Unlike Nick Saban, perhaps you realize there was an election last week.  If you don’t know, I will provide a little synopsis of the results.  An orange retard won.  The South has risen again.  And rednecks everywhere are humping their sisters in triumph.  The bar for greatness in America is not that high.  So it goes.

Anyway, whenever there is a contest in this country you are sure to find bad winners.  Being obnoxious in victory is what this is country is all about.  Remember when they pulled Saddam Hussein out of that spider hole?  In your face, Saddam.  In your face.

Speaking of in your face, my other fat ass neighbor (not the lawn mowing fat ass) still has his Trump signs up in his yard.  He is as gleeful as a gang of white racists dragging a negro behind their truck.  Ironically, this same neighbor was a public employee for decades.  This nation is also all about hypocrisy.  That’s how you can be a capitalist and a christian at the same time.  As for my neighbor, he has ten days from election day before he has to remove his signage.  I am sure he will milk the entire grace period.  I have considered both vandalizing the signs and burning his house down.  Actually, I’ve only considered burning his house down, but I don’t want to come across as a crazed radical.  Of course, I am not really going to burn his house down.  From what I hear, the price of gasoline is going to go up.

I did, however, swear out a curse in his direction.  The curse goes something like this:

O’ Great and Mighty and Carbohydrate laden Flying Spaghetti Monster, please grant me my wish.  Give this neighbor (and now I am looking directly at this lardo who is out pretending to do yard work while listening to Fleetwood Mac that he thinks everyone else in the neighborhood wants to listen to but I am sure they really don’t) a dread disease, preferably bone cancer, but I can be satisfied with an acute case of gout if you are a merciful god.  Though no one likes merciful gods.  Not to be critical.  Anyway, O’ Great and Mighty one, perhaps a small heart attack while he is blowing leaves would be good.  A sprained ankle?  I suppose it is up to you.  I am just throwing some suggestions out there.  In your name, I pray that it be so.

Hopefully, this curse works.  In fairness to the FSG, I have been throwing out a good many curses lately so it may take a while for him to work through them.  I am sure business is brisk these days.  On the other hand, a supernatural being shouldn’t really be subject to time restrictions.

I’m planning on giving the FSG a few weeks to figure this out.  Until then, I will stare through the trees, sending my own bad Mojo (actually, MO jo) toward the gloating glutton.  Maybe that will work.  If not, plan B.  Find a dead skunk and throw it into his mailbox when nobody is looking.

Plan C?  Grab him right in the pussy.

What can I say?  I am nothing if not a planner.