Judgement day approaches ...
All fantasy art, via: GrandWallPapers.com
We are now witnessing the rebirth of these United States of America. On Tuesday, November 2, 2010 ... this nation will arise. We WILL toss the serpents from the garden. We will send them back to hell. Judgement day fast approaches.
As the snakes are brought to heel, we shall once again be a free nation. FREE. Free to pursue our lives. Without Federal restraint. Out from under King Hussein's thumb (yeah, the one he usually keeps you know where).
Sure, Mephistopheles hath already taken the souls of these empty vessels. That comprise the libturd nation. But on the first Tuesday, of this rapidly approaching November. The orcs ... they will come a crawlin'.
From out the depths, coming to cart off the lunatics. Drag their shattered remains ... back to hell. Zombies, and nothing but. Mass hypnosis. Derangement. Evil ... pure f*cking evil. Zero connection to reality. They cannot see their own hands, in front of their own eyes.
Cannot distinguish light from dark.
We will hear their screams, yes their shrieks, their moans. Their insufferable agony (and if you listen very closely, you just may be able to hear it right now. This very minute. For it has already begun).
And we will be laughing.
On November 3rd, they can watch. They can see our anger fade. Watch our frowns turn upside down (sheet ... I'm smiling right now). While peeking out from behind the gates of hell. They are without shame. Sans reason. Sans rhyme. They will not be missed.
(Elmo's theory of relativity) ... in galactic time, today not a blip, a blink or a blimey. In American time, it IS one the true hinge of history. Our very existence hangs in the balance. Our very lives. And the life of this great land, this country, this place. This idea.
While the surreptitious snake, permanently encoded with the mindlessness of militant radical Islam. Turns his back on G*d and country, plugging his ears.
He tries to stuff every mooselimb salami he can find, into his mouth.
All the while, his sainted visage graces the entire front page, of every smelly commie rag in the country. Painted with the brush of a legendary sport's icon. Tucked into the crouch ... unfurling a pitch of hypersonic velocity.
You know, a lefty with the right stuff.
Mooselimb State Media's endless 24/7 parade ... of warmly lit, gilt framed hagiography ... never stops. Every outlet. Every platform. Every hour. Every f*cking minute. And when dear leader isn't busy (Damascus) sword swallowing? He busies himself. With sh*tting on you, on me. Upon us all.
It is all he knows.
It is all he is capable of.
Buraq the Magic Pony's one trick. What a beaut the sweet little sparkle pony says: a magnificent gift (from me to you) ... of yummy brownies. And the libturd nation? Maddly scrambles ... for every morsel, every crumb.
We do not fear their insanity.
We do not fear you, Chucklehead.
You cannot hide.
For judgement day, it approaches.
Be sure to bring some ice water b*tch!
Just in case you really haven't figg'rd it out yet ... dildo. We don't like you, we don't want you. Our logic and reson have proved you wrong. Go back to Douchebakistan ... where you belong! You cannot bury us ... in your avalanche of lies:
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