By the Comics Curmudgeon
Has the long, oily nightmare of oil spewing out of the Earth’s crust in the Gulf of Mexico finally ended? Maybe! BP seems to think so, and they sure haven’t been wrong on this point yet. But even if the actual petroleum-puking is at an end, we need to assess and clean up the long-term damage all this crude has done. There’s the all the birds who are covered with oil and everything and blah blah blah — but, more important, what has the oil spill done to America’s sexytime sex activities? Terrible things, it turns out.
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Everyone knows that the hottest new sex craze seizing Real Americans (who are by definition old) is Tubbin’. This involves dragging a couple of claw-foot tubs out of some neighborhood foreclosed houses down to the beach — one for you, one for your sexing partner; then you get hopped up on boner pills and do what comes naturally (to the extent that anything you do as a result of powerful prescription medication flowing through your bloodstream and down into your genitals can be called “natural”). The decorum for which your Wonkette is well known prevents us from describing the details of what comes next, but one thing we all know for sure is that somebody has to get out of their tub in order for anything hott to happen. And if the ground is all covered with gross tar balls, well, then the Tubbin’ is stopped in its tracks. Nothing good can come of this, for Americans or their artificially engorged naughty bits.
What would become of these unused and painfully engorged cocks? In a demonstration of the can-do spirit that made this country great, they were repurposed as ludicrously phallic weapons. Since the armed forces already had all the penis-shaped bombs they needed, they were taken on by America’s liberal court system, which was looking to build up an arsenal of its own. As you can see here, they immediately put the cock-missiles to use against our nation’s children, since there’s nothing a lefty judge hates more than a dewey-eyed, innocent child.
Meanwhile, horny Americans may have fled the tar-drenched beaches, but that didn’t mean that they gave up their determination to get it on with attractive members of the gender of their choosing. Here we see Barack Obama, America’s sex-fiend-in-chief, attempting to woo a fiery Latin woman with his mellifluous voice. Though he sings to her of policy reform, in her native tongue, he thinks only of her bounteous JLo-style ass, marked the brand name of the company that designed her sexy and civic-minded couture.
Frustrated by the failure of his seduction music, Obama comes up with a Plan B to bed this hot South of the Border chili. The way to a ladies heart is through her stomach! He will make tamales, filled only with the choicest, leanest ground meat. Since liberal Obama refuses to buy the fatty factory-farmed flesh for sale in corporate supermarkets, though, he is forced to turn to unusual sources for his tamale filling, ultimately settling on a very toned general that he isn’t using at the moment.
Next, Obama headed to a press conference with his new general, who would be left in charge of the war for a few months until he too became part of a recipe that the President would put together in an attempt to sex up some vital voting block. Maybe he’d be baked into a pie, or blended up and turned into a delicious cream sauce? Anyway, in all the cannibalistic excitement, Obama forgot his precious teleprompter. Fortunately, Joe Biden was there and didn’t have much else to do, so he stepped in and made one himself. Joe Biden is helping! Joe Biden loves helping people out!
Nine months later, drawn by some inexplicable instinct, our Tubbin’ couple return back to the beach where they first mated, to spawn. An industrious BP cleanup crew arriving on the scene later that morning found their dozen or so babies scattered across the oily sand.