I fell in love with Sen. Bernie Sanders. I wanted to marry his brain — bought a ring and everything. I was on board, and, like Russian cosmonaut Mikhail Kornienko, I was ready for the long haul to the future. But the plan didn’t quite pan out, and, for a hot minute, I was so heartbroken and so fuckin’ fed up, I jumped on that “Bernie or Bust” rage-train and took a real bumpy and uncomfortable ride through the Democrats’ confrontation-nation of piercing social media all-caps yelling matches, backyard barbecues fat with bullhorns and soap boxes but slim on the Sweet Baby Ray’s (and where there’s always some lone voice coming from the shadows of a weeping willow whispering the words “Jill Stein! She’s real neato”), and an insane-baptismal after-party (always a wild time!), during which a Bernie supporter barfed up such sweet sentiments as “I hope Trump wins! That’s what this nation deserves!” before laughing maniacally like some sinister soothsayer, to an overly-hot and muggy smoke break during which some poor slob glazed in sweat, with a soggy Pall Mall protruding from his feverish mouth, mumbled something about Gary Johnson being “flush with kush” and “totally right-on with that Second Amendment, dude” — as if the former Republican, born-again Libertarian would not only rock the Oval Office, but he’d also set flame to the streets with his trap-house mixtape. And I just stood there, staring at a type of beetle I had never seen before, scurrying through the heat waves of the asphalt, as I mumbled back: “Cool, don’t care.”
It left me feeling disheartened, disgusted and straight up gross, and, so like Pee Wee Herman before me, I leapt off the train of long suffering and went running for my life, leaving the loony birds behind me. See, I’m real tired of arguing with people I love and used to enjoy being around and watching people, whom I thought were chock full of common sense, give way and slip into hysteria (and cue the waterworks) ... but fuck all that noise — that’s the past, and today is a brand-spanking-new day! Because Jesus Herbert Christ I can vote! So, yes, this Nov. 2 I’ll be punching that ticket with a resounding Hells-to-the-bells yes for Hillary Rodham Clinton.
(In Russia you don’t punch the ballet: The ballet punches you!) The RNC was the single most disgusting, hateful and downright shameful thing to ever flash and flutter across my television screen: It made “Cannibal Holocaust” look like Rainbow Brite. I could actually feel it hurting all that is humanity, and, as hard as I looked, I could not find a spoon large enough to gag myself with. It was like Cleveland became destination No. 1 for all of America’s bad seeds, a city taken over by microscopic cogs setting up a platform of catastrophic plans, designed and directed by a red right hand.
(Let the punishments fit the crimes) I mean — to the full extent of the law. When Hillary wins (and she will. Oh yes, she most certainly will!), I’m gonna feast on the lamentations of what remains of the Grand Old Party. The Toppling of Trump will be the most hilarious, outrageous and base event to ever run raw across this streaming, beaming, broadcasting world! It will be a swath of bliss — cathartic and bizarre to watch, as wretched white dreams are dashed upon the rocks! To see the moldy, dust-covered masculinity of the Might Is Right crowd manifest into flu, a la Cronenberg. To witness them go biblical, gnashing their teeth, clawing their sores and speaking in a tongue so vulgar that Linda Blair would turn green (the shade, not the party). To participate in catching America’s greatest nepotistic, gold spray-painted, most frontin’ and choppin’ creature from the “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” slippin’ in a presidential election will be an historic event beyond Huge it will be Humongous! I don’t want Donald Trump to lose: I wanna see him crushed, destroyed and humiliated on live television! I wanna see us, the American public, sink his fuckin’ battle ship, and then throw the whole game in his face. I want his legions of dimwit, dipshit, spiritually-malformed men to go fleeing from his human tire-fire presence, as he looks into the camera, realizing it’s game over for Making America Grody Again, and then pop! I hope his head explodes, “Scanners”- style in a circle of grand defeat ... kisses!
