Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.

Archive for the category “parody”

Okay, okay, here’s the real parody

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You didn’t think I was going to skip the annual carol parody, did you? The one from last week was simply a bonus, because… well, because I felt like it. But ’tis an Erica Scott tradition to create a spanko parody of a Christmas carol every year, and I wasn’t about to slack off on it. Besides, work is slow this week, I have a wretched cold, so I have plenty of time on my hands and could use the distraction.

I’ve done several of these already (like this one from last year, for example), but as we all know, there is no shortage of carols to work with. The one from last year was complex with multiple verses, but this year, with my brain muddled with mucus, I needed to keep it simple. And what’s more simple and classic than “A Christmas Song”? Besides, to this day, I can’t think about that song without remembering my dad warbling “Jack Frost roasting on an open fire…”

So, with all apologies to Mel Tormé (co-writer) and Nat King Cole, here you go:

Bottoms roasting under open palms
Teardrops dripping off their nose
Misbehavior being handled by doms
And brats dressed up like Santa’s hos

Everybody knows a paddle and a strap or two
Help to keep the backsides bright
Whiny imps and the miscreants too
Will find it hard to sit tonight

They know a spanking’s on its way
They’ve got it coming and there’s nothing they can say
And all the good girls are gonna spy
To see what happens when you scheme and lie

And so the tops are rolling back their cuffs
To give the little brats their due
All Grinches out there, say goodbye to your duffs
Many spankings to you!

And yes, before anyone comments on it, it doesn’t escape me that I’m the biggest Grinch out there and should be the recipient of this holiday fare. To that I say, “Yes, please, bring it!” My mojo is definitely still very much alive. Yesterday, while in the throes of fever and boredom, I engaged in a brat war on Twitter — two other women and me against one male top. It was immature, it was silly… and it was so damn much fun. I haven’t done anything like that in years. And I’ve still got it, if I do say so myself. The top involved actually admitted, “Wow, you’re good. You’re really good.” 😀 So… once I get rid of this damn cold and get past the annual ho-ho shit, I will try to get back into the game and redouble my efforts to find a local play partner. Because I need this.

A final note… despite the heartache and disappointment and other bullshit that life tosses in our direction on a daily basis, I get by with a little help from my friends. For the special friend who had my back this week, thank you. ♥

Have a great weekend, y’all.

A Special Christmas Parody

Those of you who have been with me for years (and thank you) know I like to write a spanko parody of a Christmas carol at this time of year. And I still might — the month is young. But for now, I have something extra.

When I restarted this blog a year and a half ago, I said that I wouldn’t be talking about politics, that they really had no business on a spanking blog. I still feel that way, so don’t worry, I’m not going in that direction. However, despite the efforts of this clusterfuck of an administration, we haven’t completely devolved into Gilead just yet, and it’s still a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. So, I present this holiday treat to you, to the tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”

impeachmas

Donald the Orange Menace

Donald the Orange Menace,
Had a very slimy past,
Now thanks to the impeachment,
It’s gonna bite him in the ass!

All of his crooks and cronies
Used to laugh and call folks names
They always joined The Dotard
As he played his lying games!

Then one happy Judgment Day,
Nancy came to say,
“Donald, you’re a hopeless blight,
Please resign and leave tonight!”

All of the “snowflakes” loathed him
And they shouted out with glee
“Donald the Orange Menace,
You’ll go down in flames, you’ll see!”

As my readers know, in general, I encourage civil discourse and welcome people to disagree with me if they do so respectfully. But on this topic? Nuh uh. You don’t like this parody? Don’t like what I say about Trump? As your Führer likes to tweet, Too Bad! (He probably likes that phrase because it’s two words he can actually spell correctly.) Please feel free to go read something else, and leave me the hell alone. There is more than enough right-wing swill for you to wallow in out there.

Oh, and for those who will gloat that impeachment is a worthless joke, that nothing’s going to get him out — yeah, we may be stuck with him for another year, but the damage is done. He’s been shown for what he is: a complete disgrace, and the laughing stock of the entire freaking world.

Well, except for Russia….

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I love anagrams, don’t you?

