Isabella Cumbucket

I’ve been giving small amounts of money to various Republican Tea-worthy candidates whenever doing so sends a message to the Republican establishment that we hate them and we can out-fund raise them. I loved it when Christine O’Donnell raised a bazillion dollars in 2 days after that wizened old cunt John Cornyn dissed her. I piled on to help the crazy Arizona chick who’s trying to beat mustache Pete. And go Joe Miller! and hey Chamber of Commerce, don’t spend this $5 all in one place!

Of course, all these donations require me to tell the Feds who I am, and are a matter of public record. Since I’m doing it with credit cards, I have to give my real name and address at some point. Still, I love filling out all non-verified fields as Isabella Cumbucket or Snarky Snicketysnatch and making my phone number and zip code as obscene and devilish a combination of 6’s and 9’s as the space permits.

Two things:

I’m hoping to get email from Republicans addressed to Ms Cumbucket.

And I’m hoping someone else will notice. Anyone. Please. I want to be famous like the Chamber of Commerce. I want to be dragged into Federal Court. Anything. C’mon, you fuckers, what do I have to do to get the attention I deserve?

This is of a piece with my Eff-You to the giant dyke-y census taker who pounded on my door repeatedly while I medially digitated from my picture window and danced while chanting “not by the hair of your chinny chin chin.”  She/it came back 3x in her/it’s 1988 Honda Civic  before admitting Sasquatchian defeat. I never disrobed, I don’t care what it says I did. But my dance did get more intricate.

No, I’m not saying baiting a bitchy beast from the safety of my living room took bravery. I’m saying RESISTANCE IS EASY. Heaping contempt on these poltroons is like shooting dead stinky fish in a barrel. It’s fun, loud and stinky. Get in touch with your inner 4th grader and get in the habit of telling the ruling class to go fuck theirselves. Let a fart, light a match, I got your thousand points of light.

Sure, it’s small, meaningless, childish, but so is everyone in Washington. Even the IRS are a bunch of nadless wimps who would run screaming from their desks if 1/10th of 1 percent of us got seriously pissed off enough to miss a new Simpsons episode. I’ll pry my bigscreen TV from YOUR cold lifeless hands, motherfucker. That’s the new attitude. No more willing to die for our cause–let’s find out if you cocksuckers are willing to die for yours. They’re not.

The danger in America is not jackboots, but slow, relentless oxygen deprivation. When the US Government comes for you, it’s scary, but like Mrs. Doubtfire trying to kiss you. They’re nannies, not Nazis. We don’t have to kill them. Just say Boo!

If we can’t beat back the worthless tenured feminazis and their barely-male consorts in our universities, and the gray and stupid bureaucrats clinging to their government pensions, and the Eek! It’s a gun! man-pursed and man-gina-ed Ive League apparatchicks and the lazy, entitlement-saturated, fatass-can-afford-smartphones and name brand running shoes and endless chicken wings but not groceries for their kids scum….

…we deserve to suffocate, slowly, limply, surely. Between Mrs. Doubtfire’s huge, fake tits.

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