Nightmare Clock Still Full of Tock: Night of the Living Roves
Most of us would like to smash our alarm clocks with a sledge hammer on an almost daily basis, but occasionally the rude awakeners can serve an important purpose.
Last night I suffered the horrors of a ghastly news-induced dream.
At first I was trying to cross a devilish two-way street.
Though a 25 m.p.h. sign proclaimed a school zone, the road swarmed with drunken Lohans, Spears, and Ritchies seeking to flatten the unwary, while cackling Carole Migdens zoomed overhead on brooms, heralding the approach of Walpurgisnacht.
Fortunately I was run down by one of the Chante Mallards and ferried across the street after my body plunged through the windshield.
Suddenly I was in Justin Herman plaza, where the fountain had been turned into a sewer, in keeping with its angular bowel-like contours. The monsters were everywhere: Gavin Newsoms demanding that I resign from something, Ed Jews shaking me down for bags full of cash I didn’t have, and supervisor Chris Daly zombies . . . just being within ten feet of me.
As a pack of shotgun-toting Dick Cheneys and sheet-wearing Rumsfelds approached, I turned tail and ran, only to be confronted by the ultimate horror:
Karl Rove in assless chaps, with his jabango in one hand and a stick of butter in the other.
Then my trusty alarm clock jangled into action, sparing me the ultimate indignity.
The clock rang at 5:00 a.m., and lo, it shall be 24 carat gold-plated by noon.
Darth Rove from here.
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POSTED IN: Il Douche, Rove, SF political scandal, humor
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