MAYDAY!! Mayday!! Puter Pounds the Prez!! GeorgeW. Gaks at CrunchTime!! Petco Makes Me Want to Puke!! So they rang the bell for the Texas DQ DeathMatch and RudyG was face-to-face with Billy Bob Clinton's soft and somewhat doughy flushed (with deep-seated primal, adrenaline-laced fear) cheeks. RG saw red-literally-and, in retrospect, the Balco 'roids he had to have been popping like red-hots took over.
Billy Bob was not prepared for the "Little Dago's" (H-Rod's words-not mine) bullrush. The crowd loved the whole mess and kept doing the wave with an echo: "H-Rod Bites!! [horizontal ellipsis] Ru-Dee Sucks!!" Demonstratively and enthusiastically neutral.
Hillary-aka H-Rod-dressed in camo fatigues and Red Wing boots-yelled desperately: "Smack him Billy Bob-right in the scallions!!"
Quite frankly, I was embarrassed by the whole chaotic brouhaha and tried to Army crawl out the emergency exit. I did not get her done. H-Rod's transgender VP BFFL-candidate, Stewy, who reeked of an overdose of Old Spice, grabbed me by the neck, threw me into the Octagon, and, before you could say hanging chad, body slammed me to the mat. I was promptly pinned and pounded into submission by his (her?) patented backbreaker move (though the thing that really did me in was the acrid odor steaming from the vicinity of his or her carefully braided armpits).
And when RudyG tried to intervene on my behalf, Stewy dismissively spat in the face of THE Ex-Mayor of The Five Boroughs, called him a puke-faced putz, and somehow intertwined our hapless lower extremities in her Double-Dipper Pretzel Combo hold. I was screaming at the top of my tepid lungs-No Mas!! No Mas!!-while I was both lustily booed by the crowd and pelted by a tsunami of half-eaten Whataburgers.
My screams were drowned out by the wildly out-of-control vitriolic Bronx cheers of Scooter and Chains Cheney in each ear of my Bluetooth-enabled Presidential iPhone. They bluntly told me I had lost Texas for the Party, betrayed the ghost of Tom Delay (dead? or alive?), and had activated dozens of water board-equipped GOP strike squads who would hunt me down and terminate me on the spot. I could tell that we were in a pickle 'cause RudyG was hallucinating about all the skeletons he had buried in Gracie Mansion that he would identify on the spot in exchange for Stewy untying his legs and giving him his unconditional release.
My immediate thought: How could you be so unprofessional? I had the luxury of totally losing my mancard 'cause I was not a candidate for anything, so I screamed even louder. Billy Bob, seeing my palpably painful position, cheerfully offered me one of the Whataburger missiles raining down like edible Patriots on the ring: "Hey, Doc, doublemeat and doublecheese!! If you don't, I will."
About this time, the GOP Calvary rode to the rescue. Chains cantered in on-I kid you not-a human pony complete with full saddle, stirrups, and this weird-looking riding crop velcroed to the saddle that looked suspiciously like Scooter Libby. Why Scooter? 'Cause he had one of those probation GPS devices on his right hindfoot and a CIA employee directory sticking out of his saddlebags.
Chains dismounted in a flash and was all over Stewie before he could mount a credible defense. As RudyG and your totally wasted (in the expired energy sense of the word) peon pediatrician quickly untangled our quivering quads, Chains-or Angler, as he is also known to his peeps-appeared to emit this electronic bolt from the vicinity of his indwelling defibrillator that connected in a very intimate way with Stewie. Every time the sparks flew between them, Stewie emitted this very masculine groan that morphed into a quasi-feminine shriek when her braided armpits caught on fire.
That was, in effect, Angler's de factorama submission hold, and Stewie tapped out on the spot. Just for effect, and in the best spirit of Vince McMahan, Chains refused to douse Stewie's flaming pits. Bill Parcells, unemployed and always up for a good, clean fight, offered to finish me and the "fireball" off. Well, this Supreme Court guy named Clarence called up the Texas State National Guard on the spot to hose down the Old Spiced pyrotechnics. Chains was furious and demanded an immediate emergency Supreme Court hearing.
H-Rod said that Stewie's third-degree burns were a vivid example of the need for her One-For-All and All-For-One Healthcare Plan that would include a centralized pharmacy plan administered by the greatness of Petco Inc. Per Hillary, the unfortunate timing of Stewie's uninsured burns meant that H-Rod had reluctantly accepted her resignation from the Ticket to pursue other interests and travel to Nogales for treatment of her charred pits.
Chain's little pony got the crowd into the match with this throbbingly simplistic Georgian chant: Three-peat!! Three-peat!!
While the chant was beyond inappropriate, Chains said that Clarence the Supreme Court guy was present tonight to make sure that nobody messed with the Executive Order that GeorgeW was writing with Al Gonzales unofficial input and support.
Dazed and confused, I again tried to sneak out the emergency exit, only to receive an emergency call on my trusty iPhone from the Petco Police, suspending my prescription privileges with them 'cause my NPI number was not only bogus but also the phone number to some place called the Tiki Ranch outside Reno.
Determined to overcome all obstacles and regain my peon primary care status and prescription first amendment rights, I trudged off away from the burger-strewn chaos of Chains and My Little Pony and toward the comfort zone of demanding, irate parents and GameBoy-addicted 3-year-olds. That was when my trusty iPhone rang with the frantic twang of GeorgeW yelping in my ears.
Mayday!! Mayday!! Puter says that 3-in-a-row is, like, unconstitutional. I need a Pictionary consult STAT, Doc. Is unconstitutional a real word or did Puter just make it up? Way worse, I'm in deep sticky stuff 'cause I think Puter's cheating every time I roll the dice. If he Yahtzee's one more time, Brittany Spears is an official Russian citizen.
Like the total idiot I am, I took the call.