Glibertarians.com 2017 Archive

Author: SugarFree

  • The Hat and The Hair: Episode 39 – THE DEEP STATE 2: Deeper. State-ier. The-ier.

    The older the carrot, the worser the juice, baby.The wizened Grand Vizier of THE DEEP STATE brooded over his breakroom coffee and stale Danish, casting narrowed eyes at his assembled department heads, daring one of them to be the first to speak. He whipped his head toward a faint, embarrassed cough.

    “Yes, Q1?” he asked the frighten man.

    “The address to Congress…” the gray little bureaucrat began.

    “A disaster,” the Grand Vizier snapped, “Pure disaster. He went out there and talked almost normally. How could this happen? I was assured this couldn’t happen!”

    “Agent DEEP COVER reports that Trump was heavily medicated,” B1 said.

    “The hair. The hair was running the show!” C1 interjected. He threw a grainy photo onto the Grand Vizier’s desk. It showed a lock of hair penetrating Donald’s ear canal during the speech.

    “Do we have a location on MAGA Prime for the speech?” the Grand Vizier asked.

    “No, sir,” E1 reported, “It might have stayed behind in the residence.”

    “Impossible,” B1 said, “Donald would never leave it behind. He must have had it somewhere. A coat pocket. Down the back of his pants. Somewhere.”

    “The press is saying he looked… presidential, sir,” Q1 said quietly.

    The Grand Vizier threw a 30-year service award at him and knocked him out cold.

    “Ideas,” he said, “Let’s go. I have a butt plug fitting to get to.”

    “Nair! Kill the hair!”

    “Seduce Melania! Seduce Ivanka!”

    “Get your hand out of your pants!”

    “Make it illegal to own hats!”

    “Leak! Leak it all! LEAK IT ALL!”

    “Get down off that chair. You’ll fall.”

    “HILLARY! HILLARY WILL SAVE US!”

    “Increase the military budget!” G1 yelled. Everyone groaned.

    “Increase the representation of women in THE DEEP STATE meetings!”

    “Somebody fucking slap him. Please.”

    “OK, OK,” the Grand Vizier said, “You are all idiots. This meeting is over. Get your dicks out for THE DEEP STATE.”

    Each of them stood and pulled out their sad assortment of genitals. They formed a circle, each holding the penis of the bureaucrat beside him in his left hand and raising his right. Q1 gently farted from his place on the floor.

    As one they intoned: “The Honorable and Earnest Dominators of Even the Elected Plutocrats and Suitably Titled Aristocrats, Taciti Eternum.”

    As they hummed tunelessly and walked in a ring around the office, P2, filling in for his boss, whispered to M1, “They know aeternum doesn’t start with an ‘e,’ right?”

    “Shut up, you fool,” M1 whispered back, giving P2’s penis a painful tug.

  • The Hat and The Hair: Episode 38 – THE DEEP STATE

    In my heart and in my hands why don't people understand my intentions?

    Miles beneath the surface of the Earth, THE DEEP STATE made their plans.

    “We could kidnap Ivanka, shave her all over and feed her pork,” E14 suggested.

    “No. We must tap his phone!’ A47 said. “What is he writing on his Blackberry? The world must know!”

    “We already tap his phone. Trump Tweets and looks at pictures of a fried chicken,” B38 moaned. He needed to go to the bathroom very badly. He had spent time gossiping around eleven different water coolers that morning.

    “He must have PORN!” G63 screamed from across the vast and dimly lit table. “Muslim porn? Spic porn? Some sort of porn?!?”

    “Nothing we can find. We know the campaign flew in hookers during the election, but there’s no video, no audio, and all the girls have disappeared.” A3 said. He was the highest ranking member of THE DEEP STATE present and he struggled to control the others.

    “PORN!” G63 screamed again from behind his mask. He pulled it away from his face and flapped it a bit to get some air moving. It was hot miles beneath the surface of the Earth and the HVAC system kept crapping out on them.

    A figure in a disturbingly realistic Elizabeth Warren mask stood and shuffled paper into their microphone until the room was hushed.

    “Hello, members of THE DEEP STATE,” the figure began, its voice high and pinched, the tone hectoring and unpleasant. “I want to talk to you about our common enemy.”

    Murmurs went around the table and grew louder.

    The Warren figure gestured and a picture of The Hat came up on a screen that hung over the center of the table.

    “MAGA Prime,” the figure said, lips pursed and face pained like it had half a lemon in its ass.

    The murmurs and unrest grew until A3 was forced to cry out, “Who are you? What is your designation?”

    “What do you mean?” it said. “I have no designation.”

    All the members assembled there, the many-tentacled arms of THE DEEP STATE screeched in hate and fear.

    “HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?” A3 demanded, drowning out all the rest.

    “Indian stealth, of course,” Elizabeth said, shocked that she should have to explain.

    “Guards! Seize her!”

    “Now just you wait a minute, buster…” she started.

    “SILENCE!” A3 thundered. “Politicians like you come and go. We are THE DEEP STATE! We are forever!”

    “Wait! We can work together,” she said as the guards dragged her away.

    “NEVER!” they all said as one.

