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For your deliberation, assholes, douchebags and Canadians, I have posted today not one but two shorts in honor of our totally important and historical election. If you so choose you can read one or both or neither. But by not voting you are totally forsaking on some heavy-duty sacred stuff. What did all those Indians and fetuses and shit die for if not so you can vote? If you like one short better then the other you must give it a five. If you like one less you can only give it a four. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be huffing glue with teenage girls behind a pre-selected voting area. Thank you all.


“Everything is going according to plan. Come the night of the election POTUS will be in place. We will have him play a game and then from there it pretty much runs itself. This plan is tighter then 12-year old unfucked.”

“But in order for “Operation: Aw Man” to be fully effective it is imperative that POTUS plays a game and is prepared to heed our instructions.”

“Don’t worry everything is taken care of. Once he sees the queen of hearts he’ll be like so much putty in our hands.”

Later that night…

“How many elec-toural votes is this many,” the President asked his aide from his sofa in The Ranch, holding up four fingers on one hand, and three on the other. “Seven sir.” “This is fun,” the president shouted.

An agent approached President George Bush from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. “How about a game of solitaire?”

“I love solitaire that’s a good game you wanna play with me?”

“Certainly I’d love to Mr. President,” he said, concealing a smile and slithering in to the den. Intel was solid.

The president took out the deck, and began shuffling the cards. “Hey. I’ve got another game we could play.”

“What’s that Mr. President?"

In response, President Bush flashed that blank grin and folded the deck in his hands and shot the cards in the air. He stared at the mess he made and smirked, like a child who farted. “It’s a game around these parts we call 52 Card Pick-Up.”

Exasperated, the agent crouched down on his knees and began scooting around the floor picking up the cards. He nervously glanced up at the clock as precious time slipped away.

Every time the agent collected the cards the president asked the same question. The agent rolled his eyes and the president gleefully shot the deck in to the air. As the clock raced toward midnight the agent finally picked up the queen of hearts and shoved it in the president’s face.

The president gazed quizzically at the card, straightened his jacket and winked at it. Panic gripped the agent. What the agent didn’t realize is that the President never could keep the suits quite right in his head.

Thus “Operation: Aw Man” was aborted, all because the President was incapable (i.e. too fucking stupid) of being brain washed.


"How do you ask a man to be the last man to die in Vietnam? How do you ask a man to be the last man to die for a mistake?"

John Kerry the candidate knew the words. It was the question -- the first step of a thousand on his calculated political journey leading to this night – the seductive brink of the presidency. All of it, everything, the sailing trips with the Kennedys on the Narragansett Bay, the arcane indoctrination into the secret Skull and Cross Bones Society, the Dexedrine fueled tour patrolling the hot waters of the Mekong Delta during the delirious mindfuck of ‘Nam -- it all began cohering in to something meaningful with that poignant question.

Here he was the 1971 Kerry long-haired patrician-socialite gone native, the white-bread boarding school brat with cassette-rock still ringing in his ears, the sweltering, damp gook air still fresh in his memory, like the bullet wound in the back of an inscrutable Vietcong. He remembered the question.

1971 Kerry did not waver. He repeated it, a challenge. Kerry the candidate scribbled down some notes, stood up and stuck out both manicured hands, as if he were a scale finding equilibrium.

“Now it’s not so much I was against the war as I was against various facets of the war,” his magnificent chin freshly buffed to a twinkling luster. “When taken in toto, Vis a Vis a comprehensive analysis of the situation as a whole, the mistake isn’t so much in the war itself as it was in the managing of the war. John Kerry circa 1971 would have you believe that it is simply a matter of a ‘asking’ a man to die. It is, upon reflection, much more complicated than that…”

John Kerry the candidate continued like this for some time, so long that he did not notice John Kerry circa 1971, overcome with boredom, take a header back in to the miasma of time. So it came to be that Kerry the candidate continued arguing with himself deep in to the November night, long after his self had gone.

Date Written: October 25, 2004
Author: scoop
Average Vote: 4.2

11/2/2004 TheBuyer (5): This 5 is for your introduction, I have not read either short. F you all my American cousins, and may god have mercy on your souls for the next four years.
11/2/2004 Dick Vomit (4): This is no Squit Party.
11/2/2004 The Rid (4):
11/2/2004 Mr. Pony (5): While not really adding anything new to the standard jokes about the candidates, this short will serve as a really good summary for history. The way the 52-Pickup thing was handled made my shit laugh.
11/2/2004 John Slocum: Sweat job?
11/2/2004 John Slocum: Or Sweet job?
11/2/2004 qualcomm: i couldn't understand until the very end that kerry was talking to his past self.
11/2/2004 Mr. Pony: I was helped by that Onion headline in which Kerry names his younger self as his running mate.
11/2/2004 John Slocum: Yeah, I was gonna cry ripoff of the onion, but was waiting to re-read and see if author covered new ground.
11/2/2004 Mr. Pony: I, for one, think he did.
11/2/2004 Jon Matza: Less than the sum of its parts.
11/3/2004 John Slocum (3): Sweat job.