By Susan Bankston
Contrary to whatever you thought before now, there is no upper limit on bald-butt ignorance. Watching the Republican presidential campaign has given me new respect for triple-digit IQs. (Usually, any IQ higher than a snake’s belly would impress me.)
First, to all you silly worrywarts out there who said Super PACs were going to lead to a bunch of billionaires secretly buying elections, I say: Wrong! They are publicly buying elections. Right there, out in the open. Like it’s a damn church picnic.
Honey, I know the Supreme Court ruled that corporations are people, but what they didn’t explain is that those people are assholes.
Unless you live in a cave, I’m sure you’ve heard that this year’s Republican presidential nominees are nuttier than squirrel poop. (And if you do live in a cave, I’m guessing you voted for Rick Perry.) Mitt Romney came out of hiding recently and is making speeches all over the country in hopes that people will forget he’s Mitt Romney and let him run for president again—because all the other Republican choices are dancing to music that ain’t there.
Every time Trump messes up, Romney has to call his doctor, because the erection he gets ends up lasting a lot longer than four hours.
I swear, on all that is pink and glittery, that the United States is just one Trump away from being North Korea. Donald Trump’s poll numbers are so high because they put him on TV so much, and they put him on TV so much because his poll numbers are so high. I have a headache.
I heard a recent Republican debate that was the dirtiest thing on television ever broadcasted without a parental warning. Presidential hopefuls were talking about their winkies! I am a grown-up woman who lived through the ’60s. I have been stoned, messed up, drunk, high, and once I even smoked a Mrs. Paul’s fish stick, but I never, never, not even once thought about Donald Trump’s winkie. Admit it, you haven’t either. And if you have, you’re about a gallon low on dating options.
During the next Republican debate, I drank a shot every time I heard the words “illegal alien.” By the end, I was more wasted than a political contribution to Jeb Bush.
All of this, however, gives you the perfect opportunity for some cheap summer fun: take your vacation at the Texas Republican Party’s convention in beautiful, fun-filled downtown . . . no, wait, it’s in Dallas.
Why should you go to the Texas Republican convention? Because, darlin’, some things transcend description with words.
Top Ten Reasons to Go to the Texas Republican Convention
1. In the keynote speech, four Republican candidates will explain 12 ways they’d start World War III.
2. The fun of watching Texas Republicans slowly realize that while they were waiting for Obama to come for their guns, Donald Trump came for their party.
3. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse will arrive at the convention on Friday. But there are three Republicans left in the presidential race. The original Three Amigos—Dusty Bottoms, Lucky Day, and Ned Nederlander—had a plethora of pinatas. Donald, Ted, and John have a galloping glut of greed. Same thing, really. You know, except for the sparkling hats.
4. Log Cabin Republicans will not be allowed to go to the bathroom because . . . oh hell, you know damn well why.
5. You could start screaming, “How stupid can you get?!” and then clap gleefully as Texas Republicans take that as a personal challenge.
6. You’d get to watch Texas Governor Greg Abbott make a speech about how we’d all be safer if everyone had a gun. (In fact, that’s why war zones are known for their safety.)
7. It is rumored you might see the Republican Party do some soul-searching. When they’re
all crowded into one room, they might find at least one.
8. It’ll be an opportunity to show off your
Make America Fabulous Again: Bring Back Disco baseball cap.
9. Get a head start on the annual War on Christmas. It’s never too early to start stomping out little twinkling lights.
10. I’ll pay you five whole dollars if you get on their loudspeaker and announce: ‘’The floor of a cave called. It wants its bat shit back.’’ Then just run like hell.
Susan Bankston lives in Richmond, Texas, where she writes about her hairdresser at The World’s Most Dangerous Beauty Salon, Inc., at juanitajean.com.
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