Bitch Slap: A Day in the Life of Kristurd Carson
He sets his alarm for four thirty AM, when he gets up, takes Viagra and goes back to bed. He wakes up again at six, and services his morning wood while staring at the portrait of Hitler on his nightstand. The he gets up and has a hearty breakfast of Monsanto cancer flakes washed down with coffee made from fracking fluid while watching video of starving children, whom he mocks by offering spoonfuls of Monsanto flakes to the teevee screen. He’s been feeling pain in his stomach for weeks, and wonders if it might be the food or water, but he doesn’t worry. The Republican health care system will take great care of him.
He’s just plain stupid, so he must have some menial job pushing a broom or changing tires. He spends his day hating Obama for whatever Fox news lie of the day—birth certificate or Benghazi or whatever faux outrage Billo and Ailes have dreamed up.
At eleven he pops another Viagra, so he’s ready for his glorious lunch hour. At noon he hurriedly wolfs down his Monsanto cancer sandwich with a bottle of Fracker beer, then rushes off to spend some precious alone time with his Hitler blow up doll, and hammers every hole with fascist thrusts from his unfortunately miniscule 9 mm penis (which does conveniently fit in the barrel of a glock) and which he calls the ‘love torpedo.’ While unleashing his furious love on the flopping body of the fuehrer he calls out names like “Newtie! Mitchie! Dick and Georgie! Rummy!” When he finally comes he screams, “Ronald Wilson Reagan!” as he jizzlobs Hitler a facial.
Then he returns to his broom and finishes his work day hating liberals for wrecking America with health care and education while longing for the glory days of war, wrecked economies and bank bailouts, and the most glorious thing of all in the Kristurd’s perverted world: oil spills. He daydreams of leading an armed conservative revolution.
At five o clock he hurries to his doctor appointment at CVH for his favorite time of day: his fifteen minutes on the Zoloft drip. He follows that by donning his American flag swimsuit for a dip in the nearby Connecticut river, where he pisses and sharts the very flag he holds so sacred, because in truth he’s a sick fuck traitor.
He hauls his second amendment arsenal to the firing range and unloads a few hundred rounds into the paper targets of the Newtown babies. Then he goes searching for non existent communist meetings to infiltrate, then taunts a few homeless people by using a fishing pole to dangle sandwiches and money in their faces and pulling them away. He gets bored and heads home to his own rubber walled hovel, stopping off for a twelve pack of Bud, which he considers the red white and blue beer of patriots while unaware that Anheiser Busch was sold to a Belgian corporation several years ago.
He orders up a Monsanto cancer pizza to go with his twelve pack. He’s partial to Papa John’s because he likes to say the name ‘Schnatter’ when he’s jerking with his his dildo collection. If the Zoloft drip hit him hard, and he can’t concentrate, he watches videos of the Valdez oil spill or Auschwitz, or the Germans marching in Paris, or anything Hitler. If the Zoloft drip doesn’t hit so strong, he spends a quiet evening lost in the pages of Mein Kampf.
Instead of Letterman he prefers a late night hour of video of oil soaked bird carcasses or starving children. Then he visits a few websites--assfuckhitler.com naziporn.com, hatetheworld.com, and others--which are actual porn with Hitler’s mouth superimposed over every glory hole. He unloads on the swastika painted on his bedroom floor, then he sets his Viagra tablet on the nightstand, sets his alarm for four thirty, and spends the next few hours dreaming he’s front row center at Hitler speeches.