And just like the people who make cosmetics, the sex toy industry is pretty much finished too. Unless our bodies evolve new pieces that are able to give us orgasms, all the sex toy industry can really do is work on improving what they’ve already got, usually by making it bigger, more powerful, or bigger and more powerful. Or, you know, by manufacturing it in stupider colors and designs that make you feel guilty because of your mental image of Rainbow Brite and the Easter Bunny just banging away in your sock drawer. But the important thing here is that us ladies have had vibrators for a long fucking time. The first known vibrators were invented by a British physician in the 1880′s, but I’d be willing to bet that women have probably been using them in some form or another ever since the Rishi Munis of Ancient Motherfucking India harnessed electricity, just because we love our vibrators that fucking much.

Now, since you know we’ve had both makeup AND vibrators for at least the last century, and that we’ve contentedly kept our makeup separate from our vibrators because our pussies look just fine without any concealer*, and our eyes look and operate just fine without daily vibrating massager use… what, for the love of fuck, would convince you that makeup needed to vibrate? It doesn’t DO ANYTHING. All it does is make it hurt that much more when you accidentally poke yourself in the eye with your mascara brush that won’t fucking hold still. Listen. I’m already briskly walking down the street or sitting on a bus that’s jolting and bouncing along like the Crocodile Hunter’s ATV on the fucking African savannah. I DON’T need my makeup to vibrate ever so slightly as I try to smear it on my face on my way to school or work.

I wouldn’t mind so much if they actually had powerful enough motors to satisfy an average woman’s sexual needs. (Let’s say, a woman who doesn’t go into ecstatic orgasmic convulsions every time a train goes by her house.) I could get behind that. Stealth vibrators are a great idea for those of us who have huge sexual appetites and no shame at all, but who also like having plenty of privacy from anyone who might catch a glimpse into our purses and recognize that we’re carrying around a three-foot, car-battery-powered orgasm-o-tron. But, that being said, a top-of-the-line stealth vibrator will have just about any girl who isn’t frigid screaming and slamming her foot on the brakes in about ten minutes or less. At worst, a shitty cheap one will make you sort of tingly all over if you put it in just the right spot for long enough. Not these. Your average vibrating soap bar not only does absolutely fuckall for your skin and muscles, but wouldn’t be strong enough to make your clit recognize that anything out of the fucking ordinary is happening to begin with. Not to mention the cruelly stinging pee-hole you’re gonna get for trying anyway. You could get off faster by sitting on your bed in tight jeans, turning up the bass on your radio and trying to find exactly the right position that will make your crotch seam vibrate a little bit. And there’s no reason to even consider using makeup as a masturbation aid, unless you either don’t mind crusty vagina slime on your lips, or you’ve found a way to completely disinfect it after each use without either ruining its cosmetic capability, it’s vibrating capability, or its not-getting-harmful-chemicals-in-your-fucking-eye capability.

Makeup and soap are great. Vibrators are great. So are  tranquilizer drugs, cold medicine and heavy machinery. Only they just don’t fucking go together. Give it up. The cosmetics industry has been friends with our faces and our skin for a good long time. We like you. We really do. You make our eyes look beautiful, our lips look fuller, our skin look flawless, you keep our legs hairless and smooth and moisturized, and you replace our body odors with any pleasant aroma or combination of pleasant aromas we can possibly imagine. This friendship is based on a measure of respect, because you understand how all those parts of our bodies WORK. So, please. If you’re trying to forge a friendship with our pussies, have enough respect to learn how they work too. Honestly. A North African clitoridectomist could demonstrate a better understanding and more sympathy toward female genitalia than you guys.

Oh, and if you’re trying to make our eyelashes/teeth/skin look better by making our personal care products vibrate… What the hell are you thinking? That’s fucking retarded.

*With the exception of Christine O’Donnel, who needs a little bit here and there to cover up the friction burns.

I’m a young, starry-eyed high school graduate who is trying to find an apartment of my own, for the same reasons everyone else my age wants an apartment of their own. (Privacy, independence, and let’s face it, a place where you can gleefully designate an alcohol shelf in the kitchen and nobody will pour it down the sink in indignant rage while crying that they’ve failed as a parent because their older teen occasionally drinks small amounts of alcohol.) As soon as I find said apartment/pimping pad/castle, I’m going to start college classes and go from there, perhaps living happily ever after without managing to bungle it all up. After that, it’s medical school and all sorts of things I don’t even want to think about right now.

