I fucked Dennis Miller

I fucked Dennis Miller last night. Actually, I’ve been fucking him for the past year. The affair started in a Las Vegas nightclub, early fall. I heckled his set, dressed in an Ayn Rand costume, methodically attacking his absurd delusions regarding the libertarian movement.

The club owners had me arrested, but for some unfathomable reason, Dennis Miller came down to the holding cell to mock me. It was love at first sight. He was charmed by my stuttering vulnerability. He reminded me of my father. I realized that my obsession regarding Amendment 9 of the Constitution, had prepared me mentally for our eventual affair.
 
But he hated my loyalty to the destitute and the blind. I resented his camaraderie with Newt Gingrich. My lust for him was humiliating. I abandoned my core principals to sit at the edge of his bed, while he watched video clips of immigrants, being hustled over the border, by fat, redneck cops with nightsticks. When Dennis Miller laughed, I laughed, I laughed until I cried. 

I’ve been trying to get away from Dennis Miller, but I am addicted to the grudgefuck. Last night, he asked me to use BP oil as a sexual lubricant. I once caught him in bed with Bill O’Reilly, eating popcorn, watching German Snuff Films together. He asked me to call him “The Donut King” in bed, but I declined because I am a Lady.

He is cheating on me with Ann Coulter. Today, he texted me a picture of Ann Coulter, fucking him raw in a stormtrooper bikini. Her pasty white skin is covered with moles. Her eyes are Aryan Blue.  Ann Coulter does things I could never do: dirty sex talk in pidgin German, impaling herself with swastika emblems, and telling Dennis Miller that his dick is bigger than Barack Obama’s.
 
Dennis Miller is in love with himself. Narcissists love to fuck themselves. Ann Coulter reflects the ideals that he holds dear: the suffering of others, the decline of the working class, and an irresponsible fiscal government. I CANNOT GIVE THIS TO DENNIS NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRY.  

Dennis Miller is stumped. He can’t control me, he doesn’t get it. In the beginning, he thought he could fuck me into submission. He imagined that I would abandon my work, to follow him on his book tour. He wanted me to sit behind him, sewing stars on a confederate flag, while he practiced his radio show material.

It’s over, Dennis Miller. I have finally figured out this moral ambiguity. I love my country more than you. FUCK THE NIGHT AWAY WITH ANN COULTER. FUCK HER UNTIL YOU BOTH FUCKING FUCK YOURSELVES BACK INTO THE GLORY YEARS OF HITLER’S YOUTH. In my own weird way, I want you to be happy. Besides, you have pushed me into the arms of Eliot Spitzer, who let’s face it, is way more my type.