Just recovering from a breakup with an obsessive, analingus-loving asspicker, a severely sprained ankle and a bacterial infection, I decided to show my brand of patriotism by watching the horrifying inauguration of the Pussy-Grabber-in-Chief at the Arizona Bar and Grill. I ordered a pizza and glass of wine to wash down the Xanax needed to see that dundridge take office.
Suddenly, a woman looked up at the humungous TV screen and said, “Bubbale,” in a guttural moan.
I couldn’t figure out why she would utter the Hebrew term of endearment to the image of that despicable beast and his bodacious wife. “Your affection of that toadstool is unrequited,” I murmured in Winese, my eyes cast downward.
“I think of him as more reptilian than a toadstool, like a toadfish with dragon skin,” this hot psychologist-looking dude said from the next table, smiling as he pushed his glasses up his nose.
I pretended to be indifferent to his dinkledorf hotness. “You saw the fireworks last night?” I asked the wordsmith, reflecting back on the flash of “USR” across the darkness.
“Yeah, one step short of the zombie-apocalypse,” he said.
I was ready to leave but found myself stapled to the chair in hope of a possibility to continue a palaver with this guy. “We would’ve been better off with Barney the purple dinosaur than that yack-meoff,” I said unambiguously. Unable to maintain an accismus of this guy, and close to needing Narcan to reverse the Xanax/wine combo, I blurted out, “Be my Batman!” then fell off my chair.