Trotting Paula Jones out for another recounting of a Bill Clinton Governor pants dropping is a sure sign this election is just about over. Hillary Clinton may be the most insidious Corleone fatty sister and her fake husband may be more rapey than all the faked Rolling Stone campus sexual assault articles combined, but pointing that shit out is not moving the needle. It’s either been accepted wholly or rejected equally fiercely by now one-hundred percent of the electorate and nobody gives a shit.
And he sat down really fast and he dropped his pants. And he was fondling himself. And he asked me to kiss it. Now that is disgusting. And I said I am not that kind of girl.
Hillary Clinton hasn’t expressed a single policy goal in public of any detail or extent to glean meaning. She’s one of the most disliked Presidential candidates in history, second only to her competition. She’s viscerally abhorred among the men of the populace for whom she will serve as an incessant reminder that the cold and conniving wife took home the big trophy. The twenty-five year old hotel room blow job requests from Bill Clinton don’t matter. They only make Hillary Clinton appear more sympathetic and perversely stronger to other women.
There’s no way to know if a less painfully incomplete Republican candidate would have bested Clinton. The demographics and the zeitgeist of this nation have changed. The prevailing social acceptance drastically away from masculine. You could move to Canada but it’s even more extreme there. Feminism is trending up. The age of man is coming to an end. There was a time and place when you could’ve taken out the Ritalin plants and it might’ve mattered. About the time Bill was cheekily pleading for hummers since his wife would no longer fuck him. Can’t really blame him on that one.