BIG GUY JOE BIDEN TALKS TO HUNTER ABOUT SWEETHEART DEAL GONE SOURSTOMACH

By

Boo Feeder

First off, sorry for the extended absence from bringing truth to a world of spin gone twisted out of control. The namesake of this blog has sadly passed on to the big ball of yarn in the sky. My “left foot” may be gone but the lies and propaganda emitted from the leftist media goes snowballing along. As such, our superdupersecret subminiature spy drone has been launched to listen in on the loquacious lefties who never know when to just shut the heck up. Our first stop was at the nearby Camp David compound and flew our flea-sized drone affectionately called “Teensy” into the presidential cabin where Joe Biden was making a phone call. Here is what we heard:

” Seven two five, ah Brack, what’s my boy’s number? Oh that’s right! He’s dead. What? Hungry? A plate full of ice cream will, ah, ah, oh, Hunter. Three six six six, okay. How do I dial these buttons? What? Push? Oh yeah, yeah, this phone smells delicious! “

A muffled voice in the cabin was followed by a crescendo of footsteps then a pounding like a hammer slaughtering a bent nail. An unidentified voice very similar to that of a former president said out loud ” Joe, Hunter Biden, your son, is on the line. “

” Hunt? You in the bank? I saw you on TV. Nice going sonny boy! You got that done! I saw you on the radio at the movies. Deal done! “

I flew Teensy to an inconspicuous place to listen in on the phone’s receiver. A crooked, cracking voice said ” Deal? No deal dad! That Trump-ass judge tossed out the plea agreement like it was a cherry bomb with a short fuse. Listen Big Guy, you get that goddamned Garland to do what we paid him to do and get Trump locked the eff up then find another judge to take my plea deal. Dad? You hear me? ”

” If you go hunting with ten bullets then you are a dog bone pony soldier! C’mon Beau. My wife, Valerie, now she has hair sweet enough to eat. Who is that little girl in the picture? Can I have her? “

The sound of chairs or tables being tossed like WWE wrestlers in a cage match nearly disabled our spy drone but as it was made by yours truly right here in the good ol’ USA, it survived the barrage to transmit this tirade: ” Dad! Pops! Wake the eff up! This is Hunter, your only effing son and we’re in some deep shit here. We paid out a boatload of dough to the DA’s office, Merrick Freaking Garland, Jay Bratt, that sombitchin Jackass Smith and all my freaking lawyers and what happens? That blonde bee-atch Noreika, that Trumpass appointed judge, sticks the plea deal up my freaking ass! Dad, we got to put that woman away so one of OUR judges gets the case. Dad? You there, man? You hear me? What are you doing? “

Papers shuffling and tap, tap, tapping on the phone preceded ” C’mon Beau! Blonde hair’s my favorite! There’s a black man here. How’d a blackie get on our beach? What? Oh, right. I saw you on the tube. These new shoes hurt my elbows. Bidenomcs! “

” Pop, what the effing hell are you talking about? My ass is in the wringer here and you’re worried about blackies? You’re not at the beach, man. You’re at Camp Freaking David with Barrack and his team of spinners eating high off the hog, drinking Blenders Pride, watching those DVD’s while I’m twisting in the wind. Call Soros and get his people on this NOW! (Off) them ALL! Dad? Joe? Where the hell are you? ”

” Hunter? Ah, you hear me and hear me loud. Your father is laying in a bathtub with his favorite Barbie dolls. It will be a couple days before we can prop him up in front of a cameras. It’s getting harder and harder, as you know. The drugs are not as effective as before so we’ll need to devise a plausible excuse to put and keep The Big Guy in the basement. We’re working on spinning another pandemic or let those fires in Canada get out of control then mandate masks and, of course, mail in ballots in 2024. You sit tight, Hunter, we’re working on plans to have your case slip in to Never Never Land. You sit tight, you hear? “

” Sit tight? Are you (freaking) kidding me? How am I going to get in touch with my Chinese friends? My cohorts in Ukraine? My dealer? Jesus man, this was supposed to be an in and out deal then Trump’s woman screws me raw. I don’t give a (crap) about 2024. Pops influence is down to zero now outside of our media. You and George were supposed to have everyone paid off. You guys were going to put Fox News into the wasteland but no, nothing’s going my way goddamnit! Get me out of this (mess). NOW! “

” Ah, well, ah, yes. We do have a way of disappearing your charges. I’ll have a car sent for you to come on up to my place on the Cape. We’ll get this all taken care of Hunter, no problem. And, ah, while you’re there you can do some paddle boarding in the inlet. There’s a couple ounces of blow for you there. Sound good Hunt man? “

The only response coming from the receiver was the sound of thunder. Not booms from a dark sky but slams from the doors as Hunter must have done when trying to run away from an impending demise in Martha’s Vineyard was not for him. No way. No how.

Stay tuned folks! More clandestine conversations are sure to follow. In the meantime we’ll be drafting a eulogy for …. stay tuned!

BARACK OBAMA PLAYS GOLF WITH RUSH LIMBAUGH’S BALLS!

Shortly after feinting sorrow over the horrendous murder of an American journalist, our fearless reporter went undercover as Barack Obama’s caddy in a Martha’s Vineyard private golf course. He had only a few minutes to disguise himself before President Obama frolicked from a makeshift podium to the first tee but, to our delight, he pulled it off. Here is Boofeeder’s own John Q. Public’s report:

At hole number one, Mr. Obama twisted and bent to the rapping of N.W.A.. Moments after “Damn, that shit was dope”, Obama threw a fist in the air then turned to me to say ” Ah, boy! Ah, toss me one my, ah, balls. Feeling dope today! Give me Rush Limbaugh’s ball out of the sac. C’mon boy! It’s going to be a good damn day!”

I reached in the side pocket of his golf bag that was decorated with a profile of Obama at the Arc De Triomphe and a presidential seal below his shoulders. There were dozens of balls with photo’s printed on them. Glenn Beck, John Boehner, Sean Hannity and Bill O’Reilly slipped through my hands before I found Rush’s face.

“Damn boy! Give me that Limbaugh ball toot freakin sweet! I’m gonna smack the snot out of that cracker! Ah, you going to have to pick up the pace boy. I’ll be lucky to get in eighteen before some knucklehead interrupts me with another damn news piece I don’t give a rat’s ass about. Boy! I said now!” He demanded.

I handed him the ball and a request ” Mr. Obama? I respectfully ask that you not refer to me as ‘boy’. I’m a man. Served in Iraq and Afghanistan and now a police officer in Boston. Being your caddy today was an honor I proudly volunteered for and graciously accepted. I am not a ‘boy’. My name is John.” Mixing in fact with fiction made me feel like a politician but as they say ‘when in Rome…’.

“Ahh. You think ‘boy’ is offensive? Listen here boy, it’s only degrading when a white honky calls you that. But, ah, from one black man to another, ‘boy’ is a ‘nom de noir’. Nom de Noir! Just made that up, boy! You like…” As Obama was slapping himself on the back while bending over to put Limbaugh’s ball on the tee, his Blackberry jingled to an old gansta rap rhyme by Ice-T.

“Ah, yessir. Yessir. I know that sir. But..” he said in a lower voice as he kicked Limbaugh off the perch then continued ” Sir? Eric said it was okay. He said he got it from you that I should keep it cool and play golf today. Oh, you didn’t? What’s that George? Ah, yeah. I know. Yep, I did call him ‘Jim’ not James, but that’s what Eric…yessir. Good bye Mr. Soros. I’ll clean it up right after this vacation. Bye”. With that Obama teed up the ball with Rush Limbaugh facing directly at the club head and gave it a hard whack. “Take that El Honky!” he shouted.

