Biden Over Hoboken

We're Saved!

Biden searches Hoboken floodwaters for votes.

New York Riot Police Prepare for Hurricane Sandy

Cover yer eye Sandy, here comes the pepper spray! 

New York, NY: After a fear-mongering comment made today by New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg, riot police were sent deep into the financial district to combat the oncoming Hurricane Sandy, which threatens to do what the Occupy movement could not. That is, shut down Wall Street and send the rich pigs that control the nations purse strings squealing for higher ground.

The strategy of the protectors of the fascist state is simple: Greet Mother Nature with brute strength, tear gas, rubber bullets and lots of pepper spray directed straight into the eye of the storm.

This morning, as evacuation sirens blared in the background, New York City Police Lieutenant, Norman O'Malley, read a solemn statement to reassure the fascists infecting the financial district their million dollar shoes won't get muddy, and they'll be shielded from anything that might offend their delicate sensibilities once the hurricane arrives. See text of the statement below:

Obviously, Mother Nature is bent on disrupting the very center of our cherished capitalist system. Let it be known we will protect the demeaning and soul-sucking corporations above everything else, including the life and limb of our own mothers. New York's finest will not allow the dastardly work of a bunch of rogue waves and idealistic wind gusts to disrupt the flow of money from the Zionist capitalist structure into the hands of war-mongers and the biggest gang of thieves the world has ever known. We are absolutely prepared to pepper spray and club the storm into submission if necessary. Our intelligence has revealed Hurricane Sandy plans to camp out over the financial district for several days. We suspect this will lead to disarray, piles of trash strewn about, disruption in pedestrian traffic and public services, and public outbursts that may include extensive property damage. Rest assured, we are prepared to use any means necessary to stop this menace to our country and the world. There will be no questions. Thank you. 

In the midst of all the chaos, rumors are rampant. One that is making headlines is the ghost of a drunken and cocaine-fueled Andrew Brietbart was seen facing the oncoming storm and screaming for it to "get a fucking job, you loser."

Obama Remains Cool as Romney Overheats During Debate

OK Mitt, how about that Big Bird..

Commentary:

Denver, CO-While the pundits scream about Obama's lackluster debate performance, there was another performance the public didn't see. That is, Obama's political genius on full display as he drew fire from the raving lunatic Romney. He forced Romney to vomit out his entire campaign strategy which will be annihilated piece by piece by Obama over the coming weeks.

Romney told his lies and half truths to the entire country. Millions of people heard it this time. He cannot go back on them now, as Obama will force him to stick to his positions over the next two debates. Obama did not need a 47% comment to slowly tighten the noose around Romney's neck, because in the light of day, Romney's arguments have no substance. None. Zero. They are simply a collection of intimidation tactics, blustering and desperation. The blathering of a mad man. Romney, in his overheated mania, was striking out at everyone, even at Jim Lehrer, the moderator.

To prove how well Obama controlled the debate, remember the entire first half of the debate was about taxes-something Romney should have avoided, because we all know about his tax problems. Then there was a huge portion of the debate where Romney accused Obama of creating a secret panel to make healthcare decisions. This, of course, was the old death panel conspiracy. Obama just let it go. Why argue with a lie?

My favorite part was when Romney brought up the line that, "I have five boys and I know about repeating the same thing over and over until it sounds like the truth. That is what this president is doing." In case you missed it, he didn't just call the President a "boy," but a "lying boy." Boy-Liar-President. Get it? (This sentiment was echoed the next day as John Sununu repeated that Obama was "lazy," which follows Newt Gingrich's comments that Obama would rather be playing basketball, is lazy and "has rhythm.")  Romney hoped a little race-baiting would cause Obama to erupt into an angry black man, and although Obama's posture showed he got it, he remained cool the entire time, carefully jabbing and inducing Romney to hurl more spittle-flecked nothings as he knocked the microphone around, and looked completely unhinged.

And who will ever forget the image of the rich white man beating on the timid black guy for an hour and a half? That was classic. It is an image that will grow in America's collective conscious over the next 30 days, and will slowly consume Mitt Romney and the Republican party.

And if you don't believe it, look at what Obama is doing today. He is out poking fun at Romney's harried attack on Big Bird, because it's the only part of Romney's tirade that made any sense. Obama is telling America that Romney will even beat up on Big Bird when he has the chance. That he is a bully. A bully to the  disadvantaged kids on Sesame Street and their kind cuddly hero. Once again, Obama, in his back-handed way, is gently arranging the latest Romney redo as he sees fit. And why not? Mitt Romney is a joke. He actually threatened to fire Big Bird and the debate moderator while drumming up support to fire Obama. Yes, he did. At this rate, the only person left standing with any money or a job will be Mitt Romney.

One thing you can bet on right now is Romney's advisers are very nervous. They do not have a second act, as they've already played their hand and blew their wad in a big way. They needed something big, and they got it. Now what? It's like having sex on the first date. There is nothing left to show. Something tells me a Mormon miracle is not going to fly from the sky and save Romney once the "sugar-high" wears off, and the press puts his debate performance under the microscope.

And then there's those job numbers...

Romney and Netanyahu's Nefarious Plan to Attack Ohio

Look out Ohio! You in the Red Zone Now..

Cornhole, Ohio-In a shocking secret revealed today on the upper fold of the The Hayseed Herald, Ohio's most popular small-town newspaper, there is little doubt Mitt Romney and Benjamin Netanyahu plan on bombing Ohio before the presidential election to bring the state, and the US, in line with their wildest Zionist dreams and desires.

Once again, Tawdry Soup got the scoop, and although this is a widely recognized Hail Mary pass for for the Romney camp, the chances of it moving Romney's poll numbers into positive territory are zero. In fact, most analysts believe Romney and Netanyahu would have to kill a full 47% of the US population in order to budge the stubborn polls.