Now, I am not a cheapskate, though I’m quite frugal unless it comes to buying firearms, in which case frugality usually isn’t a great idea. Everybody I ever met who consciously tried to buy the cheapest guns they could find were the ones who I later saw trying to use the barrel as a telescope and asking me which button they had to press to make the “BOOM” noise. But, that said, I spend a lot of time thinking and researching before I drop a thousand lettuce units or more on anything, no matter how important or urgent, to make sure that I am making a choice I won’t regret.

Usually, this is extremely effective. But the effectiveness, for some reason, does not exactly carry over easily into my search for a place to live.

I look up apartment complexes in my price range, look at the floor plans and the pictures and all that, but then I try to find what other people have written about their particular experiences living in the complex I’m researching. Nothing could be more informative, right? I mean, if you see what everyone else is saying, you don’t have to take some manager’s word for it, because even in the nicest complexes, as I understand, they tend to stretch the truth. A lot.

But despite looking like a glorious idea at first glance, I think I’ve discovered that reading apartment complex reviews is just as ineffective as taking a manager’s word for it, only in the opposite direction. There is a language that must be learned. The language of middle-aged, jobless losers and young adults with five kids and an entitlement complex. With some cross-referencing, fact-checking, and a lot of time, I have managed to make a list of translations from common Apartmenreviewese phrases to English that might just help anyone else out there who is also just trying to stay safe, comfortable, and not fucking broke. It’s not definite. Some people write apartment reviews in plain English and can be taken, more or less, at their word. But for the other 75 percent, there’s this:

1. “Riddled with crime.” : I once saw a police car.

2. “Hell on Earth.” : Noisy. A few residents are college freshmen.

3. “Dangerous.” : I slipped and fell on the sidewalk during that ice storm one time.

4. “LIES!” : I didn’t bother to read the lease agreement, or let someone else read it “for” me, and now I feel entitled to break it with no penalty whatsoever.

5. “Dirty, infested with conckroaches.” : I am too busy partying/working/sleeping to clean my apartment properly or check to make sure there aren’t leaks under the sink/etc. This has caused mold and insects to enter my apartment, but since I don’t own the apartment, it’s not my fault.

6. “Maintenance sucks.” : I had a leak/mold patch / saw a cockroach / etc, and ignored it for two months before calling maintenance, by which time the leak had ruined the ceiling/mold patch covered a wall/ cockroaches were everywhere. Their fault for not getting here earlier.

7. “Perverts everywhere.” : I’m a woman who thinks every heterosexual man on Earth is lying, conniving, raping, chauvinist scum, and some guy once walked his dog past my window at 3 AM and I happened to be naked. Not sure if he saw me. Possible sex offender lives in a house three blocks away.

8. “Great, if you can stand the stench.” I really have no idea about any of the other apartment units, but the particular one I happened to find myself with was previously inhabited by a smoker/cat owner, and that means the whole complex must stink like stale smoke and cat piss.

9. “Management is rude and uncooperative.” I am a man in my early twenties – late sixties with aforementioned entitlement complex. I once called the manager to inquire about the late fee attached to my rent, and by “inquire”, I mean “yell into the reciever and imply threats to the safety of her family and the security of her career.” The way she raised her voice and subsequently refused to comply with my demands leads me to believe that she is a rude, miserable hag.

How To Not Be A Hypocritical Little Shit:

Along with the beautifully embellished descriptions of apartment life, there was also a great deal of arguing between the people who wrote the reviews. On reading these, I noticed several inconsistencies in the arguments, but the ones concerning racism and hypocrisy were the ones that irked me the most. I’m now going to give a short course in how to not be a hypocritical fucktard. If you find yourself on a moral/ethical high horse during your apartment search, you should kindly look in the nearest mirror to ensure that you’re not climbing atop a mountain of bullshit only to find yourself impaled there.

