REPOST - Rush Limbaugh Fiction - Rush's new wife "Hillary"

[Jabbery]

The show ended at 2:58pm, just as it had for thousands of days before. “We’ll see you tomorrow, my friends,” were Rush’s last words, spoken precisely six inches away from the Golden EIB Microphone.

Rush got up from his chair after three hours of nonstop desperation at 3pm Eastern Time. As usual, the seat of the chair was soaked and smelly from fat crack sweat, and for health reasons, it had to be incinerated in the EIB smokestack. A new chair was sent up from the downstairs inventory for tomorrow's show.

Rush arrived home in the limo around 6pm after taking care of some business deals, talking with his criminal lawyers, and arranging to have a new shipment of particularly foul-smelling cigars sent to his Palm Beach mansion.

Rush bounded through the huge front door, adjusted his hearing aid and meekly greeted the housekeeper, who offered him his usual dinner of filet mignon covered in butter, two roast stuffed chickens, a whole baked piglet, three fried pork chops and a gallon of rocky road ice cream. Rush, feeling particularly down, ate only the filet and the two chickens. He was clearly not himself tonight.

Rush moved to the living room around 8pm, where he grabbed the remote and flipped on the $20,000 Pioneer 80" flat screen TV. He used the remote to open the huge picture windows, allowing the warm ocean breeze to blow gently through his thinning hair implants. As he rolled through the channels, first FOX, then MSNBC, then FOX again, his mind drifted to better days, when he came home to Marta, ate everything on his five plates, popped three or four hydrocdones and a couple of Oxycontins, and drifted off into a narcotic-induced oblivion, where no one had ever heard of awful things like Donovan McNabb and addiction and divorce and deafness.

The phone never rang in the Limbaugh mansion. Rush was used to that. No friends, no close family, so many alienated people. It was a long-term Hell for Rush. "I'd probably never hear it anyway," he rationalized, as he turned off the expensive TV with a violent press of the button.

Then that familiar feeling stirred in his flabby mid-section. He hadn't had sexual relations with Marta since 1996, when they got together that last time on Rupert Murdoch’s yacht. Rush recalled how awkward and unsatisfying it had been, and how Marta had been distant ever since. But that was a long time ago, and Rush knew how to take matters into his own hand.

Feeling dejected and more depressed, Rush resisted the temptation to call Wilma for a "hook up." He knew that Roy Black couldn't save him from another bust, and that Palm Beach DA Barry Krischer would send him up the river to a prison with black people in it if he caught Rush with another Montecristo box full of "little blues." So he held back – and slowly ascended the opulent staircase, shuffling to his bedroom.

Rush pressed the buttons on the wall console and locked himself in for the night. The security system was second to none, he'd been told, and no one could possibly ever get in. Rush lowered the electronic shades and blocked himself off from the world.

That's when he took out his key and opened the secret room. Inside was a universe of delights. Thousands of sexually explicit DVDs and videotapes, rubber sex toys, cases of lubricants, neatly folded towels and blow up dolls, complete with an air tank that allowed him to inflate his lover of choice in less than 20 seconds.

As he scanned the small room, he fixed his eyes on the deflated image of "Hillary," the doll he had come to know as his "wife." She was Rush's favorite. She knew all the things Rush liked - all his kinky fantasies. She knew about his secret desire for a threesome with that silver haired man named "Bill." She never judged Rush or called him names - unless he wanted her to.

“Hillary” had come to take Marta’s place many years before. The doll wasn’t the first “Hillary” Rush had loved. In the years since Rush and Marta had last slept together in the same wing of the mansion, Rush had worn out several dolls of the same name. But this night Rush prudently decided to turn in for a good night’s sleep. He was unable to satisfy “Hillary” without a tab of Viagra, and it was a little late to wait an hour for it to take effect.

As Rush drifted off to sleep, he began dreaming of his one true love – the doll who would never forsake him, never divorce him. She was different. She would be his wife forever. This “Hillary” was special.

With Rush’s vast wealth, he knew that Marta’s revulsion could not keep him from satisfying his weak masculine needs. But even with all his money, Rush knew no woman who wanted to have sex with him, and prostitutes might spill their guts to the liberal media. But Rush had felt lonely for too long, and it was time to do something for himself – something that would fulfill him, finally bringing him the manly satisfaction he so desperately longed for.

Some years earlier, Rush, through one of his attorneys, had commissioned a dozen latex images of the face of Hillary Clinton from a Taiwanese manufacturer. He told his attorney that the latex images were a gag gift for a conservative friend. When the masks arrived, Rush had cut large holes in the mouth area and glued the latex faces onto the heads of the dolls. But the holes were often too big – and they distorted the beautiful face he longed to see looking back at him. They just weren’t realistic enough.



The next day after he’d decided to turn in early, Rush contacted his attorney and had them meet with a famous Hollywood special effects master who promised the lawyer that he could deliver a very realistic latex mask of Hillary Clinton, a three-dimensional face complete with glass eyes and full, lush lips. Rush’s attorney demanded that the mouth be pursed, and that the slightly open mouth be no more that an inch in diameter. The special effects man seemed puzzled. “Why do you want this?” the man demanded.