It was a simple but suspicious tweet at 3 a.m. by Romney campaign cocaine dealer, communications director and hook-up master, Kevin "JJ" Eastman, that led Tawdry Soup to the Romney tour bus parked at a Wal-Mart outside Des Moines, Iowa. Tawdry was determined to get to the bottom of what looked like Romney and Netanyahu's "October Surprise."

It was breaking dawn when Tawdry arrived. A knock on the Romney tour bus door was finally answered by a toga-wearing and make-up smeared Eastman. The balding wild-eyed thirty year old swayed over Tawdry before grabbing the doorframe for stability. Once his eyes adjusted to the daylight, he asked Tawdry Soup to talk louder, in order to be heard over the very loud party going on inside.

"I heard Benjamin Netanyahu was here. I need to talk to him and Sugar Daddy," requested Tawdry Soup. Sugar Daddy is Romney's pet name among the press corps and gaggle of know-nothings running the campaign of a man who, if elected, could kill the entire planet on a whim.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, they're in the back. They've been in there all fucking night. If you can get in, tell 'em we're dyin' out here. We're all outta the good stuff, and the girls are getting bored," requested Eastman.

Eastman pressed a button and two steps unfolded in front of Tawdry. He stepped aside as Tawdry climbed aboard and entered the rollicking party bus. As Tawdry worked his way to the back, he saw an attractive scantily-dressed young woman passed out on the sofa. Several men, wired-up and reeking of alcohol, were making lame attempts to stake a claim to her. Her acne-scarred overweight toady glared at them from across the bus. Death metal roared over the speaker system. There was vomit in the hallway, where the fire-alarm and light fixture were hanging by bare wires. As he passed, Tawdry could hear people having sex in the tiny washroom. It was so dark, Tawdry almost ran into the sham wood door leading to Romney's and Netanyahu's war room.

Tawdry Soup knocked once, then again more loudly. After taking a deep breath, he decided to barge in. He found Netanyahu sitting on the fold-out sofa smoking a cigar with his pants around his ankles. Not surprisingly, Romney's head was buried between Netanyahu's fat pasty legs. With the vigor in which he attacked the subject, it was apparent Romney was not holding back and giving 100% for the pleasure of his old friend and fellow war-monger. Several smeary and half-snorted lines of the "good stuff" were strewn across a glass-topped table.

Romney casually looked up from his patriotic duty, and saw Tawdry Soup standing in the doorway. He wiped his chin, smiled at Tawdry, and exclaimed, "Welcome to my man cave! I'm Mitt and this here is my old friend, Bibi In-my-yahoo."

Tawdry closed the door behind him, before the zero-eyed zombies gathering around the doorway could see all the unused cocaine. "I'm Tawdry Soup. I heard you two are going to bomb Ohio."

Netanyahu got decent and they both sat up at the table before signaling Tawdry to sit down. Romney asked Tawdry if he "needed anything," and looked at the table. Tawdry pulled a dollar bill from his pocket, rolled it up, put one end in his nose, and leaned forward over the fattest line of glistening high-quality cocaine he'd ever seen.

"Not so fast," said Bibi, as he placed his ham-fisted hand between the end of Tawdry's rolled up bill and the sparkling prize. "We must have your solemn promise you will not tell anyone about our plans to bomb Ohio before the election." Tawdry was amazed at the Israeli Prime Minister's candor, until he remembered Netanyahu never makes a secret out of telling the world who he's going to persuade the US to bomb at any particular moment.

"And what's the justification, you two crazy war pigs, you," Tawdry said playfully. Bibi removed his hand while he formulated an answer, allowing Tawdry Soup immediate access to the pleasure dome. The cocaine was so strong, Tawdry had a mental orgasm, and it took a moment to realize why he was there. Then Romney spoke, bringing Tawdry Soup back to the crushing reality this man was running for president.

"Since Ohio is obviously unpatriotic by not supporting our rush to war, we have found secret intelligence that says Ohio is likely one step away from building a nuclear bomb. Now, Looky here," instructed Romney, as he spread out a pile of cocaine and drew a square in it with his index finger. He pointed to the center of the square. "Say this is Ohio." Then he tediously poked at it in different places before declaring several of the indentations were actually nuclear power plants.

"One particular location of concern," said Romney, with a startled, frazzled and half-baked look on his face, "is a certain factory in Lima, where Abrams tanks are refurbished. This is the only tank factory in the US. If we can knock it out, we can use our aircraft to carpet bomb Ohio, and tilt the vote in our favor." Romney withdrew his finger from his phantasmagorical plan for winning the election, and rubbed his strategy finger vigorously over his gums. He smacked loudly, looked quizzingly into thin air for a few seconds, then turned and smiled lovingly at Netanyahu, who returned the favor in kind.

"But how are you two going to convince the US to forget about its own self-interest and bomb it's own country, just because you guys are behind in the polls?" asked Tawdry Soup. "Just leave it to me," said Netanyahu. "Just look at this shit here," he continued, and began looking for something behind the sofa.

"Ahh yes, here it is. Say hello to my little friend." He  pulled out a white piece of cardboard with the drawing of a round ACME Wile E. Coyote bomb on it. On the top of the bomb was a long fuse with a cartoon-like spark on the end. There was a black line drawn across the middle. "You see, this is the green zone here," instructed Netanyahu, pointing to the bottom half of the bomb. "And this is the the yellow zone," he said, pointing to the top section. Then, he picked up a red marker and scratched a line across the neck of the retro bomb. He put down the marker and began tapping frenetically on the cardboard. "That area above the red line is the red zone, it has a red light and it's giving me the red ass." "Me too, but in a good way," giggled Romney. Netanyahu rolled his eyes.      

