Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: hillary clinton (page 1 of 4)

Highlights From The New Donna Brazile Book

  • The reason Debbie Wasserman-Schultz’ hair looks like that is because she gets hit, on average, by six bolts of lightning a week.
  • The pantsuits are sentient.
  • Entire chapter about different foods James Carville can fit into his mouth whole, such as personal pizzas, and medium-sized game bird; Carville can also wrap his lips around the bottom of a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. (He will only do the trick with Dr. Pepper.)
  • Brazile paid for law school mud-wrestling under the name Jerri Mander.
  • Hillary more than occasionally farts with enough force to blow out her pantyhose.
  • The DNC employs around a dozen consultants whose sole portfolio is becoming outraged at what the cafeteria is serving for lunch.
  • Clinton campaign spent almost $2 million on Bill’s fuckmobiles. (Fuckplane, fuckboat, fuckdirigible, etc.)
  • Bernie Sanders briefly employed The Mooch in 2015.
  • To say the DNC has their dicks in their hands would be a compliment, as it would imply they had a grasp of something.
  • Donna Brazile saw the corruption, the cancer at the heart of the Democratic Party, and railed against it as hard as she could without actually doing anything and then helped Hillary cheat at the debates.

Modern News Cycles: A Taxonomy

The Heel Turn

  1. Terrible (who is either retired or retiring) person assesses the current situation with honesty and sanity.
  2. Liberals and journalists over-praise terrible person.
  3. Other liberals and journalists attack first group with tweets that begin “Let’s not forget…”
  4. Terrible person is called a cuck.
  5. President quietly signs Executive Order allowing lead manufacturers to directly inject children with their products.

The Masque of Red Death

  1. Person respected and/or feared man is revealed to be a pussy and/or dickgrabber.
  2. Hundreds come forward to affirm the grabbing of pussy/dick.
  3. Business ties are severed.
  4. Businesses that are slow to sever ties get denounced.
  5. Hillary Clinton is blamed.

The Silent But Deadly

  1. Mother Jones or ProPublica publish an extensively reported and sourced article detailing horrible allegations.
  2. Absolutely nothing happens.

The Time To Make The Donuts

  1. President fires off seven or eight idiot tweets containing nine or ten wild accusations and at least one spelling error.
  2. Politico, the Daily Beast, the Times, the Post, and Vanity Fair all publish detailed accounts of the tweets and how they were accompanied by a temper tantrum.
  3. New York magazine publishes an oral history of the tweets.
  4. Everyone drinks themselves to sleep.
  5. Get up and do it again.

Hillary Clinton: The First 24 Days

Hillary Clinton was sworn in as the 45th President of the United States on January 20th, 2017. Her inauguration ceremony was attended by a sizable amount of people; neither Clinton nor her press secretary made any comment on the size of the crowd whatsoever except general positive pleasantries. The new president gave a speech that did not include the word “carnage,” and then a black guy talked about Jesus and then a white guy talked about Jesus and then Stevie Wonder sang. POTUS and Bill attended several parties that evening, and everyone forgot about the whole affair the next day.

The House Oversight Committee opened an investigation into President Clinton on January 21st, but the largest world-wide protest in history did not take place.

President Clinton began her work the next day; there were still many positions to fill in the White House, but a smooth and professional transition had eased her way into the job, as did her three decades of experience. She had the option of taking several days to accuse photographs of lying through misspelled tweets in the middle of the night, but chose not to do so.

The first week of any presidency is a trying one. President Clinton spoke on the phone with all of America’s allies without telling any of them to go fuck themselves, or hanging up on them. POTUS made plans to visit several foreign nations, and not one of those nations’ legislative bodies took a vote to say that she couldn’t come. On each day, the president worked well past 6:30 pm.

Another important task of any incoming president is choosing a cabinet. Mrs. Clinton chose several responsible and serious people to helm the executive agencies, plus a few party bigwigs getting their payoff, and a couple of the usual Wall Street assholes. She did not pick a woman who doesn’t believe in public schools, a man who thinks the Energy Department should be abolished, and a man too racist for the Republicans in the 80’s to lead the Departments of Education, Energy, and Justice. (Respectively.)

