I Got What America Needs Right Here

Sometimes I’m a little stupid, maybe, a little slow in the head, so I’m wondering if you can help me get something straight. Maybe you can help me understand one fucking thing right now, America, and explain to me what in the Christ is going on here. ‘Cause, unless I’m missing something, this country is in the middle of a motherfucking shitstorm, and I have no fucking idea what you’re gonna do to get out of it. I mean, are you seriously considering voting for one of these shitbags you got here in ’08? Fat fucking chance.

Way I see it, America needs a president who’s gonna somehow un-royally screw up the Middle East, do some serious cleaning up after you dropped your pants and took a steaming dump all over the fucking environment, and—boom!—restore dignity, honor, and all that shit to these United States. (Via The Onion)

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3 Responses to I Got What America Needs Right Here

  1. fire in the a-hole says:

    Area Senior Remembers A Simpler Time When His Anus Didn’t Leak
    The Onion February 2, 2008 |2008 | Issue 44•05

    CARSON CITY, NV—Looking out his window as the cars zoom by and a jet plane rumbles overhead, 87-year-old Hank Fletcher sees a world far different from the one in which he grew up. In his day, the retired factory worker says, life was simpler. The streets were quieter, people were more polite, neighbors all knew one another, and his anus did not emit oily discharges of liquid stool.

    But times have changed.

    “When I was a young man, there was no uncertainty in the world—dinner was at 5:30 sharp, people who got married stayed that way, and my anus didn’t leak,” Fletcher says. “I can still remember playing stickball till the sun dipped below the trees. Why, I’d round the bases pretending I was Rogers Hornsby without ever having to think about a viscous brown liquid trickling down my leg. The future seemed so bright.”

    Hank Fletcher sits on his fifth couch in as many months and reminisces about the good old days of dry pants.

    As time marches on, Fletcher remains one of the last direct links to a bygone era of American life when people passed their evenings relaxing by the fireside or listening to Hopalong Cassidy on the radio. Mothers and fathers would sit on couches free from protective plastic covers, and children would play games in the corner, oblivious to the crime, famine, and warm streams of fluid seeping out of their anal cavities that seem so commonplace today.

    “How I loved to stroll down the promenade arm in arm with my best gal, Dorothy,” Fletcher says, shifting in his chair as he pages wistfully through a faded old scrapbook. “We’d talk and laugh, unconstrained by bulky plastic sacks tied to our waists, and go into all the shops—never to buy anything, of course, just to look and to dream. We’d wander along the boardwalk all evening, she with her blue Gainsborough hat and I with my clean underpants, all the while holding hands and not ejecting fecal matter from our anuses.”

    “But Dorothy’s been gone for many a year now,” he adds as he closes the scrapbook, “and as for my anus, well, as I said before, it leaks constantly.”

    Seated on a rocking chair covered in a blue tarpaulin to protect the wood from foul-smelling stains, Fletcher chuckled to recall how tiny and hard to come by TV sets were in those days. His family had only one car, he could see a movie for a quarter, soda pop only cost a nickel, and his sphincter was strong enough to expand and contract when he intended instead of hanging permanently open like an unlatched floodgate.

    “Back then, the days were as cool and sweet as a sip of lemonade, and the night sky was filled to the brim with bright shiny stars,” Fletcher says. “Now there’s so much noise and pollution that you can’t even hear yourself think. People are always screaming and shouting for no good reason, zipping around from place to place, and the hustle and the bustle and my anus leaks, and it’s all computers.”

    “Glenn Miller, jalopy rides, Lucky Lindy, my non-leaking anus,” Fletcher adds. “Those were the days.”

    Indeed, this octogenarian lived most his life in a time that made him proud to be an American and during which he did not have to change his pants five times a day. He can recall as if it were yesterday seeing the troops come home after Normandy, when the nation was riding high and his feces were satisfyingly firm cylinders that easily held their shape in water; and watching two men land on the moon just moments after he expelled the contents of his bowels all at once in the bathroom rather than in dribs and drabs over the course of an afternoon. Then, on Sept. 11, 2001, terrorists flew two hijacked planes into the World Trade Center and Fletcher’s anus leaked, and he knew the world had changed forever.