"So you two think the only thing preventing you from pouring all the money in the world into your stupid war machine is the voters in Ohio?" asked Tawdry.

"That and this mountain of coke," answered Bibi. "And by the way, Mr. Soup," he continued. You see these here?" He dropped two candy-looking tablets on the table. This is what Israel makes better than anything else besides trouble. It's the best ecstasy in the world. Take it. And here, have another line before you go." Tawdry grabbed a high-dollar bottle of scotch, pulled out the cork and swilled down the tablets. Netanyahu and Romney, their eyes streaked with red, laughed encouragingly.

After Tawdry finished the longest line ever, and gave his own gums a massage with what remained, he stood up, rubbed his nose, licked his lips and turned toward the door. "Hey Tawdry, can you do us a favor? asked Romney. "Can you get rid of this for us?" Romney stuffed a pair of stained pink panties into an aqua-blue Tiffany bag, along with a huge double-headed dildo that poked 8 inches out of the top of the bag.

"Hey, do you got a little something for the peanut gallery out there?" asked Tawdry, "They're getting itchy for something. I think they're out." Romney unrumpled a coat lying next to him, reached in the pocket and pulled out two vials of white powder. He held them to the light inspecting them closely, then put one back in the coat pocket and tossed the other one to Tawdry. "Anything else?" asked Tawdry. "Yeah-do you happen to know the way to Ohio? We keep ending up in fucking Iowa." Tawdry Soup answered, "I think you go like your going to Kansas, then take a hard left." "Thanks, man," replied Romney.

Tawdry walked back through the musky-smelling bus, and just to let everyone know he was a good guy, yelled over the blaring death metal music, "ROMNEY-RYAN! ROMNEY-RYAN! ROMNEY- RYAN!" But no one seemed to notice. Tawdry scanned the faces of the crew for a reaction. He focused on Eastman furiously texting the message of the day to all major media outlets, even though he had no idea what day it was. The grossly hungover young man looked up, scowled at Tawdry Soup and sneered, "Suck my dick."

Tawdry patted the vial in his front pants pocket, pulled open the door, carefully navigated his way down the retractable stairs, and walked across the parking lot into the brisk autumn morning.

Southern Granny: Obama Not So Black After All

All Politics is Local

Tippolomokeefenokee, Fla-Last week, Grace Marquart, a demure grandmother of eight living in the wilds of a Florida trailer home park, made some news of her own. She claimed a change of heart when it comes to hating Barack Obama and his liberal policies.  

Tawdry Soup, upon reading this unusual story, was intrigued someone gorilla-glued to the right-wing saddle since 1964, could switch horses so abruptly, when only 6 weeks remained before the election.

So, after a 3 day lay-over in Jacksonville, Tawdry soup took a Greyhound bus to Tippolomokeefenokee, where he was lucky to secure an interview with the widow Marquart; the first southern white person to switch parties since Barry Goldwater lay to rest any idea the Republican party stood for anything but the wealthiest among us, and those too dumb to vote for anyone else.   

In an intimate meeting, surrounded by a lifetime of nicotine-stained knick-knacks, Marquart explained how one person's simple moment of clarity could turn this tiny outa-the-way trailer park into a lunatic asylum. She talked about how her neighbors have disowned her, how she was barred from the garden club, kicked off the quilting bee, and doesn't get as much as a hello at the communal mailbox. But worst of all, she claims she is now the subject of a whisper campaign accusing her of having a secret lover, who is of course, black.

"Now I ain't gonna lie to ya, I've been a Negrophobe as far back as I can remember," confessed Marquart. "Then, the other day, I found myself sitting across the room from my oxygen tank after enjoying one of my Kool Filter Kings, and if it wadn't for my caregiver, Latrina Jones, who just happened to be watching a Here Come the Jefferson's rerun, I wouldn't have got my oxygen tubes untangled in time and I'd be pushing up daisies right now. It was right then I decided everyone should help each other, and if somebody needs a breathing tube, who am I to stand in their way. But then I found out, Romney's blue-eyed boy, Paul Ryan, prefers strangling people with their breathing tubes, rather than walking across the room to give 'em one, so I put my foot down. I decided to vote my conscience instead of the crap I've been fed by racist royal assholes like Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan for the last 50 years. It dawned on me, after all this time, that yes, we are all in this together, and I ain't never helped nobody by being mean to somebody cause their skin's a different color."

Right about then, there was a commotion outside. Tawdry Soup went to the door of the ramshackle trailer-house to investigate. He walked onto the porch amid the once vast variety of flower pots and containers that contained lush geraniums and begonias. They were now shattered across the small porch and Marquart's prized plants were broken and in disarray. A backwards swastika was sloppily painted on her doorway, with what appeared to be the remnants of a can of Flex-Seal. Seething in the muggy parking lot surrounding Marquart's home, was a lynch mob of senior men and women teetering around on a variety of Medicare-supplied mobility aids and prosthetic devices.
 
As the crowd hurled taunts through Marquart's open doorway, Tawdry Soup stepped off the porch to draw fire away from the frail Mrs. Marquart. As the racist sentiment of the crowd reached fever pitch, Tawdry Soup suddenly heard a distinct mechanical whir. A pasty old white man with a large bandage scotch-taped over one eye, and a crotch that looked like he was smuggling the Hindenburg across the border, hover-rounded out of the crowd of rickety rabble-rousers. Tawdry Soup stood stock-still, not knowing what this wild-eyed Ann Coulter Republican was capable of doing. Suddenly, the hover-round steering mechanism became stuck and the man and machine began spinning out of control. They veered back toward the hostile crowd, causing everyone to scurry haphazardly in every direction. Once control was established amid a hubbub of curse-words and southern slang, the angry old man, with two good eyes worth of daggers shooting from his remaining milky pupil, made a beeline toward Tawdry Soup.

