Politics

Does it Matter if Hillary Clinton Is a Carpet-Muncher?

September 01, 2014

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Does it Matter if Hillary Clinton Is a Carpet-Muncher?

Jenny McCarthy, easily the finest female specimen ever to appear on estrogen-addled daytime-TV squawkfest The View, recently upset the eternally offended Gay Lobby by insinuating what most of the Western world has insinuated for decades—that Hillary Clinton has a taste for female flesh.

Even though being gay is supposed to be cool, Clinton supporters balked and blanched and belched at the allegation not because being a Daughter of Sappho is a matter of shame, but because Clinton is on record denying it, which would make her a liar in the grand tradition of her husband.

Assuming that Clinton does not die from herpes nor succumb to a fatal blood clot between now and 2016 when it is presumed she would be a shoo-in for the Democratic nomination for president, would it really matter if she were, to put it in the vulgar argot of sailors and longshoremen, a clam-licker?

Not as much as one might think.

“The idea of a man-hating, pants-suit-wearing, oyster-gobbling woman sitting in the Ovary Office should make any right-thinking American male’s testicles retreat slightly up into his body.”

In the sake of fairness and accuracy and discretion, it is first prudent that I review whatever evidence may exist that Clinton has indulged in rank carnality with members of her own gender.

Exhibit A is this photo of Clinton staring down at singer Christina Aguilera’s ample golden bosom. According to Aguilera, the photo is authentic. To me, this is the most convincing firsthand evidence that Clinton likes girls. I can imagine her digging her snout deep within Aguilera’s cleavage and making “BRRRAPPP!” sounds with her mouth. There is also this photo of an intensely lecherous-looking Clinton coming uncomfortably close to giving a nipple pinch to a clearly uncomfortable young woman. Does this constitute sexual harassment? Yes. I feel sexually harassed just looking at it.

Also compelling is Clinton’s lifelong predilection for wearing pants suits. No heterosexual woman in her right mind would be caught dead wearing those things in public.

The rumor-mongers suggest that Clinton first developed a taste for vagina during her radical younger days at Wellesley College, where she roomed for four solid years with confirmed lesbian Eldie Acheson, a woman whose face is butch enough to saw lumber. And this photo of a young, pre-Clinton-era Hillary Rodham standing alongside college president Ruth Adams is more lesbian than a pile of Ellen Degeneres’s unwashed laundry.

There is also the infamous Socks Incident, a DC rumor involving a veterinarian who had been summoned to the White House to attend to the Clinton’s ailing cat, Socks. As the story goes, the vet “opened the wrong door” only to find Ms. Clinton locked in a steamy embrace with another woman.

Rumors have swirled for years that Clinton is involved in a sexual relationship that possibly even involves the occasional act of scissoring with her near-constant companion and road dog Huma Abedin, wife of disgraced archaeopteryx-faced penis-sexter Anthony Weiner. In 2007, the Village Voice’s resident homo gossipmonger Michael Musto addressed rumors that Clinton was “GAYLE KING-ing” Abedin, a reference to Oprah Winfrey’s alleged Sapphic Siamese twin.

When asked in 2013 about the rumors that Clinton and Abedin may be engaging in mutual pearl-diving, longtime Bill Clinton mistress Gennifer Flowers told MailOnline:

I don’t know Huma or the Weiners. I just know what Bill told me and that was that he was aware that Hillary was bisexual and he didn’t care. He should know. He said Hillary had eaten more p***y than he had.

I’m going to go way out on a limb and assume that “p***y” does not mean “putty” or “poopy.” And I’ll lowball this and assume that, say, Bill Clinton never ate a pussy in his life. According to Flowers, that would mean that Hillary Clinton has eaten at least one pussy, which would qualify her as at least bisexual if not a full-blown, fire-breathing, scorpion-tailed, claw-wielding lesbian.

But again—does it matter?

It should if you’re a male. By definition, lesbians dislike men. They take your everyday, run-of-the-mill, been-there-done-that misandry that forms the bedrock of all latter-day feminism a step further by rejecting not only the idea of maleness, but the very male body itself. The idea of a man-hating, pants-suit-wearing, oyster-gobbling woman sitting in the Ovary Office should make any right-thinking American male’s testicles retreat slightly up into his body.


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