You’re feverish, miserable, throwing up, unable to get any rest. When will you be rid of it? Just when you think you’ve finally shaken it off, it comes around again for another go. Yes, folks, it’s back again to torment you some more: another election season is heaving into view. And I do mean heaving.
Since voting for Obama incurs an automatic excommunication (see Mundi Worstibus, from the second council of Dipshit), and voting for Ron Paul means you’re mistaking your Fisher Price Happy Face Phone for a voting booth again (ding ding ding! Teacher says another congressman gets his wings!), you will most likely be stuck voting . . . sigh . . . republican. I don’t even have the energy to press the “shift” key to make it “Republican,” that’s how tired it makes me.
And you know what? Call me petty. Go ahead: petty, petty, petty! I can take it. But here’s the fact: you can tell all you need to know about a politician by how much blubber he’s lugging around — and how.
Case in point: Mike Huckabee. Former Fatty Extraordinaire. Matt Drudge should have won a Pulitzer for the moment of genius when he ran this glorious photo, which he headlined with the words “Hucka BOOM BOOM BOOM!”
The wife and the daughter did not rate a “boom.” Neither did the dog.
Now, this here is not a picture of a happy man. The dog seems okay, but this is a picture of a man in crisis, a man who cannot be trusted. A man who allows his wife to persuade him to be photographed in a shirt with elbow patches in a contrasting fabric. Is this the face of leadership? No, this is a portrait of an indecisive fellow, a lost soul, a miserable, awkward (albeit firmly-packed) shell of a human being. And where is Mr. I-don’t-know-who-I-am-anymore?
Sumpin’ . . . sumpin’ ain’t right here. Where’s the fat, flip-flopper? I ask again, sir, where is the fat? If we can’t even trust him to keep track of several hundred pounds of his own flesh, are we really supposed to hand over leadership of this country, which is literally FILLED with fat people in ugly shirts? I don’t see it. I just don’t see it.
Okay. Second: Chris Christie.
Now, here is a fat man’s fat man. He may even be a fat man’s fat man’s fat man — he’s that fat! This is not someone who got to be so elephantine by casual snacking, but a man who has clearly shown a lifelong devotion to building up a veritable trust fund of adipose tissue — a personal legacy of lard. This is someone who was born to be fat, designed to dominate, fashioned in his mother’s womb to fill the entire bench seat of your average SUV.
And yeah, okay, fine, I would vote for him, if only to see what it’s like to vote for an adult for a change. Sheesh.
And finally: Newt Gingrich.
His chin is so ugly, blah blah blah. Okay, I’ll admit it, I don’t care that he’s a chubby little gnome with too many hair follicles. The main thing I don’t like about him is the way he’s a terrible human being. Yes, Newt, oh please oh please pretend to run for president! It makes me feel so good to realize that the country is full of people like me who are as disgusted by the Republicans as we are by the Democrats. It’s like choosing between eating baloney that’s gone bad, and eating, like, Vaseline. The baloney is way past its expiration date, and was never that great to begin with: that’s the Republicans. And the Democrats? Well, Vaseline is only good for lubricating things you probably shouldn’t be doing anyway. A schmear on a plate doesn’t make it a wholesome meal, and ohhh, you will regret it tomorrow.
You know, I may have a fever. Does that explain anything?
And that’s why, next primary, I’m voting for Chris Christie’s Fat. I believe him when he says he’d rather make sweet, sweet love to Todd Palin’s snow machine than run for president. Or whatever it was he said. And so I won’t insult the man by voting for him, himself. But Chris Christie’s fat? Yes please. There’s so much of the guy, he could be his own vice president!