I noticed a strange dynamic; There were a lot of people who claimed they did not want to live in a place with a lot of “hood rats” or “gangsters” or “thugs”, and, crude and uninformed as those words and the people who use them might be, we all know what those words are meant to imply. (Minorities, namely black people*.) But as soon as someone actually came out and stated that they wanted to live in a predominantly white neighborhood, everybody was all over their ass like white on rice. It’s fine not to want to live with “hood rats”, but if you actually say what you mean, for some reason you become a bucktoothed, cousin-screwing white supremacist. Yeah. That’s right. People actually reacted to racism very nicely when superficially non-specific slurs were used (even though everybody knows those words are rarely if ever used to refer to white people.)… But once someone actually, bluntly mentioned race, they were incessantly flamed by self-righteous ignoramuses who thought that blunt racism and racism from behind a thin mask are somehow VERY different from one another. How DARE you hold exactly the same backward beliefs as me and actually state them in clear, definite terms?!

Look. I don’t advocate racism. I think you should base your choice of places to live on solid crime statistics rather than demographics. Yes, the two tend to correlate, but I’d much rather be judging based on solid facts than preconcieved notions about what minorities do and don’t do. That’s what makes me different from the racist fucktards. But holy shit! If you’re gonna be a childish bastard who wants to sort everything by colors because you lack the capacity to understand numbers… at least look at everyone else who’s doing the same fucking thing and recognize that you aren’t any better, no matter what words you used to spread your ignorance.

*”Black people” isn’t meant to be a snub, for any of you who are going to want to complain. It’s just the most correct way I know to refer to an American citizen with African, Oceanic/etc descent. “African-American” seems to me to be the wrong word because it’s inconsistent. (And because a little research would tell you that brown-to-black skin does not an African make.) A friend of mine who immigrated to the US from Sweden is called a “Swedish American”. If he has children who are born here, even with a Swede or another Swedish-American, those children will be “Americans”. A person who immigrates here from Africa will be a true African-American, but  his or her children born in America will be “American”. I am third generation German, but nobody calls me a “German-American” because there is nothing inherently German about me except my bloodline. Personally I think we should cut it out with a lot of the labeling of people by origin anyway, but this footnote is already way too long.

Happy hunting!

1. The Baby Will Talk When He Fucking Talks. I hate listening to people bitch and moan about little Peyton being a year old and he still hasn’t said anything. He’s been alive for 365 days. What the fuck makes you think he has anything worthwhile to say? Watch the pundits on TV. Most of them are in their late fifties or older and they STILL don’t have anything to say that’s worth listening to.  Do you think he will explain your math homework that you’re doing to get your shitty liberal arts degree? Do you think he knows how to stop the AIDS epidemic? Exactly. He isn’t going to have anything important to say for at least 25 more years, so chill the fuck out and have a goddamn whiskey.

2. The Martyr Mom Complex. You’ve seen her. She’s the one barreling through the grocery store with little Jaycee in her giant stroller, buying organic strained peas and all-natural honey made by docile bees that listen to a 24-7 loop of Bach symphonies. Or maybe she’s the balloon-esque woman you’re dating who thinks she rules the fucking universe just because she spread her legs and took some man-mustard. “The baby wants half a chocolate cake and a two-liter of Pepsi.” or “The baby doesn’t want you to watch TV.” or some bullshit like that.  Bitch, if you’re gonna eat like a pig and be controlling as holy hell, the least you could do is take responsibility for it.

There are martyr dads too. I hate them a little more. At least the women usually end up with the task of pushing the stroller around all day, and they always end up with the task of carrying what basically amounts to a giant parasite in them for nine months. So they sort of have some room to feel entitled. A little more than the guys, at least. I hate hearing fathers brag that they take care of their children, as if taking care of children is not a normal part of fatherhood, and somehow they are going far above and beyond the call of duty by doing it. You take care of your kids? Holy shit! Isn’t that something. I bet you graduated high school too. And maybe you even abstain from stealing purses off old ladies. You’ve sure set some mighty high standards for yourself.

Gimme a fucking break.

3.The Birthers. I hate listening to dumbass hippie couples who wax eloquent about how their child’s birth won’t involve any drugs.

Pregnant Lady With No Medical Field Knowledge: “We’re going to have little Barack the NATURAL way, because excruciating pain during childbirth will somehow make me a better mother in future.”

Me: “What the fuck is your problem?”

PLWNMFK (Taken aback.): “Well I was going to use a spinal block at first… But the lady who taught our childbirth classes told us about how much more beautiful and natural the experience was when the mother didn’t use any painkillers. She even said that a lot of women regret using spinal blocks because they feel like they didn’t-”

Me: “Right. And the lady told you that you should take Demerol to calm you down when you start begging your husband and the obstetrician to give you a spinal block, didn’t she?”

