P-Push It Real Good

Ooh, baby baby.

Baby baby.

Somebody found all the balls in the whole world and went around reattaching them this week, it seems.

Seriously, this is how we do. Enough with this “ooh, they criticized me, I’d better back down.” Screw that. They criticize you, means you struck a nerve. Keep tapping that nerve. Tap it with, you know, an ICE PICK. Because if you don’t cower, they don’t know what to do. If they come back and say you’ve hurt their widdle feelings and you say, “So fucking what? You hurt my country. You hurt the poor. You hurt the helpless. You hurt the weakest and neediest of our society. You stood on the porch of your vacation home, you stupid privileged bitch, and you talked about how tough it is to be you, and after that you’re asking me to believe something I said penetrated that titanium hull? Give me a fucking break.

“I hurt your feelings? You have feelings? Shit, I thought that thing ticking inside your chest was a time bomb, from the way it echoed off the tin sides of your rib cage, you goddamn robot. You took in enough from lobbyists last year to buy every single person in this world a Coke and a Lamborghini, so shut the fuck up, okay? Two thousand soldiers died because you indulged your childish fears and professed a gullibility that would make Strawberry Shortcake look like a hopeless cynic, and you have yet to apologize for any of it, and you’re telling me to watch what I say? After what you’ve done, I’m supposed to believe I made you cry? You have got to be kidding me. No, wait, of course you’re not kidding me. You’re not that good.

“When I want your opinion, when I want to know how my words affect sniveling little cocksuckers like you, well, I can’t imagine ever wanting to know that, so forget it. Crawl back to your mansion, you stupid right-wing fuck. I could never cause you a single problem you could pay me to care about.”

A.