The ball flew out about one hundred yards then took a nasty slice to the left and splashed into a creek. We got into the golf cart personalized with the presidential seal painted on the front, back and roof. I drove up to where the ball went out of bounds but Obama told me to move on up another fifty yards. He demanded another Rush ball and, after two mishits, landed the golf ball into a sand trap bordering the perfectly manicured green. The president walked past the trap and ordered me to toss him another ball “Ah, let’s have Nancy Pelosi boy. And, ah, hand me that putter with the rubber front. Can’t hurt Nancy! Always use a rubber when you spanking a woman like that, boy! Yep, put her lips on my balls, I did. Used one of those photo engraving machines in my spare time. You know, ah, when the folks in the cracker house get busy with writing talking points for me and my minions. Chris Matthews and all them at MSNBC, ABC, NBC, CBS all get told what to say so what else am I to, ah, do? I asked George if it was okay if I took up a hobby and he said ‘Balack, why don’t you go in the basement and play with your balls?’ And so I did! Started out pasting pictures on my balls then Michelle said ‘Brack! Get with it man. There’s a machine for stamping your balls. Use it or I’ll stamp on your balls myself!  Josh will bring one down to you. You stay put Brack. When George says it’s okay, I’ll come get you and your balls my damn self. You got that?’

The president laughed at the innuendo’s then tapped Nancy Pelosi on her inflated lips. The ball came up short of the hole but Obama picked it up and said to me “Ah, I’ll take a three on that boy. Birdied the first hole! That’s the way to start a round! Told you, boy, it was going to be a glorious day for me!”

Again, I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut and told him that there’s no way I could write down a ‘3’ on the scorecard that was printed with Barack Obama’s image and titled “Hope, Change, Fairways and Greens”. In reality it took him no less than ten strokes to get his balls in the hole. “Sir, one in the creek, two out, hitting three then swinging and missing twice before bouncing it in the trap, that’s six. You skipped the sand bunker to place a Pelosi ball five feet from the hole, that’s seven, eight. Then missed the putt and picked it up declaring a ‘gimme’, that’s nine, ten strokes on a par four. And you say to give you a three? No sir. In the name of integrity for the game, I can’t do that. Sir. And sir? My name is John, not Boy.”

“Boy! I told you that it’s only bigoted to call a black man ‘boy’ when it’s an albino bacon bits belegana saying it! Damn, boy, you know I am the POTUS, right? I can do whatever the hell I want to do. Rules, regulations, laws? That’s for little people, not top dawgs like me! Shit, boy, you know who I am? Playing this game of golf? It’s like ruling the world. I put the enemy’s face on a piece of wood and smash him, or her if you’re talking about that Palin or one of them Fox News girlies, and watch it go into oblivion. That’s, ah, war, my boy. One of these days a golf course will be just like the world I was promised to rule. George and Eric say that in a perfect world, the golf course of politics will be one big ass open field kept mowed by, ah, ‘surfs’ is what they said, whatever that means, with one humungous hole the size of New York City in the center. One world, one nation! With moi at the middle of it all! Yessir boy. You stick with me and I’ll….” Obama broke off his maniacal rant to take another call.

“Where? Free Go Son? Fergie’s Son? Sheeit, Eric, you going where? For what? Oh yeah, Josh told me about that. Damned white aryan cop murdered that innocent young brother. Ah, yep, Josh called me yesterday while I was on the ninth hole ’bout that. Cost me an eagle! Had to take a bird there. I took Glenn Beck and whipped his conspiring white cheeks in the lake. Cost me an eagle Eric! Yeah, ah, you go there and tell them I’m thinking of all them black people, ah, victims. You make sure of that, okay?”

The POTUS turned up the speakers in the cart with Capone N Noreaga screaming “100 channels, turn station, operation 140, Earthquake would bring glory, Noreaga, but for short just call me Nore Catagory, point-blank end of the story”. Obama said “Now that’s dope, boy! Boy? Boy? Where you going boy?”

It was more than I could take. I wiped off the charcoal and turned my white honky-ass face back to Barack Obama and said ” From one ‘boy’ to another: Your balls are all wet!” then tossed all his golf balls in the drink and ran like a scared cat back to my SUV and drove away with three black Cadillac’s chasing me. As I rounded the turn losing the Secret Service back at the gate, I saw Barack Obama kissing what looked like the Sister Souljah ball that slipped out of my hand at the second hole.