"I don't know who you are, Mr. So and So," announced the man, as he slammed on the brakes, "But you need to stop protecting lil' Missy Marquart from her due. We are the heart and soul of the Republican party around here, and in this heart and soul there ain't no room for Obama lovers like Missy Marquart. We are protecting America from the socialists trying to liberate our social security checks..and...and..and.." Then something happened. The careening codger turned white, passed out and fell over the beleaguered hover-round steering mechanism. He spun around, and once again headed toward the limping lynch mob, but this time running over several people as if they were so many speed bumps. Then, he disappeared between two trailers, before driving directly into a murky mosquito and alligator-infested drainage ditch. The 2000 pound hover-round tumbled end-over-end into the black water, and like a millstone, took the future of the Republican Party along with it. After a few seconds, a collection of bubbles with an oily sheen rose to the water's surface. 

Grace Marquart came to the door and looked at her favorite place to sit and have coffee and a cigarette every morning. She surveyed the damage done by the hobbling hooligans, then ripped out her breathing tube and defiantly lit a Kool Filter King. She used her cigarette to point at the mayhem taking place in the parking lot and laughed, "If that right there is the heart and soul of the Republican Party, I don't want nothin' to do with it."

Just then, a black SUV screeched to a halt inside the parking lot. It was Paul Ryan, whose stupidity-chaser surveillance system had zeroed-in on the tempest. He jumped out of the vehicle and climbed on the roof. Immediately, he rolled out his famous "I'ma gonna pinch you," hand thing he always does when he speaks to someone, and prepared to begin another lecture. But by now his audience had enough excitement and were hot and tuckered-out. They were ready for a glass of iced-tea and some good-old-fashioned Fox News watching.

"Not so fast, everyone," Ryan pleaded. "Don't you even want to hear my ideas about Medicare vouchers? What about the Ryan-Romney plan that promises a turnaround instead of a runaround? Anybody, Hello? I'm also running for the House of Representatives, you know. I know it's in Wisconsin, but..." Then he fell silent, his bold plans replaced by the sound of a gathering afternoon thunderstorm.  

Ryan stood on the roof of the car and looked over the vacant parking lot. He was looking at what has become a familiar sight at his campaign rallies: No one there. He angrily and clumsily climbed from the top of the SUV, looked over at Tawdry Soup and Marquart, and took a deep breath as if he was about to pronounce something very important. When he saw the look of disinterest in their eyes, he deflated, got into the vehicle, and sped away. 

Marquart shook her head and disappeared into a back room, emerging with an Obama 2012 sign. "Can you do me a favor, Mr. Soup?" She asked. "Will you go stick this in the ground right where Mr. McElroy went into that drainage ditch. I want to be sure he sees it if he ever crawls outta there."

"No problem," replied Tawdry Soup.    

Mitt Romney Has a Bad Day at Election School

"Someone had to put it out of its misery."

Satire:

Dunceville, USA-Late this afternoon, after a morning spent wildly pandering to a sliver of the electorate that no longer exists, Mitt Romney embarked on his final campaign. He was trying to figure out a way to kill himself before he endured another news cycle listening to complete strangers shred his psyche to a million bits.

Spending some much needed time alone in a motel room, it took Romney several hours to finally decide on hanging as the way to do himself in, because he didn't want to mess up his pretty face. Then he spent another two hours trying to choose the best way to hang himself. At first he was positive he would use a brown belt over a closed doorway, then he decided on a piece of drapery chord hung from the ceiling fan, but he couldn't cut it, because all the sharp objects were taken away during the last news cycle, when Romney was seen staring blankly at the TV and repeating to himself, "Why does everyone hate me?"

As he frantically looked around his motel room for something to hang himself with, a four-way Romney bashfest, hosted by Rachel Maddow, blared from the TV. To Romney, it sounded like the hounds of hell were crawling up his ass. Suddenly, he came across a piece of paper taped to the nightstand. A note was scratched on the paper in half-dried black magic marker along with an arrow pointing to the drawer. It reminded Romney of the disastrous stunt he pulled with the white board in South Carolina, as he tried to draw Obama's tax plan, or whatever it was, with that piece of shit marker someone got from Staples. The note on the table, written in what he thought was republican code, said, "Whudever u du, Mit Romley, don't luk in dis drawur."

Romney used his republican code-breaking skills to figure out what the note said, and with his insatiable appetite for instant gratification on full display, ripped open the drawer. In the drawer was a tiny box, with the words, "Opin onlee en kase uf EMURRCHENSYS" written in candy-colored letters across the top.

Romney took the little box from the drawer. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment and looked at it. His once perfect hair, lacking constant touch-ups, was now frazzled and gray. He had an entire day's worth of white stubble poking out of his face, his botox had gone kaput, and he finally conceded there was nothing in his future but miles and miles of a dusty craven campaign trail. A campaign trail where he was supposed to emerge as the great white hope, the prom king extraordinaire, the handsomest beau at the ball and the striking rich President of the United States, but had now found him stumbling around like a starving desperate lost child.

Without looking, Mitt Romney had a good idea what was in the box. It was the cyanide capsules that would make it all go away. How they got there, he didn't know. He only knew what he had to do to save the nation, and the world, from the dumbest politician since Idi Amin.

He grabbed a piece of paper from the motel stationary and dashed off a suicide note. He boldly called it, The Top Ten Reasons I Killed Myself. It read:

10. I am in way over my head.

9. I think Clint Eastwood is secretly laughing at me.

8. I represent a party of cowardly cockroaches who scatter when the truth shines on them.

7. I thought it was cool for people to die in a war to make my friends wealthy.

6. America is taking out their hatred of rich white bullies on me. (Didn't see that coming.)

5. My oldest son gives me the creeps because he looks like a caricature of me.

4. I don't deserve to breathe the same air as a drug and disease-riddled prostitute crawling in the gutter.

3. I performed oral sex on Newt Gingrich to get his endorsement. That was tough, I just want everybody to know.

2. I cannot be humiliated by a black man 900 different ways in three different debates.

1. I can't figure out how to use Twitter.

He placed the note on the small side-table, set his diamond-encrusted Aurora Diamante fountain pen on top, and prepared to close the last chapter of his privileged life. A chapter ending in a bonfire of stupidity sparked by his mindless hatred and raw resentment of his fellow man.

