I Am Ridiculous

It’s true! At least, according to the media, the Democratic Party, and of course, the man even our bought-and-paid-for press corpse is starting to call the “presumptuous nominee.”

I’m not ridiculous because I’m a PUMA, though. I’m ridiculous first, because I’m a woman, and second, because I’m a woman who refuses to do what Daddy tells me to.

You know, there’s just something so icky about being a woman anyway. And kind of embarrassing. I mean, I look down at my body, and I have two bumps where I don’t need them, and I’m missing a critical bump somewhere south of my belly button. Ewwwwwww, what’s that about? If only I had that bump, I could be in charge. I could do whatever I wanted to and no one would think it was ridiculous.

Look at George W. Bush. This man has the manners of a pig in slop. He talks with his mouth full, he farts, he calls his right-hand man “Turd Blossom,” he gives the Chancellor of Germany a shoulder rub, he can’t keep from invading peoples’ personal space. Of course, his Bushisms are legendary.

Yet is he ridiculous? Why no. For most of his horrific Reign of Error, no one in the press or the Democratic Party questioned this man’s credibility or right to be in his seat. He has that scrap of flesh hanging off his pelvis, so he must be respected.