End of report.

 

 

 

Raise The Wage! Don’t Protest – Organize! So Says President Obama

At a speaking gig at an elite university, our esteemed leader Barrack Obama continued his eight year long campaign with “Don’t protest: Organize!” in regards to raising the minimum wage rate. And who was he talking to? Kids going to a school where tuition is in the six figures! If those who graduate are actually worried that they will make less than ten bucks an hour, maybe they need to rethink their major. Possibly a BFA (Burger Flipping Arts) degree is not for them. It may be easy to ace the courses and eating the leftovers saves them a lot of dough but….four years of college to get a job that will take 487 years to pay off the student loan? Maybe Obama should encourage them to , say, grow a set? To encourage ambition, not entitlement? Oh my, that’s so harsh, sorry.

As I write and think about it, it would benefit us all if the minimum wage were $30 and hour, not the measly $10.10 the pres is campaigning for. Think about it. At $30/hr the savings would be huge. There would be no need for college. Why bother with school when you’re guaranteed a job at middle class wages right out of the gate? In fact, we could even cut out high school. As soon as a child learns to read and write in a language of their choice and can do enough math to give the correct change, put them to work! If you have four or five kids in the workforce making thirty bucks an hour, you, the parent who deserves a break, could stay home to enjoy the bounties. It’s a win, win, win!

I apologize Mr. Obama. You are right. Organize the children. Raise the minimum wage to $30 so my children can support the ones that gave them life (ie Moi!).  I could then quit looking for a job and spend more time blogging nonsense. Thank you!

 

GEORGE ZIMMERMAN FOUND GUILTY DESPITE EVIDENCE!!

As I watch this trial with breathless amazement, I wonder why the judge hasn’t thrown the case out and dismissed all charges. Trayvon Martin’s own girlfriend who openly testified that calling white people “creepy ass crackers” was not racial, who lied over and over again, who has severe disdain for the defense (I was actually waiting for her to say “Stop axting me you creepy ass cracker!”), made the case for Zimmerman. A witness today, Friday the 28th, testified that it was Trayvon Martin on top pummeling George Zimmerman and it was in fact Zimmerman who cried for help. The prosecutions case is all the defense needs. They could rest right now and Zimmerman should walk out of the courthouse a free man.

But he won’t. Not now, not next week, not ever. He will be found guilty either by the jury or by the judge who would override a not-guilty verdict. George Zimmerman, a man who is obviously innocent of murder, will spend the rest of his life in prison.

Why? Because the state is under too much pressure to do otherwise. Only days after Martin was killed, the media, the DA and even our own president of the USA found Zimmerman guilty. They will not suffer egg on their face no matter what evidence of innocence is proven. We see how Obama threats those who oppose him and the DA’s office has too much blind pride to admit their mistake in charging Zimmerman. The judge will cave, the prosecution will celebrate, Obama will declare Trayvon Martin Day for his only “son”.

Sad but true, Zimmerman is cooked.

The Obama Recession Has Taught Me A Few Lessons

Didio's Weblog

This was written four years ago but is just as true today as it was then:

In the past three years since our supreme leader took over the economy I have learned some valuable lessons. Here are just a few:

1. The cheaper the coffee, the faster the trip to the toilet.
2. Cheap gas at off brand stations has enough water content to freeze my gas tank.
3. Even stray cats and wild opossums won’t eat generic pet food.
4. Drifting is stupid.
5. I don’t miss HBO or Showtime at all.
6. Generic razor blades can kill you
7. Long hair is back in style. Or not. Doesn’t matter because I can’t afford to get it cut anyway.
8. Cats, dogs and parrots eat too dang much.
9. Pasta is better than dog food.
10. Cheap, generic pasta is NOT better than dog food.
11. I can walk to the convenience store without having a heart attack.
12. Good Will…

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