Then Romney took a deep breath, loudly exhaled, and slowly opened the box with his highly manicured fingertips. But to his surprise, out popped a red cloth-covered spring that hit him right between the eyes. In the box was a note that said, "We Love You Papa!"

Suddenly, the adjoining room door burst open and his lovely wife, several of his children and a passel of grandchildren all jumped across the motel bed to give Romney a hug. He blushed a deep red, grabbed the suicide note off the night stand, stuffed it in his pants pocket, and allowed the weight of his grandchildren to bowl him over on the bed, where they smothered him in kisses.

"Can we go home now, Papa?" asked one of the grandchildren. Ann agreed, "Yeah, Papa, can we go home now?" "You know, I think that's a good idea," replied Romney. "Let's forget about all this presidency stuff and go home. I'm plumb wore out. Who wants a cheeseburger?" Everyone jumped for joy and began salivating at the idea of wolfing down one of those famous $100 cheeseburgers at "the club," while clinking crystal glasses together and respectfully shaking hands with ghostly old rich people.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Everyone was quiet as Romney answered. The door opened to a balcony overlooking a parking lot. There was an old boarding house across the way. At the door were Eric Cantor, John Boehner and Paul Ryan. "Have you seen this beautiful sunset, Mitt?" asked Cantor. "Yeah, it's a spectacular one, Mitt. You really shouldn't miss it," agreed Ryan, with a barely perceptible tone of anxiety in his voice. "That's what's so nice about this time of year. The sunsets. Now come on out on the balcony and take a look," encouraged Boehner. Romney hesitated. "Now come on, Mitt," said Ryan, "For the Grand Old Party, you come on out now."

Romney smacked his lips and cautiously stepped out onto the second floor balcony. One of the grandchildren and Ann attempted to follow him, but were herded back inside, accompanied by Cantor, who ominously closed the door behind them. "Just look at that sunset, Mitt, ever seen anything like it?" asked Boehner, pointing across the parking lot and directly into the sun. Since it was so dazzling, Romney pulled his Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses from his front pocket and put them on. As his eyes adjusted, he focused his vision on a window in the boarding house across the street. Unbelievably, he clearly saw the angry liver-spot ridden face of Rupert Murdoch with one eye squinting through a rifle scope. The barrel was pointed directly at Romney.

There was a distant flash and a puff of smoke. In a split second, Romney saw in his peripheral vision that Boehner and Ryan had moved away, leaving him vulnerable for the first time in his life. Before he could hear the report, a bullet hit Romney square in the neck, shattering his spine, and sending him reeling. After he landed on the balcony floor like a piece of cord-wood, Romney became aware the last few breaths of his extraordinary life were now escaping into eternity. As he lay there, he looked at the balcony ceiling and noticed the light fixture was full of dead brown bugs and thought to himself, "Who the hell put us up in this crappy motel, anyway?" Then, drifting away to the outer darkness, where he could plainly see Satan rubbing his hands together in anticipation, Romney whispered his famous last words, "I love this state. The trees are just the right height....Just the right height."

Cantor exited the motel room, stepped over "The Biggest Fucking Mistake Ever," as Romney was known in conservative inner circles, and methodically followed Boehner and Ryan down the motel stairs. A black Mercedes SUV pulled up with Murdoch hunched at the steering wheel. The three men climbed into the vehicle and sped away, braking momentarily for a couple of hot chicks in the cross-walk.

Back at the motel, Ann opened the door with a jokingly apprehensive look on her face, as if expecting her millionth wonderful expensive gift. Instead, she almost stumbled over the lifeless special delivery sprawled at her feet. Once she poked him in the eye with her stiletto heel to make sure he was dead, she grabbed her wad of blonde hair extensions with both hands, looked up at the sky, and screamed at the top of her lungs, "Hey Everybody! Last one in the car is a rotten Faberge egg!"

The story you just read is political satire. It is FAKE news..so don't get your panties in a knot.     

Romney Campaign Takes a Swing Through the Middle East

Tough-Guy Romney Shows 'em a Thing or Two 

Photo by .Zickie.

Cairo, Egypt-In a hastily arranged foreign policy trip designed to coincide with the day Romney's presidential campaign set itself on fire and jumped off a cliff, GOP leaders have sent the entire Romney campaign team on a one-way tour of the Middle East. The mission? To collect on all those flowers and candies promised to the U.S. by the Bush Administration after the liberation of Iraq.

Although Romney only vaguely remembered the last administration saying, "U.S troops would be greeted as liberators with candy and flowers thrown at their feet," he took his marching orders like a man, and like any pretend tough-guy running for president in America would do, he set his cross-hairs on a population of poor, hopeless bedraggled people and headed into the wild blue yonder.

Along for the victory lap were Tawdry Soup, Romney's staff, the dedicated and demure mother of the "bitter litter" he now calls his children, and likely secretary of state for his super-awesome cabinet, the snow-white mustachioed John Bolton, whose claim to fame is making the most people throw up in their mouth a little bit.

