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.