I’m fucking sick of Ron Paul.

I wouldn’t vote for the motherfucker if he promised to give us a happy-ending massage and a new car. I wouldn’t vote for the motherfucker if he gave me a got-damn blow-job in the voting booth. I wouldn’t vote for Ron Paul if the motherfucker shit daisies and ten dollar bills.

You know why I won’t vote for Ron Paul? His supporters are annoying the shit out of me. They’re acting like he’s Tom Joad or some shit. “Wherever Ron Paul’s name is mentioned, I’ll comment. Wherever Ron Paul bombs in the polls, I’ll be there to insist there was fraud. Wherever Ron Paul wipes his ass, I’ll be there to proclaim the toilet paper a sacred got-damn object to be studied and celebrated on Fark.com.”

I ain’t saying we got a good selection of candidates, but I am saying that this Ron Paul cat’s supporters are beginning to freak me the fuck out. I went to a restaurant last night (secret place–I ain’t like those paparazzi pap-smears who make got-damn sure everyone in the world knows when they’re eating at a restaurant), and I had to take a shit. So I excused myself from the table, walked back to the men’s room, picked a stall, dropped my pants, and sat my black ass down on the cold motherfucking porcelain. Relaxed a bit, let it all fall out. Between the first and second shit-package, my ass made a sound not unlike “Ron Paul”. The next thing I knew, there were fifteen Ron Paul supporters outside the got-damn door, gyrating and blogging and commenting on how wonderful my Sam Jack shit was. Now, I know for fact that if I’d farted out a good “Mitt Romney,” wouldn’t nobody have done so much as a golf-clap.

I don’t need no got-damn chorus of “Dr. Paul! Dr. Paul!” while I’m taking a shit, and having four got-damn years of that ain’t something I’m looking forward to.