Karl Rove To America: Suck It:
Let’s dispose of this quickly, shall we? When Howard Dean speaks, he’s speaking as the chair of the Democratic Party. The Democrats pay him. If Democrats around the nation don’t like what Dean says, then they can cease donating to the party. When Dick Durbin speaks, he’s representing the people of Illinois, to whom he will be answerable when he’s up for re-election. When Karl Rove speaks, he’s talking as an official with the White House. The only person he’s accountable to is the President, who, as Scott McClellan so dismissingly pointed out, won’t ask Rove to apologize. Rove’s paid by each and every tax-paying American. He represents all of us.
So when that cock gobbler wants to get his rocks off by jackin’ it in front of "hundreds" of slavering lap dogs, ready to lick his scrotum at a moment’s notice, and he wants to use that moment of yankin’ his crank to declare that liberals are pussies who want American soldiers to die, he may as well add, "Oh, and any of you who disagree with me can suck it. And, hey, thanks for the paycheck." (Which is, more or less, what he said last night on Scarborough Country.)
Somewhere, deep in the basement of the White House, Karl Rove’s leather slave is weeping. Rove keeps his leather slave chained to the radiator, right next to one of FDR’s soiled wheelchairs and Taft’s slop trough. The leather slave is weeping and frightened because he knows his tears will only cause Rove to put on the spiked glove to smack his ass into a bloody pulp. And the thought of this causes him to weep more – it’s a vicious cycle. Karl Rove’s leather slave started weeping because whenever Rove comes back to the White House after giving a hate-filled screed to an audience that loves him, like a fresh antelope carcass tossed into the lion’s den, Rove will want to take out his great glee and orgasmic power on the supple ass cheeks and elastic mouth of his slave.
Karl Rove’s leather slave hears the door to the basement open. "Honey, I’m home," he hears Rove announce. And it’s true. And, oh, sweet Jesus, he’s wearing the chaps, a raging hard-on, and nothing else. Sadly, Karl Rove’s leather slave puts away the K-Y. He knows he’s about to get fucked hard and rough, a cock thrust so far up his asshole that, as Rove likes to say, "I’ll come out of your mouth."
Rove approaches, taking down Teddy Roosevelt’s riding crop, and says, "Oh, you know you love the sting."