Debata-balls

Ladies and gentlemen, the debates are jack-off!

Basically, we have the same recipe cooking for this race that we had the last two times. Who will you vote for? The bleeding-heart smarty-pants or the no-nonsense, smoke and mirrors “everyman”?

In the Democrat corner: A nerdy guy spouting about what exactly is wrong and how he’s gonna clean it up. He’s got a plan, he’s got a record that he’s willing to list off in detail and he smells like delicious coconut butter.

In the Republican corner: Old man Friendly dropping names, giggling like WE do (read: like Bush Jr., little kids, hyenas), telling us stories about old war generals and throwing out broad facts that essentially slander his opponent through vagueness.

My bright spot? Jim Lehrer. He’s harder hitting than Matt Lauer jacked on crystal meth with Meredith Viera in the trunk and Tom Cruise in the passenger seat.

I looked into Putin’s eyes and saw three letters: O-P-P. And he said, “Yeah, you know me.”

I’m not a run-off-to-Canada kind of hater, but if I have to suffer four years of McCains “S” whistles stabbing my ear canals, I will be off this fucking continent in a heartbeat. It sounds like he’s firing tiny, gay flying saucers off his tongue.

I’m psyched about the VP debates. It’s like watching a junior varsity game; the plays are weaker, the crowd is smaller, the implications are nil, but you can still get to third base with freshmen under the bleachers.