It is no small secret that I am in love with Cindy McCain. It is on the official record, in a Tempe, Arizona courtroom file cabinet, in the form of a restraining order. I stay up at night stroking her face on pictures that I found doing a Google image search. I write poems about her. Here's one:
I don't want fortune
I don't want fame
I just want to hold you in my arms
As I whisper your name.
Cheating on Cindy McCain is inconceivable to me. She is the pillar of womanhood. She has stood behind, quietly supporting her man, while her man was standing behind a bent-over lobbyist. The thought of anyone hurting that poor woman fills me with a blinding rage. I just want to torture John McCain's body just like the way he tortured Cindy's heart, but even more like the way the North Vietnamese tortured John McCain's body.
I would give anything to be with Cindy McCain. I would give my ability to lift my hands over my head. I would convert to Christianity. I would sit on the couch and watch a lot of basketball and receive pleasure from Cindy McCain during the commercials. Seriously, I would do anything to be with her. This man actually got to be with her and he may have cheated on her. It's unbelievea-fucking-ble. And you know it had to be pre-meditated. There's no way that old man can get his "little lobbyist" up without some help.
So this is what Cindy McCain should do. John McCain allegedly cheated on her with a much younger woman. She should cheat on him with a much younger man. Perhaps with a hirsute man, who is roughly the same size as Earl Boykins. With a Jewish man, who doesn't mind being part of a gorgeously tall shiksa's vengeance at a possibly unfaithful husband (I'm talking about myself here, I don't know if that was obvious). I'll show you that Jews don't just have big noses. Let me be your painkiller baby.
Well, hello there Cindy McCain.