Hazmat Alert

I see in the news that the Blagoviator has hauled out his cartload of codswallop and taken it on the road to offer up to the other 49 states of the union, a fistful of spoons in his back pocket for your sampling pleasure.

I especially enjoy his comparisons of self to Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela and Martin Luther King, Jr. when, by rights, he should be comparing himself to Bernie Madoff, Chuckles the Clown and Nero, fiddling while Illinois burns with embarrassment.

Whatever you do, dear readers, do not sup from the swill he ladling up. It’s equal parts hubris, the contents of his chamber pot, and generous dollops of the “testicular virility” of which he so happily boasts, and stinks worse than the odors wafting out from the Parisian cheese shop that nearly brought me to my knees a few years ago.

If you insist on sampling his goods, hold your nose and close your eyes. That’s what we’re force-fed daily in Illinois, and the only way to swallow is to force it down. The smell is not the worst part, though. The taste, my friends is bitter, very bitter, and lingers long after the fifteenth time you’ve brushed your teeth and gargled with Listerine.