For those of us longing for the return of Camelot, January 1, 2005 is a day that will live in infamy. New York Senator and future savior of the human race, Hillary Rodham Clinton, was preparing to speak before the Women's TAP Fund, a group of bitter, mustachioed feminists dedicated to supporting pro-choice candidates. Today she would dazzle them with her brilliant plan for providing free health care to each and every American willing to get on a 9 month waiting list and be cut open by disgruntled postal workers. There would be naysayers. There always were. But Hillary was certain that with her charm, grace, and movie-star good looks, she could convince this crowd of mind-numbed sheeple to put their health and well-being completely into her loving hands.
She stepped up onto the stage to deafening cheers and looked out at the sea of adoring fans. As usual, it was a packed house. There must have been 500 starry-eyed supporters out there, staring back at her under 250 bushy eyebrows. This was going to be a piece of cake.
Suddenly, a tsunami of nausea swept over her. She could hardly breathe. She was gulping for air. She braced herself against the podium as the room spun violently around her.
Is this it? she must have been wondering. Is this how Bush and his Big Pharmaceutical Buddies finally do me in?
A Faux News reporter somehow made it past security and quickly snapped a shot of the ailing Evita, breaking the cardinal rule that the Senator is only to be photographed
"I do declare," Hillary swooned, touching a trembling hand to her forehead. "I'm feeling a might bit wooooozy."
But before our wilting lily could could kiss the linoleum, she was swept into the muscular arms of someone who was either Yogi Berra or president of The Women's TAP Fund, Dianne Bennett, and gently lowered into a chair. A squad of eunuchs rushed into the room and began fanning Hillary with large palm fronds as the large crowd of feminists watched, their giant, carp-like mouths hanging open in shock.
A scream from the audience shattered the silence.
"First JFK, then RFK, and now HRC!" Bennett shrieked as she frantically clawed out her eyeballs. "It's like deva vu all over again!"
Panic swept through the crowded auditorium. Those members of the Women's Tap Fund without shaved heads pulled their hair out in clumbs, wailing and gashing their teeth. Hundreds were crushed under their cloven hooves as they stampeded out into the streets like a herd of fat, one-eyebrowed holsteins, and proceeded to empower themselves by beating the crap out of anything with a penis.
* * *
More than 24 hours has passed since Hillary Clinton's brush with death. Bush's failure to declare a National Day of Mourning speaks volumes, as does the mainstream media's hasty cover-up of the incident. They're calling it a "stomach virus", but free-thinking progressives who haven't yet drank Bush's kool-aid know the real truth. In a desperate attempt to knock Hillary out of 2008 presidential race and appease his big drug company masters, Bush put a hit on our beloved Hillary. But how? Poison darts? The bite of a well-trained tsetse fly? A simple handshake at the inauguration, perhaps? Only the Shrub knows, and I doubt he'll be spilling the beans anytime soon.
Uh, first?
Posted by: Fist of Etiquette | October 09, 2007 at 04:46 PM