If there’s one thing in my life that I just don’t have time for, it’s any discussions of “stolen elections.” Now, I should say that if someone, somewhere had anything remotely approaching the concept of “evidence” to back up their assertions of a stolen election, I’d be more than willing to discuss how to remedy that situation. But, heretofore, there really isn’t anything other than the fever dreams of desperate grifters and an ex-president’s sycophants to go on. Life is too short for me to argue with cultists and idiots — sorry for being redundant — that think counting votes is cheating.
So you can imagine my horror when what I’m about to describe to you took place. In the end, I was left with a soiled pair of trousers which I had lost all respect for. Those pants are now in the trash where they belong, but I wanted to relay this story to you, the reader, as a warning. Keep an eye on what you eat, and don’t trust any farts you have to push too hard to get out.
This story starts, as so many like it do, with me eating six Taco Bell meals in a sitting. The reason for me doing this is really none of your business, and I’m not going to get into it with you. But suffice to say that I have a reason for eating six Taco Bell combo meals in a single sitting three times a month, and that reason may not be a good one, but it’s all I got, so I’m sticking with it.
About three hours later, I felt something that I was sure at first was just a TB-related gas pocket in my butt-ular region. So, I did what anybody who feels that gaseous pressure in their under-between space does, and I pushed. That was the worst mistake I made that day, though, and the result was my khaki Dockers being filled to the brim with white hot, foamy diarrhea that smelled like a Chalupa fucked the corpse of that Taco Bell chihuahua. As much as that was a terrible event, though, it only got worse.
All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I started hearing muffled, gurgled chant. It was coming from my pants! I was absolutely beside myself when I made out what the chant was.
“STOP THE STEAL! STOP THE STEAL! STOP THE STEAL!”
What in the holy living fuck? Did..did my pants, which were not filled with shit, just start ranting and raving about last year’s election? The election that Joe Biden won really easily, legally, and fairly? The same election Donald Trump’s idiot, violent mob tried to stop by attacking our capitol? Were my now fecal-filled pantaloons part of the death cult that believes they were cheated out of re-electing literally the least popular and least popularly-elected president of all time because more of us voted than they did?
“STOP THE STEAL! BIDEN LOST! MARJORIE TAYLOR GREENE IS SMART AND DOES NOT LOOK LIKE A HORSE!”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. My pants were full of shit and acting very stupidly indeed. Was all hope lost?
“DONALD TRUMP WILL BE REINSTATED ON AUGUST 13th!”
Yup. All hope was lost. I stripped the pants off and set fire to them.
So, what does it mean that before my pants had been filled with shit they were fine, and as soon as they were brimming with dookie they started talking about a stolen election? I don’t know. We’d have to look inside the skulls of the pro-MAGA crowd to see if my pants were anecdotal evidence or not.
But for now, I’m down a pair of pants, but have learned so much about how the world around me operates. In that way I am truly #Blessed.
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Writer/comedian James Schlarmann is the founder of The Political Garbage Chute and his work has been featured on The Huffington Post. You can follow James on Facebook, Spotify, and Instagram, but not Twitter because Twitter is a cesspool.