EARLY IN THE PRESIDENTIAL CAMPAIGN, Republicans began to mock Barack Obama as a “Savior,” Messiah, and “the ONE.” They physically recoiled as other apparently white folks rushed forward, gushing inexplicably with fevered, almost religious enthusiasm for someone clearly a member of another race; it was almost as if race meant nothing at all. To them.
Conservative pundicks, shaken to their fearful little microbial souls, began ejaculating vociferous assaults on “The ONE” resolving to their deepest, darkest, basest instincts that no mongrel mutt of a nigg black man would ever have the right to. . . plant a watermelon patch on the grounds of their. White. House. . . let alone rule our nation.
Chief among this mess of low-information hoi polloi is a man that “we who know him” call The BLOVIATOR— as slovenly a lump of putrid bigotry-in-denial protoplasm as you will ever encounter as a temporarily self-conscious, bipedal creature. A man so egomaniacally bombastic even conservative politicians at the very pinnacle of the party must gird their loins with ditto-diapers when they are permitted in his presence, to avoid spontaneous embarrassment should they be called out on his radio-active carpet; yes. he’s that powerful. To them.
Curiously, that sacrosanct authoritaih is being timidly questioned by a variety of sentient conservatives, (See David fucking Brooks, nihilism) many of them torn by their own internal sense of survival, others by a queer, if sensible devotion to actual factual reality; even casual observers knew the smack-down was imminent.
Alright. Settle. Let’s revisit some of that gargle.
Very few people think they’re it. Obama is one. I think when Obama prays, it’s to himself. Those of us who know him, know this.
[Surprised? Back in the day, before Barack became the Messiah, The BLOVIATOR imagined he had access to Obama’s soul, and learned all its secrets; kind of the same way one of the “very few people” who think they’re “it” might imagine such things. . .
. . . So where are we? We as conservatives are in the wilderness; and many of you are hopeless.
[Yes; indeed. Approximately every fucking one of your 17 to 20 million ditto heads are, in fact hopeless; maybe it’s . . . wait. . . your fault?
So we have a guy— Bobby Jindal— thirty-seven years old— First time on the national stage— shows up last night to make a response to the Messiah. . .
[Right. Teh national stage was under water during that Katrina thing. (BTW: Messiahs are said to be able to walk on water. Just. Saying.)
. . . All he did was articulate what we believe;
[That. . . you’re in the wilderness and hopeless?
. . . All he did was articulate opposition to what Obama’s doing; with the obligatory, “when he’s right we’ll work with’im”. . . these things happen. . .
. . .They [The Democrats] are mean-spirited. . . heartless. . . horrible. . . winners. . .
[Thus: The Republican’ts are mean-spirited. . . heartless. . . horrible. . . losers.
Folks, “style” is not gonna take our country back. . . Solid, conservative articulit (sic) in a way that’s inspiring and understanding (sic) is what’s gonna take the country back. . .
[Well. Certainly not that “style.” Rinse. . . and, spit.
Rush Gets Religion
What happened next is not a matter of public record; it is but the somber speculation of endless variations on a theme of morbid hope and brutal satire. After Rush’s gigantic golden metallic phallus falls silent for the night, and he is once again pelted with the “obligatory” “Wow boss, that was absolutely inspiring and understanding”. . .(sic. . .) he goes home; alone.
With deliberate habitual pretense, he unleashes from its silo an enormous wad of rolled tobacco in the shape of a porn star pole, and, getting the tip of it hot, he begins to suckle it with repetitive, unintelligible drawls. He waddles his evermore corpulent hulk into a just as corpulent Escalade that waits for him without so much as a single adulatory bit of style.
There’s no point in running through the dinner hour festivities. Animal parts that were dead were injested. And utterly consumed. Suffice it to say The BLOVIATOR’s corpulence was not only served but expanded, and his self-loathing took a temporary back-seat to some seriously noisy digestion.
Sleep comes fitfully and with prescription medication. The bloviation from earlier in the day has been bloviating just outside the door of the BLOVIATOR’s subconscious, waiting for sleep to open the booby hatch and let the dark stuff roll.
It’s the same dream again; yawn. Rush sees that the mean-spirited, heartless, horrible Democrat winners have stolen teh country; instantly, his jello-like flesh begins to surge with an overwhelming narcissistic urge to bloviate. Several thin young Jamacian boys appear in stylish tennis clothes; they all have the face of thirty-seven year old, Bobby Jindal; they are convulsing in a slow motion back stroke across the national stage . . . one by one they slowly sink beneath the fast rising murky Katrina flood water, which, as luck would have it, contains dangerously high levels of toxic human waste.
No matter; all Rush needs to successfully direct the urge to bloviate is a large golden metallic phallus. And there’s always one under his pillow. Suddenly, one of the thin young Jamacian boys begins to surface; his strong sinewy body is now the color of the turgid brown water, but it makes him glisten in the early light of a new day; the morning sun warms the winsome young man’s muscular body, as he begins a methodical, disciplined, and arousing, stretching routine.
The BLOVIATOR is drawn to him like a giant ‘frig magnate is drawn to one of Rush’s thirteen mammoth refrigerator doors. Rush feels himself effortly rise over the receding waters and gently glide up behind the virile Jamacian. . . no, make that… a Dominican Repub— wait . . .
The young man turns around, he has a. . . basketball in his hands. . . he says, “Hey, catch!”
But his face is not that of thirty-seven year old “BJ” Bobby Jindal; it’s the face of the Messiah; the Savior; The ONE.
“I’m gonna work some of that bloviator gravy off that big fat ass of yours!” he says, and pushes a wicked-quick pass to the slack-jawed BLOVIATOR, suddenly at a loss for words. Amazingly he manages to catch the ball. The Messiah’s BALL. The Savior passed him the BALL. Stranger things have happened; just not to Rush Hudson Limbaugh.
A warm sense of erotic pleasure spreads through the massive groin fat of the BLOVIATOR, and he…
wakes up; in a little man-made pool. He doesn’t care. His mind is racing faster than the 17 million dittoheads for their daily dose of good ol’ fashioned radio dung. Only Rush’s head is cartwheeling into the headwaters of a spiritual baptism that shows no signs of siphoning off any brains cells with it. The Radio is on, but it’s playing beautiful music. Rush Limbaugh has had his first religious experience.
Next time on ADVENTURES of The ONE: The BLOVIATOR: Reconcile THIS.