Cold....very cold
Found this elsewhere:
“It’s obvious bullsh*t, of course, because even as a grown - uh - specimen Chelsea Clinton can’t count to ten without taking off her panties, scratching the scrofulous, seaweed-encrusted yeasty maw therin, and using her chittering chitinous cloacal chelipeds as dactylonomous aids. She certainly can’t write her own name unless we think finger-painting in the medium of saliva-softened excrement counts as penmanship.
But let’s, for a second, assume it was true: what a horrible Tracy Flick-like weird little freak that would make her. If I had a 5 year old like that, I’d dragon punch him and send for an exorcist.
But the thing that looks like it should be gnawing on a child’s femur under a Scandinavian bridge somewhere thinks this tale makes her seem... what? Smart? Electable?
Though to be fair, maybe the human costume was distractingly itchy when She-Jeb relayed this autastic anecdote. The only thing I do know for sure is that America needs Kurt Russell and a bloody great flamethrower to put a stop to this Clinton nonsense once and for all, before Chelsea lays her eggs in the Lincoln Tunnel.”