Anyway, MERRY CHRISTMAS — ah, screw that…

HAPPY ALL-INCLUSIVE HOLIDAYS, Y’ALL!! 😀

Song parody (happy 50th to Abbey Road)

This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Beatles’ final album together, Abbey Road. Those who know me, know I’m much more of a fan of their earlier work and I can take or leave this album, even though it’s considered a masterpiece and I do acknowledge that. So which song did I choose for a parody? George’s poignant and multi-covered “Something”? John’s bizarre “Come Together”? Nah. I picked Paul’s “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.”

For anyone who doesn’t know the story of this song, Paul pushed hard for it, thinking it would make a great single. The other Beatles hated it, thought it was one of Paul’s cutesy, “granny” songs. (Think “When I’m 64,” or his solo “Silly Love Songs,” the latter of which I can’t stomach.) However, the bouncy tempo, the lively “Bang-Bang” sounds, and John and George hiding their disgust while providing a cheerful “Doo-doo doo doo” backup during the chorus tends to make people forget that the song is pretty damn dark, about an unassuming young man named Maxwell Edison who goes around bashing people’s heads in with a silver hammer.

Many years ago, a play partner who was a fellow Beatles freak came over one night bringing a bag of implements and the Abbey Road CD. He had a different implement for nearly every song (he claimed that we were skipping “Octopus’s Garden” because he thought it sucked). And for “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,” he introduced me to “Max” — a large, heavy aluminum paddle with holes in it. Holy shit.

But I digress. Here’s the real song, in case you don’t remember it.


And here is my parody, “Maxwell’s Leather Paddle.” Enjoy!

Joan had attitude,
Suffering with bratitude,
Sighing in her home
Late nights all alone, no one liked her,
Oh, oh-oh-oh,
Maxwell Edison,
Knew he had the medicine,
Called her on the phone
“Can I help you out with your problem,
Jo-oh-oh-oan?”

But as she’s just about to refuse
He charges through the door…

Whack! Whack! Maxwell’s leather paddle
Came down upon her ass
Smack! Smack! Maxwell’s leather paddle
Got rid of all her sass.

Back at work again, secretary’s late again
Maxwell gets annoyed
Wishing she would learn how to tell the ti-i-i-ime
He tells her to stay
Says that she’ll be spanked today
On her bare behind
She protests and cries
“You will not do so-o-o-o!”

But as she turns away from the man
He throws her OTK…

Whack! Whack! Maxwell’s wooden paddle
Came down upon her bum
Smack! Smack! Maxwell’s wooden paddle
Turned white into dark plum!

CeeCee, thirty-one
Said “You’re such a flirty one!”
Maxwell stands accused,
Feinting shock, but he gets the picture,
Now, ow ow ow
“No more Valerie,
Jennifer or Mallory,
Prove you love just me!”
Max says, “Yes, indeed,
Let me show you how, ow ow ow”

And as the words are leaving his lips
He pulls her panties down…

Whack! Whack! Maxwell’s heavy paddle
Came down upon her cheeks
Smack! Smack! After Max’s paddle
She stood for one whole week,
Whoa whoa whoa ohhh!

Final note: In a completely unrelated story (but pertaining to Abbey Road songs and spanking), the aforementioned Beatles fan play partner was once coming to the end of a very hard scene with me, and my brain was fried (along with my butt). He then selected a nasty strap and announced he wasn’t going to stop using it until I sang a Beatles song all the way through. (Fortunately, no one else was around; it was at Shadow Lane, but in his hotel room.)

Say what???

But then, my brain kicked in. “Any Beatles song?” I asked. “Yup,” he said.

Well, all rightie then.

I proceeded to sing “Her Majesty” — which is all of twenty-six seconds long. 😀

 

It’s parody time again, kids…

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What, you were expecting something sentimental and Yuletide-y? Do you know me?

Anyway… it will surprise no one to read that I’m not feeling the holiday spirit this year. I’m actually working on Christmas Day, by choice. 1. I’m a Grinch, and a Jewish Grinch at that. 2. John is invited to his sister’s house for Christmas dinner. He made an excuse for me without even double-checking if there was a ghost of a chance I might want to go. Good man. I am so done with those people. So he and I will exchange our gifts this weekend.

However, even though I haven’t done this for the past couple of years, I felt the need to carry on my past tradition of writing spanking Christmas carol parodies. This year’s offering is to the tune of “Sleigh Ride.”

