God From The Machine

Maybe it’s the dread of the White Death that is coming to Bagwine, Ohio and the 8-12 inches of snow we’re supposed to get from it but man…

I had one helluva crazy dream Sunday night/Monday morning.

I was at picnic fundraiser for Sarah Palin. It was a warm summer day, and the fundraiser was being held at a park.

True to her folksy, homespun carnival act personality, there were all sorts of activities that one might find at a small town America cookout.

I signed up for the three-legged race. I’ve always kinda dug that. We all threw our names in a hat and Sarah drew names to see who would partner with whom.

I was excited because I knew that if I had a decent partner I had a good shot at winning. My excitement soon became despair when Sarah named who would be tied up with me…

Stephen Fucking Hawking!!

“What a disadvantage that puts me at.” I muttered to myself.

While other pairs are running the race with three good legs, I’m going to be draggin’ Hawking down Lane 4 for 50 yards.

I was thinking to myself, “Holy Shit…Having Heather Mills as my partner would be a step up.”

Anyhoo…Hawking comes rolling up to me, and in his creepy McDonald’s Drive-Thru speaker voice, said…

“Let’s kick some ass, Matt-Man.”

So I dump his ass out of his wheelchair, and he’s laying there in all his palsied and Parkinsonian glory flippin’ and a-flappin’ around like a washed up walleye contorting on a hot rock, and I tied him to my right leg with a bungee cord and duct tape.

I dragged him and his useless body over to the starting line. There were six teams in the race, but one team in particular was giving me and The Hawk-Man the stink eye.

It was the team of Bill O’Reilly and Glenn Beck.

After we stared them down (well, after I stared them down, Hawking’s face was in the dirt, mumbling some incoherent bullshit about supernovas and their effect on the space/time continuum), I turned my eyes to the prize and the finish line that was 50 yards away.

Palin with bullhorn in hand, shouted, “Ready, Set…” and then several rounds from her AK-47 set each team into motion.

Despite the dead weight attached to me, I was bolting like lightning down the course…
Hawking beside me and behind me all the way, his face being bloodied by the ground as he drooled and continuously muttered, for whatever reason, “Deus ex Machina!!”

O’Reilly and Beck were leading, but as we neared the finish line lagging behind those two nut jobs, they abruptly stopped in order to deeply kiss and fondle each other’s dick.

As they engaged in their ego and cock stroking man love, I sped passed them hauling Hawking’s bouncing, crippled body beside me.

As we crossed the finish line in triumphant fashion, I realized the brilliance of Hawking. O’Reilly and Beck’s public display of depravity had been our Deus ex Machina.

I cut Hawking loose from me, gave him a bottle of Gatorade, and proceeded to have obligatory winner’s sex with Bristol Palin.

Hawking? Unable to put himself into his wheelchair, he lay there calculating exactly how long it would take him to die from over-exposure to the hot summer sun. And you know what?

That brilliant bastard predicted his sunstroke induced demise right to the nano-second.

Cheers!!