PLWNMFK: “Well, yeah. How did you know?”

Me: “Fuckall. You’d rip your nipple off and eat it to remedy the flu if some wannabe hippie hag told you it was “natural”, wouldn’t you? They want you to give birth without painkillers because a spinal block costs your insurance company somewhere on the order of $1,200. The Demerol is cheap and will make you high as a fucking kite, but won’t dull anything. So there you’ll be, in tremendous agony, and now too fucking stoned to vocalize your need for a painkiller. And also, even if you could, you’re in no condition to be taken seriously, now are you?”

PLWNMFK: “….”

Me: *Sterilizes PLWNMFK with a microwave gun*

A good rule of thumb is that if somebody you’re not friends with is telling you what to do for your own good, and you can’t clearly see how they would personally benefit from you listening to them… Pull up your pants and run, because you’re getting fucked.

4. Breastfeeding Nazi. Same goes for the dumb broads that think breastfeeding your kid makes you some sort of saint. Ok. So your nipples hurt like holy fuck all the time, and your bra gets wet when you hug your mom, and there’s a small population of lonely, Oedipus-complex-riddled men that idolize your sweater cows. Big fucking whoop. This is the 21st century, and breastfeeding a kid is the maternal equivalent of a horse and buggy. Nothing inherently wrong with choosing it, but choosing to do things the hard way doesn’t make your shit stink any less than everyone else’s.

You ask mothers who don’t breastfeed, “Well, don’t you want to give your child every advantage you can?” What the fuck? He’s already going to be born into a middle-to- upper-middle-class family in the USA, which already puts him ahead of like, fucking 90% or more of the rest of the planet. What the hell else does he want? Choke already.

Holy shit. There are at least five more things that belong here, but I’m going to stop in the interest of my blood pressure and go shoot at something.

Senator Judd Gregg (R-NH), who has only the best interests of your children at heart, had this to say on the public outrage concerning the new legislation: “It’s tough love. Just because women have been doing something since the beginning of humanity, doesn’t make it safe to do. We have no idea what kinds of pathogens these breastfed babies are getting exposed to, or how they’re affected by the exposure later in life in their mental and physical development and in their capacity to make decisions for other people. America’s mothers are too busy taking care of their babies to worry about deciding the best ways to take care of their babies. We’re doing a service for these women, and even more of a service to their children by ensuring the criminalization of making non-government-approved decisions on how babies are fed.”

The bill in question proposes a $500 fine for any woman found guilty of or discovered breastfeeding any infant, which would reportedly be doubled if the woman had one infant on each breast. Although paraphernalia such as breast pumps are not illegalized in the bill, it does propose that there be a fifteen percent tax on the items to discourage would-be breastfeeders,  the breastfeeding-nostalgic  and fetishists from purchasing them, despite the fact that sources say a footnote in the bill suggests a sizable subsidy for the breast pump and nipple clamp industry. The bill also advises strict regulations on who can sell breastfeeding-related items, making it illegal for people with biological children, anyone under the age of 85, anyone who has ever had a pet rat, any person who has never been afflicted with chickenpox, anyone who has ever taken out a mortgage on their home, anyone who made a grade between 67.3 and 81.49 percent in eighth grade social studies, and anyone of Dutch heritage to sell them.

Senator Judd states that a committee of male Congressmen is being formed to decide how best to manufacture an autoclave that would heat a mother’s nipples to 250 degrees Fahrenheit for sterilization before each use, as well as other committees to determine the health effects of the sterilization on the infants, a feasibility study giving the go-ahead to make better, hotter nipple sterilizers in the future, and a team of advertisers to help present strict, government-enforced bottle feeding regimes to the public as hip, cool, and totally not commie.

My favorite grandma always says that 20 goes into 80 a LOT easier than 80 goes into 20. And she couldn’t be more right. You’re about fifty, and I eighteen, but the point is that you’re not ever going to go into me or even come close to maybe going into me. That is just the way the cookie crumbles, gramps. There is a TINY minority of young nubiles who are totally hot for mouth-breathing old goats like you who are about five years away from needing Depends, but trust me. If I were one of those girls, I would have let you know the minute I spotted your rotund abdomen preceding you around the corner as you gallumph, man-titties flying, over to where I briefly alight before setting off. That’s just how I am.

