistic president before a Forrest Gump, but color me excited nonetheless. What, little Trig isn’t actually in charge? Ever spend five minutes with a retarded child, my good man? Oh, he’s in charge all right, and being groomed for bigger things from day one. Give us but four decades, and Trig himself will be shouting a butchered derivation of the oath before the madding crowd, but not before launching a snot rocket onto the very Bible even he can understand.
The ladies are on board, the moms are registering in record numbers, and the stage is set. McCain/Palin will blow away Obama/Biden in a fashion that will have historians remembering the McGovern bloodbath. It’s over, all in the time it took to pluck the mayor of a Mayberry-style Last Frontier town (where Moose outnumber sentient human beings) from obscurity and plop her in the center of the action. She’s pretty and well-spoken, can walk great distances with a book balanced on her head, and would proudly see the polar bear disappear from the globe if it meant more dividends for the captains of crude. She’s the epitome of talent, guts, and swagger, and she’ll make us proud at having embraced Seward’s Folly at last. Oil, Eskimos, mountain ranges, devastating earthquakes, and now a MILF we can all love and respect. Palin and her five children – including the apple-cheeked Trig – are the culmination of history’s slide into dementia. Hell, I may even vote for the Maverick and his shoot-from-the-hip sidekick myself just to say I was part of it all. Trig is the one; he is our future. Run free, little lamb, and make America’s house your own private booger collection. All by yourself, you’ll bring peace and understanding to a troubled world. Just know your strength and watch how hard you squeeze. And woe unto those who greet the lad wearing any form of soft, appealing fabric. Woe unto us all.
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