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A big Texas howdy to all y’all God blessed. What the hell we here for today folks? Steamroll a few wetbacks and toss a couple taco frisbees into Matamoros? Hell no! Look at my hand. Looks like Texas. See my finger? Normly that’s the God-lovin’ panhandle. Make it a pistol and you got a friendly ‘fuck you’ to the scat-mongers in Whitewashington D.C. . Never ran from nothin’ and I ain’t runnin’ for nothin’ no more, so I'll talk cheek to saddle with y’all. There’s a shit problem in this country. I ain’t referrin’ to the dingleberry trail of Arabs pourin’ through our pastry sieve of a border. Sure we’ll take care of ‘em when the time comes. Nothin’ yeller in Texas but our roses. Listen-up Ali Baba, gee haw your nephew-molestin’self back to Iraqistan. Yeehaw trumps Jihad here in Texas country. Amen. Back to the turd trouble. Look at the screen. That’s a shitflow chart. You ain’t gotta to be inside the beltway to preshadit. I keep it simple so highbred, inbred, and I-talian alike can capeesh. Folks, the brown line shows a sewerage deficit. Plain and simple, the net value of our national excreta is inversely disproportional to relevant ingestion ratios and numerical highjinxes. We’ve got a 3.4 trillion dollar dump deficit. Them highbrow hog jowlers don’t wantcha to know. But I know—‘cause I’ve researched it like a rattler on a drunk prairiedog—the stored fat factor has ballooned the Eskimo in this case. Our shit value's cellulite-locked and goin’ to the grave in our larder. That big blubber lamp’s burning in heaven and ain’t no bureaucrat genie comin’ to cap this stank oil fire. I did somethin’ ‘bout it. H. Ross Perot single-handedly rectified this rectal wreck. Savin' the nation and celebratin' my 75th year of deconstructing and de-fecatin’. This mornin’, before the puddledew flibbered off the cow’s broomwitch, I took the most expensive shit in history. Right folks, Jesus H and H. Ross have a little somethin’ else in common; we’re both tryin’ to keep the U-S of A from bein’ lipidated down the permanent nighttime of the listeria luge. Put in peoplespeak, this AM, my BM FM’d the PM. What Last Supper defenestrated them Wall Street Witherspoons who count on insufficiencies in feces indices? Let me tell you. I’m French. Appetizers was a white truffle soup and whooping crane fois grois draped in an 1870 Lafite Rothschild reduction on a redaction from my personal copy of the Magna Carta marinated in Oprah Winfrey’s breast milk. Supper was a saffron white rhino steak flambed in a ’62 Dalmore Highland and caressed with a poultice of Castanea dentata. For dessert I went to my nuclear lab and ate the formula for coldfusion and had my scientists killed. H. Ross Perot’s a man-a-action. Folks the point is, this mornin’ I blew the doors out the storm cellar with a priceless shit that’s pancaked the dump deficit and put a spitshine on the doorstep of doom.
Date Written: July 02, 2005
Average Vote: 2.75