    “Things ain’t how they used to be,” he says, shaking his head. “Especially in regards to my anus.”
    Despite it all, Fletcher admits that today’s youth have it harder than ever. Amid fears of war, global warming, and political instability, Fletcher leaves the younger generations with a simple word of advice from a man who has seen it all.

    “Every once in a while, take a moment to appreciate everything you have in this life,” Fletcher says, “because before you know it, the world will pass you by, and also your underpants will be moist with shit.”

    As A Working Mom, It’s Hard To Find Time To Masturbate
    By Sheryl Marie Vos
    August 15, 2007 | Issue 43•33

    As A Working Mom, It’s Hard To Find Time To Masturbate
    As a single mother of three with a full-time career, I’ve got a lot on my plate. Between making the children’s breakfast in the morning and making sure they brush their teeth at night, I hardly have any time to take care of myself. Sometimes, I just get so darn busy that I’ll realize it’s 6 p.m. and I haven’t even eaten yet! Can you imagine? Not that I’m complaining, though. I love being a mom. But I’ll tell you what—sometimes I find it just about impossible to find a spare moment to stimulate my clitoris until I reach glorious climax.

    From the moment I wake up, I’m always worrying about someone else. I’ve got to make the kids’ lunches, get them on the bus—no easy task when it comes to Melanie—and then race around to get the house straightened up so I can leave for work. And after a grueling eight-hour day, I’ve got to turn around and go grocery shopping, stop at the bank, and pick up the kids after their extracurricular activities. I’m telling you, sometimes it feels like I barely have a second to breathe, let alone 20 minutes to writhe beneath my bedspread with the passionate thoughts of sensuous lovemaking until I gasp with the force of my full-body orgasm.

    Of course, I can’t blame that entirely on the kids. Sure, there are times when I’m picking up dinner, and I think about how easy it would be to sneak off to the restroom and rub off a quickie. But then a special on that cereal the kids like distracts me, or I happen to run into a chatty neighbor, or I’m just too pooped out from work to take that special “me time.” And that’s really no one’s fault but my own. I just keep telling myself, “That’s okay, Sheryl. Tomorrow you can take the afternoon off and run a bath, light some candles, and tease your engorged vulva to thoughts of that carpenter who put in our basement molding. Tomorrow.”
    But I never do.

    I’m not usually one to whine about such things, but my work isn’t doing me any favors either. All day long I’m in meetings or filling out expense reports or trying to fix the work that that damn Carol didn’t do right the first time. Even if I do take my lunch break to slip off into the handicapped stall, hike up my skirt, and start pleasuring my body with two, three, sometimes four fingers at a time, inevitably my cell phone will ring or someone will walk in and distract me, and eventually I just give up and go back to my desk having never shuddered uncontrollably with the powerful release only my dexterous hands can provide.

    No one tells you when you’re young, but having kids just upends your whole life. One minute, you’re more than willing to lie on the couch for two or more hours, rubbing massage oil over your breasts and inner thighs until your primed body is aching for that last gentle stroke that will send it over the edge. And then the next minute you have a few children and all of the sudden the only thing that gets you excited is not finding another cavity at the dentist’s office. It’s all about priorities. And, until the kids go off to good colleges and I save up enough vacation days to make it worthwhile, I guess getting down on all fours in front of the full-length mirror and slowly working my trusty purple vibrator in and out of my dripping love canal with increasing speed and intensity will just have to wait.

    I only wish I still had a husband to take some of this work off my hands. If I had a man around the house, I bet I could find all sorts of opportunities to masturbate.
    Ah, well. No rest for the weary, I suppose. I’m certainly not going to win any points with the feminists by saying so, but maybe we women simply can’t have it all. Maybe we have to make the choice between being a working woman who occasionally coaxes her pussy into such a lather that her hands are slicked with love juices, or a mother who spontaneously pulls over to the side of the road on the way to pick up the kids from day camp and swirls her fingers over her love button over and over and again and again, faster and faster until she’s screaming, “Yes! Yes!” and slamming her fists on the car horn.

