Being a twenty-something blonde with a nice rack who is accustomed to unwarranted attention, Meghan McCain would like us to drop everything and commiserate with her about her dating life. And as someone who becomes instantly attentive when hears the words, “McCain” and “fucking” – albeit attentive and terrified – I am inclined to listen. Actually, since I have a penis, I have no choice.
Apparently the greatest tragic fallout of John McCain’s failed shot at the presidency for Meghan is that her dating life has become problematic. She bemoans that her dad’s loss has stripped her of her personal life, and she has chosen to share this misery with strangers on the Internet… probably because when she tried to get her father to sympathize with her cataclysmic hardship, he was too busy trying to get his shattered arms to work well enough to flip a noose over his head.
It seems that whenever Meghan journeys out with a gentleman caller, things don’t seem to work out because things always come back to her father. She feels like Obama supporters just want to tell people they hooked up with John McCain’s daughter, and McCain voters just want to get closer to her dad, and therefore there’s never a second date. Yeah, that’s totally it Meghan; normally, there’s no one that a red-blooded American male wants to take on a second date than a girl with obvious, permeating daddy issues.
All kidding aside, the problem is totally with us guys and not Meghan. Why, she went out with one guy who told her she would look good in pearls, and it was obviously because her mother wears pearls! And she’s right, of course; all of us are just obsessed with your family, and you’re just trapped in… in…
Yeah, I can’t do this anymore.
You are a fucking moron, Meghan. You’re a Goddamned college graduate, and I don’t want to be the guy who bursts your “poor, poor me” bubble, but when a guy tells you that he thinks you’d look good in a pearl necklace? He is not thinking about your mother.
If only there were some way to get out from under the crippling yolk of your family name, Meghan. If only the courts could offer some form of relief for your daily personal agony. But alas, that can never happen; clearly people like Pandora Peaks were blessed by parents who foresaw their careers in porn. But alas, you’ll have to suffer with the name McCain, and all the curses it brings, like millions of dollars and automatic political writing gigs despite having a resume so thin you can read Matt Tiabbi’s Rolling Stone articles through it.
Just tell guys your name is Meghan Smith, genius! You’re a good enough looking girl, and guys only give a fuck about your name the instant you demand that they say it in the sack! And don’t you dare start whinging, “Oh, but guys will recognize my face!” Don’t worry about your face! If you wear something low-cut enough, trust me: guys won’t even recognize that you have a fucking head.
Not everything is about your daddy, Tits. You’re overthinking this. Take a step back and think: you’re a blond with a nice rack and a genetic predisposition to remind people of porn stars; you’ll be fine. Trust someone whos been around the block a few times: whether your name is Meghan McCain or Dorcas Ipschitz, you will always be able to find a guy willing to give you a fake name, ply you with Woo Woo shots and the odd Rohypnol, gack on the side of your head and sneak out before you stop snoring or breathing. Hell, I’ll do it.
My name? Barack Obama. Moo-ha-ha-hah.
[tags]Meghan McCain, John McCain, Cindy McCain, dark humor, satire[/tags]