President Clinton did not go to the Hill and, in a private meeting with lawmakers, repeatedly use an ethnic slur to describe a sitting United States Senator. Nor did she tweet that another sitting Senator was a crybaby. Nor did she taunt movie stars who happen to be former governors, also by tweet. President Clinton’s Twitter feed has, if we’re being honest, been exceedingly boring.

On the 22nd day of her presidency, North Korea tested a new generation of ballistic missile. President Clinton did not receive the news at her country club, nor did she receive the news at a table in the middle of a ballroom filled with unvetted foreigners at her country club, nor did she receive the news with a Russian spy standing over her shoulder pointing an unsecured cell phone at the documents at a table in the middle of a ballroom filled with unvetted foreigners at her country club.

An unremarkable 24 days, filled with the usual squabbling and gridlock: life as usual, and no one walked around all day with his stomach on fire, terrified of what some maniac and his monsters will do next.

Fire Wardrobe





“Please hold for the President.”

“Oh, what now? An hour, please. Just an hour. Give me one hour without your hectoring, haranguing, holier-than thou tone.”

“You forgot ‘haughty.’Where are ya, Hillary?

“Plane back to New York with Bill.”

“Philly, huh?”

“It was great. Thank you, Mr. President. Such a high note to end the campaign on.”

“Ah! Funny you should use those words. You got the teevee on, Hill?”

“My eyes hurt.”

“My head hurts. Turn on CNN.”


“You gotta be shitting me.”

“What the fuck, Hillary? Just, just: what the fuck? I am an educated and eloquent man, dammit, and all I have left for you is ‘what the fuck?’ You have reduced me, Hillary, you decade-long albatross around my neck.”

“Why is she a Nazi?”

“Good question! That is a good fucking question, Hill! Why is Lady Gaga dressed as a Nazi?”

“Hail Mary appeal to Trump voters?”

“Yeah, jokes. Tell jokes right now. Look at the screen again.”


“Still laughing, Hillary?”

“Goddammit. ”

“The only way this could be worse is if ‘stronger’ were in German. And who chose that shade of blue? Jesus, I have to do everything.”

“Hill, why is Madonna dressed like a Nazi?”

“Read your book, Bill. Mr President, I’ll make a call.”

“No, no. I’ll do it. If you handle it, she’s liable to wind up wearing something worse.”

“What’s worse than a Nazi uniform?”

“If anyone could figure it out, it’s you. I’ll take care of–”


“Hill, I’ll call you back. Y’know what? I’ll won’t return this call, but we’ll pick it up when I call you for the next disaster in an hour.”

“Looking forward to it, Mr. Presi–”


“How’d you get in here?”

TOPSHOT - Russian President Vladimir Putin (L) meets with his US counterpart Barack Obama on the sidelines of the G20 Leaders Summit in Hangzhou on September 5, 2016. / AFP PHOTO / SPUTNIK / ALEXEI DRUZHININALEXEI DRUZHININ/AFP/Getty Images

“I am Russian bear. Bear is very sneaky.”

“No, it’s not. Bears make a ton of noise.”

“Maybe obnoxious Yankee bear. Russian bear silent.”

“Nonsense. Wanna know what’s silent? Eagle. No sound at all.”

“No. You are thinking of owl.”

“Vladimir, I don’t have time to argue about the relative volume of woodland creatures. I’ve got an election to take care of.”

“Da. Me, too.”

“I’m gonna quote from a great American right now, and say that if I see you peek your little head up over there in the fucking slightest today, then we’re gonna have a problem.”

“Maybe we already have problem.”

“You’re the one with the problem.”

“No problem. You are problem.”

“Everyone needs to stop it with that bit. Listen, gulag-face: keep your greasy Cossack mitts out of the election. Last warning.”

“What in it for me?”


“Make me offer.”

“The United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”

Hamilton tickets.”


Don’t Send Me No E-Mails, No


“Wow, I didn’t even know that Nigeria had a royal family.”


“Oh, can’t I just play Candy Crush in peace like all the other ladies my age?”

“Please hold for the President.”

“It’s FaceTime. There’s no holding.”

“Hillary, look at me.”


