Scooter B. will address the nation Monday evening. Regular readers know that this bitch provides recaps of Presidential speech-like mutterings and that tradition will continue next week.
Obviously the regular drinking game will not apply.
As if you’ve never done the 1 shot per 'nuclear' game.
Scooter B. is going to make a lot of September 11 references since this speech in taking place September 11, 2006 and will most likely be another disturbingly obvious manipulation of that national tragedy to garner terror induced support for the war against…well, terror.
So, a bitch is going to work up a different version of the drinking game for Monday.
Lawd knows we don’t want folks getting illish on vodka crans…on a Monday (wink).
This bitch slept like a baby yesterday evening, but only after some dream-based correction.
Last night, while this bitch was flogging Pat Buchanan’s fleshy ass...
Warning - This bitch indulges in the dream-based correction of ignorant motherfuckers. These corrections involve the merciless rod of correction…some flogging…a bitch looking fine as hell…the bejeweled thrown of bitchitude…and whoever my happy ass feels like beating senseless in my dreams.
Where was a bitch?
Yes…beating the bigot out of Pat Buchanan.
Having Pat Buchanan pop into my dream…bare assed, tied limbs extended while facing the wall of shame and sobbing like the knavish rotten assed wretched spawn of evil that he is…well, it was surprising.
A bitch hasn’t had to correct Pat in a month of Sundays.
Gawd, I thought as I switched from his left ass cheek to the right one, a bitch would have sworn I cast this sorry assed motherfucker to Hades. And now he’s back…from outer space…with that rancid rotting from within look upon his face...and a new book of evil to pimp.
I paused in my efforts and sat upon my thrown to gaze upon Buchanan quizzically.
“What the fuck is going on, fiend?” A bitch questioned. “You were cast out and the circle was closed. What wicked wind brought your foul presence back from hell?”
He sobbed, snot pouring copiously from his nose.
“Cease crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!”
“Yes.” He softly replied.
“Yes what?” Tossed back this bitch.
“Yes Devine Mistress of Bitchitude and all things accurate.”
“Better. Now answer my question!”
“Mistress, you did cast me out and the circle was closed. But the immigration debate slashed a wound in the fabric of this world. All that anti-brown rhetoric was powerful! I saw the opening and stepped through it.” His voice took on a gleeful tone. “Now is the time for Americans to recognize that our nation is meant to be 90 % white and those brown invaders are planning to take us over by attacking from the South and…”
Buchanan cried out in fear as a bitch rose from my thrown.
“Shut up, motherfucker. Lawd, that shit is so played out.” a bitch sighed. “Okay, I just don’t have the energy to flog you anymore. You’re beyond correction anyway.”
“You’re going to kill me!” Buchanan sobbed.
“Gawd, you are one scared motherfucker. Kill you? I think not.” A bitch replied. “No. I’m going to cast thee back in time.”
“What? Back in time?” Buchanan’s eyes went wild. “Yes! Cast me back in time! Yes! Back to when white men of power ruled!”
A bitch’s lips (painted to perfection in MAC Underworld) curved as I prepared the circle and then, raising my arms above my head, this bitch cast Pat Buchanan back in time!
Back to 1783…when America was young and white men who owned land held power…and other men, like new arrival Pat Buchanan, worked off their indentured servitude as immigrants of a different sort altogether.
“Feel the love yet, Pat?” this bitch whispered softly and slipped further into the peaceful slumber of post-correction bliss.