Canine Home Companion: Political Edition
Nashua, New Hampshire
F.I.T.N . Republican G.O.P. Summit, stood host to America’s largest gathering of persons with…artistic licenses. Between Mr. Christie exaggerated ‘death’…
The New Jersey governor is down, but not out. He’s putting all his chips on winning the Granite State, and the positive reception he received here showed that it’s probably the best bet he can make with his limited options.
And, George Pataki announcing the following statement to those who wave the Rainbow Flag…peppered with female symbols…
“These are the issues that matter most. Instead we’re debating social issues like abortion and gay rights. They are a distraction, and will only help elect Hillary.”
Between all the pomp and ‘I didn’t have anything to do with that bridge…’ circumstances. There had been a bright spot on the whole ‘blow hard blowing bullshit out their ass to constituents’ stage…a large box stamped…Rand Paul.
Along with the box, Paul and a few dings and dents…had been a very simple letter.
Dear 1 Percent,
We found Mr. Paul along side a road, between Mr. Dixon’s farm…that has now gone into foreclosure. And, Grace Baptist Church…where the Johnson’s youngest is buried. He had been diagnosed at nine with leukemia but because Mr. Johnson worked for Mr. Dixon…there had not been enough money to cover some of the more important procedures…testing and diagnostics and what not. Well, no matter, there just ain’t been the right kind of weather due to the climate change that they say ‘we don’t gut’. The weather made them fields of grass into stadiums of dust and than the money to keep them damn sprinklers on went…well, the whole place went down the shitter. One thing turned to another and the Johnson’s son just didn’t get up one day.
No matter, you folks don’t need to hear our sob story. You got bigger fish to fry. Like pipelines going through Shirley’s Boutique. Shirley doesn’t mind giving up the shop but wished that the government asked first.
Oh, here I am going on and on and on.
Anyways, Mr. Paul was in a box on the side of a road. Don’t worry we put holes in it. For breathing and what not. Along with the box came a note. On top of the box were the words…tried to e-mail but they closed my account.
Hope all is well in New Hampshire. Ain’t never been there but I hear the winter’s are a bitch. Plus, I hear there maybe problems getting the old Chevy over sum bridge in New Jersey.
Dear F.I.T.N. N.H. Republican style-
We boxed up Mr. Paul in Kentucky. I had been hesitant to do so because social media has tagged him and asshole. Asshole or not, you people deserve him. So, I put the asshole in a box down in Kentucky and shipped him to New Hampshire.
I should let you know…when you go to pop the Jack Ass out of the box in Nashua, that my dear old grandma once told me a not so tall tale.
She said, “Hillary, you can put an asshole; all pretty and nice and with cowboy boots, in a crate. A box. A shipping trunk. It don’t matter. You can put that asshole in a box, stamp it and send it to Alaska or wherever. Just as soon as that asshole gets to where it’s going. Some poor unsuspecting voting American, will open that box up. And, you know what, Hillary? They get an asshole. It don’t matter if you start out an ass in Kathmandu, you’ll still be an ass in Anchorage!”
Needless to say, here is your asshole. I hope he arrives undamaged and ready for a good, clean, fight…where all issues matter.
Thought for the day?
‘It ain’t ’bout who you love
…It’s all ’bout do you love!’