“Look at me, Hillary. Look at this face, damn you. If you were able to pick up on human social cues and facial expressions, you would recognize this face.”


“You’re guessing.”


“Stop it.”


“Why are you like this?”

“If I had received a memo on your facial expression, then I would have had time to digest it and test out a number of reactions.”

“Why would I send you a memo? I’ll just send it straight to Putin and cut out the middleman.”

“I’m doing much better with the computer.”

“The fact that you call it ‘the computer’ detracts from your assertion.”


“Is that AOL? MotherFUCKER!”

“That’s where my e-mails are!”

“Your e-mails are in the Kremlin, woman. Stick to pad and paper. Oh: what the hell did you to Bon Jovi? He called me crying.”

“Mama like.”

“Jesus. Try to keep your hands off Bruce.”

“No promises. We got anyone else in the tank? Gotta keep the momentum going.”

“Maybe. I’ll call you back.”


“Oh, the IRS sent me something.”

“No, they didn’t! Don’t open that!”

“Mr. President, let me call you back.”

“Computer being held hostage again?”

“This keeps happening!”

“We know.”

“You got somebody?”

“Maybe. I’ll call you back. Try not to set anything on fire.”

“Couple songs, c’mon.”



“One song.”




Such A Lovely Couple


“Hold me, Bon Jovi.”

“You can call me Jon, Secretary Clinton.”

“And you can call me anything you want, Bon Jovi.”

“Where’s your left hand?”

“Where mama wants it to be.”

“Ma’am, I’m a married man.”

“Marriage means so many things to so many people. Just ask Bill. You still have those leather pants you used to wear?”

“Mrs. Clinton.”

“I’m a COWboy…”

“Oh, please don’t do this.”

“–on a STEE-uhl horse I ride.”

“I’m begging you.”

“And I’m wanted–”

“And I’m wanted–”

“If you don’t sing with me, I’ll have you buried next to Vince Foster.”


“Dead or aliiiiive. I love you, Bon Jovi.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Just Another Night In Las Vegas


“Are you mah mother?”

“No, Britney. I’m Hillary Clinton. I’m running for president.”



“This one?”

“As opposed to?”


“They got you on a lot of meds, huh?”

“Ah take several vitamin pills for mah constitution.”

“Great. Listen, Brit: teleprompter is loaded, so just read the speech.”

“When does the pyro go off?”

“Maybe the day after the election, if we’re unlucky.”


“Nothing. No pyro.”

“Backup dancers?”


“Where’s the snake?”

“Bill’s in Florida.”


“Nothing. Britney, this is just a speech. Read the teleprompter…and…oh.”



“Did they teach you to read in the Mickey Mouse Club?”

“We got up to the letter H. Then the show got cancelled.”

“Sure. Here’s what we’re gonna do: I”ll feed you the lines so you can record a backing track, then when we get on stage, I’m gonna jam a wad of peanut butter in your mouth as it plays. No one will know.”

“That’s how we did mah first few videos.”

“Great. Huma just got off the phone with her divorce attorney. I’ll have her run to the store before her next crying jag. Men, Britney. Men. Nothing but trouble. Sticking their dicks everywhere they’ll fit. Ever see a raccon feel around? They’ve got a ton of nerve endings in their hands, so feeling is how they see the world. With men, it’s their dicks. Everything they see, they slap their dicks right on it just to see what they can get away with. And you know where they end up? After they’ve piled mountains of shit on your doorstep? Riding horses! Riding fucking horses at a 40-grand-a-month sex farm!”

“Would you like one of my vitamins?”

“I would, yeah. Two, if it would be cool.”

“Oh, just hold out your hands.”

“You’re a sweet kid, Britney.”

“Ah have met an awful man or two, Momma.”

“Not your mother.”

“Married several, gave power of attorney to others, married several others.”

“Well, what you have to remember is–”


“You have to be fucking kidding me. Britney, go to your room.”

“But ah–”


“What are you doing here?”


“I must break you.”

“You’ve been trying, bitch. Where’s it getting you?”

“I do not know vat you are talking about.”

“Oh, cut the shit, borschtdick. Everyone knows what you’re doing. The whole internet smells like vodka.”

