(Click here to read earlier entries from the dild saga)

Don’t Buy This “Whopper” If You Want To “Have It Your Way!”

Last Tuesday I went to vote in the GOP Presidential primary, and of course my dimwit wife tagged along. While I am a proud lifelong Republican, this buffoon is an independent who can’t even vote in the primary. Sadly, it’s cretins like my sucker wife who are drowning this nation in red ink and brown ideals.

On the drive over, I cranked the Glenn Beck A.M. Radio Truth Hour to full blast to drown out the nags. Moron wife or not, nothing was going to stop me from voting for my hero, true conservative patriot Newt Gingrich. Yet I hit another obstacle on the walk from the parking lot as we were waylaid at a booth set up by desperate volunteers hoping to drum up support for Ron Paul. Some sweaty moon-faced kid in a “The Fed did 9/11” t-shirt was pushing all sorts of campaign handouts in exchange for our votes. Distracted by these gaudy baubles, the idiot wife held me up long enough to have my interest piqued by one peculiar piece of swag: a Nasstoys 6.5” Afro American Whopper Dildo festooned with a Ron Paul bumper sticker. Now I had no intention of selling my vote, but I didn’t see the harm in pocketing such a lovely and device from these sexually-repulsive cranks.

I had to wait a darn long time thanks to senile old biddies running the precinct, and let me tell you, that Whopper was burning a hole straight through my pocket. As the goatbrained wife played “Angry Birds” on her phone, I quietly thought of Newt’s plan to revitalize America by putting children to work while the specter of sensational rectal pleasure loomed. My mind raced back and forth between Newt and the Afro American Whopper, Newt, Afro, Newt, Afro. Between my mental turmoil and the inane nattering of my porkheaded wife, I developed one heck of a headache.

After twenty minutes, I couldn’t take it any longer. Thinking of Newt and the Afro had given me a dangerous priapism. I got up to make a beeline to the restroom when my name was called. I nervously took my ballot into the booth and closed the curtain. There was no turning back. Once this engine starts up, it won’t stop until it reaches its destination. With my hand clutching the Afro and my gaze fixed on the little oval below Newt’s name, I undid my trousers, eagerly anticipating another kind of big “O.”

Well, the only “O” I got was “Outraged!” After ten excruciating minutes desperately manipulating myself with the Afro American Whopper, my body was worse for wear. My migraine was more painful, and my cavity chafed from the remnants of the Ron Paul bumper sticker, which I had been unable to fully remove from the toy. Anyone who insists that this device will produce “gales of warm full-body orgasmic pleasure” is surely telling a real “whopper!”

I pulled up my pants and tried to mark the ballot, but my hands were covered in filth, and I was seeing double on account of the throbbing migrane that Afro American gave me. Feeling queasy, I desperately notched a vote for what I pray was Newt Gingrich. But the darn ballot was covered in so much filth that I’m afraid it won’t be scannable at all. I felt like a Florida voter in 2000, except this time, it wasn’t Al Gore trying to rig the election — it was the Romney-Paul alliance of manipulative sexual deviants. Wordlessly, I exit the booth and hand in my ballot, then drag my mentally-impaired wife to the car, a defeated man. On the way, one of the Ron Paul supporters gives me a thumbs up. The final indignity.

JUST THE TIP

Patriots beware! If you care about your pleasure and the future of capitalism, then “segregate” yourself from the Afro American Whopper and try a dildo from Newt and Callista’s personal line.

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