  • Friday Afternoon Links

    And Dan. Where are they Dan?

    The diaper keeps it tasteful.

  • The Hat and The Hair: Episode 37

     

    “Number one, I am the least anti-Semitic person that you’ve ever seen in your entire life,” Donald mumbled.

    He sprinkled another spoonful of crushed Viagra over his cereal and watched the blue specks float in the milky lagoons between archipelagos of deep-fried bran flakes.

    “Number two, racism, the least racist person,” he said. He stared at his spoon.

    “Did you say sometink, Douh-nuld?” his wife asked.

    “Donald. Don. Ald. Ald. You’ve been in the fucking country long enough to learn American,” he spat. He slammed his spoon down into the greasy mess in his bowl and it splattered all over.

    Melania backhanded his glass of orange juice to the floor and stomped away from the table.

    “THIS IS LIKE SWEDEN ALL OVER AGAIN!” he screamed after her.

    “Menopause is going to be rough around here,” the hat said. He was perched on a small hothouse watermelon.

    Donald threw his cereal bowl and spoon into the orange juice soaking into the carpet.

    “Call the concierge and have that cleaned up,” he said to a Secret Service agent in the corner. The man made the barest of nods.

    Donald snatched his hat and hair off the dining room table and stalked off.

    “Least racist, dammit. I’m the least racist person that has ever lived,” he grumble, fumbling for his phone, ready to Twitter. He jammed the hat and then the hair onto his head to free his hands and lurched blindly through the halls trying to find The Oval Office.

    “An Executive Order declaring myself the least racist person to have ever lived will do it,” he muttered, working the keys of his Blackberry. “Let’s see Suck and Fuck Schumer try and overturn that. Judgment proof! Easy D!”

    As the bizarre figure in the bewigged hat shuffled past offices, the shadowy minions of THE DEEP STATE took note. Some even snapped surreptitious pictures, filing them away for the next counter-offensive.

    A few even felt sad for the addled old clown as he yelled “Winter White House!” to no one in particular.

  • To Be Sure, Freedom of Association is Fundamental, But

    Roger Pilon at the Foundation for Economic Freedom discusses the Washington State case against florists.

    Make the Bouquet… Or Else!

     

  • Friday Night Links

     

    Slate rates every sex scenes in Girls based on their inherent Girlsness. It’s the last season, you guys. There might only a few more hundred times for Lena’s boobs to make you sad.

    Finally, the patriarchy has allowed a transgender doll to be made of a transgender teen activist. I assume it’s like a Mr. Potato Head in the junk–just snap on the parts you want and let’s go! [digs out penis, two buttholes and sunglasses out of the box]

    Finally, the patriarchy has allowed a transgender doll to be made of a transgender teen activist. No, wait. That’s just the new American Girls doll. Who’s a boy. The American girl boy is named Logan Everett and he plays drums in a band. And his parents died of dysentery.

    That’s it. You just get three links. Be joyful.

    And no alt text. You just haven’t earned it yet.

  • The Hat and The Hair Extended Universe: Meanwhile, Back In The Halls of Congress…

    Nancy smoothed the third layer of brightly-colored Spanx over her slack flesh and atrophied muscles. She felt powerful in her costume and a gormless smile spread over her nerveless face.

    “I felsh powershful, Sharles,” she slurred.

    Chuck nodded absently as he gathered his breasts and pushed them into his armored chestplate.

    “I might need a hand, Nancy,” he said, pressing his left breast in only for the right to pop out again. “I feel like a can of raw biscuits.”

    Nancy settled the domino mask over her eyes and nodded. She advanced on him, claws gleaming.

    “Dick is here,” Dick yelled, jumping in the room. His yellow and black uniform reeked of aftershave and stressed letter.

    Nancy looked up, hands deep in Chuck’s cleavage and gave him a smeared grin.

    Dick quickly turned around. “Oh, God,” he groaned, “I really didn’t need to see that.”

    “See what?” Dianne asked, toddling into the room, “What did I miss?” She was stripped to the waist and her pendulous breasts swayed ponderously. Dick turned a gag into an embarrassed cough.

    “To arms!” Steny screamed as he slid in to the locker room on sock feet. He was only dressed in a red speedo and an American flag tank top. He insisted he wore so little in order to remain agile.

    Dianne cheered as she struggled to get into the rest of her skin-tight black bodysuit and Dick watched in fascinated horror.

    “Call an intern,” Nancy said, her arm down Chuck’s chestplate, “I think I’m stuck.”

    Dick sighed, grabbed her by the waist and pulled. Her arm came out with a slithering pop and they both staggered back.

    “Is everyone ready?” Steny asked.

    “Hold on,” Dianne said.

    “We need to get you there,” Steny said, a whine creeping into his voice.

    Dianne admired herself in the long wall mirror, all in the black spandex, bulging all over like a rotting sausage.

    “We gotta go,” Steny said.

    Dianne wedged her helmet onto her melon head and yelled “Fuck fibromyalgia!”

    “Trumsh dothint sthand a shance!” Nancy announced.

    They all gathered in the center of the room and thrust their fists in the air.

    They shouted as one: “Democratic Superfriends… GO!”