Karl Rove Is Always Lurking in the Background:
Karl Rove has had it. "These microdicked dogfuckers don't know what the fuck they're doing," he says as he clicks through news stories on his computer in his basement, staring at the glowing screen. The very fact that there's still a chance that the Democratic president will get a decent health care bill out of Congress is proof enough for Rove that the Republicans are so very lost without him. The dead male hooker handcuffed to the radiator in the corner doesn't really care, but, as far as Rove's concerned, Ahmad or whatever the fuck he called himself, is a fine sounding board. "They let the lunatics and evangelicals take over," he says, practically spitting at images of Glenn Beck and Betsy McCaughey. "You never let them take over. You tell 'em you'll take care of it and just shut the fuck up."
Rove knows: if the truly, clinically insane right-wing nutzoids take over a movement from the mere sociopaths like himself, then, like a ball gag tied too tightly on an Iranian manwhore, it'll just choke the whole thing, ruin a perfectly good evening, and be a waste of money. "Oh, wait," Rove says to the corpse behind him, "that's just you...Akbar, was it?" He shrugs and continues, "Soon, the whole movement becomes identified with the crazies and that just fuckin' turns off everyone else - the independents, the media, a fuckin' lot of our own. Stupid fuckers."
He's seen the signs, shit that never would have gone down if he were still on the Hill with the power he once wielded like a rhino with a chainsaw horn. He'd've had Lindsey Graham's kneecaps shattered. He'd've made sure that Beck was caught balls deep in a mule's ass. Unity, motherfuckers, that's what's important. He destroyed John McCain. Olympia Snowe would have received black roses in the mail by now. This ain't rocket science.
"But now the pigs have all gotten out of the sty," Rove barks, licking his chops. They're still pigs, but they're running crazy, looking for cooler mud and better slops. "They need me, Rahim, they need me more than they know."
It's just so easy to make Democrats show their haunches, ready to be fucked. He reads his most recent Wall Street Journal column to the choke chain-wearing body, where he uses the grimmest possible polls to try to demonstrate that Democrats will lose power if they pass health care reform. "You see? You let 'em get that knot in their stomach, that feeling they're gonna shit themselves if they take a risk, even if the absolute reverse is the truth. That's called fear. And fear makes you freeze. And nothing gets done." Set the terms of the battle, Rove knows, create plausible lies first. Add in shit like "death panels" and "socialism" after the doubt's been sowed, not before. "That's the closing argument, not the opener - the icing, not the fucking cake," he says just before clicking over to some necrophilia websites for ideas.
He contemplates his penis for a moment. "Impotent," he smirks. "Just goddamned impotent now." He doesn't really regret the prostitute's inability to breathe through hard rubber. He probably wouldn't have been able to get it up anyway. He hasn't had a genuine, full hard-on since his leather slave escaped back in 2006. For years, Rove kept his leather slave in the basement of the White House, where he got regularly fucked, whipped, and beaten by Rove and other conservatives. Rove feels an ache, remembering standing between Gerald Ford's gold-plated gas pump and Franklin Pierce's blood-spattered bundle of Kansas wheat, receiving a loving blow job from the leather slave. So he knows now what he needs to do.
"Sorry, Youssef, but there's only one ass for me," he thinks. He stands up, puts on pants, and gets Steely Ann, his spiked dildo with Coulter's face on it. And he says, as much a warning as a promise, "Time to get that fucker back and make him my bitch again."