Restaurants are now Off-Limits for Mitch McConnell and the GOP
Steven Rouach
1.3K5

Planet of the Great Apes

Donnie Plump…

… the bleached-blond blistering blustering blimp of bilious boisterous belligerent bluff

“Ooooh! Donnie, baby…”

Mitch had himself dropped off at the large white house located on the avenue named after a state. It was eight p.m.

“Okay,” he directed the chauffer, “pick me up at midnight, sweetheart. See you later, George.” A short peck on the cheek sufficed.

Following his sojourn through a maze of maximum security guards and metal detectors, Mitch finally reached his goal. He was tentatively greeted by a fat slob who kept stuffing his belly into his pants, holding it back with a wide belt. The degraded Grate White Hope himself seemed distracted–rather, obsessed with–trying to straighten his platinum blond hair-piece atop his pointed dome. Mitch watched speechlessly as the man reminiscent of a bleached beached whale cursed the negative elements of a bad-hair day.

“This fuckin fake hair. That’s what it is… fake hair… it’s a disgrace!”

“Er, what am I actually doing here, Donnie?”

“Look, don’t try to get all manly on me now, Mitchell. It’s a little late in the game for that.”

“Hmmm…”

“Good answer. Now, I happen to have the solution to your identity problem, pal. First off, loosen your belt.”

“Huh???”

“Just do it, okay,” under his breath, “you fake senator prick!”

Unzipping his fly, Donnie made a small pincer-like joining together of his thumb and forefinger, striving to maintain a tenuous grip on the cashew-sized member of his own personal pathetic peanut gallery.

“Wait a minute! What about all those women?” Mitch interrupted.

“Who, those fake Americans? Between you and me, Mitch, those stories were like my myth of billionaire-ship. I use those to fool all the fake Jews!”

“The what??”

“Fake Jews! You haven’t been paying attention. We gotta get all the fake Jews outta Congress.”

“We do?”

“Yes! And the women, too. Why do you think I keep demeaning women? Who the hell do they think they are, with their tits and skinny legs, long hair and pussies. Fake people… that’s what women represent. They don’t even have dicks. Fake people. That’s why I hate ’em. They gotta go. Ooooh, they make me so mad! Now, Mitch…” Donald grabbed the fake senator’s pant legs and tugged in a downward motion, “just grab yer ankles, partner. I’m gonna penetrate your fears with something that ain’t fake. C’mere, Leroy.”

Leroy, a freak so huge-sized he was actually rejected by the pornography trade. Donnie stood right up against Mitch’s backside. Leroy braced himself behind Donald. Leroy had such length, it slid under past Donald’s fat lily-white/pink butt, finding its home in Mitch’s tight corn-hole.

“Ouch!” Mitch cried out as he was sodomatiously stretched beyond repair, gagging on that which had tickled his tonsils with its extensive reach.

“Now you’ll see what letting me down on Obamacare means, you fake prick!”

“I hope you realize you’re destroying the anals of democracy here!”

“Only a deep dark serious black woman could destroy my idea of democracy, Mitchell. Look, the friggin Constitution was written by white men. Slave-owning guys whose only goof was omitting the right to own slaves from the Bill of Rights. They really messed up there. Fake Founding Fathers. Damn!”

Strange Bedfellows…

the unlikely ongoing saga of contemporary dorks and douchebags, Mis-managed Mis-matched Mitch and Devoted Devolved Donald. Our dinner in the big house resumes its course.

“Oh, so you’re like calling me a shrimp, are you!”

“No… a pawn, dummy, not a prawn!”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you play chess?”

“Of course not. Who has the time for that. Why, do you?”

“Well… no, when you come right down to it. I’m not smart enough. But, they tell me the pawn is the weakest, least significant piece on the bored…”

“Thank you. And that’s board, stupid, not bored!”

“Shut up. People are not supposed to be reading this, anyway. It’s classified.”

“Don’t you gotta have some class to be classified?”

“Keep your mouth shut, Mitch.”

“Okay, okay but, I just don’t want to seem irrelevant.”

“But you are irrele… inrelat… in… whatever that was. You’ve had many opportunities, Mitch. Face it… you really don’t have much to say about anything, do you.”

“Look who the frig is talking. Ever listen to yourself? All you do is repeat the same old shit: ‘it’s fake’ ‘it’s a disgrace’ ‘there’s no contusion…’”

“The word is collusion…”

“Yeah. And ‘Mohandas’…”

“You mean Pocahontas.”

“Her too. You don’t have that much to say either, wise-guy.”

“Don’t you get it, dummy. That’s how ya gotta be t’day. Smart is bad.”

“Is that anything like ‘Black is beautiful’? ’Cause if it is…”

“No no no. All I’m saying is the best and brightest is wasted on the bland bloated bull-dogs… you know, the electorate.”

“As if you could be any different anyway.”

“No matter. Now, for important issues… what do you want, the Big MAC with fries, or the McNuggets?”