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THE PRESIDENT: Fellow citizens:
I know the only reason you all are tuned in is to watch nonstop coverage of that USAir plane crash in the Hudson River, so you can whip yourselves up into a fit of emotional masturbation, sobbing over "miracles" and "heroes" until the next little white girl goes missing. So let me start with a brief shout-out to my fellow-pilot bro' who ditched his jet so smooth (just like I ditched my whole jet-flying career!), not even a worthless foreign life was lost. And thank Christ for that; because with barely a hundred hours left in my term, the last thing I wanna do is drag my ass up to Jew York City and cry crocodile tears over a bunch of dead folks again – especially when I won't be around long enough to use it as an excuse to do something fun and cool – like nuke Iran or authorize a no-bid $100 billion Raytheon contract to exterminate the Canadian Gooses.
Anyway, for eight long years, it has been my honor to serve Wall Street and its coterie of country clubbing con artist elites, the McJesus Salvation Industries, and the Confederate States Of America as the chief executive of White House, Inc. And so this is the Big Adios.
In the spirit of desperate bipartisanship that our entire societal breakdown has necessitationed, and in light of popularity poll numbers that make Richard Nixon look like a greased Chippendale at a bachelorette party, I just want to say that we can all agree on one thing: whether you're an immigrant terrorist or non-terrorist, a bellyaching homo, a legless Iraqazoid, a drowned corpse bloating in the New Orleans sun, an effete Huffington Post-reading urban iPhone zombie, or a Hannity-worshipping redneck patrio-fascist, a negro, a Mexi-rican, a normal guy, a feminist, a stoner, or a fixed income oldster reduced to buying Walgreens-brand Depends, odds are you're tickled pinker than Barry Manilow's boa that I'm getting the fuck outta Dodge.
Lots of y'all think I'm a stupid, fucking moron. Mebbe I am. But who's off to play golf in a gilded, all-expenses-paid retirement, and who's suddenly realizing that unemployment benefits can't even keep you rolling in beer and donuts? Who's done paying off his loyal hedge fund and banker fraternity brothers with gubbament cheese, and who invested (and lost!) all their shekels with Gandalf the Jew and his mystical 401K? Who's hightailing it back to a swanky Dallas suburb, and who's the broke-assed losers who double-mortgaged their McMansions to buy $4K plasma TVs, thinking they'd hit the LOTTO before they had to pay anyone back? Who's the dummy, jerk? Like, DUH. THE ANSWER WUZ RHETORICALIZED, YOU INGRATE FUCKSTICKS. Good thing I'm rich! And it's OLD money. Well, at any rate, it's comin' from OLD people! Yee-haw!
So let me remind you all of one thing: when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks back. Get it? I'm the abyss, you whiny assholes. You hate my guts, because I'm YOU. Greedy, panicky, arrogant, and willing to do slimy, awful things to other human beings if it means Domino's Pizza will still be able to deliver two to three pounds of gluten and curdled cow fluids to the Cul-de-Sac in thirty minutes or less.
Never forget that I'm the two-time winner** of the popular and totally fixed Democracy Show Live! Yeah, that's what I said. Both times I legitimately won* a contest that favors whoever can elbow (or machete chop themselves) into our version of the court of Versailles.
I get a lot of guff for speaking all folksy, and salt-of-the-earth, like the Texan I pretend to be, instead of the Yankee political scion I actually am. My speechification might be uncorrect, but if talking good is what makes good deciders, then go ahead and elect a lawyer. Oops! You idiot fruit baskets already went and done that. Well, then on behalf of the entire ruling class, I thank you. That's the great thing about our democracy: it's always the same turd, different coil.
One thing about Americans, if they don't fall for the down-home, man of the people routine, they fall for the high-falutin', hope-talking, homegrown messiah routine. Once you figure that out, you can sell lazy to Mexicans. Or drunk to Irish. Or crime to Italians. Or rhythm to blacks. Or hope to cattle, on their way to the slaughterhouse no less. That's showbiz! And there may never be no second acts in America, but you can bet there is always someone manning the ticket booth before the first one. Friends, power is like God. It talks all kinds of different ways, in different voices, but always tells you what you want to hear. It flatters, panders, hollers and purrs. Whether it sounds like a retard or a professor of used car sales, power does what it has to do to get you to like it, and give you its vote. True story. >>>>snip
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