If you see me on the street, please don't attempt to make eye contact.Greetings, constituents. As we inch closer and closer to the 2010 Midterm Elections, one thing couldn't be further from my mind: the 2010 Midterm Elections. Pardon my candor, but having served this community for the past 16 years, I feel nothing but the icy fingertips of boredom tightening around my neck every meandering, soul-sucking day. If I have to attend one more ribbon-cutting at another new Outback Steakhouse, it won't be much longer before I publicly exclaim, "Just how many stupid-ass Outback Steakhouses does this godforsaken county have to build before I hire my derelict nephew to start burning them to the ground under the cover of darkness!?"
Yes, honesty is the new policy in the Trunbert administration. Having noticed that any moron with a sports coat and a Supercuts discount card can successfully run for office while screaming "Moslem" this and "masturbation" that, I've decided that the enormous lengths I've gone to cover up my sordid personal life and questionable political intentions are no longer necessary. But you will still vote for me, because my name is familiar and I appeared in a commercial with an attractive model I paid to pose as my wife, and later, pretend to have an orgasm (that part was not in the commercial). In fact, you - the person reading this? Fuck you. I know I can do this because only three people in this shitstain of a county can read, and are not trusted because of this fact.
Let me break it down for you: I don't care about your store, or your hours, or your little old house that your coal-mining daddy had to cough up a black lung for. You idiots pay me to live in a mansion, and I don't even use most of the rooms! Can you even imagine that? Do you understand that I can defecate under a rug somewhere within the vast confines of my estate, and then promise a crisp 20-dollar bill to the first member of my housekeeping staff that can bring my movement back to me in their bare hands? Of course not. Your waste probably falls into a coffee can before you toss it off the side of the highway from a pickup truck. I'll turn the sewage system back on when I'm good and ready.
The regional manager for Wal*Mart give me a nice box of cigars, and you know what I did? I made sure they're not going to pay property tax until at least 2030 -- long after you die from the chemicals I let the plastics factory dump into the reservoir after they sent one of their representatives to my daughter's piano recital in lieu of yours truly. And when this little fact hit the local news, all I had to do was get up on some podium and stomp around about urban crime until you idiots were so afraid of some imaginary brown menace that you forgot about all of my transgressions, even the time I took a swing at that visiting smart-ass Little League champ. Congratulations, you brazen morons.
Celebrate diversity and inclusiveness at your next protest by not calling Donald Trump a nasty little-hands pisspig bitch.
A true patriot has exactly seven t-shirts, with seven slight variations on a single phrase that tell one powerful story. This is that tale.
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