What we need in a Republican candidate in the 2012 election is a true social and fiscal conservative. Someone with salt and pepper hair and expressive hand motions. Someone who can really fill out a suit with a red tie. Someone with a wife that they never have sex with and a square jaw line. Someone that understands the needs of Americans and is egocentric enough to assume responsibility of providing those needs. Someone that has been finely groomed by their well-established father since childhood, that has been strictly denied a social life or any meaningful relationships in order to cultivate the shallow and calculated bonds required for a political career. Someone who is so sexually repressed that orgasms can only be achieved if their partner is wearing a mask of said authoritarian father.
Well by golly, if the right candidate won’t step up to the plate, I, Pudding Arthur Dickenson will be proud to accept the Republican nomination for President of the United States of These Here Americas.
I’m a true conservative. Not like those other vagina balls. I’m so conservative it’s scary. I basically don’t want the government to do anything except keep gays away from the altar and the military and keep Muslims out of airports. That’s it. Bada-Bing, Bada-Boom.
I believe in a right to privacy. If I want to perform an abortion on my 15 year old whore daughter in the privacy of my own home, then god damn it that’s what I’m gonna do. Because the Constitution granted me that privilege. Heck, if I want to save all of her little whore bastard babies in a jar I can do that to0. And maybe once I get enough, I’ll make like one of those beaded doorway decoration things except instead of beads it’ll have all her little aborted whore feti. And I’ll hang it in the doorway to her room so that everyone will be reminded of where the whore lives and how disappointed we all are in her. And that is my God given right of interior design. Nobody can strip that from us. Not Obama. Not Nancy Pelosi. Not the devil himself (Sean Penn). Because the fact is simple, my daughter is a huge whore and our founding fathers wanted us to have beaded baby doorway decorations. And I’ll be covered in shit and rolled in goose feathers if I’m gonna sit here and let you piss all over my forefathers.
I’m not going to beat around the bush. Not like some of these bologna heads. I like money and I like jobs and I don’t like mexicans taking those jobs and I don’t like other minority groups, who need not be named, sitting around all day smoking crack-cocaine cigarettes and using welfare money to buy new hubcaps for their hoopties. They’re over there getting a check from the government every month and blowing it on cases of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Well guess what fuckers, if I’m gonna pay for someone to sit around and drink a Mike’s Hard Lemonade, it’s gonna be me doing the drinking! Not some dickhead that can’t figure out how to work a belt.
And most of all, I hate cole slaw. I won’t eat it and I think that anyone who does eat it is a disgusting pile of cat dicks. Cabbage and mayonnaise? Really? You’re going to eat that? Shit’s fascist as fuck and I ain’t gonna play around with that. Uh-uh no sir. No way, no how. I’d rather swallow a handful of hair at a Puddle of Mudd concert. I’d rather eat a boogerwurst sandwich with a side of kettle cooked toenails. I don’t mess around with slaw and I’m not going to say it again. And it’s not just the taste. It’s so much more than that. It’s the texture. It’s the visual presentation. It’s everything slaw stands for. I oppose its entire belief system. And why the fuck is it called cole slaw and how does that even sound remotely appetizing? I’d rather eat something called a gorilla titty and jizz screamsicle than something called “cole slaw.” I mean…fuck.
Also, I’m pro guns. Guns belong in the house, right next to the Nestle Quik on the bottom shelf, so if need be anyone can reach for it in case of an attack from a black or a zipperhead. America was founded on guns. If it weren’t for guns, hippies like Kurt Cobain and Bigger Smalls would have run this country into the god damned sewer.
I said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m pro-money. I just love the stuff. If money was a woman, I would ask her to come over to my house to watch Notting Hill. We would stay up all night drinking milk and talking about how things had changed since college. We’d start seeing more of each other, date for a few months, then I’d pop the question while we were parasailing down in San Destin. I’d do it right, wait until we got married and then fuck her into a coma. Of course I’d visit her everyday in the hospital after she was comatose. Then, after a couple months I’ll tell the doctors to pull the plug because I know she wouldn’t have wanted to live like this. That’s how much I love money.
If you vote me for president of America I’m gonna get this fucking country back on track. We’re gonna have fucking big ol trucks driving down the street with loudspeakers on their roofs, blasting Toby Keith. Fucking Toby Keith. You Ain’t Much Fun Since I Quit Drinkin’. How Do You Like Me Now? Getcha Some. Whiskey For My Men and Beer for My Motherfucking Horses. Everyday. Everybody will hear that Toby Keith truck coming from a mile away and they’ll go out on their porches and dance and wave flags and cook hotdogs. I’ll put a god damn slip-n-slide on the White House lawn and we’ll do a laser light show that you’ll be able to see in Timbuktu. Sarah Palin is going to be there in a bikini getting hammered, doing karaoke, and pouring pitchers of Guinness on her tits. I’m so super stoked cuz it’s gonna be the raddest.
And if you don’t wanna vote for me or come to my White House slip-n-slide partay, well then you can go fuck yourself. You bow-legged piece of shit. You bow-legged piece of shit with a skinny little dick. You bow-legged drippy-dicked codfish. You can stretch that skinny little pathetic excuse for a peckercock all the way around until it slides into your ripe little tushie cushion. You can just stay home and watch anime porn for all I care. Go ahead. Just sit around and watch Sailor Moon get sexed up by the tentacles of a space squid. I don’t even want guys like you to vote for me. Just being associated with the likes of you would make me look like a straight up biggidy-bitch.
Thank you and God bless America. And when I say “God” I am specifically referring to the white Christian god. The Jesus one with the ghost and the son and whatever.
See you at the polls!