Cindy N Me
I just love Karl Rove. I'm crazy about him.
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I dream of turd blossoms nearly every night. I long to eat peyote buttons and do sweat lodges with my idol, Karl Rove.
Deep down, a spark of love actually exists within the cold, dark heart of Karl Rove. It is just that he is one of the Mushroom People who must stay in darkness lest their fungal origins be compromised and they decompose before our eyes.
Apparently, Rove is working with the Queen's MI-6 to keep the "darkie down" or the dream of Anglo-Saxon hegemony could evaporate like a contrived high-speed car crash in a Paris tunnel.
Don't get me wrong...I like white people. At least one of them. I trust white people, in general, myself in particular.
But I do not trust people who have perverse ideas regarding genetic lineage, empire, oppression or bizarre gardening practices. Karl Rove and the British come much too close to triggering my gag reflex for me to think anything other than I am sick of eating magic mushrooms.
Reality CAN be a much better place than it now is.
The last forty years -- even before I gummed my first turd blossom -- have been like a bad mushroom fry. It's time to put the mushrooms where they belong -- cooked in garlic butter with yellow onion and placed atop a nicely cooked sirloin.
