People, it has become obvious to me that you don’t want a hot piece of ass in the White House.

You could of had me riding Red-hot Jeri in the Lincoln bedroom whooping and waving my cowboy hat like Slim Pickens at the end of Dr. Strangelove.

Or you could have had Munchkin Kucinich taking his lovely lady for a rocket ride in the east wing. (That ain’t no euphemism people, that boy thinks he’s been in a flying saucer.)

You could even of had Jesus Obama’s wife who ain’t no Red-hot Jeri but gets the blood flowing in that “take a look at the caboose on my maid” sort of way.

But no you took dusty old Hil-a-bitch and an old lady who hasn’t been smart enough to dump her husband after years of asking him to pass the bread and him responding: “You can’t break me.”

People, if you keep letting folk who live in states where its only warm enough to see bosoms and gams six weeks a year decide who is going to be the First Lady you gotta expect four more years of Ugly.