“My client is a very important person,” he retorted. “He will pay you handsomely. How much will it cost?”

“At least a hundred thousand,” the effects man shot back.

“Done. How soon can I get it?” The lawyer seemed anxious, almost too anxious.

“I’m an artist, my friend. It could be months. Cash up front”

The lawyer handed him a deadline. “My client will give you 2 months, tops. Have it shipped to my office in Palm Beach as soon as you’re done.”

The two men parted company after the lawyer had drawn a check for $100,000.00 on a numbered Cayman Islands bank account. The artist left with a sniff, feeling as if he was dealing with some very shady characters. Still, it was a big payday for such an easy job.

True to the artists’ word, a package arrived via FedEx two months later at Limbaugh’s attorney’s office. Limbaugh had been calling on a daily basis before his show each day, asking about the delivery. When his lawyer contacted him, Limbaugh could hardly contain his excitement. “Can you drive to the EIB studio?” he demanded? The lawyer agreed and drove the package over to Rush, who stashed the box under his desk while he was taking a call from “Tom in Dayton, Ohio.”

Rush canceled his appointment with criminal attorney Roy Black that afternoon and spirited his package home with him that evening in the limo. Rush walked through the huge front door and shouted "Marta, I'm home." For a moment, he had forgotten that Marta had moved out. It was then he realized that he had destroyed his third marriage. A wave of depression swept over him. But it passed quickly. Rush was about to meet his dream girl – his one true love.

Stopping off in the bathroom to choke down a Viagra tablet and a glass of water, Rush waved off the housekeeper, telling her that he had guests coming over. He would not need her services anymore tonight. Speaking in her broken English and pointing upward toward the east wing of the mansion, she said “But Mr. Rush, Ms. Marta, she….she.” Rush shouted over her. “No, no – go home.” The maid persisted. “Rush, Marta, she, she go…”

Rush pressed a crisp hundred-dollar bill into her hand and sent her on her way. “See you tomorrow,” he said as the housekeeper reluctantly ambled to the door.



Certain that he was alone, Rush sprinted upstairs, closed the bedroom door, and pressed the buttons on the state-of-the-art security panel, locking away the outside world. He raced to the secret room, and grabbed the key from his pocket. Struggling to unlock the second door, he dropped the box. He heard a sickening crash, a noise that sounded like glass breaking. Rush ripped open the box to find a flawless latex mask of Hillary Clinton’s pretty face, with one glass eye sporting a crack down the middle.

Rush was heartbroken. In his haste, he had damaged the most beautiful face he had ever seen. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice breaking. “You know I would never hurt you.” Rush pondered whether to have his attorney send him the number of the special effects artist, but quickly thought better. He could never reveal his identity, lest the liberal media would have another round of fun at his expense. Looking into Hillary’s other eye, Rush resolved to contact his lawyer in the morning for a replacement.

Rush had already stashed the bottle of glue on the shelf in his secret room. He has become an expert in gluing the lesser quality latex masks on to the faces of the blow-up dolls. Breathing heavily, and by this time sweating profusely, he resolved to slow down and do the job right. He had already damaged his $100,000.00 mask – this was no time to screw up the job.

Rush quickly unpackaged a new doll and painstakingly began the process of gluing the new latex mask onto its face. He knew he could only do the job right when the doll was deflated. He smeared the epoxy on to the back of the mask and slowly affixed it to the doll’s face. “Lookit,” he exclaimed, “I’ll bet that “PRES-ident CLIN-ton would be very surprised to see you here tonight.”

As Rush plugged "Hillary" into the air tank hose, his excitement began to build - in that flushed moment, he was a studly powerhouse of a man, an Adonis whose tiny, flaccid sexual organ was, in his mind, massive and virile. But his mind was taken aback in total amazement as Hillary began to inflate. “My God,” he screamed. Even with the broken eye, to Rush, she was perfect in every way. “She’s BEAUTIFUL!” he yelled.

But something had gone awry. The epoxy had not been applied properly, and a deep purplish spot appeared just below Hillary’s broken eye. But it was no matter to Rush at that moment, as the quickly inflating image of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen began to take shape. Rush dismissed the imperfection and looked downward at the tiny rise that had grown in his sansabelts. “I am more of a man than your husband will ever be, darling,” he said to the doll. “Let me show you how a real man does the horizontal mambo, my friends, er, uh I mean, my darling.”

Rush unhooked the air hose, now that Hillary was full. He inserted the air plug and carried her featherweight body to the huge bed, gazing into her one unbroken eye, reminding himself to call his lawyer in the morning. He was in love, a deeper love than he ever had felt before.

Rush laid Hillary down on the bed and began to undress as she floated lightly above the comforter. Now totally naked except for his black support socks, Rush marveled at his powerful 2 ¾” manhood, grabbed Hillary, and held her close to his flabby breasts. “I bet you like it rough, don’t you my darling?” He asked her, his cigar breath becoming heavier and heavier.

