man up, nancyboy
An exasperated Barack Obama scurried away Monday from the toughest news conference of his campaign, telling reporters who kept shouting questions that he’d spent enough time on the grill.
“Come on! I just answered, like, eight questions,” Obama, looking surprised, told shouting reporters as he fled the room. “We’re running late.”
“Holy crap, you people are trying to kill me,” pleaded a clearly fatigued Obama, as staffers injected an adrenaline and methamphetamine cocktail directly into his heart. “For the love of all that is good, stop with your incessant questions! By the bye, my soul was forged in the crucible of the mean streets of south Chicago. Change.”
“Well, around that time the pajama-wearing rat bastards ran out of chairs to break over my ribcage, and lemme tell you, friend, that’s when things got really hurty.”
“In the last few months, she’s launched what her campaign calls a “kitchen sink” strategy of negative attacks, which she defends by telling us that this is what the Republicans would do. She says that’s how the game is played.”
“Is that unfair or what? I should so not have to compete against another candidate. Plus she says things that hurt my feelings because she’s mean. There, I said it and I’m not taking it back.”
“Anyhow, the force of the ejection shattered both of my femurs like they were candy canes under a triphammer, and the shock from that ‘chute opening pretty well ruptured every damn blood vessel in my eyeballs. Still, that’s no excuse, and I’m ashamed to say I was only able to slaughter twelve of those godless commies with their own clavicles before they managed to subdue me with a burst of automatic rifle fire to my face and torso.”
