Cock-punching Cheney

Today I had lunch at a Chinese restaurant on Capitol Hill. In the lobby, there was a wall of signed portraits from various politicos who have eaten at the establishment, including Botoxed loser John Kerry and my main home-slice Russell "The Muscle" Feingold. One of the shots was Dennis Hastert, the fat sack of diseased pig lard who presides over the organized hate-fuck known as the house of representatives. He was standing next to the woman who I presume owns the restaurant, looking for all the world like he had just polished off everything on the menu and was mulling whether to dip the woman in mustard sauce and start chewing. I felt an instant surge of bile looking at his smug, vacant, foot-wide head. "If he were here right now..." I thought.

Then it dawned on me: he just might be!

Now, it turns out that Hastert was not there when I was, but the fact remains that he could have been. For my entire adult life, I've been hating the scumfucks who run this country from the comfortable distance of Wisconsin. I could watch Bush or, say, Rick Santorum on the C-Span and become consummed with rage, but the fact remained that they were a full days drive to the east of me and, as angry as I ever got, I was never angry enough to sustain a road trip to D.C. From now on, since I live in Alexandria, Virginia, the next time I see some well-lacquered dipshit spew a line of poisoned horse jizz, I'm really only a ten minute drive (excluding parking) away from planting my foot in his nutsack. Even worse, I could come face-to-face with one of these fuckers leaving a slime trail on the sidewalk mere feet away from me!

It'll take either Zen Buddhism or a nice Halcyon prescription to keep my off the Secret Service watch list.