He was all man, you know what I mean, and due respect to the women and children present, but I just gotta say it. Arnie was a legend, he could really drive it long and hard, you get my drift. Let’s just say that a nine iron wasn’t the only thing he could swing with authority. Listen, I’m not gonna be coy, the guy was hung like a rhinoceros, OK? You couldn’t believe this guy’s trouser snake! Ay Carumba! The schlong on the bastard! It was like a baby’s arm holding an apple, I’m tellin’ ya, you could’ve dressed it up in a munchkin suit and used it as an extra in the Wizard of Oz! Talk about an extended shaft! It was longer than a 3-wood! One look at it and you wished to God you had a tape measure handy! He could’ve run a three-legged race all by himself, I’m serious. The other pros were scared to go into the shower, they’d never seen anything so frightening, it was like he had a goddam fire hydrant dangling there between his knees. Jack Nicklaus wouldn’t go in there with him unless he could grab a trash can lid to use as a shield, just in case! Nobody could talk about anything else at Augusta, let me tell you.
The next President of the United States, pending the exercise of the 25th Amendment.
Despite his penile obsessions and his taste in pop tunes, he’s not at all gay.
Day in, day out, Donald never disappoints. First he’ll call for using the military to root out the “enemy within”, that fifth column of traitorous radical commie libs run by Adam Shifty Schiff and Crazy Nancy Pelosi. Then he’ll salute the crowd at a rally in Arizona by referring to them as “Azur-Asians”, presumably of the great state of Azur-Asia (a tiny republic near Turkmenistan, I think). At a recent Pennsylvania town hall, he got so frustrated with people falling over unconscious in the punishing heat that he decided, after inquiring, testily, “does anybody else want to faint?”, that it wasn’t worth carrying on with the Q&A, and had his staff play music instead, thus kicking off a bizarre interlude that lasted for almost 40 minutes. Yup. For a full 39 minutes, he stood there, rapt, swaying gently to the tunes, sometimes waving his arms around like a moribund Leopold Stokowski, while Kristi Noem, the South Dakota Governor most famous for shooting her dog in a gravel pit after it pissed her off, stood there beside him, her face contorted into a rictus grin, pretending everything was altogether normal and perfectly fine. Then, still in Pennsylvania (gotta woo the voters in America’s most crucial swing state!), he kicked off his pitch to the electorate in Arnold Palmer’s home town with an ode to the golf legend’s apparently mammoth member. He must have figured it was a sure-fire way to win ’em all over straight away, praising the home town hero as lavishly as a manly man could ever be praised, and who says it didn’t go over well? Yeah, the whiners in the Press have been going bonkers, but they would, wouldn’t they? Forget the scribblers and talking heads. Watch the tape. The crowd seemed to like it.
I’m not saying that Donald wasn’t being a bit rude. Sure he was. Admittedly, not so rude as I’ve portrayed him here, since, all right, the quote that begins this posting wasn’t quite verbatim. I embellished it a little. Took a little artistic licence, you know. Not so much as you’d think, though! Look:
And hey, rude’s not always a bad thing. Rude can play. It sure plays with MAGA.
You know what, I’ve decided it plays with me too. I give up. I’ll resist no longer. I was on the fence, but not any more. I’m sold. The man’s a stable genius and gifted orator, and anybody who can spin so charmingly ribald a yarn with such sly, knowing, nakedly unabashed vulgarity would certainly get my vote, were that I had one to cast this coming November. Oh well. No matter. He’ll still get there without my help, and boy am I stoked! I can’t wait to hear his Inaugural address! Remember the speech he gave in 2017? “American carnage” and all that? George W. Bush, attending in person, walked off mumbling “that was some weird shit right there”, but let me tell you something, Dubbya, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet! Between the screed that Stephen Miller is going to throw up on the tele-prompter for him, and Donald’s many meandering off-script verbal excursions – he calls his freely-associated streams of non-sequiturs “the weave” – it’s going to be one for the ages.
Yessir, after witnessing his masterful charm offensive over the past couple of weeks as the campaign draws to a close, I don’t see any way that Donald winds up anywhere except back at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., and who isn’t glad about that, end of the day? You want to see what happens too, just for the Hell of it, am I right? Why, sure. It’s like watching an enormous steam locomotive hurtling towards a rickety, rotted old trestle bridge. It’s not just that you can’t help but look; the honest, ugly truth is that you desperately crave the sight of that big old train plunging headlong into the river. You’ll feel rooked if it doesn’t happen. So it is with Donald, and I’m not at all worried that he might disappoint. Not a chance! Good Lord, just think of the things that’ll be coming out of his puckered little pie hole as the dementia progresses towards end-stage! What’ll he say? That’s just it! Nobody knows! Nobody could possibly imagine! Well, I want to find out, oh so very badly, and one thing’s for sure, it’ll be vastly entertaining, and endlessly yuk-worthy, and what else matters?
I just hope that Vance et al. don’t trigger the 25th right off the bat, the killjoys. C’mon, J.D! Give him a couple of weeks to rack up a few more of his classic sound bites! It shouldn’t take him long. Stay your hand a bit for the benefit of posterity. After all, you’ll have plenty of time to play Mr. President after you declare martial law, suspend the Constitution, and do away with elections, and don’t deny it – you’re just as giddily curious as I am.
14 days to go.
the needlefish 