Being the famous, universally praised, rich internet entity that he is, Scribe is experiencing the festivities first hand. He has a prime seat: outside the furthest back barricade with a horde of stern SS agents (Are there any other kind? They come out of the box that way.) …and heavily armed soldiers blocking access.
Ah, self assaulting rhetoric; a grand weapon for the insecure, is it not? Is it KNOT? Yes, that’s what Scribe feels, a worry knot almost as big as Lush Dimbulb’s anal cyst, forms in his gut as he interviews the protesters. Is our new leader safe and secure as he ascends to retake Junior’s monkey excrement stained throne? Scribe isn’t sure as he interviews those kept away from the proceedings.
The protesters; comics.
Leading the chant; Jon Stewart.
“Eight more years! Eight more years!”
Scribe stops Jon and pulls him to one side.
“What the HELL ya doin, Jon? You know what this criminal cabal has done to the country.”
“Yeah, Scribe, but a comic’s got to eat. Who am I going to mock now? What, they actually expect me to do Black jokes? That’s what we’ve got Wyatt Cenac and Senior Executive Commander-in-Chief Who Happens To Be Black Correspondent, Larry Wilmore, for. What am going to do now, eat out of dumpsters in Crawford, hoping to snag a mock interview?”
Some protesters are being allowed through the barricades. One comic was screaming at them with a gravely voice, “Hey you? What makes it right for you to get in and not us, mudderfrucker? Dat pointy white hat?”
Just then Robin Williams walks up, dressed as Mrs. Doubtfire, caressing his wig, he says, “I’ve been so worried I haven’t been able to take a shower for a week. What am I going to do now, sell my services as a transvestite? Go find the next Katrina and sing, ‘I’m stinking in the rain…’”
He wanders off, still talking to himself and anyone who will listen.
“Just between you and me, Scribe, he’ll probably do OK. He’s ALWAYS on stage…”
That comic screams at the next group being let through, “Hey, Osama Been Raghead!!!!!!! What makes you so special? Is that a tactical nuke in your case or is your latest decapitation happy to see me?”
“God, he’s obnoxious,” Scribe says.
“Yeah, he is, hey look… Jeff Dunham…”
“Scribe. Jon. Have you seen Achmed?”
“Yeah, Jeff, I think he just followed that latest group they’re letting through the barricade.”
“That’s not good. No, not good at all. Oh, crap. He brought his ‘suitcase’ with him. Not good at all…”
Jeff wanders off and starts to talk to a soldier at the barricade who threatens him with his gun saying, ‘Shut up, sir. I can tell you, like warning Junior before 9/11, we don’t want to hear about Achmed.”
“Um, Jon, why are they letting terrorists, skinheads and Klansmen in?”
“Well, Scribe, it’s like a wedding. The Obama team gave tickets to those who helped, civil rights workers and famous entertainers who cared about the cause.”
“And these guys?”
“Junior and Biggus Dickus invited them.”
Suddenly a solid stream of obscenities comes out of the comic screaming as they let some assassin-like people in.
“Wow. He uses words even Scribe doesn’t know. Isn’t that Sam Kinison?”
“Yeah.”
“But I thought he was dead.”
“He is, but not even death can shut him up.”
Ye Olde Scribe Presents: A Report from the Festivities in Washington
Being the famous, universally praised, rich internet entity that he is, Scribe is experiencing the festivities first hand. He has a prime seat: outside the furthest back barricade with a horde of stern SS agents (Are there any other kind? They come out of the box that way.) …and heavily armed soldiers blocking access.
Ah, self assaulting rhetoric; a grand weapon for the insecure, is it not? Is it KNOT? Yes, that’s what Scribe feels, a worry knot almost as big as Lush Dimbulb’s anal cyst, forms in his gut as he interviews the protesters. Is our new leader safe and secure as he ascends to retake Junior’s monkey excrement stained throne? Scribe isn’t sure as he interviews those kept away from the proceedings.
The protesters; comics.
Leading the chant; Jon Stewart.
Scribe stops Jon and pulls him to one side.
“What the HELL ya doin, Jon? You know what this criminal cabal has done to the country.”
“Yeah, Scribe, but a comic’s got to eat. Who am I going to mock now? What, they actually expect me to do Black jokes? That’s what we’ve got Wyatt Cenac and Senior Executive Commander-in-Chief Who Happens To Be Black Correspondent, Larry Wilmore, for. What am going to do now, eat out of dumpsters in Crawford, hoping to snag a mock interview?”
Some protesters are being allowed through the barricades. One comic was screaming at them with a gravely voice, “Hey you? What makes it right for you to get in and not us, mudderfrucker? Dat pointy white hat?”
Just then Robin Williams walks up, dressed as Mrs. Doubtfire, caressing his wig, he says, “I’ve been so worried I haven’t been able to take a shower for a week. What am I going to do now, sell my services as a transvestite? Go find the next Katrina and sing, ‘I’m stinking in the rain…’”
He wanders off, still talking to himself and anyone who will listen.
“Just between you and me, Scribe, he’ll probably do OK. He’s ALWAYS on stage…”
That comic screams at the next group being let through, “Hey, Osama Been Raghead!!!!!!! What makes you so special? Is that a tactical nuke in your case or is your latest decapitation happy to see me?”
“God, he’s obnoxious,” Scribe says.
“Yeah, he is, hey look… Jeff Dunham…”
“Scribe. Jon. Have you seen Achmed?”
“Yeah, Jeff, I think he just followed that latest group they’re letting through the barricade.”
“That’s not good. No, not good at all. Oh, crap. He brought his ‘suitcase’ with him. Not good at all…”
Jeff wanders off and starts to talk to a soldier at the barricade who threatens him with his gun saying, ‘Shut up, sir. I can tell you, like warning Junior before 9/11, we don’t want to hear about Achmed.”
“Um, Jon, why are they letting terrorists, skinheads and Klansmen in?”
“Well, Scribe, it’s like a wedding. The Obama team gave tickets to those who helped, civil rights workers and famous entertainers who cared about the cause.”
“And these guys?”
“Junior and Biggus Dickus invited them.”
Suddenly a solid stream of obscenities comes out of the comic screaming as they let some assassin-like people in.
“Wow. He uses words even Scribe doesn’t know. Isn’t that Sam Kinison?”
“Yeah.”
“But I thought he was dead.”
“He is, but not even death can shut him up.”