Mrs. Clinton…you must stop. You have become like Friday the 13th Part 7, a movie so predictable, so unwatchable, so horrible, and so in need of going away forever. You are embarrassing yourself, your husband and his legacy, your party, your supporters, and every historical event you dishonestly invoke to plead your pathetic cause.
I have come to believe that if the DNC told you that all you needed to do to secure the nomination was take your daughter to a mountain top and gut her like Abraham was going to do to Issac, then you couldn’t reach for your knife fast enough. That voice you hear in your head is the God known as Ego, which in your case is grown so huge that it needs its own hotel room, fully stocked mini-bar and of course masseuse, for where would your gargantuan ego be without constant massaging from the spittle licking sycophants who surround you and continue to grunt and sweat as they once again move goalposts and rejigger math to prove to you that you and only you are the one worthy of the nomination, for only you can beat your dear friend John McCain and ascend to the throne you should’ve had 16 years ago, because we all know you would’ve used that throne with far more grace and far less Oval Office fellatio. And because that’s really, really at the heart of all this, the point, isn’t it? That Bill got to go first by virtue of his famously curved member, and now it’s your turn. Except you blew it. Not Bill’s famously curved member, but your chances at honestly earning your party’s nomination.
You hired boot licking sycophants, clowns and has-beens, people who stopped thinking about how to help the country – let alone win an election – sometime in the mid-90s. Your vision is not only myopic, it is jaundiced and cloudy. Your voice – not the one that’s been reduced to a cackling rasp by the rigors of campaigning, but the one inside of you that makes you press on and endure the rigors of campaigning – your voice has run out of things to say, or ways to say things. You are a scratched, dirty record stuck on a turntable of yesteryear. And you just won’t stop spinning. Please, find your off switch.
