Spy On My Daughters You Fat Dripping Government Goon And I’ll Go All Hannibal Lecter On Your Pancreas, Dig?

Spy On My Daughters You Fat Dripping Government Goon And I'll Go All Hannibal Lecter On Your Pancreas, Dig?

I think it is time to imprison Washington, D.C.

Wire a 100,000 volt invisible fence around the perimeter wide enough to include the nasty parts of Virginia and Maryland. How do the imbeciles of our Capitol keep at it, day after day? Why do they? For nice aftershave? Is that it? Is it all about a Georgetown perfumery where Senator Feinstein or Dutch Ruppersberger shop for scent products? I know the feeling of self-edification. As a boy on Christmas mornings of the past I would get all dressed up in my new clothes boxed under the tree and take my annual alternating gift of department store Brut or Old Spice grooming products into the bathroom. I would clip my fingernails, shave the score of hairs off my face, button the cuffs of my sleeves, and drench myself in the scent of man. As a thirteen year old boy laying down beside the presents stacked under the tree I began to imagine Ron Throop to be a successful businessman and/or starting quarterback for the Miami Dolphins. That dreaming would dull as soon as thoughts of Simone Beretti popped into my head. She was the smart girl who sat in front of me in Mr. Simon’s U.S. History class. She came with her smells too, and on Christmas morning recent memories of them mixed in with my cologne’s superpower, had me daydream a future winter morning taking Simone for a ride on my ski-doo snowmobile. I would seat her in front so she couldn’t fall off. I would protect her. And all would be right with the world.

Now I think of the boy and girl Ron and Simone in 2014 with smartphones. I would be connected to nfl.com, and Simone to some cool Indie band website her older sister got her turned on to. We might sneak in a cryptic puppy love tweet from time to time, her calling me a “druggie” (I was not and am not), and me pointing out her uneven pony tail in class that day. We would put away the phones at our respective homes that night. Then Simone to her homework and me to The Muppet Show, and then dragging my feet to some algebra I could not understand.

Larry Purvis was a fellow student at the time, a bully, but of another sort. A loner. He was a bit roly-poly with fat pink cheeks and blonde greasy hair. Kids shied away from him because rumor was that he was a slimy pervert. There were tales about Larry getting caught playing doctor with very young girls on his street, and that was such a foreign idea to the rest of us seventh and eight graders, so undeniably off-scene to pubescent teens, that it was a no-brainer to avoid Larry at every opportunity—in the halls, at lunch, but most definitely in the locker room.

Well, it turned out, according to my hometown friend and professional prison guard Pat, that today Larry wears a GPS ankle bracelet. The rumors were true. Larry is a convicted child predator and molester. Bound to be one growing in every school district I guess.

Now I think of the peeping Toms at the N.S.A. (and also members of Congress, the President, and any judge alive who enables them) intercepting the flirtations of our children, and I call for their arrest and imprisonment, and upon release made to wear an ankle bracelet for the rest of their lives, just like Larry Purvis. I think of the ubiquitous photo the media displays of the N.S.A. headquarters, and now realize that every car’s owner in that immense parking lot is a free Larry Purvis of America. Each one is drooling in on the privates of our children. Having not yet quit in shame is proof that the typical N.S.A. employee is guilty and seeks strength in number of other perverts to shelter himself from the storm, the vitriolic type, released by parents of victimized children who, upon hearing news of the spying on little Suzie through the bathroom window, find themselves igniting mob torches in the night to hunt down a disgusting Larry Purvis.

Who wants their country to be run by peeping Toms and Thomasinas? Even the President’s wife will not slap his face in front of their daughters and call him a “sick pig”.

She must love her Chanel No. 5 too. Makes her feel important as 1st Lady pervert-enabler.

I will share this post all over America today. I am nonplussed, seeing red, and wanting this damn Internet to feel like I do. And Marvin Gaye too.

What’s Going On?

Mercy Mercy Me

The Star-Spangled Banner

 

 

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