    Because sometimes when you try to have it all, you end up losing what’s most important to you: earth-shattering, toe-curling multiple orgasms.

  2. fire in the a-hole says:

    Larry Flynt Has Sex With Own Mother In Outhouse
    February 5, 1997 | Issue 31•04
    KNOB CREEK, KY—In an incident that has shocked and repulsed even the most fervent free-expression advocates, controversial Hustler magazine publisher Larry Flynt had sexual intercourse with his own mother in an outhouse Monday.
    Enlarge Image
    Larry Flynt, seen here attending the premiere of The People Vs. Larry Flynt, recently had an outhouse liaison with his own mother (inset). Flynt has vowed to fight himself in court over the sex act, which he called “unconscionable and sick.”
    According to reports, not only did Flynt place his mother “face-first in an outhouse shit-hole” near Flynt’s poverty-stricken, white trash, backwoods place of birth before “taking her from behind like a dog,” but he was also surrounded by pigs, sheep, convicted felons, born-again evangelists, Mafia-linked magazine distributors, and a huge-phallused caricature of Santa Claus at the time.
    Particularly nauseating, sources say, was the fact that during the incestuous act, Flynt’s colostomy bag exploded violently, covering Flynt, his mother, and all onlookers in a torrential shower of his own feces. Flynt, who is described by close friends and colleagues as a “perverted bastard,” does not possess control over his own bowels.
    The liaison, which is said to have been possibly the single most obscene and degrading act in human history, has left everyone from right-wing Christian leaders to ACLU lawyers to Larry Flynt himself condemning the sickening, depraved display.
    “I cannot in good conscience allow myself to continue this sick, hideous abomination against all that is decent,” Flynt said shortly after completion of the sexual liaison. “Our nation’s children must be protected from filth like myself!”
    Flynt added that videos of the event are available for $29.95 from Larry Flynt Publications, Inc.
    Though confined to a wheelchair after being paralyzed by an assailant’s bullet during a Georgia obscenity trial in 1978, Flynt, who can feel no sensation beneath the waist, was able to achieve erection and sexually penetrate his 81-year-old mother, Dolores Flynt. His success was largely due to a special penile implant that allows him to partially imitate the mechanics of sexual intercourse in a grotesque parody of the act of human love.
    “If the Constitution will protect me, then it will protect all of you, because I’m the worst,” Flynt said. “But this time, I’ve gone too far. I swear to God, I’ll sue the pants off myself for doing this to Mama, even if I have to chase myself all the way to the Supreme Court.”
    ACLU lawyer Dan Glickman agreed with Flynt. “The right of all Americans to free expression, no matter how offensive that expression may seem to others, is the cornerstone of the liberties we as a nation hold as our highest principles,” Glickman said. “Nonetheless, I think we should fry that sick Larry Flynt bastard.”

    Flynt’s mother was unavailable for comment at press time, as she was posing for a pictorial in her son’s magazine.

    • In Sane says:

      You, sir, are a dip-shit moron, a drooling troglodyte, an addle-brained fool, a stumbling simpleton, an ignorant fool, a foolish ignoramus, a man without a mind, a mindless man, a vapid sheep, a brainless toolbox, an F-grade lamebrain, a jello-brained neanderthal, a primitive idiot, an idiotic primate, and a man who has no business espousing politics because every word you type illustrates a level of a combination of stupidity, arrogance, and ignorance that makes me fear for your genetic offspring in the off-chance that they aren’t stupid enough to lick power outlets and manage to survive more than a year. I become truly depressed at reading what you write because the concept of men like you voting makes me question the very notion of democracy if it means that empty-minded cavemen like you are allowed to step into the ballot box and have an effect on the nation.

      You, sir, represent the very worst of not only political discourse, but I dare say humanity itself in terms of intellectual development. If indeed you don’t need to be dressed and fed by a nurse, then I am surprised. Please, do the United States of America a favor and never, ever vote again, nor discuss politics with other human beings. The only creatures stupid enough to be responsive to the bilge you espouse are mono-cellular and, frankly, even they would roll their eyes at your idiocy if they had eyes to roll.

      Your writings make me lose faith in humanity.

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