The Conservative Cave
Current Events => The DUmpster => Topic started by: Tess Anderson on November 05, 2012, 06:54:30 PM
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http://www.democraticunderground.com/10021720829
Had to keep his melodramatic and pompous title, but the funny part to me was when somebody called the cops on him:
Mon Nov 5, 2012, 06:47 PM
struggle4progress (67,592 posts)
The dusk is deepening as I head towards my final door today
At my very first door this morning, I'm told that the person I'm looking for has moved away. But then his mother adds that she has a houseful of friends there right now getting ready to help us win tomorrow
Somewhat later, after lunch, I set out again and land in a neighborhood I haven't walked for months. I park and start towards the houses on my list, when a horn toots at me. It's Herb: we made phone calls together last spring, and he wants to help drive folk to the polls. So I grab his info and promise him staff will call
The third shift takes me down back streets I haven't seen since at least 2010. One fellow takes an immediate dislike to me, orders me out of his yard, and asks why I keep coming by. I don't think I've been by his house before, but while I'm ringing his neighbors' bells, he walks down by my car to copy my license plate number. A few streets later, the police catch up with me, circle around, take a good hard look-see, but then apparently decide that a guy with a clipboard and a chestful of buttons, putting out door-hangers the night before an election, probably isn't an archcriminal, so go their way without stopping me
A few minutes later, I'm heading to my last door, past a gaggle of cute awkward little high school girls on the corner
Oooh! Can I have a button?
I give away all but one of my buttons and then ring a doorbell. Nobody is home
Who you voting for? one of the girls asks, behind me
Of course, they've just gotten my Obama buttons, but I manage to keep a straight face
O-bama, I say, with a thumbs-up
Begins with O! one tells another
I wish them a great evening. They wish me the same
13
:lol:
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(http://i.imgur.com/gv0yY.png)
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Yes, DUmmy, we know...
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost you ain't.
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A few minutes later, I'm heading to my last door, past a gaggle of cute awkward little high school girls on the corner
Omaha Steve didn't get past this point.
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(http://i.imgur.com/gv0yY.png)
:lmao: :lmao: :lmao: :lmao: :lmao: :lmao:
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(http://i.imgur.com/gv0yY.png)
:lol: :lol: :lol:
You have a way with words pics Chris.
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Omaha Steve didn't get past this point.
Well, at least it wasn't Pitt...
Not that he'd do anything that didn't center entirely around his own unending self-promotion anyway.
:popcorn:
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Well, at least it wasn't Pitt...
The difference being- Steve gets turned on by schoolgirls, goes home, and then masturbates. Pitt gets turned on by schoolgirls, masturbates, and then goes home.
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The real story is the DUmmie called the cops because one of us threatened to beat the crap out of him if he didn't get the **** outa his neighborhood. The cops come by and tell the DUmbass to move along. "We have a Green River Ordinance here, ya idiot!"
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As the poplars' long shadows become even longer across the Romney signs I've been pulling up in the eve's waning, I contemplate heading home to my Mother's warmly-lit basement. A wave of anticipatory savoring of the PB&J sandwich and bottle of YooHoo she always sets out for me by my crumb-filled keyboard washes over me. Even as I step in my third pile of dogshit of the day, my spirits are lifted by the tinkling of adolescent female laughter, and a tingling winds its way up my leg. As I approach the nubile young lasses, I consider asking them once again to my abode for ice cream, though each time I have they make those curious gestures of sticking their fingers down their throats and laughing harder still. I spy one of their fathers watering the hedges and looking at me as if considering whether or not to step on a particularly loathsome insect, and I scurry along without stopping.
At last I spy the familiar silhouette of the house I was born in, the house I grew up in, the house I nearly burned down making meth in, and am comforted. Entering, I am greeted by the sight of my father asleep in his well worn recliner. The TV's faint bluish glow of Fox news illuminates the worry lines I have lovingly helped carve into his face in my forty-plus years of occupying his domicile. He shifts slightly and I pause, wary of arousing him from slumber and facing yet another question of whether I have cleaned my room or not. Even when I lightly remove the ten dollar bill peaking from his shirt pocket he does not move. I am pleased. He deserves his rest.
I tread lightly to the comforting environs of the basement, smelling musky yet compelling with the odor of a thousand masturbations. The newspaper is lying across my computer chair, open to the Help Wanted ads. My father again. I chuckle at his never ending optimism as I brush it aside and take a seat. Taking a sip from the condensation-covered bottle of chocolatey goodness my dear mother provided, I stroke the mouse lovingly, nudging it to lead me to that other plane of existence, that other universe, DU, where I and so many others can once again pretend our lives are relevant. The front page greets me with the same lame and uncreative Photoshops I have come to expect from EarlG, but I don't care. At last I am at my real home, where my neuroses are not only accepted, they are celebrated.
My unwashed fingers begin to dance across the greasy keys. I have many grand stories to tell of the slaying of conservatives, of favorable polls, and of toasty scandals.
Yes, I am home.
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As the poplars' long shadows become even longer across the Romney signs I've been pulling up in the eve's waning, I contemplate heading home to my Mother's warmly-lit basement. A wave of anticipatory savoring of the PB&J sandwich and bottle of YooHoo she always sets out for me by my crumb-filled keyboard washes over me. Even as I step in my third pile of dogshit of the day, my spirits are lifted by the tinkling of adolescent female laughter, and a tingling winds its way up my leg. As I approach the nubile young lasses, I consider asking them once again to my abode for ice cream, though each time I have they make those curious gestures of sticking their fingers down their throats and laughing harder still. I spy one of their fathers watering the hedges and looking at me as if considering whether or not to step on a particularly loathsome insect, and I scurry along without stopping.
At last I spy the familiar silhouette of the house I was born in, the house I grew up in, the house I nearly burned down making meth in, and am comforted. Entering, I am greeted by the sight of my father asleep in his well worn recliner. The TV's faint bluish glow of Fox news illuminates the worry lines I have lovingly helped carve into his face in my forty-plus years of occupying his domicile. He shifts slightly and I pause, wary of arousing him from slumber and facing yet another question of whether I have cleaned my room or not. Even when I lightly remove the ten dollar bill peaking from his shirt pocket he does not move. I am pleased. He deserves his rest.
I tread lightly to the comforting environs of the basement, smelling musky yet compelling with the odor of a thousand masturbations. The newspaper is lying across my computer chair, open to the Help Wanted ads. My father again. I chuckle at his never ending optimism as I brush it aside and take a seat. Taking a sip from the condensation-covered bottle of chocolatey goodness my dear mother provided, I stroke the mouse lovingly, nudging it to lead me to that other plane of existence, that other universe, DU, where I and so many others can once again pretend our lives are relevant. The front page greets me with the same lame and uncreative Photoshops I have come to expect from EarlG, but I don't care. At last I am at my real home, where my neuroses are not only accepted, they are celebrated.
My unwashed fingers begin to dance across the greasy keys. I have many grand stories to tell of the slaying of conservatives, of favorable polls, and of toasty scandals.
Yes, I am home.
:clap: :clap: :clap: :clap: :clap:
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:rofl: :rotf: :lmao:
Brilliant.
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Dandi and BD get H5s. Dandi, for his excellent writing skills in his post about three up, and BD for the masturbatory post.
Both dead on.
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Herb? :lmao:
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Dandi!! :o A friggin masterpiece! :lmao: Outstanding.
Hey Tess, I thought you were bringing over a deathbed scene. Too bad.
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I just had to K&R for people who may not have seen Dandi's work. :lmao:
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Omaha Steve didn't get past this point.
That's where they lost Will Pitt, too. :pervert: