In the first debate Kamala—
--made DonOld bark and clap his little flippers like a trained seal.
--baited him, hooked him, reeled him in, and boated him like a goggle-eyed, gape-mouthed, bottom-feeding carp.
--beat him like a prop gong in a cheesy Seventies Kung Fu movie, then inflicted a few Blue Oyster Cult song cowbell clangs for good measure.
--played him like St. Vincent handed a three-dollar plastic ukulele.
--chopped his knees out from under him, gave him a wedgie on the way to the floor, and made sure all the cartoon birdies circling his fuddled head were mockingbirds and buzzards.
--squeezed him like a smutty grape and made him whine.
--dumped Pop Rocks into his Diet Coke-filled head and watched the glorious ensuing fizz and dribbly fail.
--played Road Runner to his Coyote, ensuring that all his Acme infernal debate devices blew up in his pasty, sweaty face.
--sheared him like a sheep, crushed him like a Cheeto, dunked him like a greasy donut, gelded him like a snorting old boar, spanked him like a kitten-tormenting brat, took him apart like a three-piece jigsaw puzzle, reduced him to flop-sweat Jello and kicked him to see him jiggle, made him shit his Depends and sent it running down his legs into his lift-filled shoes, bulldozed him like a D9 Cat flattening a stinky, over-filled litter box, made the animal living on top of his head piss in fright, ran him through the wringer and nailed his saggy, pestilent hide up to dry, dropped him like a rabid rat in a room full of traps and smiled as he flailed into every damn one.
She provided sweet, sweet payback for the Biden /Trump debate. And she enjoyed reducing him to a scowling, gibbering grotesque. It was beautiful.
I started watching the debate with some trepidation, but that evaporated seconds in, at the moment she cornered him and forced him to shake hands. When I saw that I shouted to my wife, “Boss move! She just won the fucking debate!”
And she did, my darlings. She was an eagle and he was a squawking, geriatric rooster. You think that old coward could find the nerve to face her again? He may not see his shriveled balls again before Thanksgiving; they’re still hiding somewhere up near his gall bladder. Or his liver. Maybe Hannibal Lecter can find them.