Smartest woman in the world. Just ask Dracula.
Hillary Clinton has demanded a Congressional investigation of the 2024 presidential election.
“The Republicans have stolen it!” she asserted. “They stole it from me in 2016, when it was My turn! And they stole it again in 2024!
“Well, I’m gonna have my turn! The only remedy is to overturn the 2024 election now, I mean right now, declare this year to be 2024, and install me in the White House as president. Nobody cares what year it really is, anyway! And isn’t there, like, some prophecy of me being declared president because it’s My turn? I’m sure there is!”
(The only one I can think of is This is the POTUS/ who fatally smote us. But I thought that was Biden.)
Asked, “What about the rest of President Biden’s term?”, Mrs. Clinton replied, “He can come back in after I’ve had My turn. We’ll just change the years around some more.”
I don’t know why I was looking at 2024, with 2020 breathing down our necks–and what a disaster that’s turned out to be.
It’s amazing, though, what you can see in a jar of Miracle Whip.
Election, 2024: Sure-Fire Predictions
In Jesus’ time no nation had the right to change its government. You lived as best you could with what was imposed on you by brute force. You’d better believe His kingdom was not of this world. This one’s just a mess. He came to sort it out. In the meantime… ugh.
If elections are made corrupt and meaningless, we’ll be going back to that.
My friend–who does not wish to be identified, so I’ll call him Roscoe–can see the future by concentrating deeply and peering into a jar of Miracle Whip. “Don’t tell anyone my real name,” he says. “Otherwise someone’ll try this at home and wind up in the emergency room, and then they’ll sue me.” Hint: you have to open the jar.
I fear for the future of my country, so yesterday I consulted Roscoe and he did his thing–really, I don’t know how he finds the strength and courage. In a few minutes, he was observing the 2024 presidential election.
At first it was just brief messages. “Vote for me! I have the most tattoos!” “Vote for me! I can eat a Tide pod and not get sick!” “Vote for me! I can’t be deported if I’m president!” And then Beto Somebody saying, “We learned your language by monitoring your TV and radio transmissions.”
“I see a crowd covering the state of Rhode Island,” Roscoe begins to chant hypnotically. “No, wait–it’s not a crowd, it’s all the Democrat candidates. Sure are a lot of ’em!”
He sees campaign promises. Free college for all. Guaranteed minimum universal basic income of $15 per hour for every hour you remain alive. Double that if you vote Democrat more than once in each election. Public offices awarded to all Women Of Color, complete with pension. Free housing for all. Free food at your city’s finest restaurant. “There’s a Kamala Something out there who wants everybody to be registered as another gender, in case they want to change. Free gender reassignment for every person in America!” Roscoe shudders. “I think she means it!”
Now, he says, “The Miracle Whip’s getting all murky, I can’t make out the pictures. I’m afraid that’s it for today.”
“But wait, you can’t stop there! You’ve got to tell me who wins the election!”
But he only shakes his head and mutters, “There are some things it’s better not to know.”