My Love for 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.