 Delicious Homosexual Marriage Must Be Stopped
The Dickhead in the Room
Ex-Senator Mick Zandorum
Last week, my good friend and fellow Republican, Sen. John Eichelberger, introduced a bill that, if passed, would ban gay marriage in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Needless to say, I was elated. In recent years, Washington’s craven homosexual lobby has worked tirelessly to make the fruited plains of our once-great nation disgracefully literal—resulting in gay-marriage laws in five Godless states. But patriots such as Eichelberger have sounded the alarm—and gay couples must understand that their oily, rock-hard thrustings will no longer be tolerated by the rest of us, who have never, not even once, considered groping another man’s pulsing love-hose under a Senate Cafeteria table.
Some have pointed to the April legalization of gay marriage in Iowa as evidence that we should all just surrender: to throw our hands against the glory-hole wall and allow homosexuals to unbuckle our collective belts, ravishing us with a series of filthy, rigid-cocked sex acts. I, for one, am not ready to do this—to say, “Yes, please: pour hot wax on my nipples while you expertly handle my balls in your soft, yielding hands.” I’m not ready to say, “You win: dress me in tight purple leather and spank me ‘til I’m raw, screaming with a mixture of joy and pain the likes of which I have never dared to know, not even while Katherine is safely asleep, allowing me to quietly, gently hump the green throw pillow, my effulgent penis jouncing through the slit in my tight white underpants.”
I won’t even get into the mechanics of what must transpire on homosexuals’ wedding nights—the vile, stubbly tongue-kissing; the shameful tearing off of tuxedos; the reprehensible penetration of two gaping, well-tamed sphincters. What these perfectly-groomed, square-jawed men do in their candlelit boudoirs is the result of a tragic mental disorder, which is akin to bestiality, incest, and liberalism. Unlike glorious consummation between men and women—the triumphantly half-limp penis, desperately pressed into the raspy, dry vagina as tears of pleasure flow from both lovers’ eyes—it is not something to be celebrated. It is something that should be relegated to the deepest, darkest corners of our society; corners where nobody can see what is going inside of where, or who is doing what to who.
So I implore the rest of the Pennsylvania Senate to side with myself, Sen. Eichelberger, and the legions of totally straight, God-fearing Pennsylvanians who are repulsed by the very thought, every two to three minutes or so, of homosexual marriage. If the current bill fails, and this state slides into eventual ruin—allowing gays to marry, live openly, and pleasure one another in disgusting, transcendent ecstasy—they will have nobody to blame but themselves.
All this talk of appalling, cum-slicked homosexual activity has so unnerved me that I must now reflect upon a few choice Bible passages which always give me strength in trying times. For complete clarity of mind, of course, I do this with the office door locked.
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Milton Street Running Shit
May 26, 2009 –
Officials at Graterford Prison yesterday reported that former Philadelphia politician Milton Street, currently serving a 30-month term for tax evasion, was running shit at the Montgomery County facility. “When he got here, I thought he’d be a pain in the ass, but nothing we couldn’t deal with,” said a guard, speaking anonymously to prevent retribution. “But he started pulling the strings, and now everything goes through him. Shit, that reminds me—I gotta get him his cigarettes.”
 Prisoners at the 3,500-bed facility were equally nervous to speak on the record about the 70-year-old brother of former Mayor John Street. “One time, I sat too close [to Street] in the mess hall,” stammered one convict, lifting his shirt to reveal a diagonal scar from armpit to navel. “He took me down with his butter knife, holmes. Uncle Milty don’t play.” Another prisoner, who would only give his name as Willie, recalled a similar run-in with the onetime mayoral candidate. “He got a whole crew under him, and they some serious cats,” he quavered. “My [cell]mate got shanked up just ‘cause he called Street a crazy-ass motherfucker. But he is, man. He really is.”
By the looks of things, Street had indeed become a fearsome, Avon Barksdale-esque figure. “It’s not so bad in here,” he grinned, curling a barbell as he watched Judge Mathis from his remarkably well-appointed cell. Exhaling, he slapped his thick stomach, now covered in jailhouse tattoos. “I got a bucket of KFC coming my way in a little bit. Looks like things are going better for me than for Nutter, huh? That cracker!” For the guard, however, Street’s sentence couldn’t end soon enough. “It’s a quiet control, is what it is,” he whispered as he folded a stack of Street’s laundry. “Like everyone else, I underestimated him. That was my first mistake.” |
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