I finally got to sleep last night around midnight, after yet another wild fantasy of bitchslapping Ann Coulter with the mummified hand of Joe McCarthy. I did so with my reading lamp on, a recent issue of Vanity Fair sharing the pillow with me, and a (hopefully) restful slumber looming ahead that I was soon to find was simply not to be. I was awakened sometime later by an unwelcomed visitor to my domicile who sprinted up the length of my arm, no doubt to attack me full on in the face, his blackish body armor scuttling at full speed and his long, venom-dripping antennae wielded with the tenacious fury of... something tenacious... and furious...
No sooner had my senses awakened and my body bolted upright on the bed did I hear a tiny voice cry out in murderous defiance "DEATH TO THEE, OUTLANDER!!"
I did an unintentional Jedi type maneuver by jumping up and landing on my feet, as he stood there on the bed rather stunned. He mumbled something the likes of "Now that's just not right, fucker"
, to which I rather smugly replied "Bring it, you Kafkaesque, six-legged freak!"
Clearly the sneaky bastard was building up his reserves to launch another assault, and did just that - targeting my right shin - as I searched the room in vain for an implement of some sort with which to dispatch the dark villain. I scanned for something - anything - and lo and behold, I was in reaching distance of the aforementioned Vanity Fair..."But...but...but I like Reese Witherspoon! I cannot use her likeness to squash a roach! Think, think, think - what did I do with that Paris Hilton minizine for Guess? jeans... Fuck a duck, I threw it away."
Enter: my inner logician. Reese's family is from Tennessee, so I reasoned she has had at least a passing acquaintance with these horrors of nature. I decided that as a fellow Southern compatriot, Reese would herself have shrieked "KILL THAT SUMBITCH!!"
had she been in observance.
I rolled up the magazine, attempted to crouch down into a position that offered me leverage over the nightmarish foe, completely forgetting his power of flight. It was a mistake I now know could have very well cost me my life. As if under the direction of some cruel force yet unseen, I myself suspect Ann Coulter's saw toothed labia, the vile demon leapt in full flight and threw himself with full force at my shin. Swiftly, I shifted on the bed and seethed at him "Oh, not TONIGHT, bitch!"
as he circled and dangled from my curtain, preparing silently for yet another assassin's run. I crouched down, rolling up the 200+ pages of advertising for products I could neither afford, much less give a shit about, when he flexed his legs in preparation for a final leap towards my head and I heard him scream the words that would invoke my own murderous vengeance.
His dark, platelike head raised, he hurled forth a verbal assault that could have itself been my doom, save for the content of the last insult. With incendiary rage, he howled "Bastard!! Scum!! Vermin!! PRESIDENT OF THE SEAN HANNITY FANCLUB!!"
and poised himself for that suicidal plunge. Instinctively, I grabbed the magazine at a different angle. No bat like instrument of stunning this, I held it with both hands as a stabbing implement and with all of my might slammed headlong with it into him, smashing him against the wall and squishing his innards out of one side. He fell on the side of the bed, his one remaining intact leg spinning him around in morbid, useless semicircles, calling out for a priest. I said to myself "Self, this is one sick motherfucker!"
I placed him in an envelope, laid it on the tile floor, grabbed my heaviest shoe, and scallopinied his ass. It was a substantially more satisfying crunch than any Snickers bar I've ever had.
When all was said and done, I gave myself a victor's salute. I threw both hands skyward, fingers flexed into my best "Eastside" symbols, and boomed "YayYAAYYYYY!!
" I slept on the couch in the living room, content that attempting to sleep in my own bed before laundering my quilt of roach entrails would have been out of the question. I spat on the envelope before tossing it into the kitchen garbage, and before leaving my room, said aloud "Let this be a lesson to ALLA y'all bitches - lest you try and rip off this same shit. I WILL be keeping this copy of Vanity Fair, so believe that I'll fuck up any and every one of you like I dropped this bitch here...
And with that and a final and indignant "NAH!"
, I retired to the couch.
A story in the South Florida Sun Sentinel
reports that the FEMA said the state has requested catastrophic housing for 10,000 people, and more than 4,000 National Guard troops have been activated, and quotes the Lesser Shrub as saying "It's going to be awesome -- shock and awe -- that's our goal."
. By Lesser Shrub, I mean Florida Governor Jeb Bush.
Sweet Appolonius Of Tyana, how many times did Barbara Bush drop her children on their half-filled-to-begin-with heads? Sure, making fun of how ridiculous this sort of thing is is easy, but damnit - that's the frame of mind I'm in.
Oh - and just for fun, and since I hate this cunt like no other living being, I give you: