Truthout.org Got It Right; F Fox News

 

So. I want to thank you all for your thoughtful and creative submissions on ways to castrate Rick Perry. Your imaginations have gone into overdrive in your efforts to help me. I was especially intrigued with having three different people offer methods using a Veg-A-Matic. I still have a Veg-A-Matic and use it often.

I bought it back to when Ron Popeil still had hair.

If I ever decide to separate the current Texas Governor from his balls, your thoughtful suggestions will come in handy. Of course, you’d first have to help me find Governor Perry’s balls. It seems that the fine folks at The Southern Baptist Convention up to Dallas have them secreted away in a locked box somewhere.

They probably hold Ricky’s gonads in the same dank dungeon where they keep their own compassion.

What I needed from you was a how-to for removing testicles from an adult, male ostrich named Rick Perry. It must be rutting season for giant black-and-white feathered African birds, because the Rickster is getting all randy and shit.

He keeps snuggling up to Rush Limbaugh in the closet where they hide from my Gram, and their spooning is starting to make me uncomfortable. Just last night I was having another of my celebrity camel toe dreams. In this one I wasn’t a judge for the contest, I was the “plumper”.

Best way I can describe what a plumper’s job entails would be to compare it to what a fluffer does in porno movies.

Anyway, I was getting all the ladies plumped up for the swimsuit competition when I was distracted by a commotion from the the audience. I was working on Oprah, who looked absolutely ravishing in a zebra skin one-piece. When the noise ratcheted up a few notches, Oprah said to me, she says, “Mooner, Sweetie, will you please see what that is. You know I can’t do my best with all of that distraction.”

That is how I know Oprah doesn’t have ADHD. If she had my variety of ADHD, she’d understand that all of her work, best-to-worst, would be completed under distractions.

I looked out to see what was up, and there were Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry in this big lovers’ spat. Rick was snuggling Rush from behind and Rush was attempting to ward off all of the attention. Rush was grunting and snorting like a pig, and Rick was making this noise that I can only describe as unsettling.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Mooner. What the hell is that?” Oprah had quickly drawn a bead on the noisy couple. “Here’s my credit card. Take it out there and tell those two boys to get a room.”

Then she says to me, she said, “I thought I’d seen it all, Mooner. But Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry making out at Radio City Music Hall?” She looked into my eyes, and then back-and-forth between the boys and me several times. “Take me now, Jesus. I think I’m ready to go.”

I have long wondered if Oprah would be a good wife. She has her positive and negative attributes both, but she is a strong woman. Oprah has her own identity, like it or not. Those are my type of women. Strong, opinionated and happy.

I had started daydreaming in my dream about what marriage to Ms. Winfrey would feel like, when the ruckus from the audience became too loud to ignore without action. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry had started fighting. They were rolling around on the floor with Rick trying to hard spoon Rush, and Rush trying to escape. Then there was a crash as they rolled into a big set light, and it crashed to the floor.

That’s when I awoke from my dream, startled by the racket, and reaching for the Glock pistol kept in my nightstand. I don’t like handguns- I wish they were illegal. I keep this one to combat the many rattlesnakes that find their way to our ranch house. I keep it loaded with Gram’s homemade cartridges, a special load she calls Ya Don’t Rattle Me Snakie Boy.

It’s a rat shot load and Gram soaks the little pellets in an hallucinogenic potion of the same name before loading the cartridges.

I came to my senses as Rush Limbaugh the pig comes slamming out of my closet, the ostrich Rick Perry clamped to his back like a monkey on an elephant’s back at the circus. It would have been funny except for the look of stark terror on my pet piggie’s face.

They came to a screeching halt when I pointed the gun in their faces. Rush stopped so abruptly that his hooves shredded the small oriental carpet in front of my dresser. The ostrich was pitched over his shoulders and landed on his back with an, “Ooof!”

“What the shit are you two doing?” That’s when I realized I was pointing a 9mm pistol at my pig. “I might have shot the two of you. What the hell are you thinking?”

Now, I realize all of my questions are rhetorical because I didn’t have a translator. Dixie was over to New Mexico with Streaker Jones and the Squirt was spending the night with Dr. Sam I. Am. That’s Squirt’s regular home.

Regardless, I was ready to read the ostrich the Riot Act when he started crying. At least it seemed like he was crying. He was making this “Boo-hoo” sort of sound, and his entire body was shaking. I sat down beside him and scooped his head off the floor and laid it in my lap. Giant, hot tears leaked from his eyes and soaked into leg of the boxer shorts I wear to bed when I sleep alone.

Actually, the undies were what are called ‘boxer-briefs” on the package. These were made at our hemp clothing factory over to New Mexico. The same one to where Streaker Jones and Dixie are visiting. We make the legs a few inches longer than the major manufacturers, like Hanes, and Fruit of the Loom.

“Don’t cry, Ricky. Shush now, you’ll be OK.” I’m stroking the fine, soft feathers on his chin and neck while I try to calm him. “It’s OK big guy. You’ll find yourself someone to love. Maybe I can find you a girl ostrich in the newspaper.” Then I got to thinking about how I would tell a girl from a boy ostrich, so I asked Rick Perry.

He showed me.

But that isn’t what I wanted to tell you guys about. My buddy Lloyd sent me a request from www. truthout.org that asks you to boycott Fox News. That’s not a problem for me because it’s been blocked since I had a blocker on my TV.

Even my reasonable-thinking Republican friends won’t watch Fox News because they are such fuckwads. All of that anger and poison.

Please join me and my buddies over to www.truthout.org and shout:

!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK FOX NEWS !!!!!!!!!!!”

Now, let’s go relax and have a cold Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all

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    Testes. Portugese isn’t my bag, but Squirt says, “Obrigado.”

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