Clinton: Scary Vagina, Revisited

They are sounding the alarm: Do not vote for Hillary. They want me to go full monty on the emails. What about ’em? Nothing to worry here, my loyal voters. FBI is just laboring under the Hoover Syndrome. They have to have a big thick file on all presidents. It gives them a sense of purpose and security. Once I am the President, I will cut their jugular or shoo them on my enemies or Bill. That ought to keep them busy for years.

They say what about Ben-Ghazi, ISIS, I-love-drones, Goldman-Sachs, my position on waterboarding, my health, my offshore wealth, and, of all the unimpeachable things I own, poor old Bill. They want to know why Bill is sleeping on the couch again? They say it was the first reason why he needed a suckling pig in the oval office. (Sorry, pig.)

I say hogwash! Go Hawgs! I have forgotten three times those real-estate flipping deals (and so have you) when I was young and greedy. Now I am just sanguinary greedy. I just want to send every towel head to a rendering plant for the barrels of oil we so love. My love affair with the banksters is about that and nothing else. A true matter of national security.

You know well, a vote for Me is a vote for doing away with the lecherous establishment, the antiquated traditions, and the male-dominated vocabulary at the White House. A new beginning, I say. First, you are gonna figure out how to address me? Mr President, Mrs President, Ms President, Lady President (I know, that’s a stretch)? Personally, I am partial to  Führer Hillary. Second, what are we gonna do with poor old Bill? First Gentleman? Ha ha. First Spouse? That sounds like an Afghani dish with asafoetida. May be we will call him First ex-President Who Sleeps in the White House – on a couch, mind you, outside the First Bedroom. I promise I will make sure he is always sandwiched by two secret service hogs with shit on cock to deny him access to virgin piggies. (Sorry, piggies.)

Well, you are voting for me. The other guy, the Trump, that laughable collection of fat and hair is not worth a barrel of compost. He is a bloody businessman, not a well-oiled killing machine like me. (I have military-industrial complex in my bag now. Aren’t I smart?) I promise to exterminate more heathens than Obama and Bush combined.

Privacy? What ’bout it? Who are these people trying to hide stuff from us? Communists, I say. And rapists? In the age of Islamic terrorists we cannot afford privacy! We already know all about the bad boys and naughty chicks in the closet.  The CIA, the NSA, the FBI, they know all about them skeletons in the closet so they can use them if you try to get out of line with your precious freedom. Ha. So do not try to get out of line.  Behave like the sheep like you are motherfuckers. When I am the president I’ll have lists to make McCarthy proud. I’ll outdo the medieval popes in witch hunting. I’ll have that little runt of a Cook hack his precious iPhone for me or I’ll have him hacked in public at the Dupont Circle.

Finally, they question my health. Imagine that. When you see me a-gagging, do not worry. It is not my thyroid acting up again, no. I have no thyroid no more. I am just marshalling the male hormones. It is well-known in the financial circles that I had my thyroid replaced by a sterling gold prostate. All paid by the “too big to fail” bankers. That makes me a wo-and-a-man. Better. Cheaper. Faster. At lying and cheating – the essence of politics for the rich by the rich. Talk about going full monty.

The only ticket that can may be edge me out is Cheney/Voldemort. But they have to deal with that scrappy kid with a wand, and they do not get 200K a pop from Goldman Sachs for spilling my prostate on their arse full of CDOs. Non-performing? No, no, no. They have performed real well for the partners and for me. When I am president I will let you buy a share in their hedge funds. The poor banksters have a family to feed and Harvard is getting expensive by the day.

You can call me Ms. “It’s my turn” Hillary.

Vote Clinton 2016.

See Clinton: Scary Vagina, 2008.