What. A. Week-it-has-been!
I mean first we get the best debate ever (Props to my McHubby!) then we get a wonderful S.N.L (Sassy Negative Liberals, gotta love 'em, or at least pretend to try, smile through teeth, no quick facial movements, botox helps); then there was Joe the Plumber, some kidnapping, dow goes up, dow goes down, pill pill pill pop pill pill pill and those 14 million robocalls, weren't they just--desperately aggressive but oddly comforting?
Huh?!
Can I get an amen, here, or what, people?!
Give it up to McHubby. Wow. Just wow. Wow; we've been together for so long that I know whatever he's thinking, whenever he's thinking it, down-to-the-decimal.
Some people call it witchcraft. I just call it Love.
I FEEL him.
Deep in my heart.
Like a lump. Or an oddly hidden purse.
When he's stumbling around on a debate stage, I feel his love like a chill licking up my spine; a dragon, thirsty for my flesh and blood.
Deep. Jurassic.
When he's shaking back and forth on a McCain Plane charted for Hellsville, Virginia, I am with him, thousands of miles below, in Arizonia, under a table, out of codine, rattling my false teeth together in my hands like pom-poms for politics.
And when he's space to space in the greatest race with what's-his-face I parry I duck and I spew my guts all over the place; kids, let-me-tell-you-truth:
Obama?
(Devil-fucker, yes,) BUT-
He has helped my marriage more then anything. In. Years.
Now, we've tried everything before Obama.
Every-THING. I'm talking adderbal botox claritin detox ecstasy fucking other people like George and Herbet and Ian and Viagra?
Anyone?
Can I get an amen?
Obama has helped us, helped us walk away from all that.
Now, I'm a smart woman. I don't believe all those cries of "socalist!" and "n@#%@r!" and "choosen one!"--but they're fun to say, right?
Try it, (when you're alone, first, and in front of a mirror) but try it--and realize that these are the words that can save your husband.
Words. So small, I know, right, but still--words have the power, here.
Not signs. Not billboards. It sure as hell isn't T&A, I mean, have you seen me and Palin tit-to-tit and tit-for-tat (HELLO, people, OK, right?)--no.
It's about words.
Now, it's been years since McCain has held a gun during a time of war. (True, in 91 during dessert storm he chased me around the penthouse screaming for my death, but that wasn't a real war and he told me later that he set the rifle on "Stun.")
My husband needs these words. They are the only artillery that God has left him.
And after a night of ra-ra-rabble-rousing, with screaming masses, burning effigies, puking rednecks...When the rallies are empty?
When the cleaning crew's picked up every last bottle of red bull and the chettos are crunched to dust on the floor.....
It's just the two of us.
Me, and Mchubby, pacing that empty gymnasium, that deserted cafetorium, yelling, shouting, screaming "Socalist!" "Back Taxes!" "Pussy!" "Pansy!" "Cotton Picker!" "DEMOCRAT!" until it gets him so worked up, so hot to trot, that he takes me over to the hotel and on the MCcain/PALIN bedsheets he fills up my buttercup so much that I scream "Drill, baby! DRILLLLLLLL!"
That might have been a little T.M.I*, as the kids say, but folks, let me tell you this: Times are getting tough.
Think it's ugly now? Oh.
Just. You. Wait for November.
Mud-will-fly.
Now if this blog-post--along with the robocalls and the rhetoric and the misleading-liberal-media bias get you down, well, just hang onto this little kernel of truth-cluster:
It may be hurting YOU. But it's helping MY marriage.
And at the end of the day, isn't that what this elections all about?
Thank you, fellow republicans.
God Bless My Cunt and your country.
-Cindi McCain
(With an i cause it's fun! I know it's really Cindy. I just did it with an i cause I felt like it!
No, but really! Isn't our country just LIKE that? See you at the polls!)
*T.M.I=Too Much Information
I mean first we get the best debate ever (Props to my McHubby!) then we get a wonderful S.N.L (Sassy Negative Liberals, gotta love 'em, or at least pretend to try, smile through teeth, no quick facial movements, botox helps); then there was Joe the Plumber, some kidnapping, dow goes up, dow goes down, pill pill pill pop pill pill pill and those 14 million robocalls, weren't they just--desperately aggressive but oddly comforting?
Huh?!
Can I get an amen, here, or what, people?!
Give it up to McHubby. Wow. Just wow. Wow; we've been together for so long that I know whatever he's thinking, whenever he's thinking it, down-to-the-decimal.
Some people call it witchcraft. I just call it Love.
I FEEL him.
Deep in my heart.
Like a lump. Or an oddly hidden purse.
When he's stumbling around on a debate stage, I feel his love like a chill licking up my spine; a dragon, thirsty for my flesh and blood.
Deep. Jurassic.
When he's shaking back and forth on a McCain Plane charted for Hellsville, Virginia, I am with him, thousands of miles below, in Arizonia, under a table, out of codine, rattling my false teeth together in my hands like pom-poms for politics.
And when he's space to space in the greatest race with what's-his-face I parry I duck and I spew my guts all over the place; kids, let-me-tell-you-truth:
Obama?
(Devil-fucker, yes,) BUT-
He has helped my marriage more then anything. In. Years.
Now, we've tried everything before Obama.
Every-THING. I'm talking adderbal botox claritin detox ecstasy fucking other people like George and Herbet and Ian and Viagra?
Anyone?
Can I get an amen?
Obama has helped us, helped us walk away from all that.
Now, I'm a smart woman. I don't believe all those cries of "socalist!" and "n@#%@r!" and "choosen one!"--but they're fun to say, right?
Try it, (when you're alone, first, and in front of a mirror) but try it--and realize that these are the words that can save your husband.
Words. So small, I know, right, but still--words have the power, here.
Not signs. Not billboards. It sure as hell isn't T&A, I mean, have you seen me and Palin tit-to-tit and tit-for-tat (HELLO, people, OK, right?)--no.
It's about words.
Now, it's been years since McCain has held a gun during a time of war. (True, in 91 during dessert storm he chased me around the penthouse screaming for my death, but that wasn't a real war and he told me later that he set the rifle on "Stun.")
My husband needs these words. They are the only artillery that God has left him.
And after a night of ra-ra-rabble-rousing, with screaming masses, burning effigies, puking rednecks...When the rallies are empty?
When the cleaning crew's picked up every last bottle of red bull and the chettos are crunched to dust on the floor.....
It's just the two of us.
Me, and Mchubby, pacing that empty gymnasium, that deserted cafetorium, yelling, shouting, screaming "Socalist!" "Back Taxes!" "Pussy!" "Pansy!" "Cotton Picker!" "DEMOCRAT!" until it gets him so worked up, so hot to trot, that he takes me over to the hotel and on the MCcain/PALIN bedsheets he fills up my buttercup so much that I scream "Drill, baby! DRILLLLLLLL!"
That might have been a little T.M.I*, as the kids say, but folks, let me tell you this: Times are getting tough.
Think it's ugly now? Oh.
Just. You. Wait for November.
Mud-will-fly.
Now if this blog-post--along with the robocalls and the rhetoric and the misleading-liberal-media bias get you down, well, just hang onto this little kernel of truth-cluster:
It may be hurting YOU. But it's helping MY marriage.
And at the end of the day, isn't that what this elections all about?
Thank you, fellow republicans.
God Bless My Cunt and your country.
-Cindi McCain
(With an i cause it's fun! I know it's really Cindy. I just did it with an i cause I felt like it!
No, but really! Isn't our country just LIKE that? See you at the polls!)
*T.M.I=Too Much Information
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