Dear Diary,
Okay, Liz Warren is funny enough as a lunch partner. You should see her put two fingers behind her head for Indian feathers–hilarious! And she’ll toss red meat all day to the trust-fund socialists (you want a hard-working campaign volunteer, get yourself a socialist, and savor the irony). Plus she’s great with New Republic staffers–Liz hip-swings through the room and the boys can’t stand up for ten minutes.
But enough’s enough. It is my turn, dear diary. IT IS MY TURN. First I get whacked by a smartass who it turns out couldn’t run a Wendy’s, now I’m getting shade from some college dame who acts like a wrinkly Reese Witherspoon in Election. Oh–and she’s a "financial expert." Do you know what this "financial expert" has a degree in? Speech fucking pathology! Eight years of shitbag unemployment, but she’s the next President because she knows what a diphthong is.
And she has a law degree. Really? In Washington, DC, the guy riding the garbage truck has a law degree. Spare me the high praise. Her other qualifications? She taught at Harvard. Take a look at the average Ivy League graduate these days. If she had a part in cranking out these skill-free losers she ought to write a personal apology to every American who can spell "responsibility." This is a woman whose idea of self-actualization is promising to get off your parent’s health insurance before menopause.
If this whack-a-do were somehow to get the nomination instead of me, I’d stump for Romney (it’s gonna be Romney–I have a source at Bohemian Grove) before I’d lift a finger for Liz, and not just for spite. Can you imagine this woman in charge of the country? She doesn’t want to fix economic inequality so much as take a public shit on anybody who earns more than the poverty line. And she hates bankers so much I swear she’s compensating for how much she wants to blow them.
Earth to Liz: I know you want to skull fuck every CEO who runs something bigger than an organic vegetable stand, but it turns out business actually creates jobs we need and manufactures shit we like. Apple ain’t just a fruit, sister, and Microsoft ain’t just Bill’s recurring nightmare about his penis. Besides, if you think you’re going raise money to run for President while promising economic execution for Wall Street, you’re higher than Roger Stone in a Studio 54 bathroom in 1978.
Liz, bubeleh, just because somebody called you lesbo in junior high doesn’t mean you have to take it out on the country for the rest of your life. You’re straight, we get it–you got married twice and squeezed out a couple of kids. Relax. Nobody’s whispering about Big Chief Liz behind your back anymore. And leave the self-righteousness to Huckabee, ‘kay?
Free time is scarce lately. Binge-watching The Walking Dead. I wasn’t even interested until I saw that Epic Rap Battle between Sheriff Rick and Walter White, now I can’t get enough. "Carl! Stay back!" Ha–I say that all the time now. Can’t wait to run into Rove.
Love,
Hill-Dawg