Who are the Proud Boys anyway? What’s with the smart pink satin dressing gowns they flaunt around the East Side glory holes linked to Melania the Pole?
No, don’t say you don’t give a fuck! You do give a FLYING FUCK about the Proud Boys because dirty donnie trumpleskin pins his hopes of retaining power if the nation should rise up and reject his twisted ass this November.
The Proud Boys originated from the dusty ramshackle towns of eastern California. There, in the early 2000s, Boy Scout troop 6969 reached their peak membership of eleven young men desperate to learn the marketable skill of knot tying.
A stronger obsession focused on that bitty thingy named Willy dangling from between their legs. They heard of strange, unsettling tricks Willy can perform.
One night while camping in the Mojave Desert, Scoutmaster Bubbles taught the boys the ancient Comanche ritual, the “tuga ruba”, or the “circle jerk”
Soon, any idea of tying knots, except as part of certain advanced techniques, was consigned to the honey pot.
“Masturbation Today! Masturbation Tomorrow, Masturbation the Day After Tomorrow”, the slogan went, “until the seed is lost, and then is found.”
The Proud Boys sprang from the ashes of that old Boy Scout campfire site. Gallons and gallons of white boy jism soaked two feet deep into the desert ground. Then that old Scamp God hurled a lightning bolt on the underground spunk haven, a bolt powerful enough to flatten my hometown of Akron, Ohio, and disintegrate my enemies into subatomic particles.
Where are you now, Oh My People?
Of course, you never heard of this massive release of electric energy because you, like myself, are stupid balls of fat, skin, and muscle and nobody tells us a goddamn thing! If we had but 20% of the knowledge held by our masters, how our hatred would reduce their proud flesh to shit, piss, bile, guts, and brain slop.
How did I find out about strange phenomena? While involved in deep philosophical toilet work at the home of a noted physics professor, I picked up an ancient manuscript left at the foot of the throne. I read the entire 300-page book in one evacuation, finishing hours after the stink was gone.
The author was a Serbian monk was 1266 years old at the time of the book’s publication in 1986. He gave a name he admitted was false. Among his numerous wonders, he taught Einstein the Theory of Relativity. Oh, yes, he did.
Slobumki claims the tremendous lightning bolt reanimated the dead sperm to a nearly infinite quantum state of hyperlife. The little fellas fused together into larger grains of super-jism. Thousands of them hitched rides with birds, bugs, and Gila monsters to infiltrate the local villages and hunt pussy. The supercharged spermatozoa were especially drawn to hideous women blessed with bountiful fish stink and reeky ass-crackies.
These couplings spawned the first litter of Proud Boys: forty-five hundred of them. Over the intervening years, twelve hundred were slaughtered on general principles. For those who remained, the overpowering energy of the crazed super-jizz allowed each aberration to display rampant, raging, grotesquely violent homosexual behavior. They were all profoundly mentally retarded as well. But order one to take a chainsaw to liberal scumbags massaging one another, you better bring a mop and pail.
One enterprising patriot had the idea to mold these thirty-three hundred freaks into special ops strike force to shock and destroy enemies of President Trump. He dressed them in black-and-yellow polo shirts and Doc Marten boots and armed them with six-foot long hardwood BLM skull bashers. The chief also loaded them down with Nazi poster art, Japanese armbands, Universal pornography and unlimited barrels of beer. The monstrosities grunted, whooped, burped and farted their joy.
What we all want to know is how do you kill these abominations? Note: the little bastards are swollen with Trump gas. Piercing one can cause a nasty explosion. If you can hit one or two of them in a crowd, the blast will wipe out the whole crew.
Slobumki said not to hold any scruples about destroying them. They’re like lobsters, he said. They barely know they’re alive.
The monk also told me the Proud Boys are like stains. Spray them with Shout! or any commercial stain remover and watch them melt away.
Trump has ordered the Proud Boys to stand tall for him if he loses the election. This will guarantee the most picturesque slaughter in American history. Watch thousands of Proud Boys explode from gunfire and melt from stain remover! Hear the grotesqueries shriek as they die!