World To Harry Reid: Drop Dead Already.
I'd rather crank a rusty corckscrew into my ears and soothe the wounds with rubbing alcohol, than ever hear him speak again. I'd rather saw the cap of my skull off with floss and perform a self lobotomy with chopsticks, than ever attempt to process the crazy shit he comes up with ever again. I'd rather pull my eyes out of socket with a dirty shrimp fork, eat them, throw them up, and put them back in place, than ever have to see his shriveled head again.
Harry Reid is the two girls one cup of politicians - he's completely full of shit, and has no problem eating it when he has to.
My birthday passed in December, but if any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I'd like Harry Reid, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy loose skin slumber over there in Nevada with all the other idiots and I want him brought right here, with a big ribbon on his head, and I want to look him straight in the eye and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?
Yes, it's worth channeling Chevy Chase