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Rush Limbaugh Has Anal Cysts

“RUSH LIMBAUGH HAS ANAL CYSTS! RUSH LIMBAUGH HAS ANAL CYSTS!” I screamed it loud, and I screamed it over and over again until my voicebox ruptured and my ginseng suppository shot through the seat of my panties like Grampa’s Buick through a crowd of Santa Monica tourists. “RUSH LIMBAUGH HAS ANAL CYSTS!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Maybe so,” the officer replied, “but it doesn’t change the fact that you were doing 75 in a school zone.”

“Was I?” I shot back. “Or are you simply afraid to hear the truth about Rush Limbaugh’s anal cysts?”

That’s how these repug sheeple are. Their tiny, reptilian brains are incapable of producing any semblance of an independent thought, so they let Fatty Pillpopper do their thinking for them. He uses his hate-radio platform to fill their empty heads with his right-wing lies, which they then regurgitate word-for-word at every opportunity. Tragically, they do so completely oblivious to the existence of Rush Limbaugh’s anal cysts.

His are no ordinary anal cysts, either, for when he used them to dodge the Vietnam draft they became infused with mystical powers that magically disqualify any opinion he has on any issue, from the illegal and immoral war in Iraq to stem cell research. Too bad for him, but lucky for progressives because it saves us the trouble of having to debate any of his insane viewpoints. Now if we could only make his brainwashed dittohead hordes open their eyes and see Rush Limbaugh’s anal cysts in all their festering, pus-filled glory, they’d have no choice but to abandon him for the lying liar he is and obediently follow a progressive leader instead - someone whose minty-fresh anus is free of cysts or other unsightly blemishes.

That’s why I was barreling through Ballard on my lunch break, shouting “RUSH LIMBAUGH HAS ANAL CYSTS!” out the window when I got pulled over by the gestapo.

“RUSH LIMBAUGH HAS ANAL CYSTS!” I screeched at the cop again, in case he didn’t hear me the other 117 times. “RUSH LIMBAUGH HAS ANAL CYSTS!”

Herr Flatfoot smirked and continued to furiously scribble on his little Nazi notepad.

“Hey, I passed your Nazi field sobriety test!” I reminded the little oinker. “What in the name of Rush Limbaugh’s anal cysts are you writing me a ticket for?”

“Besides speeding?” he asked incredulously. “Reckless driving. Disturbing the Peace. And I’m pretty sure there’s a law in the books against operating a motor vehicle completely naked except for a pair of green panties with an Irish flag on the crotch.”

“For your information,” I informed him, “these are PROTOTYPE HEMP PANTIES, specially designed to lower my carbon footprint and reduce global warming. Now can I PLEASE get back into my car? I’m freezing my fricking BALLS off!”

He ignored my polite request and marched back to his motorcycle, mumbling into his C.B. for a few seconds before goosestepping back to where I patiently waited.

“What the matter?” I taunted him. “Gotta get the papal nod from Rush before you bash my brains out with your penis extension?”

“Sir, or whatever you are,” he said with a sneer, “I’m going to let you off with a warning this time. We just got a 911 call that someone lit up a cigarette a few blocks down, and I want to get there before the SWAT guys hog all the parking spots. Have a nice day.”

I watched as the jackbooted stormtrooper sped away, wondering if I had even made a dent, if I had managed to crack through his thick repug skull and open his puny mind to the truth about Rush Limbaugh’s Anal Cysts. Probably not. I decided to send him my 300 page manifesto on Rush Limbaugh’s Anal Cysts, just in case.

Hitching up my panties, I returned to my car.

The door was locked. Sweet Mother of Rush Limbaugh’s Anal Cysts, someone had locked my Gaia-damned keys in the car!

That’s what I get for trying to educate these stupid cons.