Hillary, the undeclared candidate, watches the men sortie on C-Span, her haughty emir tones polluting the still air, as she tries ‘em on for size, and says that “real men rise to the occasion,” her sarcasm indicating that, in 2004, a mense riot of unseemly proportions will befall the earth in meteors of horror that will make Americans nostalgic for the semen riot that her husband subjected us to, diddling and fiddling with cigars and items Nero or Caligula could never have imagined.
Old Thunder Thighs ( i.e., Monster Butt), her dry skin only partially relieved by moistener applied in great gobs, writes note to self: "remit nose job money immediately so work on jowls may commence." Her screech speech the other night caused remotes in millions of hands everywhere to press millions of mute buttons. From her witch’s head down to her coal miner toes, Hillary emits Reno-like sounds that reverberate in an iron-meets-iron crescendo of lies and innuendo. She proudly proclaims, “The term ‘neo’ is now being applied to the vast right-wing conspiracy.” (Another note to self: "Omit sneer when smiling. Also, stop eating ere I’m tons overweight.")
“I spoke to the Pope when he came out against this war. I sent Rome a list of my positions (now that we’ve prevailed) and informed him that while it is a mere sin to go to war, it is a mortal sin to allow the Iraqi people to suffer. I met senior people in the Department of Defense, and, while I make no predictions, (a seer I’m not ) -- omens tire me out, it will soon be snore time for that little monkey in North Korea if he continues to threaten the women and children of this country.”