Storming Normandy.

As inconceivable as it may seem, it appears as though the majority of the country feels as though Peabs did not win the Presidency last week. I think this is utter fucking bullshit and refuse to concede. Bovs. Therefore, Peabs shall remain your President, America, whether you effing like it or not. And to be quite frank with you, if you do have a problem with a gorgeous motherfucker like myself running your country, kindly sample a load of my hot man-sherbet, you fucking cockface mcjohnsons. Oooh-jah!

This past weekend was nothing but a celebration in honor of the Peabs and Cosby victory in last Tuesday's election. And nothing quite says "victory" like smoking some Acapulco Gold and chasing some 714's with a gallon of AC/DC. Obvs. By the middle of Saturday afternoon, Dr. Bill Cosby decided he would now go by the moniker of Davy Crockett and that it would be a good idea to fuel up the Obvs in '04™ Campaign jet and fly butt-ass naked to Pierre, South Dakota. Who is Peabs to disagree? She mars all over your granola bars, you fucking hippies.

It was in Pierre where we picked up former Senate minority leader Tom Daschle, fed him a couple of 40/40 bars and phoned some of the Dakota's finest and most respected individuals in the business of whoring. Let me tell you a little something about Tom: he's one sick motherfucker. Granda, he's not one to take a bunch of acid, shove his fist up the vaggie vag of a filthy hooker, and turn them into his own personal Muppet, Jim Henson-stizz. Not that Peabs has ever done such a thing. Okay, maybe I slipped a little bit of GHB into Jane Pauley's drink, colored her quasi-comatose face green, got elbow-deep in her snizz and made her my very own Kermit The Frog, singing "Rainbow Connection" in mixolydian for 3 straight hours. But that's all fucking hearsay. (Though Peabs must admit her voice makes Paul Williams look like, well, Paul Williams.) Schmobvs.

Needless to say, our good friend Tom was certainly looking to party upon losing his seat in the Senate. Like Peabs had mentioned before, he's a bit on the "effed side", so to speak. For instance, he always refers to himself as Daschle, which, obvs, Peabs has no problem with. Mars she, I fucking created referencing oneself in the third-person. Omniscient-stizz, snatch. I also double-teamed Merriam and Webster with a quadruple-sided dildo and a bottle of Pam®. Duhvs.

Anyway, Daschle's into extraordinarily young women. Robvs. I shan't chastise anyone who is, Coz included. What the former senator prefers, on the other hand, is a little, shall we say, unique. Christian coalitions might call it "perverted and immoral", but they get on their effing knees and pray to the altar that is my fucking D™. Bheers. Nevertheless, Daschle suggested we get some tween whores, knock off a toupeé shop, and play Sy Sperling with our young harlot friends. Oh, you've never played? Let's have Dr. Bill Cosby explain the rules:

"First you flazzum on her bazzle bozzle, then you make flizzum like she was a falafel waffle!"

Either way, all that Peabs knows is that at one point Daschle had unloaded an exhorbitant amount of jazz onto the pre-teens' respective "bald spots", which acted as glue for the stolen toupeés. The kicker was when Tom made them each say:

"I'm not only the 'Hair Club for Men' President, but I also love to guzzle Tom's ridiculously large load of jism down my hot young esophagus."

There's really nothing more I can say on that particular subject. Let's just say Peabs didn't go the whole Sy Sperling route. Instead I just let off some fireworks, assfucked each and everyone of the dirty 12-year old hoebags and made them speak to me in French as if it were D-Day. Obvs.

Did Peabs forget to mention that I'm the fucking President of the United fucking States? Well, I am. We needn't mention that I'm also a turkey. Gobble!

It sickens both you and I how fucking brilliant I am.