‘Scuse me While I Whip This Out

This has gotten way out of hand. The Birther nonsense was amusing at first, in a surrealist, after dinner game sort of a way. “The president is a secret Muslim from Kenya!” has Andre Breton’s fingerprints all over it. That he’s been dead for decades only makes it sweeter. The banal repetition though, that’s all late stage Dali, where he’s just scribbling his name on sheets of paper for future prints of future masterworks. Still in the vein, but it’s tapped out and clearly a gimmick done for the money.

But demanding to see the Presidential schlong? To verify that our President is cut like a good Christian? Except that Jews and Muslims like to take a little off the top as well, which would pretty much defeat the stated purpose of the Birther contingent. Unless their true purpose all along has been just naked, hot longing to see a Democrat’s penis. It’s been almost 12 years since they saw one last. Long enough for it to wander off into the mists of legend. Leave it to Republicans to get the scientific method when a black man’s tumescent member is involved. But the real question is, does Obama and Clinton share one mythical member? Is it stuffed and mounted, like Epicene Wildeblood‘s, passed down from one Democrat to another? Inquiring minds want to know! (Then they want to suck off a pistol).

This loops around on itself into Dadist territory, which is fine for the advanced connoisseurs of artistic lunacy like myself, but may scare some of the squares a bit. Freepers will turn heads among their own kind if they show up at a town hall with signs demanding to see Obama’s great throbbing penis in all it’s glory. You cannot look directly at the gods — not even their cocks — and survive. Especially their cocks. Aren’t you the ones lamenting the loss of the classics in our schools? Leida and the Swan, people! Leida and the fucking swan!

But go ahead. Show up to the next public forum and start shrieking about the President’s dingaling. carry a gun. Why the hell not? Wear a rubber pig mask and paint your chest green. That’s what a REAL American would do. But when the crowds wander off, shaking their heads in dismay and confusion, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

True art is not meant to be understood.