NO COLLUSION: Mueller Preamble Puts Snowflake Nation on Suicide Watch
So, hug a snowflake this weekend. But not too hard. Their fragile little feels are all tuckered out after learning about Herr Mueller’s cow fart in the breeze that he waited until 5pm on a Friday to seep out like a side-lean barstool cheek creeper.
Nothingburger. Pffffzzzt. AOC on suicide flatulence watch.
That’s how it’s played. If it’s an incendiary device that will wreak carnage and doom on the opposition, you release it at 7am on a Monday and let it dominate an entire week of news cycles, devouring worlds and kingdoms like a supernova black hole swallows galaxies and solar systems.
Oppenheimer stuff.
If it was never anything to begin with but Kabuki spin based in poison tree fraudulent evidence and rife political criminality, you drop it like a lead balloon on a Friday night and go out for Moscow Mules. Because that’s as close to Russian collusion as Snowflake Nation is going to get. Maybe hold the ginger ale.
We knew all of this, of course. From before the beginning. During every sweaty-palmed turn and every stupendous pratfallen moment of breathless masturbatory revelation.
We knew all of this, of course. From before the beginning. During every sweaty-palmed turn and every stupendous pratfallen moment of breathless masturbatory revelation.
“THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF THE ENNNNNNNNDDDDD FOR TRRRRRUUUUUUUUMP.” Yawn.
But the snowflakes didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Still don’t. And don’t want to. Still, you may spot one or three at Whole Foods this weekend, what with multiple piercings and a downcast complexion that makes it clear that at least a fraction of bitter reality is outrunning denial and drugs.
Approach compassionately but carefully, pat their hand and press their oddly dampish and patchouli infused chartreuse head to your chest as they weep, ever so gently. (Gently, and only after carefully garnered consent, of course.) God knows they’ve needed the stability forever. Let them borrow yours.
And when they’ve gathered themselves enough to wipe the snotburgers from their little Whoville faces on stolen Christmas morn, remind them to prepare for the hounds of hell’s fury and every comeuppance their powdered sugar constituency can withstand. Suggest they double their Xanax.
FISA Declassification is coming, kiddies. And unlike all the tomfoolery and pretend witch shite of these last two years… it’s gonna be a dooooooooooozzzzie, Ned Ryerson.
Oh, and after the dweezil hug. Burn the shirt. Because cooties.
#MAGA-dittos, Patriots.
