How many filthy lies can one Re-“smug”-lican stuff into a meatball sandwich covered in the frothy white racist sauce of the wealthiest 1%? I’ll tell you, because I’m a professor of economics.
Mathematically speaking, when you sat and listened to Paul Ryan give his speech at the Republican National Hate-fest, you actually heard the sound of a weasel strangling a newborn kitten.
Last week, I heard from a friend who swears that he saw Paul Ryan stab a panda bear in the eye with a rusty compass. Mitt Romney watched and laughed while counting stacks of his secret money he’s hiding in the Death Star. There, I said it.
Blood for oil. Social darwinism.
These spineless luddites refuse to play by the rules. They hate the facts. It’s all about playing hide and seek on the backs of the poor, sick and elderly. Literally and figuratively. And ontologically, which is a word you may not understand, but I do.
The truth means nothing to them. But it means everything to me.
I am a slave to the truth. Truth is my master, and I am in bondage to it. Truth whips me at night. The whip is heated by all the smelly carbon in the atmosphere. Sometimes I cry.
Read more from this comic relief HERE.