Just hear those paddles paddling, crack-crack-crackling too
Come on, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you
You know the hands are falling with miscreants calling “Boo hoo!”
Oh yes, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you

Pull ‘em down, pull ‘em down, pull ‘em way down, go
Right down to your toes
We’re starting with a bottom white as snow
Smack it up, smack it up, smack it harder, pow!
It’s getting red now
We’re spanking along with a song
Of a bratty girl’s dressing down

Our buns are red and rosy and sore and toasty are we
We’re planning pranks together like brats of a feather we’ll be
They’ll say “Oh, you’re in trouble!” and spank our bubble butts too
Come on, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you

There’s a Red Room party at the home of Christian Grey,
He’s a poser but oh well we’re going anyway,
We’ll be writhing on laps of tops we love, and hoping they won’t stop
At the gathering while we watch the paddles pop: Pop! Pop! Pop!
There’s a stinging feeling nothing in the world can buy
When they pass around the spoons and straps and belts, oh my!
It’ll nearly be like a photograph in Janus Magazine
These wonderful toys that abound we’ll remember when we sit down!

Just hear those paddles paddling, crack-crack-crackling too
Come on, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you
You know the hands are falling with miscreants calling “Boo hoo!”
Oh yes, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you

Pull ‘em down, pull ‘em down, pull ‘em way down, go
Right down to your toes
We’re starting with a bottom white as snow
Smack it up, smack it up, smack it harder, pow!
It’s getting red now
We’re spanking along with a song
Of a bratty girl’s dressing down

Our buns are red and rosy and sore and toasty are we
We’re planning pranks together like brats of a feather we’ll be
They’ll say “Oh, you’re in trouble!” and spank our bubble butts too
Come on, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with youuuu!

I should throw in a disclaimer that never have I ever heard anyone actually say “Boo hoo!” But you know, artistic license. And I made myself laugh when I transformed the line “There’s a birthday party at the home of Farmer Gray.”

In closing, remember, Grumpy Cat sings,

“Deck the halls with clumps of furballs
Fa la la la la, go elf yourself!”

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Have a great weekend, y’all. And all snark aside… I hope your holidays, whatever you celebrate, are happy. We could all use some cheer, I think. ♥

Vote for me?

So yesterday, as I was trundling along on the treadmill, my mind wandered as it is wont to do, and I had what I consider a brilliant brainchild.

Consider the following:

  • I am one kinky, nasty woman;
  • I speak my mind often and tell it like it is, even though some people would prefer that I STFU;
  • I know zippity squat about how to run a country, but clearly, that doesn’t matter; and
  • I tweet a whole lot (going on 20K now)

I should run for president in 2020!! Not just the first woman, but the first kinky president! Hey, if we can have a PeePee President, why not a Spanko President?

electerica

Imagine the possibilities for slogans!

  • Embrace your inner safe, sane and consensual sadomasochist, America! Spanking pain is temporary; nuclear vaporization is forever!
  • Healthcare that everyone can count on, permanently — no one will piss it away!
  • Erica Scott’s promises are as solid as a frat paddle — with no (loop)holes!
  • Erica Scott will stand with you — since she can’t sit!
  • You can’t have America without Erica!
  • Red is the New Orange!
  • Erica Scott: Make America Black & Blue Again! #MABBA

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Of course, John would be the First… what? We’re not married, so already, I’m breaking tradition. But so what? We’ve been together for over 20 years; that’s longer than a lot of marriages. (Just ask the upcoming Commander in Cheat.) So, I guess John could be First Switch, Top of your Bottom in Chief. And then there’s my cabinet — oh, so many boxer briefs and panties to fill. But I think I’d start with Paul Kennedy as Spanker of the House, and make Alex Reynolds Secretary of the Posterior. Perhaps Michael Masterson should head up the Lap of Justice Department.

My White House pet would be a giant white dog (she’d have to be white, so I could name her — what else? — Snowflake, and any breed would work except sheepdog). I would train my faithful companion to always hide (or bury) wooden implements. She’d never bite anyone, but she’d growl menacingly whenever she sees someone anything orange.

One of my first acts would be to declare the non-consensual grabbing of pussies to be a capital offense. (Just to be clear, I’m talking about real non-consent, not our type of “oh, please don’t… don’t… don’t stop” consensual non-consent.) And ladies? From now on, no one will be able to get up into your business — unless you want them to, of course!