Before touching down on a smoky runway in the middle of nowhere, Romney paced the aisle of Flat Hair Force One. Choking back tears, he rallied the troops by speaking from the heart for the first time since his disastrous campaign began. "We have to be tough and stand up to the 2 billion Muslims you will most likely see hanging around out there feeling entitled to food and shelter. It's because Obama doesn't act tough and let them know the world doesn't owe them anything. That's why they're all angry, burning things down and such. If Obama acted tough and bombed the hell out of 'em like we would do, they would love us, right John?" Bolton woke up, licked his trademark mustache with his forked tongue, looked around, and asked, "Are we still alive?"

Romney rolled his eyes into the back of his head, momentarily closed them, then shook his head and sighed loudly before continuing, "Starving people, killing them and taking their land and oil without just compensation is what America stands for. It's in my red white and blue-blood to treat other people like dirt, and I, as President of the United States of Israel, will separate the wheat of this world from the weeds. Now, all we need to do is act tough and blow hard and you will see the truth unfold before you. Our job is to make these sand-monkeys feel they owe us something, not the other way around. If we do our jobs correctly, they will oblige by throwing flowers and candy at us, which, according to the GOP intelligence briefing I got this morning, is how they show their appreciation for being humiliated by a wealthy white American snob. Remember, they owe us, we don't owe them. Now, let's go out there and get some candy and flowers, whataya say?"

Everyone on the campaign team squealed with excitement as the doors to Flat Hair Force One were pried open against the howling desert wind. Romney walked down the stairs of the plane followed by his cowering entourage. He tip-toed toward a line of of razor wire, stepping over pieces of shattered buildings and what appeared to be a burning human leg. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a hail of smelly 10 1/2 sized shoes coming from every direction. Romney, squinting into the blowing sand, continued to smile and wave as the shoes rained down. He didn't see one piece of candy or anything that looked like a flower. All he could see was human depravity, desperation and a growing shit-storm of ugly brown loafers. A condition that all the bluster from a selfish spoiled-rotten ineffectual presidential candidate in a country thousands of miles away couldn't fix, even if he had all the bombs in the world. Right then, a shoe-bomb bounced off the side of Romney's stubborn head, and to the chagrin of his entourage and the rest of the world's population, fizzled out as it rolled across the bare lifeless ground.

But, always the businessman, Romney turned and instructed one of his aides to gather all the shoes hitting the ground around them, because "every one of these SOB's is going to want their shoe back. Those onion skin socks they wear won't hold together a minute in this gravelly bullshit." "But how much do we charge them to get their shoe back?" asked the aide. Romney smacked loudly and yelled over the elements, "Figure out  how many flowers and candies each one is worth, and charge them twice that." He turned toward the tempest known as the Middle-East and continued his trademark wave resembling someone patting an inferior on the head or mussing their hair. A nervous grimace-smile was topped with those frightened, confused and desperately pleading eyes. His brylcreemed hair, however, remained perfect.

Romney Offers Donor Ride on "Flat Hair Force One"

Ann Romney Promises to Nip the Nap  

Lakeland, Fla-With the presidential elections nearing the finish line, and all their uber-wealthy friends tapped-out, the Romney campaign is now desperate to attract individual donors, especially since individual donors are once again rising to the occasion by flooding the Obama campaign with 10 and 20 dollar bills. The good kind, with the words "In God We Trust" prominently displayed on the back.

To get in on the game, Mitt and Ann Romney have a unique plan. For a minimum donation of only 15 smackers, two lucky donors have a chance to spend the day on Romney's broken-down campaign airplane, lovingly dubbed, Flat Hair Force One, by Ann Romney. She came up with the name to differentiate her plane from that, "rat's nest of nappiness hauling that colored man and his family around, while they destroy our plans to turn America over to the Zionists."

Ann thought up the clever Flat Hair Force One title while she was half asleep Tuesday evening. She immediately jumped up, wrapped herself in the $7500 silk and satin robe she often calls, "this old rag," and roused reporters and campaign staff, who all agreed it was a great idea, and that they would solidify the details in the morning.

Mitt glommed on to the idea first thing Wednesday, and by midday, his advisers were busy as grasshoppers preparing for winter, as they scattered the news across the twitterverse. CBS News caught wind of the plan and breathlessly announced, "In a presidential election filled with promotions designed to engage supporters and raise money, Mitt and Ann Romney just raised the altitude."

Ann spent the rest of the day sitting in front of the mirror on Flat Hair Force One, with her effeminate hairstylist dancing around her, trying to find a grey hole to patch with a luxurious blonde hair extension. She interrupted her pouts and looks of disgust with horrid and unintelligible verbal assaults on a frail Chinese woman, who was attempting to dye Ann's hoo-hoo hair with a Q-tip dipped in an ancient Chinese secret. Every time someone would squeeze past Ann's over-sized Corinthian leather salon chair to get to the washroom, she would holler from between her sharpened fangs, "Welcome to Flat Hair Force One!" This was followed by a laugh that sounded like it was beat out of a dead hyena.  

Ann also disclosed to CBS News, “I don’t know exactly what our itinerary will be, but if you’re one of the winners — I can tell you it will be exciting. And who knows, maybe the winner and I will come up with a better name for the campaign plane." Mitt Romney, in an email to  supporters, wrote, "I think Ann's Flat Hair Force One idea is devilishly clever and has a definite ring to it."  

The Romney couple are already getting flooded with suggestions for a new name for the plane, even before the winners are announced. They range from the simple, Pimpmobily of the Cumulonimby,  to the soaring, Vote for Us, We Aren't Black.  

Right now, Believe in America is printed on the side of the recently acquired McDonnell-Douglas 83, but everyone in the Romney camp agrees it's a stretch, because they can't figure out what the hell it's supposed to actually mean. But Flat Hair Force One is something all Republicans can sink their teeth into, and apparently a lot of black women, too. They are flooding the campaign with their butter and egg money to get a chance to have flat hair like Ann Romney. 

