John Bolton is The Dream American Dream

John john john john j=j-j-j-j-j+j john Johnny johny Joooohn Bolton, the first American. The last American. The first American. and now the last again

Sometimes, when you are feeling lonely, just think how lonely it must be for angels, who can probably not have sex because of how many things are illegal in heaven. Demons have sex, but only anal, and lube is never allowed. This is what John Bolton fought for.

He was born with a three piece suit on, in the United Nations headquarters, and it's funny because Margaret Thatcher is his mother. She gave birth to him while voting on UN resolution 838483 which outlawed Africa. His father is Father Time.

He was not raised, but whatever the opposite of raising would be: lowered. It doesn't make much sense, but because of technological advances in physics, he was able to lower himself from old age to middle age, back to not too old, but not too young, so he's about 60 I bet right now even though he was born in the mid-80's.

Our first interaction was during the first Iraq War in the late 80's or something. Luckily, history repeats itself. George Bush was president, and Reagan could still wipe his own ass (meaning before he got retarded because of dementia and crack (little known fact, but the whole say no to drugs was started by Nancy to get Reagan off drugs! LOL)).

John came up to me and said "Gregoe, I read your op-ed in the Times and I did not like what I saw, sir." This was odd because I had never written for the Times. In fact, I had only written pamphlets describing Oklahoma's historic arsenic factories. But I decided to play this game of mice catching cats in heat. "John," said I, "do you have any idea why I wrote that piece?" and this was a huge gambit because I still did not know which piece he was talking about. "Well," he said through yellow teeth and the eyes of a flamboyant valkyrie, "You're a science crazed freak.

"I thought that maybe you would like to join my cabal. I am looking for advisors and I think you have what it takes, you hillbilly sex mechanic."


The first time you're called a hillbilly sex mechanic, you freeze. Time freezes, your balls freeze, your face contorts slowly, you have daydreams that last for days, but in reality only a few femtoseconds have passed. The second time you're called a hillbilly sex mechanic, you get angry, mad, steamed, pissed, irate, and itchy.

The third time I was called a hillbilly sex mechanic was when john fucking bolton, the teenage ingrate son of Margaret Thatcher, decided to let loose his (totally) fuckable moustachioed mouth. Wave after wave of slime and sex and emotion filled my hair, my teeth, my spine, and I felt like HAL from "A 2001: Space Odysseus", completely emotionless, red, large and mechanical.

"Hubbababrooo!" he shouted to get my attention, "do you want to position or not? It's assistant cabal leader, just give me your salary requirements and a cover letter. My e-mail is Cuddles69@GOOGLEsingles69.com."


"I didn't realize there was an open position," I said. "Besides, you hardly know me, and I'm a writer, we don't get along well with others, especially politicians."

John looked at me, long and hard, and I knew he was undressing me. But it's alright because I already was a little turned on because of the beads of sweat on his brow. He is not afraid to look you in the eyes, and then look at your pants zipper where your wee-wee usually pokes out it's head, and then he looks back at your eyes, and then back at the zipper-wee-wee-hole, and then back at your eyes.

"I'm not a politician," he said. "I'm a statesman, and a card carrying member of the PKK."

"The PKK, aren't they the Kurdish separatists trying to overthrow Turkey?" I asked.

"Yes." he replied.

Awkward silence.

[Scene]