The Free State Goes All Freedomy

Last night I spent much of the evening consoling my gal pal Maggie Gallagher over the recent developments in Maryland.  Unfortunately for all of us who like the status quo and the world as God created it circa 1949, Maryland has blown a giant hole in that beautiful delusion.

Maggie's little head exploded last night around 6 PM, when we both got the news that Maryland had just become the eighth state to approve so-called gay marriage.  I call it so-called because it is just as counterfeit as all those marriages, which resulted from the 1967 Supreme Court decision to strike down anti miscegenation laws.  That kind of equality just burns my brisket.

I have known Maggie a long time.  We both came up in the same loving Catholic environment, where the shit was beat out of us any time either of us had a lustful or original idea.  I was with her when she ended up getting dumped and had to raise a child alone.  I was with her as her views on marriage changed, and she started to mutilate anatomy books, removing all the penises with a razor blade.

Now I am not going to comment on Maggie's sexuality or appearance.  I know other blogs have speculated that Maggs is a lesbian because of her deep hatred of men or alluded that her resemblance to a manatee stranded on land is evidence of her lesbianism.  But let me just say that Maggie is a giant lezzie dyke because of her deep frustration over not being able to snag a man due to her looking like a manatee stranded on land.

Of course not all is lost.  Maggie has promised me that they will put this on the ballot for November in Maryland.  We both felt so much better after realizing that the people would finally get the last word that we decided to throw a little party.  We called up my puki pal, Michelle Malkin, and the three of us laughed and drank into the night.

At one point, as Maggs and I were doing jello shots off Michelle's naked stomach, we also got the bright idea that if we are going to over turn marriage equality, why stop at gays?  We then decided it was time to take Cher's advice and turn back time and go back to the way God created the country, when:

Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.

 As we rubbed Michelle down in oil with our panties we decided trying to undo the thirteenth amendment might be going too far.

Cat Fight at the O.K. Corral

Last night I watched the latest, and possibly last, Republican presidential debate on CNN.  Normally I don't watch CNN, because I prefer to get my news from the most trusted name in news.  No, not Fox News, Mrs. Babcock, who lives down the street from me.  I find her the most fair and balanced source of news anywhere.  In fact she was the one who broke the news that Whitney had just died and the world of pop would never be the same.

I went right out and stocked up on Pepsi and programmed by Tivo for NBC just to be safe.

So there I was, sitting in my bunny slippers and my hangar-sized Snuggie, scarfing down popcorn like Chris Christie was about to come over and raid my pantry--which is a hell of a lot better than his raiding my panties--when I became convinced I was watching either some sort of perverted lesbian porn or a Black Friday sale at Wal-Mart.

The last time I saw a cat fight that bad, my pussy was out all night in the rain and got soaking wet.  And when I got home, my cat wasn't too happy to see it.

Rick Santorum looked like some pissy drag queen who just got his hair extensions pulled out by a trannie prostitute in a Houston gay bar.  He got all snippy when Mittens accused him of being a radical liberal and spending money like a drunken sailor on shore leave.

Newt looked like an angrier, puffier version of himself as he basically told both Mittens and Ricky to go fudge themselves.  Then, after he thought out fudge, he looked hungry and forlorn.  I think during one of the commercial breaks Calista rushed over and gave him and intravenous chocolate drip.  He looked much more content in the second half of the debate, smiling wistfully, as if he had just finished procreative sex and was about to bust out a cigarette.

Ron Paul just looked like my grandfather, all the way on the right, in a suit two sizes too big.  He made some good points about the Constitution or something and then lost me when he said we can't go to war with Iran.  What a party pooper.

In the end, the two-hour slug fest only cemented my hopes for a brokered convention and for a savior in the form of either the Governor Goodyear Blimp of New Jersey, Governor Moose Tracks of Alaska, or Governor, I forget the third one, but I think he's from Texas.

Right now my money is on Newt taking Arizona, Ricky taking Michigan, and Mittens talking about how he likes rocks and clouds and other objects found in Michigan backyards.

The Bitch is Back

The Bitch is Back, baby, and I am eager to get my hands dirty in this election to replace the Kenya Muslim Socialist Nazi Al Green Impersonator with either a midget in an over sized suit, a man who plays with dead babies, a man who leaves more women in danger than an extra in a Scream horror movie flick, or a man who wears magic underwear.

What could go possibly wrong?