Tolerant, respectful people — of all nationalities and colors, all religions (or none), all genders (whether born or chosen), all orientations, all sizes and shapes, all ages and income levels — will be treated in turn with tolerance and respect. Those of us who choose not to follow the tried and true societal dictates will not be shamed, but welcomed. None of this bullying/prejudice/discrimination shit on my watch! This is America, not AmeriKKKa. (And yes, your leader will be spanked often for her shameless word play.)

I would redesign the Oval Office, of course. My office would need corners. All staffers would be armed with guns — squirt guns. And corporal punishment would replace capital punishment (but only for vanilla offenders, since kinky offenders would like it way too damn much).

What do you think, readers? Can you add any ideas? Would you vote for me? Come on, I couldn’t possibly be any worse than what’s coming. You’ve got nothing to lose but your inhibitions — and possibly your underwear. 😀

A (not so) sweet holiday fantasy

My regular readers know that, at this time of year, I like to write a naughty Christmas carol parody. However, due to the grim circumstances of 2016, I’m not in the mood to do so. For those who would like to revisit last year’s parody, I present “Elves Gone Bad,” here. In the meantime, my gift to you, in lieu of a parody, is a sweet (well, sweet for me) holiday fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a forlorn crybaby named Erica. She was unhappy all the time, now that her country had been taken over by a large orange fascist blowhard named The Trump, and she no longer felt safe or assured of her future. Despite the fact that his opponent got nearly three million more votes than he did, he still won, due to an antiquated electoral college and most likely Russian some outside influences. He was filling his cabinet with elitist millionaires, and everyone but the richest of the rich and the whitest of the white was basically as fucked as Ivanka in her daddy’s fantasies.

To add insult to injury, some* of his supporters were especially hateful people, members of a white supremacist movement called the Alt-Reich, gloating and sneering and name-calling. They were the ones who had labeled her a crybaby, among other nasty names such as “libtard” and “snowflake.” This last one especially puzzled Erica. She lived in the grand blue state of California, on the west side of the DSA (Divided States of America). She’d gaze out her window at the perpetually sunny sky and wonder, “What’s a snowflake?”

Another thing the Alt-Reich people were fond of saying was, “Suck it up.” “Suck it up, whiner!” “Suck it up, buttercup!” Suck what up? Erica couldn’t quite figure out what “it” was. She combed the Internet, seeking answers, but as was often the case, there were too many answers and not enough real information. At one point, she saw this picture of Mitt Romney groveling like a pussy eating dinner with Trump…

romney

…and was horrified. After all, everyone knew what Romney had to choke down for dessert at that meeting. “Oh, no,” she thought. “Surely they don’t mean suck that up? Ugh!”

So what was she supposed to suck up? After much thought (in between bouts of weeping), it dawned on her: California had just legalized marijuana. Erica was not a big fan of mind-altering substances, but in this new order, she figured reality was intolerable, so perhaps an alternate reality would be a pleasant escape for a while.

She then consulted her younger, hipper friends, whom she knew would be able to steer her in the right direction to the good stuff, and procured a huge blunt of the best weed she could afford. Settling herself at home into her favorite chair, ensuring she had plenty of peanut butter Oreos and Hershey’s Nuggets for later, she lit up and took a deep, deep suck inward, drawing the sweet, pungent smoke into her lungs.

Ahhh. Suck THIS.

As Erica grew dreamily stoned, she watched lazily as the smoke curled from the joint, drifting across the room and gathering into a cloud over the couch. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them, and blinked rapidly. “What’s in this stuff?” she muttered. For she could swear the sweetly scented puffs were coalescing and morphing into a shape, slowly but surely. She rubbed her eyes and looked again; to her shock, the amorphous cloud had settled into the form of a man, sprawled on the couch. As he came into focus, Erica could see he was in faded jeans, barefoot and shirtless, with long dark hair. His eyes were heavy lidded and slightly bleary, and in one hand he clutched a can of Pringles. His other hand came up into a lethargic wave.

“Who are you?” Erica spluttered.

“Just call me Gene,” the stranger said, stretching his legs out, then tipping the Pringles can to his mouth. As he crunched, she stared. “What’s your last name?” she asked.

He swallowed and yawned, then gave her a languid smile. “Everstone.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Erica groaned. “Everstone. Initial E. Gene E. I get it. What are you doing here?”