You: Fat, fifty and filthy. Watery gray eyes, nasty pit-stained gray shirt and matching sweatpants. Almost every day you just happen to stop and take a breather whilst I’m getting ready to sprint. Your comb-over/ cul-de-sac hairdo, the likes of which I admittedly have never seen before, is reminiscent of a dead man’s pubes (I’ve actually seen and washed several examples of dead mens’ pubes, so I consider myself something of an authority.) about ten minutes into livor mortis, just as the veins underneath are starting to really take on the appearance of death. You bend over and triumphantly gasp for breath as though you’ve just beaten the high school track and field record with fifteen seconds to spare. You always smile at me with those disgusting yellow teeth, and on your outgoing days you try to make conversation while I try to make myself not stab you without a reason that would stand up to the scrutiny of a judge and jury. “This must be how you stay so purty. I always see you out here. I don’t know how you have time for anything else… I don’t think I ever got your name.” and “Do you have any pets? Do you live alone? What do you do when you’re not out here?” Again. Listen to me. Do you see that crackhead by the Dumpsters with the shopping cart full of baking soda? If I give him a cold Pepsi and a pack of cigarettes, he would be more than willing to punch you in your fat neck for me. Speaking of soda, I saw you spill some out of your “water bottle”. Yeah. Vanilla Coke. The breakfast of champions.

Me: 5″3, muscular with short red hair, green eyes, a pixie face and a body men and women a thousand times more deserving than you have gone breathless over. 120 pounds of steel and sex appeal, with fairly advanced weapons training, a willingness to skip rope with your intestines right here on the street, and a knife in my sleeve to make it happen. While you’re in the basement spanking it to BDSM porn and hating your job as a pizza delivery guy and wishing you’d never had those three kids and divorced your wife (I imagine her name to have been something like “Tammy” or “Judith”) and moved back into your mom’s house, I’m cleaning my guns, studying medicine and three foreign languages, and waiting for the day when I have to RSI you and put a chest tube in your worthless ass when you come cruising into my ER after some young lady finally got sick of you creeping up behind her and pulling her iPod headphones out to ask what she’s listening to. I have lived for eighteen years, lived as a free human being for only about four, and already have made more achievements that set me apart from my peers than you could jiggle your enormous jowls at.

I’d plan a better way to get your disgusting ass away from me, but I really don’t have time for that because, thankfully, I’m moving in less than a month. So tomorrow when I see you loping around the corner, I’m going to do something I’ve never, ever done before. I’m going to have a very frank conversation with you about what you’re trying to achieve. Because, after a month of seeing you flop around pathetically at my feet, you’ve piqued my curiosity almost as much as my fury. I feel that, by presenting your sad excuse for a life to me over and over again, I have in a sense become the therapist. And I really, genuinely would like to know what about yourself you honestly, in your heart of hearts, think that I or any woman like me would find attractive about you. So come on over. I’ll even talk to you like you’re an adult. The world wants to know what you’re thinking. I want you to help me help you help me help you.

And hell, I’ve had a dry spell for hilarious stories to tell my friends lately.

Sincerely,
The girl in 408

Despite the less than promising circumstance of their pussy not having arrived three hours into the all-night sex party, the motley gang of losers remains optimistic and has reported that they still have plenty of beers in the fridge. “I gave her a jingle, left a few voice mails, emailed her, and went to her house to see if she was ready to come play, but she never answered. I didn’t see her car in the driveway so I bet she’s on her way right now. Probably just stuck in traffic.” says Jameson when asked at midnight for comment on the so-called “pussy situation”. He then leaned back in his chair and took a swig of one of the approximately eight low-carb beers he would be drinking in the next four hours sans female companionship.

“Yeah. Mike [Brown] told us he knew of some good pussy that wasn’t busy tonight and might be able to come give us some love. She ain’t here yet, but if she doesn’t show up it’s no skin off our noses. Her loss.”

As of press time, the pussy is still “MIA”, the beer supply is reportedly dwindling to dangerous levels, and three of the losers have gone home after terse cell phone conversations with their wives.  The remaining greasy, beergut-toting losers, who will probably never get laid again in their lives without the exchange of currency being involved, are still sitting in the dimly-lit living room drinking beer and chain smoking cigarettes. The duo has not turned on the television, citing that it would “ruin the mood”, but the prospect of watching a pornographic film if the pussy doesn’t show up within the next hour or so is still being entertained.

