RIP to the Second Presidential Debate: Yell in a Cell

If you think Trump and Hillary weren’t both watching Ken Bone and fantasizing about riding that mustache right off his face, you’re dead wrong.
Second Presidential Debate

November 8th needs to hurry the fuck up and get here so we can all get sober and start regretting the fucking monsters we became during this election. Think about it this way: Donald Trump, fresh off his dick-out freefall into self-destruction, and Hillary Clinton put on a better professional wrestling show than WWE No Mercy. I kept waiting for the rest of the fucking nWo to come out and carry Trump around on their shoulders; in hindsight, I was thinking too small.

Rapid fire question: if you were undergoing open-heart surgery and the last thing you saw as you slipped into a nitrous oblivion were two cardiothoracic surgeons trying to choke each other to death with handfuls of their own feces just to earn the privilege of cracking open your chest, would you really trust either of those assholes not to leave a pair of surgical scissors in your chest cavity? Me, I’d tell the anesthesiologist to crank up “Freebird” to croon me into the next world while I let the shrapnel work its way into my aorta. But hey, guess I can’t fault you for taking your chances with the scatological gladiators. Here are some of the highlights of a real lowlight in American political discourse.


If you listened to Donald Trump utter the phrase, “grab them by the pussy” and didn’t immediately feel yourself go sterile, cherish every day. It’s an aggressive image, Donald Trump shaking hands with his unsuspecting prey’s vagina, one that perfectly encapsulates all that the Republican Party has become. I want to talk to the card-carrying members of the GOP without mincing words. YOU BLEW IT. How in the fuck did you fail to put up a better candidate than a guy whose concept of “flirting” is indistinguishable from his bowling throw? Ted Cruz? Marco Rubio? Ben fucking Carson?!?

The assignment was to identify a suitable leader on behalf of your party, not throw an orgy for narcoleptic neurosurgeons and Keebler elves. You shit all over superdelegates—and rightly so—but I bet you assholes adopt them right fucking quick by the time 2020 rolls around. Unless you want the next Republican candidate to be a racist fast food mascot hitting himself in the genitals with a hammer, might I suggest you make your peace with weed, gay people and abortions, and join the rest of us in the 21st century?


No longer content with just making voters throw up in their mouths a little, Teflon Don put on a master class in how to lose friends and alienate people when he paraded around three of Bill Clinton’s accusers—billed as his “personal guests.” My ass. They were “personal guests” like Chris Christie’s funnel cake wrangler is a personal trainer. Any coward with billions of dollars and no shame can exploit a tragedy to get inside his rival’s head. But if Trump had any balls dangling between his knees, he would’ve marched out for the second debate wearing nothing but Monica Lewinsky’s cum-stained blue dress and a smile.

Donald Trump is practically giftwrapping this election for Hillary Clinton, almost to the point where we have to start taking the “Trump is a Hillary plant” truthers at least somewhat seriously, and she’s still only barely ahead of a man who once publicly admitted he wouldn’t mind grabbing a handful of his own daughter if it weren’t for the pesky stigma of incest. So now he says, “the shackles are off” as he goes to war with both Hillary Clinton and those poor, quivering GOP souls who bailed on him in the wake of “Pussygate.” I ask you, what’s the over under on how long it takes for Trump to wag his flaccid dick in Anderson Cooper’s face and call it “domestic policy?”


Are we literally only obsessed with this guy because his last name is “Bone?” That’s bush league, gang. At least if his name were “Ebenezer Spunklapper” or, “DJ Jizzy Jeff” I would be forced to debate you on sheer entertainment value, but c’mon—“Ken Bone” is all it takes now? And just when we were out of the woods with goddamn Harambe. You know, we deserve Donald Trump. If we’re just going to dole out fifteen minutes of fame to every woman in a Chewbacca mask or mustachioed dink in a red sweater, we’re willingly placing the bar low enough to trip over. That’s how you get Kardashians, people. But you wanna know the real irony when it comes to Ken Bone? This guy fucks; I guarantee it.

The whole humble Humpty Dumpty act is just a mask for a cocksman. For all my How I Met Your Mother fans out there, he’s the living embodiment of the concept of The Naked Man: there’s not a goddamn impressive thing about Ken Bone, but his unexpected confidence activates just the right amounts of surprise, pity and titillation all at once. If you think Trump and Hillary weren’t both watching Ken Bone and fantasizing about riding that mustache right off his face, you’re dead wrong. I just wish the rest of you people could see what we see and realize that Ken Bone is more than a sweater—he’s the only man who can hump our country back into harmony.

In closing, I’ve gotta wonder what the point of these debates is. Show of hands, is there anybody out there who watches these dog and pony shows with an open mind, genuinely undecided and hoping to hear compelling arguments one way or another? Or does our national fetish for vanity mean debates are just another source of validation? People who treat the debates as must-see TV probably throw Pro Bowl parties, too. And before you tell me how essential the debates are to the process of democracy—nay—the lifeblood of liberty itself, (without looking) tell me one notable nugget of policy either candidate dropped on Sunday night. Lemme save you the trouble and distill it down to the only talking point anybody bothered to hear. Trump: pro-pussy grabbing. Clinton: not a fan. Vote early and vote often, folks!

Election Revel

Your temper brings dishonor to my Happy Mu Shu Palace.
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