It will be all about how much free shit she’s going to give away... and... Trump is Hitler.
My special snowflakes, and girlfriends everywhere, I salute you with my broom, that latest triumph of American ingenuity, and I rise before you like the ghost of Christmas Past to scare you with this ill-timed coughing fit (hack, wheeze, hack) and this witch-like cackle that drove Bill out of the family quarters and, well, let’s not get into that.
My experience says it all. From Benghazi to Bent Legal Shenanigans, I have screwed with lives on every continent, and with the assistance of our great incumbent Resident, my friend (yeah right) Barack Aboma, we have together destabilized the Arab world, enabled Putin’s dark adventures, and said pious things every time a Frenchman died, which was a lot of different times.
And you can expect four more years of that if I have the entitled outcome of being appointed Queen to succeed King Barry the First, my friend (yeah right). Bill, put your pants on. We’re on live television.
Okay, I picked a screechy vice president so I wouldn’t seem like the only one, and here he or she is. Trick or treat.
Wait a second, I have an e-mail, here let me read it. “Our nuclear code is 784-E-239-Q-7.” No harm done. This signal does not reach beyond the Eastern seaboard, right? I mean, ya know, it’s not like I can see Russia from my house.”
Okay, America, secret sign time, if you’re a neocon, if you’re a lesbian, if you’re a freakin channeler of alien energy, if you’re an ancient astronaut theorist, you know the sign, here it is, flash it with me. All hail Zargon. All hail Zargon. Four more terms. We don’t need guns, just time outs. Snowflakes, come out of your safe spaces. Bill, PUT YOUR DAMN PANTS ON.”
(campaign theme music, Shaft)