My fellow Americans and New Hampshirans. That doesn't sound right. New Hampshirese? New Hampshipharians? Dear flannel-clad syrup suckers, it has come to my attention that someone rudely posted a video of me on the webbynet. It shows me talking at a hearing about what we can do to stop the homos from mincing down our church aisles to Beyonce's "Put a Ring on it."
And now all the homocratic pundits have taken my words completely in context and are repeating it over and over like it's funny or something:
"We’re talking about taking the penis of a man and putting it in the rectum of another man and wriggling it around in excrement. And you have to think, would I want that to be done to me?"
Yes. And...? Why are you all snickering? Have you thought about it? Well, you should. In fact, I think every God-fearing American would do well to think about it every day. When you're pouring milk over your Cheerios every morning, think about an engorged pants-worm barfing baby paste up your oopsie hole. While you're tucking your little angels into bed at night, consider being given a tube steak enema by a muscle-bound fanny-riding butt-buckaroo.
Because ever since our legislature legalized fairy nuptials in 2007, ass-sexing has replaced ice fishing as our state's most popular man-on-man pastime. That's hardly the New Hampshire I've grown to tolerate. Homos would do well to remember option number two in our state motto, "live free or die."
Consider this: between 2000 and 2005, our state went from being 98% white Christians to 97% white Christians. And that was without any legislation whatsoever! What would have happened if we actually passed a law LEGALIZING negros and wetbacks? Now, not only is our fair state one percent negro-er, we actually bless the unions of negro boys who want to ride fat black ponies in the mandingo ass rodeo.
You know, last night I succumbed to perform my bi-monthly wifely duties for my infinitely fortunate husband. Usually when I lie there surrendering my lady cave to his pee-pee, my mind goes to a happy place where babies ride unicorns and everything's made of chocolate. But this time all I could think about was how our state is kind of shaped like an erect groin sausage. And then I thought about what would it be like if hubby suddenly shoved my ankles behind my ears and used his goo-gurgling battering ram against my back door? Could I bear the indignity of having my back 40 plowed by a poo farming skin tractor? Those two minutes seemed to last an eternity, and so repulsed was I, that afterwards I dashed out to the garage and vacuumed my Hyundai.
It's all Vermont's fault, you know. That similarly phallic state, pressing lasciviously against our backside, started this whole mess when they legalized civil unions back in 1999. Which goes to show how contagious this naughty game of poo-billiards really is. Soon, mark my words, we will awake to the day where we can't tell why folks are wearing flannel; are they a backwoods yokel or a lesbo? And come to think of it, we should also think about lesbo stuff. Like we don't know what they're up to! All that muff-punching scissor-queefing lady-pie-eating fiddle-faddle!! Goodness! I think I need a glass of water.
Wait. What was I talking about? I lost my train of thought. Unicorns. Chocolate. Buttholes. Pie. Oh yes. I remember.
In closing, remember to keep thinking about penises and recti. And on a personal note, if my heterosexual husband thinks I'm going to hike up my dress tonight and slide down his flesh pole like a fireman...well...he's just going to have to go looking for it on Craigslist like every other decent, opposite-married family man in our God-fearing state.
Nancy Elliott sez: "I subscribe to this blog's feed to take my mind off of ass-sex"