Behind the different columns of the first balcony of the Great Hall, secretly, others will be watching: it's where Sean Hannity will be getting a vigorous, yet surreptitious blowjob from the Fox intern he took to the ball, Hannity weeping, weeping at his transgressions; where Ann Coulter will be finger-fucking herself, shedding tears for the Crusaders below, yet alternately turned on by thoughts of their wounds, the screams of pain of their long physical therapies, and, god, yes, the nightmares, Jesus, how she's turned on by their pain, how she's dripping wet thinking of the horrors they have witnessed, how her clit throbs at how haunted those men will be the rest of their lives; where Bob Novak and Bill Kristol will be tonguing each other, whispering promises of liaisons to come at the W hotel, Novak telling Kristol he wants the Weekly Standard editor to pretend he's a wife waiting for Novak to come home on a two-week leave. And on the dais, George, maybe in one of his multiple Commander-in-Chief costumes, and Laura, in an exquisite gown by Who The Fuck Cares, holding each other, Laura jacking him off behind the podium as he smirks, winks, and salutes at soldiers in the crowd who catch his eye, how they'll think of God's graces that have brought them to this moment. Next to him will be Rumsfeld, squinting at the lights, his eyes too dimmed by cataracts and age to be able to truly see any of the individual soldiers. Instead, he'll just yank the chain around Colin Powell's neck and tell the outgoing Secretary of State to fetch him some cognac.
http://rudepundit.blogspot.com/2005/01/all-cake-eaters-during-thursday-nights.html
Printer-friendly format
Email this thread to a friend
Bookmark this thread
(1000+ posts)
Send PM |
Profile |
Ignore