One of Romney's stanky, bored press agents told Tawdry Soup, "When we touched down at the last campaign stop, the scene was like a food truck pulling up to an Ethiopian refugee camp. Black women were running from everywhere waving 15 dollar bills given to them by Obama's Work to Welfare program." At first, the persnickety Romneys were angry the government was printing 15 dollar bills with Obama's face sporting his iconic smile, but "it's all green," Romney was overheard saying as he greeted the growing mob. 

Intellectually Bankrupt, Romney Begs Obama for Pithy Bailout

The Romney-Ryan Road to Victory

Photo: Gary Dee

Satire:

Somewhere, USA-On Monday, September 10, 2012, the robotic and vacuous Mitt Romney stumbled along the dusty campaign trail with his dumb-struck running mate, Paul Ryan. As Romney's black hair dye streamed down the back of his $150 Facconable shirt, and his $60,000 Oyster Perpetual Day-Date Platinum Rolex pinched the hairs on his arm inherited from one of his grandfather's 50 wives, he wondered out loud, "You ain't gonna like this son, but Ima wunderin' just how much ass-whuppin' a couple of spoiled rotten little rich-pricks can take. And by a black guy at that!"

Ryan stared ahead. In his mind he could see the comfortable office and cushy House of Representatives' chair he left to follow Romney into this unfamiliar wilderness, where they were now thirsty, tired, and flat-out lost.

Suddenly, Ryan stopped walking, stood up straight and extended his hand in the air, pinching his thumb and forefinger together. He pointed them at Romney and said, "Look, we've got to get help." His big blue pound-puppy eyes peeked from beneath his jet-black widow's peak. As he spoke, he stabbed at the air with his tightly pinched thumb and forefinger. His gargantuan Adam's apple moved up and down, as if he was trying to swallow a giant piece of bubble gum over and over. "Face it," he worried, "Our strategy has been eaten by the wolves. Our once rich fields of ideas have crumbled to dust. Our shining visions of victory have turned into a burned-out mirage. We are beginning to look like a couple of bookends with nothing between us but thin air. Oh my God, I'm freaking out.."

Then Ryan's face went blank. His plate-sized blue orbs careened around his eye sockets for a few seconds, then settled into a fixed gaze toward the end of his nose, as if a butterfly had suddenly landed on it.

"What is it?" asked Romney.

"I can't figger," answered Ryan

"You what?"

"I can't figger. You know, think."

"Oh crap. Me either," Replied Romney

"Oh my God," screamed Ryan. "I am completely out of ideas. Not a constructive thought left in my head."

"Mine either," yelled Romney in a panic. "You know my great uncle had Alzheimer's, yes he did, everyone said he was senile, but I know it was Alzheimer's. Oh NO! What am I going to do? I've got bills to pay, mouths to feed, my hair, what will I do about my hair?....I'm freaking out, too!"

Ryan grabbed Romney by his wooden shoulders and shook him twice, before slapping him across the face and shouting, "Get yourself together, girlfriend!" They looked breathlessly at each other.

"Now think," demanded Ryan. "What the heck are we going to do?"

The truth is out there....but it's just not here.

They staggered around in a circle for a bit, then Romney says, "I have a confession to make. I've been sandbagging. I haven't had an original idea since We Built That. And I didn't really think of that, Obama thought of it. That fucker's full of ideas."

Romney thought for a second, "Wait a minuuuuuttteee..."

"What?" asked Ryan.

"I'm thinking we might ask him a favor," replied Romney.

"Sit down, quick!" said Ryan, excitedly, "You've got an idea. Breathe slowly..slowwwly..now what is it, this idea of yours?"

"We'll ask for a bailout," announced Romney. "An intellectual bailout. So we don't sound so dumb, you know? I'll tell him we'll contribute a million dollars to his campaign, if he can send us 3 or 4 pithy comebacks."

Ryan pulled his smartphone from his pocket and dialed Obama's number for Romney. He caught Obama bathing in the comfort of a 5-star hotel with Joe Biden at his side.

Obama answered, "What the hell do you want?"

After Romney told him his great idea, and how he wanted to send the campaign a million bucks, Obama responded, "That is one fantastic idea, but why call me for help when you can think of such great ideas on your own? Transferring the data might be a problem, though." Obama thought for a second, and informed Romney there is only one way to transfer data this sensitive and pithy, so Romney and Ryan must follow exact White House presidential procedures.

Ryan and Romney both excitedly agreed to do whatever is necessary to fill themselves with the pithiness that maybe, just maybe, could match the pitch-perfect pithiness of the King of Pithiness, Barack Obama.

Obama instructed Romney to bend over, have Ryan put the phone on speaker, then hold it to Romney's asshole to begin the data dump.

Romney didn't hesitate to get into position. Ryan held the speaker phone against Romney's asshole, and announced to Obama they were ready. Doing everything they could to keep from laughing, Obama and Biden started making whistling and old fax machine noises peppered with raspberries into the phone. Then, as instructed, Romney held the phone to Ryan's asshole, and they repeated the procedure.

When it was all over, Romney said he felt more alive than ever, and Ryan said he did too. They walked down the trail with a new bounce in their step, just waiting to use their new-found pithiness to send some bleeding-heart spiraling into the dustbin of history. Then Ryan's phone rang. He answered, "Boy Wonder, here."

It was Karl Rove. "Let me talk to that walking phone booth you call a running partner." Ryan handed the phone to Romney. "Hey Romney, this is Turd Blossom. Stop worrying about your polls. While you were out there jerking off with Eddie Munster, me, Netanyahu and one of your rich white-trash constituents bought the rights to a piece of crap movie chocked full of characters that look like they from the bible. We overdubbed it with a bunch of slanderous shit about towel-heads and their Mohatmagandi, or whatever the fuck he is."

Rove continued, "Now listen carefully you idiot, and don't fuck this up. To make this scheme work, you must do exactly as I tell you, and you cannot forget any of it." Romney studiously put the phone on speaker, gave it to Ryan, bent over and signaled for Ryan to hold the phone near his asshole.

You could hear Karl Rove clearly say, "When we send our shills into the streets of Egypt and Libya with this video, the shit's gonna hit the fan. You are to wait..I repeat...you are to wait UNTIL AFTER our guys move into the U.S. consulate in Benghazi, kill the American ambassador and burn the place down. THEN, AND ONLY THEN, are you to make a statement talking about how impotent Obama is in American foreign affairs and how he sleeps with the enemy. And from now on my code name is not Turd Blossom, it's Sam Basill-you can spell it any way you like. DO YOU GOT IT!?

"Uh yeah, I think so, I din't go to Harvard for nothing," replied Romney. Suddenly, Romney's old-man sphincter, groaning from the weight of all the information recently downloaded, and maybe a touch of a virus, blew out with enough force to knock Ryan's hand away. Ryan whipped back his arm like he had touched a rattlesnake and cried, "Damn, grandpa, give me some warning next time." Rove hollered, "What the hell was that?" "Uh, nothing, Karl, I mean Turd Blossom," replied Romney. "It's Sam fucking Bassil!" screamed Rove.

Ryan snapped the phone shut, put it in his pocket, smelled the back of his hand, a move that caused his Adam's apple to disappear into his throat, and gave Romney the biggest goober grin he could muster. Romney smacked his lips and gave Ryan a confused grimace. They took a mutual breath, then wandered down the campaign trail, directly into the setting sun.

After a while, Romney said, "You know, I been thinkin'...We might'ta got tricked." "By who?" asked Ryan.

   

Romney Watches 9/11 Reruns; Demands Desert Storm III

Oh, Fuck..

Boston-Mitt Romney awoke on Tuesday, September 11, 2012, and like millions of Americans, turned on the TV to catch the latest polls and election news. He was very worried Americans were beginning to realize  how much he sucked, and what a mistake it would be to elect another  mean rich kid as leader of the free world.

As Romney was getting his toenails buffed by one of his house-slaves, he scanned the TV, waiting for himself to appear standing in front of a bunch of people who "do something that makes them dirty," while promising to yank their healthcare if they lose their jobs. He also waited on pins and needles to see how he sounded rolling out his latest attack against his opponent: The claim Obama wants to remove the words "In God We Trust" from the U.S. currency. The same currency Romney collected by the millions without giving a token thought about religion or his fellow man.

But suddenly, the reality of the day sunk in. The World Trade Center was on FIRE and one of the towers was collapsing before his eyes. Romney jumped to his feet and yelled, "Eureka! This is it! The end of Obama! How could he possibly survive a national tragedy like this? This is our moment! The Republicans can wear this for a hundred years and beat the crap out of the Dems every time we mention this date 9/11! 9/11, 9/11! Jeeves! Bring me the phone!"

The butler rolled his eyes and  brought Romney's phone on a silver platter. Romney set the heavy black rotary phone in his lap and frantically dialed-up his election team. He was so excited, his fingers slipped out of the holes twice, causing him to chip a fingernail, which his house-slave swooped in to fix with a pair of platinum nail-clippers and an emery board made of ground diamonds.

Romney was so thrilled and bursting with ideas, his election team, nursing massive hangovers as they try to blow through their $100,000 per diem before the campaign collapses under its own stupidity, didn't have time to think, before Romney, being the astute businessman he is, quickly put together a plan to use the attack on the World Trade Center as a way to rid Israel of that "pain in the ass" Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, using all the money the US could print, and hand Iran, a country with the world's third largest oil reserves, over to America's biggest oil companies.

"We'll kill hundreds of thousands of people! We'll burn kids alive in the street! We'll smash them with our Hummers! The arms, legs, testicles and boobs of our servicemen and women will fly everywhere! I'll make billions as my "blind" trust will know every move we make and can play the oil futures like a virtuoso! And during the whole mess, we'll buy tons of stock in the company that makes Tamiflu, create an avian flu hoax, and hold a press conference telling everyone Tamiflu is the only way to cure it! Jumpin' Jehoshaphat! Israel will keep their nose clean while we hang the leader of a sovereign nation by the neck. My blood buddy, Benjamin Netanyahu, will come out smelling like a rose, while the American middle class will drown in debt and poverty when we come to collect on this disaster they'll pay for in absolute misery. We will kill 300 times more innocent people than died in the trade center attack! This is all moving so fast, let me sit down for a minute and think what we can call it. It must have a name to give it some ooomph."

Ann gave her husband a paper bag to breathe into so he wouldn't hyperventilate. Suddenly, a light bulb went off in his head. He jumped up, stood on an ornate gold-plated chair, pointed his finger in the air like a noble scholar and announced, "We will call it, Desert Storm III." Then he lowered his voice and asked Ann, "Iran is a desert, right?"

Ann looked vacuously into thin air and shrugged. Then, she became so caught up in the moment, the "suffering in her heart" she felt for the 9/11 victims was blotted out by the storm clouds of blackened evil and war. She jumped up and down like an excited schoolgirl and screeched, "Since Obama is black, can we draft him first? Like back in the sixties, when we drafted Cassius Clay?"

"I don't know who Cassius Clay is, Anney," Romney replied. "But I'll call Donald Rumsfeld, he'll think of something. He knows how to control the unknown, known, unknown, unknown know-it-alls!"

A few minutes later, you could hear Romney in the shower, chanting like a prep-school cheerleader, "9/11, 9/11, 9/11 Whatup Obama? Whatup Whatup? Whatup? 9/11! Yeeeaahhhhhhh!" Then he called out, "Does anyone know where I left my megaphone? I am going to need a megaphone."