I haven’t read anything about Obama today. The gift of not paying attention. I am happy in my introspective home. My cocoon is my insulation. I am hiding from my failed country.
Peace is peace and the quiet of nonchalance without facing the true creepiness of Obama’s phoniness makes me as comfortable as a large pillow on a bed in Zermatt. When my wife was my girlfriend we slept together on an ample bed at the Hotel Monte Rosa.
When I don’t think of Obama I am not ashamed of my fellow Americans who confuse snake oil for cologne.
Cleopatra died from an asp. We are dying because of a Democrat, an ass.
I beg Obama’s pardon for a nation of fools who believed in him and shut me down as a redneck just because I saw what a phony he was when he was delivering speeches like pizza in cardboard boxes.
He decapitated Egypt’s sphinx by propping up the Moslem Brotherhood.
How could a President be so bad yet the public turn their eyes at his faults in wonder and not turn into pillars of salt like Lot’s wife looking upon Sodom and Gomorrah?
I feel so ashamed for Americans when he sells them sophomoric concepts in the tuxedos of sophisticated ideas dancing.
He is Fred Astaire. He is dancing to our death tunes. He is making us so broke that we will have to sell our patent leather shoes and step on his fake promises like thorns.
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