Greenland

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As Clinton orated in her inimitably shrill, scraping-vagina-dentata-on-a-blackboard style for about an hour, I watched every scripted word and every sculpted facial expression until the carefully prepared mask began to slip and the utter horrid madness in her eyes became evident. It’s a madness she’s displayed again and again whenever the mask slips, which is often. She spoke with a hostile insincerity that was positively deafening. The rancid, yeasty stench of inauthenticity wafted from every clogged pore in her lumpy, pantsuit-swaddled body. I do not trust this woman, and I soberly invite you to share my distrust with me.

For all the chest-thumping that people do about how they’re horrified and terrified and anally triggered at the thought of a President Trump, the thought of this bloodless and humorless scorned harridan having access to the nuclear codes troubles me far more.

How did this top-secret test-tube hybrid of Nurse Ratched and the Wicked Witch of the West ascend to such heights of power? And why didn’t her elaborate network of globalist string-pullers and Wall Street handlers realize that all the money, power, and slavish media support in the world cannot buy Hillary Clinton one droplet of charisma? Surely they could have found a more charming token female president, no? Did Charo have previous engagements that rendered her incapable of running? 

I resent ever having to think about the fact that Hillary Clinton even has a vagina, but they keep reminding me that’s the most important thing about her. Legend has it that Chelsea Clinton gestated in Hillary’s womb for a full nine months. One marvels at her ability to survive so long in subzero temperatures. Our nation cannot afford to shiver in darkness for four years amid the windy, capacious, and unforgiving ice cave that is Hillary Clinton’s vagina. Her womb spells our doom”€”and it may become our tomb.