A Message from Dollary Clump

There’s really only one presidential candidate: Dollary Clump. As a special treat, I will channel hrim for you, so you can hear hrim speak.

“My fellow Americans. Hi. How’s it going? Wait – don’t answer that. I don’t give a shit. What matters to me is gaining power and attention, and justifying all the cash I’ve dropped on plastic surgery. Then again, you don’t deserve my concern. Why? Because you’re dumb. I mean, super dumb. You think a plutocrat like me, living on funny money from one scam after another, can relate to your problems, much less do anything to fix them? That’s absurd! I live in mansions, fly in private jets. I can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal for myself. Or cleaned my own bathroom. Or paid rent. I don’t even have hobbies like yours. You play – what? Baseball? Soccer? Scrabble? You like to knit, garden, read books? Well I like to fuck shit up! (All hail the deathconomy!) With my right hand I raise casinos and condo towers; with my left I approve weapons sales in return for kickba – I mean charitable contributions to my philanthropic foundation.

“Face it, kids: I’m simply not on your wavelength. Look at it this way – while you guys scurry around on your anthill, trying to make ends meet, I’m up here in the stratosphere, staring down at you and laughing my ass off. Why? Because you can’t stand me! I’m a liar, a jerk, an arrogant maniac! And – wait for it! You’re gonna VOTE FOR ME ANYWAY! That’s how rigged (in my favor) the game is. That’s how little imagination you have.

“I don’t know, guys. Sometimes I wonder. Do I even want the job of fleecing y’all? It’s almost too easy to be fun. I mean, I’ve heard of Stockholm Syndrome – but thinking a filthy rich poser like me is going to improve your lot, after watching your planet get eaten, over and over, by filthy rich posers? That’s just weird. Like, you guys need help. From someone else! Ha ha ha! Don’t look at me!”

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2 thoughts on “A Message from Dollary Clump

  1. Pingback: Angry? Sad? Depressed? It’s Dandelion Time. – Helen Zuman

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