After watching the presidential town hall debate, I am reminded of something my father used to tell me when we ate Fruit Loops together on top of a large red beanbag chair shaped like a funny firetruck. My father used to say “Jamie, these Fruit Loops may be good, but our political system is bad.” Then we would eat all of our ‘Loops and agree that cereal was better than undercooked linguini and tight, piercing pincers that some people place on their nips.
Watching Trump respond to criticism on his recent comments concerning women, I felt a pain in my chest. To be exact, I felt a pain in each one of my areolas. It was similar to the pain one feels when one starts cleaning out the attic only to find, and subsequently use, a small pair of rarely-seen, poorly-cleaned nipple clamps.
Trump makes me feel dirty when he talks, just like how I felt when I used those clamps for over an hour this summer on a particularly lonely afternoon. Everyone always talks about how Trump’s disparaging comments about women and minorities does extensive damage to social movements across the country that seek positive social change. Yet no one talks about the pain Donald Trump’s existence does to teats from coast to coast.
Even while my nipples cry a bit every time Donald opens his eerie scrotum lips, my stomach also cries a bit every time I look at Hillary and see a large bowl of linguine that was cooked for about 5 seconds before it was taken out, tossed towards a wall, and shattered into a million brittle pieces that jumped up and immediately began saying things like “Donald Trump hates nipples but I love them and would softly rub both of yours if it would win me a vote.”
As Hillary walked around the stage and gestured like someone who wasn’t a human but knew about them, I was reminded of the last time I chewed on a piece of raw spaghetti. I remember how stiff that spaghetti was, how uncomfortable it made me, and how it smelled like on-fire pants.
Regardless of your political inclinations, and no matter who you support for president I think this much is true: I hate undercooked pasta, and nipple clamps are painful and scarring. Never adjust your clamps past the Just-Trying-These-Out tightness setting, and don’t ever consume pasta that has not been boiled all the way through. The choice in this election is either bloody nipples or indigestion. So I urge everyone voting to consider one of the third-party candidates: a bottle of Nyquil laced with PCP, or the tree that hugs you back. You can make your final decision over a bowl of Fruit Loops, and keep in mind that while Loops may be Fruity, politicians are always repuls-y.
Is there actual crack in Pumpkin Spice Lattes? Or is it something else?