Podesta: “We Are Not Done Yet.”
“We will have more to say tomorrow. She is not done yet.” (November 8, John Podesta, Hillary Clinton’s campaign chairman)
O the horror! The scream of agony.
The scream came from many directions; the smarmy little cutsie editorial writers for the NY Times, emitted typical squeaks, which is all they’re capable of—the Times should fire the lot of them, but of course the publishers are just as smarmy as they drown in red ink and their whole operation goes down.
The Times’ liberal brothers and sisters in the liberal media screamed as well; but their sound was rooted in pathetic shock—“how could the great unwashed have been so stupid when we know how to front for the masters of reality who actually run this planet and what’s going to happen to our jobs and our paychecks and our reputation…”
The pollsters screamed and contemplated jumping off rooftops after their rig-job with the numbers showed up as such a failure and their jobs are DEFINITELY on the line because the news networks don’t like to get fooled and sit there with egg all over their faces…
The RNC screamed because they proudly deserted Trump and then the whole thing turned around and they were looking at a yawning abyss…
Young Demo voters and old hippie Demo voters screamed but mostly wept because their guaranteed utopia slipped away down the drain…
The massive turned-out trim of the federal bureaucracies gave voice to outraged grief as they examined their bank accounts and their pension guarantees…
But the scream that overrode all the other screams and seared the air from coast to coast was belted out by the queen vampire, Hillary Clinton, as her bottles of blood ran dry and her dealer’s phone number was suddenly no longer in service, as she lay on the floor of a quiet room with a wooden stake through her heart, as the dawn came up, blinding her, after her final try for the White House exploded in a vaporous cloud of dead leeching insects, as a million lifetimes of inflicting suffering on others culminated in a gross indignity…
O the horror!
Who’ll get the rights to the blockbuster movie?
CRY FOR ME, AMERICA.
Then she whispers: “We can still torpedo the economy and start a war before he gets inaugurated. Riots in cities. Blame it all on Trump. Where’s Podesta? Where’s Huma?”
Bill wanders into the room.
“I told you, sweetie,” he says, “this could end up in disaster if you ran for President. You and I could make a deal now. If I pull the stake out of your heart and get you some blood, I start calling the shots. We have a lot of money we need to transfer through a whole bunch of banks. We need to disappear for a while…”
“I never should have married you,” she coughs.
“Sure, and you’d be at Yale running lame seminars and teaching little kiddies to protest Halloween costumes.”
Hillary lies there and stares at the ceiling.
“Okay,” she mumbles. “It’s a deal, Bill.”
But of course she doesn’t really mean it.
She’s planning her comeback.
“I can do this,” she murmurs. “This is nothing. I was under sniper fire on the tarmac at the Tuzla Air in Bosnia, in ’96.”
“Don’t you remember?” Bill says. “That was lie number 76,549 you told.”
Hillary gathers her strength.
“It happened because I say it happened. Now pull this stake out and get me some blood, you oaf…”
Bill shrugs, takes out his cell phone, and calls an unlisted number in midtown Manhattan.
“We’ve had another accident,” he says. “We’ll need six liters and a surgeon. Get in touch with the Sheikh and tell him to gas up his jet and have it waiting on the runway at Teterboro…”