Rush Limbaugh looks like a skinny Rush Limbaugh
I love Rush Limbaugh. I love how he’s skinny now but still talks like an obese person, like he’s choking on his words. I like how he gobbles Oxycontin like Pez. I listen to his radio show every morning because it’s the most interesting thing on the air. There’s a reason he’s number 1. Do I care that his plan to buy the St. Louis Rams was squashed? No.
Do I care that Rush is going to die within the next 5 years of a massive heart failure? No. (How do I know that? Because every drug-addicted fat person dies that way.)
But there is something about Rush that is so endearing that I had to write a poem for the big fat motherfucker:
For Rush
Your voice
grinds through my speakers
and I have come
to adore you. I imagine
that you are here
on my sofa and your necktie
needs loosening.
Narcotics have starved you
but your ill-fitting jacket
clings to you
like a stereotype.
I do not care that you are bald
or that your saliva
reeks of fish and sour
milk.
When I am dopesick, you are
my America.
Let’s move it to the bedroom, captain. Your anger
makes me wet.
I remove my pants—cock hardening
against my boxers.
Lay down, part your legs and don’t be ashamed
of your stench.
When we lay, panting like soldiers
in the tangle of wet sheets and war, forgive me.
Smack me as hard as you need
and I will not tell God.
Don’t remove your rings
when you fist me.
Wrap your hands around my neck
and squeeze
until we are dreaming.
And if you kiss me
when we fuck, I will forget
my heritage,
my purpose,
mi abuelita y
yo me volvere
sin decir una palabra
a la ciudad
de los angeles.