Obama's Reelection Will Trigger the Apocalypse
August 18, 2012
Let me make one thing clear from the very beginning here. I don’t like Mitt Romney in the very least. Just thinking about him for a few minutes is enough to make me break out in a rash.
Now, even though I detest the man, I’ll admit that I like his money a lot. He’s rich, rich, rich, and, oh, might I add, rich. He could light a cigar with a burning ten thousand dollar bill just for kicks and not bat an eye.
And I’ll also say that he did some great things at Bain Capital. Let me tell you, that was American capitalism at its best. So what if a bunch of factories and small towns had to be shut down? What do you think American industry is for? Do you honestly believe that investment firms and companies ought to have some kind of namby-pamby “ethical obligation” to the people they employ and to the communities where they set up their operations? Give me a break. That’s nothing but a bunch of commie propaganda. The only things any corporation should ever have to answer to are its bottom line and shareholders, period. That’s something that Romney understands to a “t,” so I’ve got to give him that much credit.
But make no mistake. Any man who forces his dog to ride on top of his car is a sicko. I could never do anything like that to my dear, precious Mr. Twinkle, who always journeys with me in the front passenger seat. They say that Seamus, Romney’s savagely abused canine charge, had a bad case of the runs, and that the defecated liquid oozed out of his rooftop crate and spilled onto the windows of the car. That serves old Romney perfectly right, if you ask me. I’ll bet it was a lot of fun to clean up all of that mess.
I’ve got other problems with Romney that aren’t as serious, but are nonetheless grave enough, such as the health care stuff he did in Massachusetts when he was governor there, which in my mind is pretty darned similar to that satanic piece of villainously unconstitutional legislation called Obamacare. Then there’s the fact that overall he used to be a lot more liberal before he ran for president, and then suddenly decided to try to act like a conservative so he could get elected. I’m telling you, I just don’t buy it. The tiger can’t change his stripes, as they say.
Now, you might think that I’m going to say something negative about Romney’s Mormonism. Nope, it’s not going to happen. To me, all churches are pretty much the same, which is to say, they’re all equally off the mark. As I’ve explained before, everyone in the world is going to hell but me, so prepare for the eternal flames.
Still, all of that notwithstanding, I’m going to do the unthinkable and hold my nose this November and vote for the man. And I’ll tell you why. It’s because Obama must be stopped at all costs. If he is reelected, it will trigger nothing less than the apocalypse.
“Well,” you idiotically and impertinently inquire, “why do you think Obama would be the one to set off the end-times events foretold in the Bible? Why not Gilbert Gottfried? Why not Lady Gaga? Why not Carrot Top? After all, Carrot Top looks pretty darned evil, doesn’t he?”
Look here, you slithering slime pit of effluent noxiousness, you couldn’t find your way out of a paper bag even if you had a GPS to help you. As I’ve already explained and as it is abundantly evident to anyone with half a brain, Obama is the Anti-Christ, and an extraterrestrial monster. He’s been biding his time during his first presidential term, working to gain the trust and compliance of the foolish and limp-wristed, so that he can then shove the knife into our backs in his second term, and let loose the hounds of hell upon the face of the earth. All of this is outlined clear as day in the Book of Revelations. Not that you’ve bothered to read it, of course. Oh no, you’ve been too busy filling up your head with commie books by Soviet presidents like Groucho Marx and John Lennon.
But again, why should I even care? I’ll be going up to heaven, and you’ll be down here below on this infernal mud ball when Barack Obama sheds his exoskeleton and reveals himself as the multi-tentacle alien that he really is. Volcanos will erupt all over the earth, earthquakes will shudder every square millimeter of the planet, a plague of locusts will descend, and the bearded face of Jesus Christ will lower from the clouds throughout the world at the very same time. And just so you know, Jesus has light brown hair, blue eyes, and white skin, just like in the pictures in your typical Protestant church. Don’t go telling me about a bunch of so-called genetic studies saying that the Lord looked like some kind of Palestinian Arab. What a load of malarkey.
