Launching right in...
Assholes and the black bitch who will no longer suffer them...
Why are some people assholes? Why? A bitch is tired of tired assed lazy bougie motherfuckers! So…my ass has officially kicked that boring, do nothing, talk too much, perpetually annoying black women’s group to the motherfucking curb!
Freedom never felt so good. This bitch shall continue to fulfill my community service obligations without sistah drama! Can my ass get an amen?
A bitch is eternally grateful for the healing and medicinal advice! My ass feels better. And who knew that there were so many different ways to turn alcohol into meds?
Did someone at the Today Show read a bitch’s blog?
This morning a bitch was amazed to see the caption Bush: The Buck Stops Here pop onto my television screen. It seems that the buck and where is stops was the topic of conversation in a certain newsroom. Unfortunately, Scooter’s buck claiming ass didn’t exactly word his shit right.
“To the extent that any fuck ups were the fault of the federal government I take responsibility” isn’t exactly an all-inclusive head of the fucking federal government Trumanesque statement. But what can a bitch expect out of a dawg but a bark?
Moving forward after multitudes of vodka and coffee sans coin...
ABB’s Medicinal Alcohol Consumption Induced Dream…
In a dark room deep in the bowels of The White House…
Scooter, seated in his favorite beanbag chair, sat looking gloomy and depressed. His minions slouched on a nearby sofa, carefully avoiding eye contact with each other.
“Why does everyone hate me? Don’t they know that I’m a uniter not a divider? Why don’t they just unite? This shit is so un-American!”
Suddenly, the door opens. In walks Barbara Sr., face sour and lips tight.
Babs Sr…"You’d think my ass could catch a fucking break! Jesus, who do these assholes think they are? Fucking liberals and their love of the poor!”
Scooter, lifting his head with hope in his eyes…"Did you make it all better Mother? Did you make those evil doers stop saying mean things?”
“Shit, those fuckers are irrational,” Babs Sr. pauses to light a cigar. “Drown the poor and they start screaming. Provide a shelter and they bitch about how long it will be in place. Point out that dorm style living can be fun and they call you the reincarnation of…oh fuck…who was that bitch who told peasants to eat cake? Anyway, I had no luck. Now they hate me too!”
The minions, sensing a firing in the air, hold their breath.
“Mother, I don’t want to do this anymore. This is hard work!” Scooter whines and begins to sob.
Babs Sr., tapping ash off the end of her stogie, leans against Scooter’s bedtime cage…"Why don’t I make you some nice warm milk? Would that help Mommies little accident…err…angel?”
Scooter nods and Babs exits the room.
Scooter begins to rock in misery...“It’s all gone to shit! My war isn’t triumphant. Shit, it isn’t even valid! My Father has replaced me in his affections with another former President…a fucking Democrat! He’d rather golf with a motherfucking Democrat! My Mother has all the compassion of Attila the Hun. My chil’ren are…well…lets just say a few trip to rehab wouldn’t hurt. My wife has been so fucking programmed that she’s incapable of an unscripted thought. The economy sucks, the fucking South thinks I’m the rebirth of Sherman marching on Atlanta and Gawd keeps send more storms to punish me! Top that off with a Supreme Court nominee who says words I can’t understand and all I want to do is got back to Texas. This Presidency thing makes mismanaging oil companies look easy!”
One brave minion stands up. Taking a deep breath, Condi approaches Scooter.
“Baby doll, I think there’s something you should see.”
Taking his hand, she guides him to the computer. With some quick clicks, she pulls up AngryBlackBitch.com.
“What’s this?” Scooter whispers.
“This is a blog. There’s some angry black woman mouthing off. Obviously, I don’t agree with her. Rumor has it that she’s sexy as hell, but that’s beside the point. She has some ideas that may help you turn the tide. Lets try this one out tomorrow…responsibility. Mmmmkay?”
Scooter, desperate for a glimmer of hope, turns and hugs Condi’s brittle body.
“I know just what I’m going to say!” He proclaims, as Babs Sr. re-enters the room. She pauses and observes Scooter, Condi and the minions dancing in a fiendish circle around the beanbag chair.
“Settle down and drink your milk. It’s almost time for you to go into the cage.”
And so, our intellectually challenged President ended his day…high on the hope that "responsibility" would save the day…
But, alas, he fucked that shit up. The language of personal accountability and leadership were simply too foreign to him!
A bitch will have to instruct him with the merciless rod of correction tonight…