Iowanianians Speak; Rick Perry Fucked!

 

So. In this morning of aftermath, as the Iowainians have nothing left to revel in, or about—save the afterglow of their every-four-years national media migration—I have something to say.

God has spoken in Iowa, and bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Pooooor Ri-ckyyyy, poooor Ri-kyyyyy!

In response to the prayers of the many Republican presidential hopefuls, whose visits almost doubled the Iowa population, God has finally made his decision as to which of those silly fuckballs He has chosen to support. God, in His infinite wisdom, has decided that the Mittster shall be blessed with a narrow first, the other Ricky gets second, blah, blah and blah, then Rick “The Prick” Perry gets fifth and Michele “Oh Marcus, That’s Not My Vagina” Bachmann came in dead last of the long list of candidates who actually visited Iowa.

I find myself in a state of elation, a state which is balanced with queasiness. God, with the assistance of the conservative right-wing Christians of Iowa, has decided that Ricky Perry shall not be President. As it turns out, God has listened not to the prayers of the Texas Governor—a pious man with deeply conservative Christian values—and rather listened to me, Mooner Johnson, an unpious and excessively liberal reformed Baptist ADHD-addled dingbat. Maybe I’m piousless. Or piousfree.

Please, allow me one more time to say, “Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. Poooor Ri-ckyyyyyy!”

Rick Perry said he was praying for a win, or at least third place, and for God’s guidance. I prayed that God would make the people of Iowa way smarter than those of us in Texas, and hand the Prickster his first political defeat.

Scoreboard, mother fucker!

If Rick Perry had finished in third place or better, you know he would have thanked God for the success. If he’d been a winner, the win would be all about God. But will Ricky now say that God has told him to go back to Texas and stay put, or will the pompous little asshole say that God let him down? Doubtful.

All of this leaves my stomach somewhat unsettled as well. Do you realize that 25% of the super arch-conservative Christians in Iowa voted for a Mormon, a man who wears magic underwear to protect him from all evil? OK, they call them vestments, I think, but you get the picture.

Which reminds me. Go over to Squatlo Rant and find the Penn Jillette video, crack an adult beverage, like a Carta Blanca beer, and watch. It will take you the better part of twenty minutes to watch the entire thing, but you will be better off for it. The linkster is over there ===}}}

I’m also queasy in the knowing that the people of Iowa are now, as a result of my prayer, way smarter than those of us in Texas. They managed to see Rick Perry for the dolt that he is, and we keep electing Ricky as our governor. He and his cronies in big business and energy have raped and pillaged our state, and we keep electing him to our highest office. My best hopes for all of this is that we Texans learn by observations.

But overall, I’m happy with the results. I prayed and said, “Fuck Rick Perry,” and, dear friends, Rick Perry is fucked. I’m thinking that since my prayers are more powerful than Rick Perry’s prayers, I can start a new business.

Mooner Johnson’s Prayer Emporium will be a fee-based prayer service. I don’t have all the detail worked out yet, but I think this one will be a winner. With God on my side, how can I lose? I’ll charge rates based upon your need and I’ll even make some prayers free.

Which reminds me. The Squirt woke me early this morning and asked me to have a private conversation with her. We grabbed a cup of coffee and went out to sit in the courtyard. It was near-freezing out this morn and the little puppy shivered with every breath.

Squirt took a deep cleansing breath and released it slowly. Then she looked up at the stars, took another breath and shivered hard. “What is it, little lady? You seem to have something powerful on your mind. You want me to talk to God for you?”

She squared her solid little body to face me and said, “No, Bwana Mooner, es ist nicht ein Gebet Ich brauche. Quiero invertir mi histerectomía.”

Huh?

“You want me to reverse your hysterectomy—you want me to undo your spay?” This was dumbfounding to say the least. Squirt has been quite vocal as to her happiness with a sexless life.

“Si, oui, and yes, Mooner. And the sooner the better. Mr. Dave won’t live forever.”

Turns out that Squirt was heading to Aunt Hilda’s room to deliver a package from UPS, and she walked in on Mr. Dave standing, nekid, at the foot of the bed. I’m starting to think size might actually matter.

“Well, my furry little sweetheart, that request will require a prayer.” A first client for Mooner Johnson’s Prayer Emporium, and a charitable one at that.

Anyway, all of these mentioned matters require more thought before I get too carried away with myself. Gram makes a magic mushroom potion blended to give a person clarity of thought. She calls it “Shut yer yapper and think fer a second”[.]

But I’m up to the task. Mooner Johnson- deep fucking thinker! Manana, y’all.

 

 

 

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5 Responses to “Iowanianians Speak; Rick Perry Fucked!”

  1. squatlo says:

    Iowanianians? Iowani? Hope ’bout “Corn-ers”?

    I rejoice in your celebration of Ricky’s demise, but warn you it might be a bit premature. Apparently the Hooey Gods who listen to prayers from fuckballs haven’t officially told Rick to keep his heart (money, and asshole) in Texas. Just heard he’s pondering a trip into South Carolina to shore up support. Word has it TV stations and newspapers are bracing for a windfall of Texas Oil cash in the form of ad revenues… they’re calling it Frackin’ Cash. Pigs are already at the troughs, bibs in place. This, of course, is good news for both South Carolina (which can always use tourist money from Texas oilmen) and Texas (which can obviously do quite nicely for itself when Rick Perry and his people are out of state spending their own cash). I’m confident Perry can get his ass to and from S.C. without needing to touch the ground anywhere in Tennessee. Surely someone has a GPS on that campaign staff, even if they can’t get enough signatures to get on a ballot in Virginia.
    In the meantime, Michele’s decided God needs her to work on repealing Obamacare from her district seat in the House of Reprehensibles. If you didn’t hear her “Don’t cry for me, Argentina” speech, google it and watch end to end. Hilarious shit, fife and drums playing in her head, tears just behind those blackbird wings she had glued to each eyelid (shit you not, check out those flapping feathers every time she blinked… I thought the wind turbulence was gonna blow Marcus right off the stage!) She started describing the oil painting she passes in the Capitol whenever she’s in DC doing her job, about Benny Franklin and his fears for our Republic, and how Obamacare was the last step down the road to Socialism. It was freaking great, Mooner! Sigh… they don’t make ’em like Michele anymore…
    Gotta go. Grampa McNutts is endorsing Mittens in New Hampshire… by telling boxing stories. Could this get any funnier?

  2. admin says:

    Squat. I hope you’re posting this shit. I’m nailing down details for next week’s big book launch party. I think most of the Rebublican candidates are starting to dissociate. I haven’t had this much hope that things will turn around in years.

  3. mel says:

    See what I get for not paying attention to the news for a couple of days…not bad. Though, being from Michigan, I think Mitt is a rat bastard who shits all over his home state. Just saying.

  4. chrisinphx says:

    Mooner you better make sure to keep Rush and Rick away from Dear Ol Dave before they want to jump on the band wagon as well

  5. admin says:

    Mel. Mitt “the Twit” is a politician to the bone. He only knows what’s best for Mitt.

    Chris. We’ve already fought that battle a couple of times. Gram keeps my gay pig and ostrich in abatement. And the two of them are in actual love with each other. It’s both endearing and gut wrenching to watch.

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