Before we scuttle off to an amazing place where Dave Matthews' shit falls (like miraculous rain!) from the sky somehow by the ton....
Listen, John Kerry or whoever: Not another fucking peep about Vietnam! Vietnam veterans get spare change for refreshing afternoon wakeup cans of Sterno, not votes for president. Drop it.
And no more about George W. Bush! Even the tardiest tards in Retardacia instinctively understand what a fibbing, fascist fuckball that fibbing, fascist fuckball is. Like biscuits understand gravy. Like the Governor of California's groping fingers understand recalcitrant breasts. And so forth. The twisted Republican rat-weasel spread conspiracy and fraud across our election system like hot shit on a cold cracker (thereby creating a country-thieving precedent that makes my thinkier bones shiver) and strung corpulent conspirators and corrupt corporate whores through every branch of government like dusty, blinking reborn nightmares on the Christmas tree of the damned. He's undone (as best he could) all of the magic that was Bill Clinton and planted Mephistophelean seeds of explosive resentment, deep mistrust, and singular ego-mad American war-stupid across the world. (Travel much?) Then, of course, there're all them dead folk. Indeed. But at this point, codgering-on about it all just makes you, John Kerry or whoever, look pallid and wan.
Vote pallid and wan? I don't think so.
So until the Oprah-Hillary-Judge Judy triumvirate rises to usher in the New Renaissance, you, Kerry, will leave Bush to Michael fucking Moore, slap some bloom into those sad, gray cheeks, and make this fractured, floundering nation of reluctant and downwardly spiraling corporate slaves believe that you are going to put a stop to this murderous farce and save our asses: reinstate our constitutional basics, creatively inspire our economy, commit to alternative energy and environmental issue thingies (my globes are getting suspiciously warm), repair international relations (bake the world a pie--hell, I don't know), un-tap my phone line, and restore to this nation a heart that beats. We need an embracing, confident, get-her-done stud, not a frustrated, dusty tattletale. So sit up straight and try to look like a fucking president. Or awake. And buy a decent suit, dammit. Like Bush's. Scorching.
Oh--and please have some secret plan drawn up with the UN to handle the inevitable Bush regime coup. 'Kay? Thanks. Love, Adrian. End communiqué.
Next week: Dave Matthews dumps shit on people's heads. Maybe.