“Nooo. Maybe is virus.”

“You’re the virus. And I’m the antibiotic.”

“Ha! Antibiotic no kill virus.”

“I know that, but it’s not actually a virus. You’re bacteria.”

“No bacteria.”

“You tried your best, Vlad.”

“No bacteria. You’re the bacteria.”

“But I’m going to remember this. And I am going to get you, motherfucker. You came at the queen and you missed, and now that shit-stained Santa’s village you call a country is going to pay for it. Great Game on.”

“Game on.”

“Can you get me tickets for Elton John?”

“Is he in town?”


“Sure. How many?”


“Ten? Get the fuck out of here, ten. Four.”

“Eight, luxury suite.”

“Six down front.”


The King And The Hillary


“Here! Take my wallet! Just don’t hurt me!”



“This is Hillary.”

“Bitch, Imma slap the pant off your suit.”

“Mr. President?”


“That is LeBron motherfucking James, woman! My friend. MY friend. Not yours. You have no friends.”

“Huma Abedin is my friend.”

“And hasn’t she and her family been helpful? Last time, Hill: stop being weird around black people.”

“I am not weird around black people.”

“First time we met, you handed me your coat and told me to fetch you a gin & tonic.”

“Not in a weird way, though.”

“Hillary, listen to me. You’re on a hot streak right now. You’ve heard the best news a Clinton can ever hear, that you’re not being indicted.”

“Did you know that Bill and I have a special restaurant we go to on days it’s announced there wasn’t enough evidence to indict?”

“Regulars there, huh?”

“We’re like family with the owners. They let us store things in their freezer.”




“Mr. President, I want to thank you for all you’re doing. I see you’ve been trolling Donny.”

“Yeah, a little. I mean: c’mon, they took the guy’s Twitter away? In a race to control the largest military force the planet’s ever seen, not to mention the nuclear arsenal, and he can’t handle tweeting. Yeah, I was trolling him. Hill?”


“You’re blowing the guy out, right? The guy I was making fun of for getting internet-grounded? It’s a runaway victory, right?”

“Mr. President.”

“Oh, wait: no, it’s not. Neck and fucking neck. Maybe I was actually trolling myself. I don’t know anything any more.”

“Mr. President.”

“Swear to God, you could set the house on fire while you were watering the lawn.”

“Are you done?”

“Done? Am I done? Hillary, I was done months ago. Just wanted my victory lap. Bob Weir gets a victory lap. Did he pull the nation out of the Great Recession? No.”

“Your pity party is noted.”

“I have an app on my phone that launches drone strikes against American citizens, and I know your location. Keep up the backtalk.”

“You do love those drones.”

“Honestly? They’re gonna be the part of the job I miss the most. Once you have flying deathbots, you don’t see how you can live without them.”

“Sure. Can I go? I have to pretend I recognize people in the crowd and point at them.”

“That’s your move.”

“Shame I couldn’t put it on a hat.”

“Tragic. Listen, I don’t know why, but I did something else for you.”

“Eddie Vedder in Seattle?”


“Gloria Estefan, Jennifer Lopez, and Don Francisco in Miami?”




“You’re shitting me!”

“Bringing his guitar. Gonna tell stories about his father, wear a vest, whole nine yards.”

“This is perfect! Wait. I’m a lock in Jersey.”


“I’m gonna blow you.”

“Hard pass.”

“Offer’s on the table.”

“And so the hard pass will remain there, as well.”

“Bruce in Philly!”

“One of his first East Coast strongholds.”

“The Tower Theater in ’75.”

“Classic Bruce. Oh, and Jon Bon Jovi’s coming.”

“Yeah? Okay, whatever.”

“He was hanging out with Bruce when I called. It would have been weird not to invite him.”

“You told him he can’t do any new material, right?’

“It was understood. Hillary, keep your head down. Wave the flag. Hide behind the people who the crowds actually like. The worst thing you can do right now is anything at all. Do nothing.”


“Save your energy for the impeachment.”

“Fuck you.”

“You two are such a fun couple.”

“First day in office, I’m sending you back to Kenya.”