“You’re always crying,” he drawled. “It’s bad for your eyes. So I’m here to cheer you up with four holiday wishes.”

Erica shook her head. I’m really wasted, she thought. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she scoffed. “And isn’t it supposed to be three wishes?”

“What, you’re complaining ‘cause it’s more?” He shrugged. “Four is the standard these days. Inflation, I guess. So come on. What do you want? A few million dollars? Eternal youth? And please don’t bother me with that ‘world peace’ crap. Everyone knows that’s completely impossible.”

Erica took another hit, savoring it as she thought about her options. She sat up, curling her legs under her. “No,” she mused. “I want some things that will help restore the country to sanity.”

Gene munched a few more Pringles. “Go for it,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

“Wish Number One,” Erica began, her eyes lighting up. “The Trump resigns. He’s like, ‘Hey, I just wanted to win the presidency; I didn’t actually want to be president! This job is yuuuuge! It takes too much time away from my own self-serving interests! And people are mean to me!’ He then gathers up his entire family, including these two ghoulish greaseballs…

trumpsons

…and of course, his eldest daughter, whom he has lusted after since her adolescence  adores…

trumpivanka

…and moves them all to Russia, where he spends the rest of his days with his nose firmly embedded in Vladimir Putin’s ass.”

Gene snickered. “You sure it’s just his nose?”

“Ewwwww!” Erica moaned. “Please! Don’t go there; you’ll make me throw up. I’m high and I might aspirate.”

“OK, OK. Anything you wanna add to that one?”

Erica thought for a moment. “Yeah. The Trump has to wear electrically wired underwear at all times. Every time he tries to tweet, he gets a big jolt of juice to his junk.”

“You really should get stoned more often,” Gene laughed, cocking an eyebrow. “It gives you a wicked imagination.” He waved his hand. “OK, it’s done. But honey, now your people are stuck with Mike Pence, Mr. Funerals-For-Fetuses.”

“Ah, that’s Wish Number Two,” Erica grinned, extending her hand for a chip. “I have special plans for Mike Pence.”

“Do tell.” Gene stretched back, reached into a smoke ring and pulled out a bottle of microbrew. He cocked one finger and the top snapped off.

“Mike Pence finds himself trapped in a large room that’s locked from the outside. On one side, he’s flanked with a mob of angry LGBTQ folks who didn’t appreciate his views on how they should be forcefully converted; and on the other side is a group of very angry rape victims who were denied abortions, because, you know, Jesus.”

“And what happens then?” Gene smirked.

“Mmmmmmm,” Erica said, wrinkling her nose. “You don’t wanna know. Let’s just say that after they’re through, er, expressing themselves, ol’ Mike isn’t fit to lead a Boy Scout troop, let alone the country.”

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. OK,” Gene said, placing the Pringles can between his legs and waving his hand once again. “Consider it done. So now what? What about Speaker Ryan? What about The Trump’s clown car of idiocracy?”

“Wish Number Three,” Erica smiled. “In which Paul Ryan, Steve Bannon, Jeff Sessions, Ben Carson, Kellyanne Conway, Rudy Giuliani, Newt Gingrich, Michael Flynn, Rex Tillerson, Corey What’s-His-Face, and all the others in The Trump’s elitist parade are shipped to a newly discovered planet, an angry little red orb called Ignoranus.** Oh, and we throw in Ann Coulter and Sarah Palin too, because Coulter is Conway’s long-lost twin and Palin is… Palin. Here, they will govern over the planet’s citizens—snow white, sheep-like creatures—and spend their days in activities such as flag waving, burning books written by women and minorities, and target practice. Oh, and we build a giant wall in the sky so they can’t return to Earth, and so that all their hot air and noxious gases don’t infiltrate our atmosphere.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Gene chuckled. “OK, done. But what about those alt-Reich fuckers? Don’t you want to do something with them for your fourth wish?”

Erica pondered for a while, taking the last hit off her blunt and closing her eyes. Opening them again, she said, “Hmmm. If I were a deplorable like Mike Pence, I’d say they should all be put in conversion camps and given shock therapy until they see the light and realize they’re in the Alt-Wrong. But this is still a free country, so I say leave them be, let them go on with their miserable little lives.” She paused. “Well, sort of.” She gave Gene her best beguiling smile. “Can I have five wishes?”

