Yet again, Mitch McConnell, the redneck Nosferatu, was hilariously dressed down at an eatery I’ve never heard of, nor would I ever visit, because it’s in the fucking Highlands, and I stopped spending money in the fucking Highlands years ago as a form of protest against bougie garbage and played out hipster trash.
Mitch, I believe, is actively courting this sort of behavior to help sell the idea to his undead, bloodsucking base that rich, white vampires who love Jesus are under attack by the savage mob-ruled lefties, and this is why he insists on showing his ghastly face in public, a public he not only despises but has been, for what feels like a 1,000 years, pursuing their ultimate destruction. And these antics by the Count will surely continue, so heads up for next week’s episode in which an angry Highlander calls Mitch McConnell an unholy, white, crunchy piece of dog shit at the $15 Popsicle store so that gross, fat cat Republicans can cry victim and write screeds on how no one shows them any love or tenderness, or pats them on their little heads for trying to take away Social Security from your dumb, Republican grandma who will vote red until the day she fucking dies because of abortion and her pet machine gun and because her grandson said Jesus was a black man. And it’s this totally fantastical and fabricated notion, that right wing dullards are underdog victims being put upon by vicious, communist, socialist, feminine anarchist, left-o weirdos out to burn down churches, chop off dicks and turn the world into a vegan wasteland in which being charged as a Rodney Dangerfield fan is punishable by biodegradable death because free speech is dead, and you’re being taxed, 100 percent, out of your income, and you have to hide your love for Garfield, because fat shaming a cat is wrong, and lasagna in America is cultural appropriation and so forth and so on, and how do you like wearing burlap and eating grass harvested from a land that was never colonized?
So we good, yo?
It is why we have Trump barking about the dangers we bros face from an army of shadow women adept in toppling and dethroning dudes who threw keggers when Van Halen was god, and why we now have a Proud Boy problem, to wit, America is completely fucking deranged, and the “Mad Max” era is quickly closing in on us, so ya best be fastening a circular saw blade to the top of a baseball bat and learn the rules of “Thunder Dome,” or you won’t make it to see 2025, and I don’t mean put it off until tomorrow... I’m saying you need to get off your unremarkable ass now and start familiarizing yourself with the hurting Khabib put on McGregor ‘cause word on the street is the Proud Boys are hosting a little parade for themselves on Bardstown road (again with The Highlands, Jesus fuckin’ Christ) right in time for Thanksgiving, so hooray for blood sport!
For years now I’ve been preaching nonviolence as a way to get from point A to point B in your day to day, but now I don’t give a fuck... if people want to set dates and confront one another in the streets, I’m like whateves. I watched a video of the Proud Boys having a party on a yacht in New York City, and it was the most New York thing I have seen since I watched Woody Allen dating a teenage girl and thought to myself “this is what gross academics call art?” before switching it off. The Proud Boys are a gang, for sure, that wouldn’t have made it into “The Warriors” because they’re even wacker than the Orphans, who got no respect.
Case in point: If I’m holding juggalos in higher regard than your little boys’ club that is ruled by a dude, and I shit you not, who was once labeled “The King of Hipsterdom,” you have obviously wandered into a den of worthless dorks most foul.
Facts. Shaggy 2 Dope > Gavin McInnes
