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Edited on Sat Jan-26-08 11:24 PM by Old Crusoe
This is a cross-post of a response I posted to one of BullGooseLooney's threads this evening, involving Pat Buchanan -- the former Nixon speech writer -- and the discussion of "purging" the Democratic party of "Clintonism."
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One of my most vivid and recurrent fantasies involves Pat Buchanan. In this fantasy, Pat is wandering aimlessly in a vast tundra. He stumbles with frequency, swearing under his breath lest his God strike him for blasphemy were he to cry aloud.
His department store clothes are soiled and tattered.
Cold wind rips across the prairie. Ice pellets strike his skin. Ice gathers in his shoes and on his face. His thoughts are incoherent. He is desperate and bloated and stained with the dampness of roots, resembling a cross between Dennis Hastert and Bigfoot.
From a remote venue -- say my basement -- a lever is pulled, lighting a series of lights on a control panel.
Some minutes later, a giant cargo plane flies over Pat's path in the tundra, dumping several hundred metric tons of dildos on Pat, burying him alive.
Back in Washington, the McLaughlin Group wonders where Pat is and why he hasn't shown up for work, and, losing patience and interest, replace him with Mel Gibson.
The end. _ _ _ _
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