When the judgment time comes, all will be found lacking, all will be deemed unworthy of entering into the divine presence, except for yours truly. Obama will round everyone else up and send you all down a greased chute into a roaring furnace of scorching brimstone and sulfurous fumes. Maybe if you’re lucky, they’ll give you one of those foam pads you can sit on when you go down, sort of like the ones at the water slides. While we watch you suffer from above, and chuckle lightheartedly at your everlasting misfortune, the Lord and I will dine upon the finest drink and cuisine that heaven has to offer: Cutty Sark and strawberry-flavored Twinkies. The score will be God and Thurston a trillion zillion points, and Obama and the rest of humankind, minus a bazillion gazillion points. Or put another way, it’ll be God and Thurston with A plus, plus, plus, plus, and everyone else with F minus, minus, minus, minus. Let me tell you, the apocalypse is going to be great for God and me, but it’s going to be the absolute pits for you. But that’s alright, because you richly deserve the full measure of the Lord’s retributive vengeance, especially if you’ve ever watched Three and a Half Men and actually enjoyed it.
I must admit that I was a bit perturbed when I considered the possibility that my beloved dog Mr. Twinkle might not be joining me up in paradise once the rapture takes place. But I prayed mightily about this crucial matter, and was given a divine vision of what is to occur.
I saw myself riding around in my trusty auto, with Mr. Twinkle in the front passenger seat as usual, sticking his head out the window and barking at people he doesn’t like, which amounts to nine out of ten cars that go by. Suddenly, a blinding white light enveloped everything, and Mr. Twinkle and I were transported up into the sky, just like with one of those teleport devices from Star Trek, and I mean from the original series in the 1960s.
I looked down and could see that my car continued on without us. It veered off the highway, crossed the median, and went into the opposite lane of traffic, where it caused an eighty-seven car pileup in which there were dozens of fatalities. Well, you know how the rapture is. Don’t blame God for that massive multi-car accident -- blame yourself for not being one of the chosen ones. Tough cookies, as they say. Let me tell you, God is all about tough love.
Next, Mr. Twinkle and I found ourselves up in heaven. I asked Saint Peter if there were any restrictions on having a dog up there, and he laughed and laughed, then explained that leash laws were Satan’s invention. Well, I just grinned from ear to ear, and said, hallelujah, I’m finally home. So, I let Mr. Twinkle loose up there, and he heartily relieved himself on the pearly gates, then ran after some angels and barked at them. Good old Mr. Twinkle, that’s my boy, yes sir.
Yep, the apocalypse is looking pretty darned fantastic for Mr. Twinkle and me, no doubt about it, which might make you wonder why I would want to vote for Romney and keep it from happening. Well, that’s a pretty good question, even coming from someone like you. I suppose I might as well give you that much acknowledgement.
The thing is that I’m just not ready for retiring to my eternal abode right yet. I know how much I’ve complained about having to deal with all of you down here in this world, but the truth be told, all of your irritating behavior has a salutary way of keeping my blood boiling on a regular basis, and I’ve kind of gotten used to it. If nobody is ticking me off, how am I going to remember what it is that I’m supposed to stand up for? So, I figure that you’ve given me a reason to keep on going, just so I can try to stop you from ruining everything, although I’ll admit that it’s a bit late for that, since you and your kind have already pretty much fouled up the entire universe. Quite frankly, I’m really not all that sure why I even bother. Maybe I’ve got a tad more sympathy for all of you than I might want to admit, but not much more than a tad -- so don’t get any ideas. The rent’s still going up next month, and if you can’t hack it, I’ll be throwing your furniture out onto the street.
Some of you smart alecks out there might be asking, “What about Winston Lee? Is he going to hell, too?”
Listen up, you worthless, steaming pile of buffalo patties. Winston Lee himself will be the one pushing the great big red button up in the celestial control center, the one that’s marked “INITIATE RAPTURE.” That man is on an entirely different level from the rest of us, which is why I still haven’t yet demanded that he pay me for one and a half years of back rent. But even he better get with the program eventually, or he’ll be evicted. Hey, what can I say -- I’ve got to stand by my principles, you know.
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