Rush affected a high falsetto voice as Hillary’s own. “Yes, Rush, you know I like you to give to me rough and tough!”

Rush began to playfully slap Hillary’s face. Just at that moment, he heard the unmistakable “beep” of the outside security panel. His head whipped around to the door – which swung open wide. There, standing in plain view, was Marta, a look of sheer horror on her face.

Marta could not believe what she was seeing. There was Rush, naked but for his black support socks, holding an inflatable sex doll with a perfect mask of Hillary Clinton’s unmistakable face glued to its head in one hand, slapping its face, with one eye broken and what appeared to be a bruise beneath the area Rush had been slapping. “Oh my God!” Marta screamed, as she turned and ran down the grand marble hallway, stopping to catch her balance and vomit all over the gleaming marble floor.

Marta had been packing some of her things from her wing of the mansion when Rush had arrived home. She had told the housekeeper that she would be leaving in a few hours, but Rush had not listened to the woman when he came home, instead dismissing her for the night without hearing what she had to say. He had built himself a mansion of Irony – he had hearing trouble, and yet he had refused to listen when he had the chance.

Rush dropped Hillary on the bed and ran after Marta, his blubbery boobies shaking and his tiny, Viagra-fueled protrusion wagging in the air-conditioned artificial breeze. As he rounded the door, he saw Marta crouched over a puddle of her own vomit. As she looked back at him, she immediately projectile vomited more violently than before. The poor woman was desperately nauseous.

“Marta, let me explain,” Rush exclaimed, walking toward her.

Marta turned and discreetly reached into her purse and grasped her can of pepper spray. As Rush approached, she suddenly stood and with a level hand, unaffected by her nausea, she aimed squarely in Rush’s face and pulled the trigger, unleashing a torrent of noxious, painful liquid into Rush’s bloated cheeks. She made sure to get plenty into his eyes. Rush fell back quickly, screaming in horrible pain. Marta grabbed up her purse and ran for the mansion’s front door. She raced for her Mercedes 600SL, which was parked behind the servant’s quarters. She started the $120,000.00 car and sped for the gate, crashing through it with a loud band, and racing off into the dark Palm Beach night.

Back inside the mansion, Rush was still screaming in pain. He couldn’t see anything. He was sitting on the marble floor; head in hand, rubbing his eyes. The audio security monitor, which Marta had inadvertently tripped when she opened the door, had recorded all the sounds of Rush’s agony. The Palm Beach police were notified by the security company that something was wrong, and quickly dispatched a patrol car. As the lone young police officer made his way into the mansion’s open front door, he heard Rush crying upstairs and walked up the ornate stairway to investigate.

There, he saw the piles of vomit, he saw Rush’s naked, black-socked hulk sobbing on the floor, and as he looked behind Rush, he saw on the bed what appeared to be an inflatable blow-up doll with a mask of Hillary Clinton’s face glued to its head – sporting a broken left eye and a bruise beneath it. The young officer had to pinch himself to determine if he was actually experiencing what he thought he was seeing. But he was – it was real. It was all too real.

The officer approached Rush and knelt down, asking “are you alright, Mr. Limbaugh?”

Between sobs, Rush looked up at the officer with reddened, painful eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone. Please God don’t tell anyone about this. She caught me. She caught me and she did this to me. She hurt me. Why did she do this to me?” Rush cried. He was perhaps the most pathetic man on earth at that moment.

The officer looked back into the bedroom, looked back at Rush, and looked back at “Hillary” again. Noting the bruise and broken eye, he said: “It looks like you might have hurt her, too, Mr. Limbaugh. The officer was only half-joking.

“I know, officer, but did she have to ask for a divorce? Did she have to surprise me like that? Don’t you see that she could RUIN my career?” Rush asked.

The officer, clearly believing that Rush had become totally delusional, considered having Rush committed to a mental ward. To the officer, it was apparent that Rush believed that he was married to a blow-up doll of Hillary Clinton, had been engaged in domestic violence with the doll, and thought that the doll had asked him for a divorce.

But the officer quickly thought better about sending Rush to the loony bin. This man was America’s “truth detector.” He had talent on loan from God.

“Please tell me you won’t tell anyone! Please tell me you’ll just leave and pretend this never happened, my friend!” Rush pleaded, pathetically.

The officer turned to walk back to his patrol car, but paused and looked back at Rush from the top of the stairs. Rush stared longingly at the policeman with those reddened, crying eyes….

The officer waved and said “Megadittoes, Rush,” as he walked down the stairs.

[Bronco69]

1. LOL

Good story. And now rush can blame Hillary for his divorce. :-)

[rppper]

2. i have a thing for erotic literature.......BUT.......

....thanks for the morning laugh...i needed it.

a kick for the afternoon crowd...

:kick:

[Rabrrrrrr]

3. LOL! Excellent.

well done!