Now We’re Spirit Cooking With Evil Gas

As far as I can understand, John Podesta–whose e-mail password is “password,” apparently–or his brother is friends with Marina Abramovic who is a performance artist that stares at people in museums. If you stare at people in bars, you get punched, but she does it in museums and gets to be friends with Jay-Z and be taken very seriously.

Marina has a routine she calls Spirit Cooking; when she was poor and trying to bother people, the food would have her bodily fluids. (Performance artists are varied in their presentations and themes, but the one thing that unifies them is that they want to put their bodily fluids on or in you. Shit, piss, blood, cum: performance artists want to fling these things at you.) Now, though, Marina is rich and so are her friends; these are not people who will put up with being served turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce made from menstrual blood; she still does her whole spritz about whatever this bullshit’s about, but the fluids are symbolic.

Anyway, she invited John Podesta (or his brother) and neither of them responded; how Satan got involved is anyone’s guess. Word spread among credulous ninnies and the easily-perturbed that Hillary Clinton’s associates were attending occult ceremonies. And while the events of this year may lead one to believe that someone, somewhere, has made a deal with the devil about something: this is not it.

BUT I had a question. What if you performed a black magic ritual as performance art? Would it count? Does a Black Mass still count if you’re working from a script instead of a liturgy? (A Black Mass has a liturgy. An evil liturgy, sure, but it has one. You don’t just make a Black Mass up as you go.) If you’re a Catholic, and you did that back-and-forth with the priest like at the end of The Godfather–Do you renounce Satan, I do, etc.–and you participate in performance art Satanism, do you not get into Heaven?

What if you summon a demon, but not all spooky like: you have a degree from RISD and you’re in a friend’s loft space and everyone’s drinking white win? Would the demon even hear that, and if so: would the demon know you did not mean it? Isn’t this kind of thing the first act of 70% of all horror movies? Yeah: this a terrible idea. Do not do this.

TotD top tip: Performance art is no excuse for Satanism! Don’t take the chance.

The Next Three Days, Predicted

  • Terrorist attack that kills many people.
  • Mentally unstable man who was known to the police snaps due to economic anxiety, also killing many people.
  • Monday morning, it’s going to rain frogs in Newark, Delaware.
  • Monday afternoon, it’s Newark, New Jersey’s turn.
  • On live teevee, John Podesta will rip open his shirt to reveal a giant pentagram tattoo on his chest.
  • In 1973, a coalition of Arab militaries attacked Israel on Yom Kippur, assuming the fasting Jews would be distracted; using the same logic, China is going to Red Dawn us, probably tomorrow.
  • Honestly, if there was ever a perfect moment to Red Dawn us, this is it.
  • Irregular tides.
  • Clouds shaped like impossible objects.
  • Multiphasic Harambification.
  • Cheeses taste slightly off.
  • Two or three false flag events.
  • Three or four false banner events. (A false banner is like a false flag, but you hang it on a wall instead of a pole (falsely).)
  • Crazy rich guy gives a massive EMP bomb to a country that in no way can handle the responsibility–Equatorial Guinea, maybe–and of course someone pushes the big red button instantly.
  • Supreme Court vanishes, the building; everybody shows up for work Monday morning, but work’s not there any more.
  • Elon Musk and Peter Theil climb into the giant mechs they’ve been secretly building and disrupt each other in the middle of San Francisco, killing thousands.
  • Obama snaps on live teevee: “THIS guy? THIS fucking guy?” for twenty minutes or so.
  • The grown-ups and serious people come back from wherever they’ve been, and snatch the democracy from our hands, giving us a long lecture about how fragile it is, and then making us wash the car.
  • Blimp filled with hydrogen fluoride deliberately crashed into polling place.
  • Malls across the country fill with raccoons; they sit quietly and patiently and wait for something that should not come, but approaches at speed.
  • Leaked videotape of Trump saying n****r, c**t, k**e, f****t, s****b, z***a, and p*******q; his polls rise sharply.
  • Unverified e-mail sent from Hillary’s office hacked by the Russians posted on Twitter by a White Nationalist account; indictments are recommended, if not summary execution.
  • Hawaii says “fuck it” and starts paddling towards Japan.
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