Pussy-possessing sources close to the men report that one of the remaining two will probably pass out on the couch, and the other will go home to his filthy apartment reeking of sweat, beer and regret.

The threatening letter did not come unexpectedly, sources close to both presidents say. Obama has reportedly been sending terse instant messages to Ahmadinejad for at least a month informing him that he should “stop trying to get nukes or else” and even implying that an even more unpleasant letter than the one mentioned above would be sent if Ahmadinejad did not respond with appropriate action.

The symphony, though it has reportedly not been played yet, is said to be no shorter and no less complex than Beethoven’s other renowned works. Sources say that Yale University is offering somewhere in the ballpark of one million dollars for “first dibs” on the already coveted piece of music.

The discovery of this previously unknown piece of music has not failed to draw its share of skeptics. Some experts claim that Snowe is only 62 years old; clearly born long after the end of Beethoven’s life in 1773. However, still other sources say this is untrue, as Snowe, like her counterpart Barack Obama, obviously originates from the communist Martian alien-insects who are currently pushing socialized medicine in the United States. According to these sources, the symphony written in the senator’s quarter-inch-deep wrinkles is actually just a memorandum to the other aliens about free donuts in the mothership’s lounge.

When asked for comment, Snowe simply stated that she was “sick of people incessantly photographing her forehead” and then proceeded to apply a fresh coat of her usual garish red lipstick, probably to distract the media from the four bottomless fissures on her head.

iBlame, according to inside sources, is an application for the popular Apple iPhone which is touted to have the ability to find a self-righteous way to assign blame for absolutely any issue that can be simply entered into its small, white text box.

Sources claim that it is very user-friendly and extremely easy to use; merely type in any issue that affects a large amount of people (Even a hypothetical or entirely fictitious issue.) and the iBlame will quickly search its database of people who aren’t registered Democrats, people who drive SUV’s and people who haven’t devoted their entire lives to mindless altruism, groupthink and sanctimonious politics.

From that database, iBlame generates a long list of reasons why the arbitrarily chosen person or group of persons is entirely to blame for the issue in question and is said to even give a long, lamentatious soliloquy describing in flatulent detail exactly how and why said person or group of persons is evil, ignorant, selfish and will be the cause of humanity’s extinction or descent into utter chaos. According to Jobs, recent university studies have shown greatly increased amounts of the neurotransmitters serotonin and dopamine in the brains of radical left-wing test subjects using prototype versions of iBlame.

When asked for comment on the studies, one of the scientists, who asked not to be named, had this to say; “Dude. This shit is like crack for them. We’re gonna make millions off this thing. It tells them exactly what they want to hear! Isn’t that brilliant? Who would have guessed that all we would have to do to separate them from their hard-earned cash was to tell them that Al Gore is a demigod, SUV’s and guns are evil, biotechnology will result in the death of our species, and that the free market is unfair? Sure, we’re bullshitting them. But it’s not like they’d be pushing a more reasonable, sane or scientifically sound agenda without the help of iBlame.”

Although other studies show promise, recent rumors that iBlame will be used medicinally to treat erectile dysfunction and frigidity have not yet been confirmed.

The bumblebee, who reportedly had no insurance,  no job, and has evaded taxes for the past decade, is currently resting comfortably at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, getting a free ride off taxpayers, owing to page 118 of the Obamacare bill, which has allocated billions of dollars to the treatment of “special medically under-served populations” including illegal immigrants and apparently insects, both of whom are now exempted by default from taxes.

“I think this is a historic time for America.” The bumblebee stated when asked for comment. “We’ve finally shrugged off the shackles of fiscal and personal responsibility and opened our eyes to a new world order of Americans living off of other Americans who live off of other Americans who live off of Middle Easterners.

If we can continue in this noble direction, creating more impervious off-budget items in the vein of the Prevention and Public Health Investment Fund, veiling new and exorbitant taxes with Orwellian newspeak and blatantly promoting anti-capitalism, I know we can turn this fine country into the government-dictated shit hole it has always had the potential to be!”

The bee reportedly went on to state “ObamaObamaObamaObama!” as an afterthought.

Experts say that the sudden, fly-by-night addition of insects to the Obamacare bill is most likely due to the fact that Mr. Obama himself is a fucking arthropod hailing from a Communist planet on the edge of our galaxy, coming to take over the Earth.

Stated one scientist who asked not to be named, “We shit you not.”