Saturday May 24, 2008
	Hillary Clinton.
	I have just downed my third Budweiser and I'm sitting on a stool in a bar near my home. I'm sitting on a stool. There are lit candles and a man is playing a guitar on the outdoor patio. Lit candles. A guitar. Stools. The woman sitting atop the stool next to me says: "Hi." I'm almost always afraid of meeting or conversing with a woman.  Usually I aim a clean-cut smile at them and keep walking or if I have to engage in a conversation I fake it for as long as I can and then I excuse myself and then head off to the toilet (never to return). The woman perched on the stool says: "I'm Hillary." The big breasted bartender has just given me a fresh beer so I'm kinda stuck.  I look at the woman on the stool a good long while and while I'm looking at her she looks at me and when I'm done looking at her I inhale and while I'm exhaling I extend my right index finger and point toward my head and say:  "Norm." She says: "Hi Norm." She's wearing a dress that looks like it was manufactured sometime in the forties and her dark hair is pulled up and pinned down into a tight brown bun.  She's got brown eyes and the whites of her eyes are really white and I'm thinking how well her look works for her but when I find myself kinda interested in her (the way a real man might be), I say:  "I don't like her."  She says: "Pardon?" I say: "That thing running for president." She says:   "Oh." I raise the bottle to my lips and when I'm done drinking I say: "Your name reminded me of old lady Clinton."  I was hoping to turn off my new friend using my airy often crude frankness but instead I'm pretty sure my bargain basement Holly Golightly is maybe turned on. (I'm handsome and I can't help it). She says: "I used to like her." I say: "The smelly, wrinkled up whore has been staying in the election secretly hoping that Obama gets assassinated." She says: "I try to imagine Hillary and Bill at home discussing Obama's demise." I didn't want to like my lively bar partner but I do.  I say: "Senile Bill probably had his dead dick in his hand and Hillary probably had her dildo out and while they were doing what they had to do Hillary probably spoke aloud and like a leader." Imagined secret conversation between Bill and Hillary Clinton regarding Barack and Michelle Obama.  It's nighttime and the wealthy, white, tight honkies are safely tucked into their Select Comfort Sleep Number bed in their New York home: Hillary Clinton: I can see the bullet smashing through the vacant head of that nigger.  Bill Clinton: For good measure two more bullets take out the back of his puny greasy nigger skull.  Hillary Clinton: That black bitch Michelle gets a bullet, too. It goes in her nigger mouth when she's spewing out empty nigger rhetoric. Bill Clinton:  Remember Vince, honey?  When you're elected let's pull a Vince on the both of those niggers. Hillary Clinton: I think I'm gonna cum Bill.  Say nigger again. Bill Clinton:  I'm getting ready to blow, too.  Tell me I'm a vacant nigger just like Obama.     End of imagined conversation between Bill and Hillary regarding Barack and Michelle Obama. My Holly Golightly is laughing and while she is laughing I order the both of us another drink. She says: "How maniacal the Clinton's must be." I say: "The Clinton's want and demand a win-win outcome.  Cunt Clinton becomes VP and patiently waits for some white tight lipped honky hillbilly to take action on her recent disguised worldwide call to action with regards to Obama's assassination and in her warped mind her sick dream eventually becomes a reality.  Cunt Clinton becomes president and they bury Obama and that's all well and good but unfortunately and due largely to her enormous ego, she'd like the presidency right from the start (and let's face it Cunt Clinton is dead to the Obama family and there isn't a chance in hell they want her as VP). So, Cunt Clinton transmits her desperate subconscious Freudian slipped personality disorder fueled assassination message using an eager media as a conduit and willing accomplice.  She wants Barack Obama to be dead before the nomination and then she'll get the nomination.  Privately and somewhere in the darkest most secretive areas of her perverted mind Cunt Clinton fantasizes about the Obama assassination and sees herself as an inevitable political star immortalized in the countless blurred and grainy Barack Obama assassination videos played round the world for years to come ("When the bullet hit Barack he fell onto Mrs. Clinton breaking her legs and two of her ribs.")  Cunt Clinton needs more than anything to be seen as the hero that steps in and saves us all a role model to men and women alike but she needs to get the nomination legitimately.  A VP upgrade to the presidency handed to her by a dead but still warm superior black man will work but it isn't sweet and to Cunt Clinton it'll probably prove to be downright bitter.  She's not a republican she's not a democrat she's an independi-cat and her claws and teeth are sharp and she's dangerous and manipulative and unpredictable and scary. Someone could get assassinated."  The woman on the stool says: "She probably knows more about the death of Vince Foster than she admits to." I say:    "Absolutely.  Her bizarre cold suggestion regarding a possible assassination should give the authorities all the reason they need to reopen the already suspicious Vince Foster case.  The whole thing stinks and I feel like I've been through a violent, financially devastating, emotionally exhausting divorce from Hillary Clinton and I'm staying away from women in politics for a good while." She's laughing when she says: "Me too.  Do you dance, Norm?" Patrons of the bar are dancing to the music put out by the guitar playing man.  I could use the feel of a real woman after my breakup with Cunt Clinton so I say: "I do."    PREVIOUS   HOME   NEXT