The proceedings have
finally come to a merciful end. Disgustus has had his day. The
quadrennial gathering of swine have labored mightily and delivered a
rat. For the ReSCUMlickan Party, the Grand Old Prostitute, is
babbling vacuous nonsense and has left the country—desperately in
need—empty-handed.
Disgustus, famously,
promises the best steaks but delivers tripe. No matter, the maggot
hats rush to the rotting meat falling from the carcass. It is their usual
fetid fare. But now, he promises nothing at all.
For the first time in
living memory, perhaps the first time since political conventions
came into being early in the 19th century, a major
political party has failed to produce a party platform. In doing so,
they tell us more than they suspect, for they have brought forth
candidates but no ideas, confessing by their actions, and in-actions,
that they have, literally, no idea where to lead the country.
We know, from bitter
experience, that they have no idea how to lead the country, now they
openly confess that they don't know where to lead it. Finally, the
truth is out. The ReSCUMlickan Party is intellectually, as well as
morally, bankrupt.
What we are left with is
all tRUMP, all the time; a political movement that now exists for no
other reason than to make a pig's breakfast of what has been built
and to worship the golden swine. Vandalism and The Vandal; at
least this time around there will some measure of honesty, for there
will be no promises to break.
Our great and powerful Oz
takes no responsibility and promises nothing. An empty shirt
posturing and preening like unto a living god.
Flush this turd, November
3rd.
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