Friday, February 15, 2008


This time, Roger Clemens kills us all...

Friday morning, in extended testimony before the House Committee on Government Reform, Roger “the Rocket” Clemens is asked, “do you have any further comments?” Clemens is sick of being vilified and watching his legacy as America’s greatest pitcher slip down McNamee’s basement drain. He replies calmly, “yes, I’d like to declare my candidacy for President of the United States.”

Republican representative Tom Davis looks concerned, “which party?” he cautiously asks. The Rocket looks at his lawyer, an “R” forms as he opens his mouth, but his entire team of lawyers shake their heads ‘no.’ “Independent” the Rocket says. Representative Davis pounds his fist, “Shit!”

Clemens has never even wanted to be President. It was a rash decision primarily brought on by the gorilla growth hormone drops he‘s been putting in his eyes every few minutes. But Clemens and most of America weren’t really satisfied with their presidential choices anyway, and compared to the Rocket, McCain’s a pussy, and Obama’s black.

Clemens’ candidacy is a run-away hit, as we all rally behind his campaign slogan Droughts Suck and so does the Economy. Fuckin’ A, that ain’t America! Simply put, Clemens doesn’t pursue the presidency—he takes it, and fuck you if you don’t like it. By Friday night, Clemens has pulled even with Obama.

However, the Clemens campaign is dealt an unusual hand Saturday morning. It turns out Dorris Lessing, the British Nobel Laureate who predicted Barack Obama’s assassination, was right. But Obama’s not killed by gunshot as we’ve grown so accustomed to. At 9:13 AM Saturday morning at a rally in Akron, Ohio, Roger Clemens kills Barack Obama with his bare hands. No one saw it coming. Clemens struck like a ripped bolt of lightning from stage right. Just as Obama had the crowd lulled into a hypnotic frenzy with his cadence that is both uplifting and calming all at once, Clemens lunged onto the platform from out of nowhere and killed Obama by hand in under a second.

An American paradigm shifts as Clemens huddles over Obama’s body, covered in blood, and chews on the democratic front runner’s neck like a hyena on fresh carrion ribs. Then suddenly, Roger Clemens is startled by the audible gasp of the audience and leaps to his feet with Obama’s bloody head in his hand extended high above his own. The crowd stares silently for a few horrified seconds that feel like an eternity, until, at the top of his lungs, Clemens screams “HOOOOOOOOOOOOPE!” and the crowd goes nuts.

By 10:30 AM, Clemens isn’t just the new front runner: he’s the President. George W. Bush may be a stubborn son of a bitch and like to “stick to his guns” but, truth be told, he’s scared of a real Texan like Clemens, so he hands over the last 10 months of his presidency on the spot. You’d do the same.

President Clemens first test as a leader slaps him right in the face at noon on Saturday. There’s been Vampire-Werewolf hybrid outbreak in Pennsylvania after teenage boys hear that telling girls you’re a VampWolf will occasionally get you laid. Clemens doesn’t take this news well. Kids that dorky shouldn’t be getting laid anyway, so the Rocket makes his first Presidential trip to Pennsylvania, and kills each household’s first born son. He didn’t want to do it, but Presidential ‘Roid Rage doesn’t curb easily, and he didn't want to forever be known as the President who couldn't handle the VampWolf problem, plus it kind of taught us all a lesson.

Before Clemens can even finish drinking the youthful blood of Pennsylvania, he faces his second crisis. By 4:47 Saturday afternoon, the Jamie Lynn Spears effect that struck zoos in Australia has spread worldwide, as baby animals across the globe have their own baby animals. Calves birth smaller calves, puppies have puppies, and kittens have kittens. It’s the cutest damn thing you’ve ever seen, but still a little unnerving. President Clemens leaps to action, and spins the ungodly phenomenon, and says, “See, the Rocket bringith forth more animals. Are you not happy?!?” and pounds his fist. We tell him we’re happy, “We’re happy—it’s no big deal, Rocket. You’re cool… you’re cool.”

And we are cool… enough. I mean, he has killed a lot of innocent people, but things aren’t really that much worse than before, that is assuming you’re still alive. The Rocket strikes an unusual but familiar nerve, instilling the feelings of both fear and safety in the American public. It’s like the big mean drunk guy you kind of know at a party. He might kick your ass, or he might kick someone’s ass for you. You never know.

By 8:30 PM Saturday night, President Clemens even ends the threat of terrorists using fake pregnant women as suicide bombers, by merely going on Fox News and glaring at the camera for thirty seconds. Clemens had requested that his green room be filled with ox balls, fresh human pituitary glands, and three bottles of something imported from the Chinese national swim team, and he ate it all, so on his way out of the studio, staffers start handing him their Peabody and People’s choice awards, just to keep him happy. They even write “Pulitzer ” on top of some shitty award they got from the University of Phoenix online associate’s program in communication and give it to the Rocket. “You were great, President Rocket!”

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, the UFO’s that have been photographed in the UK land, agreeing they were so right not to land in Texas a couple of weeks ago. Texans like Clemens scare the intergalactic shit out of the aliens, but don’t think that means they’re peaceful and harmonious beings. No, they kill everyone in the UK and Europe on their way down. In fact by 9:15 PM EST, Sunday, they’ve killed everyone in the world except for America. It’s a bit shocking, but at least we don’t have to worry about those Chinese spies any more.

The thought of UFO’s crashing into the NYC skyline is too horrifying for words, so all of America rallies behind President Clemens to go kick some ass. We even let him eat a few Puerto Rican children to get fired up. (Hey, it’s a territory, what else do you think it’s for?) By 10:00 Saturday night, the Rocket is jacked up and ready to fight. He’s John Rocker crazy. The veins on his neck have veins on their neck bulging, as the Rocket sprints across America towards the aliens in the UK. Just then God shoots down a bolt of lightning and kills the President Rocket dead.

God loves a good Cowboy movie, but he’s seen this one before. Unfortunately, God realizes we all saw him do it, so he has to kill us and the aliens too. Don’t try to wrap your head around it, it’s God logic, and it’s 10:17 PM EST Saturday night, and the world has ended.

1 comment:

John Wessling said...


Clemens / Grumbine '08!!

the strange fruit party

its gonna be one hell of a convention.