The “human” in me, whatever ages-long culmination of society and culture working tirelessly to reign in unthinking instinct and superstition, wants to agree with you. On the other hand “Ogg want not stop smashing 'til bad man stop gurgling.” Yeah, he’s decrepit and addled but he isn’t Lennie hugging the bunny rabbits a bit too hard. He knows the monster that he is, completely unabashed, and I’m not sure any punishment could be too much to attone for the crimes he’s undeniably guilty of. Nevermind the atrocities for which he is accused but which will also never be properly investigated.
Fully acknowledging we could make it a Line of Succession endurance match and we’d just be pummeling puppets for a moment’s catharsis. Taking frustrations out on living effigies, political avatars of our actual owners. Not that it wouldn’t be fun fast-tracking whiskeyleaks’ face into its future Kenneth Copeland form.
My first act as president is spitefully eating giant, delicious, fluffy, syrup-soaked Belgian waffles to my death. With the simultaneous, apparent, demise of the waffle who dealt the killing blow, there is no defender ergo no challenger. Vice president Butterworth signs orders abolishing the bloodsport and God Emperor Commander President Waffles is declared the nation’s leader in perpetuity.
And somehow it all seems way more rational than the last… fuck me, it’s only been 16 months? Fuck.
Nah, if the sitting president dies, the next president is decided between all interested governors via Hunger Games or a tournament, whichever gets more ad revenue (with the Congress and a figurehead interim president running the country in the meantime).
The “human” in me, whatever ages-long culmination of society and culture working tirelessly to reign in unthinking instinct and superstition, wants to agree with you. On the other hand “Ogg want not stop smashing 'til bad man stop gurgling.” Yeah, he’s decrepit and addled but he isn’t Lennie hugging the bunny rabbits a bit too hard. He knows the monster that he is, completely unabashed, and I’m not sure any punishment could be too much to attone for the crimes he’s undeniably guilty of. Nevermind the atrocities for which he is accused but which will also never be properly investigated.
Fully acknowledging we could make it a Line of Succession endurance match and we’d just be pummeling puppets for a moment’s catharsis. Taking frustrations out on living effigies, political avatars of our actual owners. Not that it wouldn’t be fun fast-tracking whiskeyleaks’ face into its future Kenneth Copeland form.
Or how about this:
You defeated the president? Congratulations, you’re the new president.
(Until you too get defeated sooner or later.)
My first act as president is spitefully eating giant, delicious, fluffy, syrup-soaked Belgian waffles to my death. With the simultaneous, apparent, demise of the waffle who dealt the killing blow, there is no defender ergo no challenger. Vice president Butterworth signs orders abolishing the bloodsport and God Emperor Commander President Waffles is declared the nation’s leader in perpetuity.
And somehow it all seems way more rational than the last… fuck me, it’s only been 16 months? Fuck.
Nah, if the sitting president dies, the next president is decided between all interested governors via Hunger Games or a tournament, whichever gets more ad revenue (with the Congress and a figurehead interim president running the country in the meantime).
So… going back to want the Visigoths did it is.