Ok. I am sorry. What I said was wrong. What I meant to say is that he is brain dead and the people who vote for him are retarded, wicked retahded
Sofa King We Todd did.
It’s a little early for Halloween but this might be a good time for a re-telling of the story of Dr. Frankenstein shopping for a brain.
Victor Frankenstein VIII, surgeon, found some dusty old manuals while in the attic looking for Valentine cards. That’s right, they were the plans for creating life ... the blueprints, the map into God’s domain.
So he did an internet search for “Igor IV’ and found a match, called him and they met.
Well, of course the most important part of creating life is the brain and they both remembered the story of how Igor IV’s grandfather screwed-up by bringing back a brain marked `Abby Normal’.
So they went to a *reputable* brain shop together: “Happy Harry’s Used Brain Emporium”, on Main Street, between two Starbucks.
Harry saw he had a couple of `live ones’ so he guided them to a wall of shelves. He pulled out a shelf on rollers. Arranged and labeled inside were brains and parts of brains.
“These belonged to academics—`eggheads’. Very smart!”, said Harry, tapping his nose. “Full professors, associates, graduate students, professors emeritus, ya da ya da ya da.”
Unimpressed, Victor asked, “How much?”
“$10,000 new dollars a pound,” Harry replied.
The doctor was worried about the expense, anticipating having to pay grave robbers, setting up a lab and so forth, and he was especially concerned that the creature not be smarter than the maker, so he declined.
Harry shrugged and pulled out another drawer: “Health care providers! Doctors, surgeons, GPs, Osteopaths, registered nurses, some ‘candy stripers’ (nudge, nudge) and some ER sluts. All very bright people.”
Same question. $50,000 the pound, said Harry.
Well, there was room for only one doctor in the House of Frankenstein, and these, again, were parts: bits-and-pieces of brains, like cheap cashews, so he passed, waving his hand dismissively.
Discouraged, Harry pulled out the last drawer.
“These are lawyers, legislators, politicians—`salons’—quite a few senators, mostly Democrats for some reason, I’m sorry to say (under his breath) ...”
Same query.
$100,000 per pound.
Victor was taken aback: “Why so much?!”
Harry replied, “Obviously you have no idea how many of them it takes to come up with a pound of brains!”
So Victor said, “Schweinehund! You are vasting mein time!”
Harry paused then said, “OK, let me show you what I have in the back room.”
He unlocked a triple-bolted door and ushered them into a large room, empty except for a table which was spotlit by a number of halogen lights. Upon the table was a large crystal bowl containing a shimmering liquid.
Suspended in the liquid was a whole brain—glowing, vibrant, pulsing, being fed by tubes.
The mad scientist was impressed. “How, how much for this one?”
Harry saw the hook was set, so he started reeling:
“This is a very special brain. It actually belonged a president of the former United States of America in the first part of this century, back when they really were something if you recall your history.”
“Ya, ya. Skip the sales talk. How much?” said Victor, impatient.
“Well, you’ll know who I’m talking about when I tell you that he was practically considered a god, before all that bad stuff happened.”
“Ya, I know who! So vot? How much?”
“Ten million new dollars.”
“Gott in Himmel! Vy so much?!”
Simple. It’s never been used.
I understand your feelings towards the terrible excuse of a man who left a young woman in his care to drown or worse.
Yet your words were too much for a public forum.