In It To Win It

Jersey City, New Jersey, February 22, 2024:

In a defiant act that surprised no one important, Ronatarian Party founder and leader Ron announced that he is "staying in the 2024 Presidential race."

"I ain't goin' nowhere," said Ron in a snarling tone. Running mate Brad stood behind him at a makeshift podium in an unkempt yard strewn with Camaro parts.

"Let the other dominoes fall around me while I make moves that would impress any red-headed woman who's looking to date," Ron continued. "Biden, Trump, and Kennedy are jokers and chokers...[I'm] the real McCoy, but my name is Ron."

Little to no applause could be heard after Ron's statements.

Posted by Ron's Dentist at 02:22 AM | TrackBack (0)

Clean

I thought I prefer to see his face
With no beard nor mustache;

But when I saw him,
I knew I was wrong;

And all the ideas of him
Was gone from my head
I knew I was seeing the man that he is;
The raw, the 2 AM version of him
Is standing right in front of my very eyes

But I still got razor in my hand
And a cream;
I was waiting for my turn,
But when he came to me,

I just stared at him like an idiot,
Smiling,
Throwing a glance on his pretty **** eyes
Admiring the mess in his baffling face.

- Lena Bitare (@hellopoetry.com)

Posted by Bittle at 02:58 PM

Silly Goose

Perth Amboy, New Jersey, February 20, 2018:

A goose that plunged from the sky knocked a New Jersey hunter unconscious and sent him to the hospital.

Famed political outsider Ron was flown Sunday to the Hackensack Meridian Health Raritan Bay Medical Center's Shock Trauma Center in Perth Amboy, according to New Jersey State Police.

A two-man hunting party on the shores of Raritan Bay was in a blind shooting at a flock of geese. One that was shot in flight fell about 90 feet to the ground, hitting Ron directly on the head, Natural Resources spokeswoman Pamela White said. That's about the height of a nine-story building.

The incident would have happened quickly: An object 90 feet in the air takes less than 3 seconds to fall to the ground if you ignore the effects of wind, according to a free-fall calculator that does the math on the equation you learned in physics class. At the point the bird hit Ron, it would have been traveling at more than 50 miles an hour; gravity increases any object's speed as it gets closer to the ground.

Natural Resources officers, Middlesex County sheriff's deputies, and emergency medical technicians arrived shortly before 5 p.m. EST at the wooded area where the two men were hunting.

When Ron came to, White said he knew his name and his political party affiliation (Ronatarian), but was hazy on other details. "He did swear like a sailor," she added.

As a precaution, he was taken via ambulance to be treated for injuries to his head and face. Monday afternoon, the department tweeted that Ron was in stable condition and awaiting additional tests. His famed mustache sustained no apparent injuries.

White stated that she had never seen a similar hunting accident. Ron and his partner/running mate Brad were "lucky to come out as well as they did," she said.

"This is highly unusual," White said. "Come to think of it...Ron is highly unusual, too."

Posted by Bittle at 11:48 AM

Last Jedi

Is Ron the last Jedi?!


...We all know he's our "only hope."

Posted by Bittle at 01:08 AM

Ronstache Day 2017

It's Ronstache Day in America! Salute the flag that celebrates a lovely citizen with a mustache!

- Bittle

Posted by Bittle at 08:48 AM

Poem

Socially Conscious Pornography

We've socially conscious biography,
Esthetics, and social geography.
Today every field
Boasts its Marxian yield,
So now there's class-conscious pornography.

Oh, the worker is nobody's fool,
For by rights he's the man with the tool.
His ponderous prick'll
Arise with the sickle,
And bugger the Fascists who rule.

Miss de Vaughan was a maker of panties
For all girls from subdebs to grand-aunties.
Her very best ad
Was herself, lightly clad
In her three-ninety-five silken scanties.

So this wench is a capitalist,
She's our villain and ought to be hissed.
But she's lush and she's plump,
And a glimpse of her rump
Would teach Marx that there's something he's missed.

Now de Vaughan had resolved on a lock-out
To give Communist Labor the knock-out.
She said, "Fuck the foul fools."
(She'd attended good schools),
And took a fresh bottle of Hock out.

Joseph Smith was a sturdy longshoreman
(And an eminent amateur whoreman).
Just to be sympathetic
He grew peripatetic,
'Til his picketing irked de Vaughan's doorman.

For this lout was a scab born and bred,
Who fainted whene'er he saw red:
In distress he reported,
But she only retorted,
"Run home and hide under your bed."

For her plans were peculiar and wicked,
As she thought, "He's a man, if a picket."
She lured him inside
And insidiously plied
The prick of the picket to lick it.

Joe's rod was stiff as a rail,
But he couldn't let principles fail.
"You degenerate bitch,
That's a trick of the rich;
But the people prefer honest tail."

"You may tickle the cocks and the vanities
Of the rich men who purchase your scanities,
But the proud People's front
Calls for sound hairy cunt.
So it's down with de Vaughan's panty-wanities."

He picked a soft couch in her office,
And tore off her pants and ripped off his.
Then he showed her the rod
Marks the difference, by God,
Between what a man and a toff is.

Now our Joe was the first proletarian
Who had filled with his sperm the ovarian
Recess of de Vaughan,
Which had sheltered the spawn
Of unnumbered Fascists, all Aryan.

Next day his friends said, "You've been soaring,
You're dead on your feet. Were you whoring?"
He replied, "Starving masses
Mean more than plump asses.
Last night from within I was boring."

And de Vaughan thought her troubles were over,
Her picket had left (to recover),
But he'd furnished her womb
With incipient bloom:
A fact she had yet to discover.

So after nine months, to the day,
The employer in labor pains lay.
As the boy hove in sight
He yelled, "WORKERS UNITE!"
And the doctors all fainted away.

The moral of this is, my child,
By rich promises don't be beguiled.
Remember that workers
Are eminent firkers,
And go left, if you must be defiled.

@jokes2go.com

Posted by Bittle at 07:31 AM

Poem

A dozen, a gross, and a score,
Plus 3 times the square root of 4,
Divided by 7,
Plus 5 times 11,
Is 9 squared, and not a bit more.

- Leigh Mercer

Posted by Bittle at 04:11 PM