Creating a Simpson/Hemstead Future
At some point you have to put the power back in the hands of the people. Even though, time after time, you have watched them fawn over the likes of Sarah Palin, vote a guy in that they wanted to have a beer with and, well, whatever the hell the issue with John Kerry was.
I’m still confused on that one. But, like I said, at some point the people have to have the power to do their will. So it is at this time my fellow Americans that I announce that I have done just that.
Over the past ten years I have been hellbent on creating a Vote Simpson/Hemstead army. A large group of loyal voters that would not waiver in their support for the juggernaut that is known as Simpson/Hemstead.
Okay, sure, they’d be voting Simpson/Hemstead because I pay for their food, put a roof over their heads and buy them toys. You see supporters, I also call these voting minions my children. I’ve turned my wife’s unmentionables into a horrific slip-and-slide of voter birth over the last 10 years, with the refined reproductive efficiency of an automotive assembly line, the queen from Aliens or that machine that poops out Hershey’s Kisses. But probably more like a macabre fusion of those three things.
Over the years I have bribed, bought off and promised a lifetime of Cold Stone ice cream to them just to have the security of their votes come election time. Well, no more. No more creating little ankle biters to fill the voting booths.
That’s right supporters. I went and got a vasectomy. I needed to see what the great citizens of this country would do with this fully armed and operational battle station. Does that sound right? No matter. You get the long and short of it.
For seven days now I have been sore, black and blue, swollen and worst of all, forced to wear tighty whiteys all for you. The American voters.
So how does the power feel America? How does it feel not to have to lean on the genitals of the Hemstead half of Simpson/Hemstead? I bet it feels pretty good.
*Editor’s note: Simpson would like to point out that while he doesn’t claim any children as his own, he’s not saying there aren’t tens of suspiciously furry boys and girls wandering the country looking for sugar, caffeine and voting booths.
Oh and Rhonda, before you get up in my grill again, that ain’t my baby, bitch, blood test proved I ain’t the baby daddy. Stop calling, you aren’t getting any more hush money or books of those little stamps Albertsons is giving out for pots and pans. That ship has sailed, hoodrat.