“Wha—?” Gene said, with as much indignation as a stoned hippie genie could muster. “Now you want another one? What for?”

“Well, it’s sort of a two-parter. Please-please-please?” Erica wheedled.

“Geezus,” he grumbled, downing the rest of his beer. “You’re kinda spoiled, you know that?”

“So they tell me,” Erica murmured, blushing slightly. “But hear me out. Can you make it so the alt-Reichers wake up a different race? Doesn’t matter which, it can be random, as long as it’s not Caucasian. Pretty hard to be a white supremacist if you’re not white. Let them experience what it is to be persecuted, profiled and hated and see how they like it.”

“Very fitting,” Gene agreed, his soporific nature back in place. “Where does the fifth wish come in, then?”

“Well, they’re going to be mighty pissed off, and we can’t take away their guns and all their other macho toys, because who wants to listen to them whining about the Second Amendment for all eternity? Personally, I’d choose to let them all have muskets, which were the only arms in use when their precious fucking Second Amendment came to be, but that would be silly, I guess. So for those of us who just want to live in peace and equality, make us bulletproof, and make all our homes, offices, venues, etc. fire- and bomb-proof. Does that work?”

Gene sat up, put his beer bottle on the coffee table and did a slow golf clap. “Works for me,” he said approvingly. “That way they can still have their weapons, but no longer harm innocent people with them.” He snapped his fingers, twice. “Well done, Erica. Have a good life.” And as Erica watched incredulously, he faded into a haze of smoke. The Pringles can and beer bottle remained; otherwise, she would have thought it had been a dream.

After indulging in copious quantities of chocolate (because this was a fantasy, so there were no calories), Erica cleared up and went to bed, thinking that had been a nice high and she’d deal with reality in the morning. That night, she had her first nightmare-less sleep in months, and when she woke, it was to the realization that her wishes had indeed come true. Gene, the Stoner Genie, hadn’t been a figment of her weed-infused imagination after all. When she turned on the television, the first thing she saw was the newly elected President Kamala Harris. Ms. Harris had chosen Elizabeth Warren for Vice President, and for Speaker of the House, she had picked George Takei, who everyone knew was the wisest man in the land.

And so, that was how Crybaby Erica sucked it up and saved the country. She lived happily ever after, and she no longer cried. Her mojo was restored and she was able to engage in kinky adventures once again. And they were even better, because all men were now respectful of women and safe words were no longer necessary.

You’re welcome, America.

* Notice I said some, not all. Of course I don’t think all Trump voters are ignorant white supremacists. That would be generalizing on my part, and heaven forbid I do such a thing. I almost feel sorry for the swing voters who just wanted a change and thought they were doing the right thing, as they’re going to be screwed along with the rest of us, but they brought it on themselves. Voting for a man who publicly mocks the disabled; is personally endorsed by the KKK; who is so fucking stupid that he spells “unprecedented” “unpresidented,” and who brags about how he can get away with sexually assaulting women “because he’s a star” is never a good idea.

** Ignoranus: One who is both stupid AND an asshole.

Just a few notes, because after this, I am going to do my best to avoid politics on here altogether: No doubt I’ve pissed some of you off with my flagrant disrespect for the office of the president. You’re right; I’m a very bad girl. Tell you what: I’ll give your CheetoFace NaziPants Donald Trump respect, just like you respected President Barack Obama, mmmkay? Remember all those memes, likening the Obamas to monkeys? Remember Michelle Obama being called an “ape in a dress,” or an “ape in heels”? Remember the picture of the White House lawn, with watermelons Photoshopped all over it? I sure as hell do.

And all your snarking about how Trump is payback for how you “put up with” Obama for eight years? I’m calling bullshit on that too. Obama restored the country after your idiot frat boy George W. Bush took us down the dumper for two excruciating terms.

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So for those who don’t like this post, to them, I give back their own words: Too bad. Suck it up. You’re more than welcome to read something more up your alley, like Breitbart News. Oh, and this too…

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(Of course, I mean that in the figurative sense, not literally. Because I wouldn’t actually let any of you anywhere near my ass.)

To my friends and faithful readers, I promise I will be back when my kinky mojo returns and I feel like posting on topic again. In the meantime, Merry Christmas HAPPY HOLIDAYS, y’all. 😛

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