Hillary Clinton's Locker Room Talk (humor)

[smock]

Remember NY Mag's "The Night Obama and Hillary Founded ISIS"? This one, imagining HRC as a presidential locker room harasser, made me crack up.


Hillary Clinton’s Locker-Room Talk

Paul Ryan headed back to the locker room to get changed after a hard-core P90X workout. The first thing he saw when he walked in the door was President Hillary Clinton. She’d brought a lawn chair in from the White House, and she was sitting with her feet up on the bench, eating a panini from Au Bon Pain. Her eyes were glued to Mike Pence as he tried to change out of his gym shorts and back into his suit. He was using a towel to cover as much of his body as he could, but the towel kept slipping. “Magic Mike! Show me your Hoosier, baby!” the president shouted from her chair, wiping some kind of pesto sauce off her chin. Mike Pence’s face was red as he desperately tried to cover up, but it was a losing battle. “Not as tight as they used to be, Mike. I’m talking about your butt cheeks,” Hillary clarified.

“I know you’re talking about my butt cheeks, Madam President,” Mike Pence said, ashamed. “But I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Your butt cheeks look like two wet apple pies, governor,” Hillary said.“You’re a six, tops. And the only reason you get a six is because I like your face. If I wasn’t eating this soup right now, I’d just walk up and kiss you. I can’t help myself around you, Mike. I want to lick you like a lollipop I just got from my doctor.” She was eating a big spoonful of tomato bisque. “Have you guys ever had the soup at Au Bon Pain? It’s delicious.”

“You still get lollipops from your doctor, Madam President?” Ben Carson called out from a different part of the locker room. Hillary’s eyes now turned to look at Dr. Carson, who was still wet from the shower, almost glistening as he vigorously dried off his thick, muscular thighs.

“Oh yeah, Ben, look at your legs. Wow. Wow. Put your leg up on the bench so I can take a better look at it,” Hillary said. She leaned forward in her lawn chair. “Damn. I want to give your leg a hug.” She threw her body over Ben Carson’s muscular upper thigh and squeezed. “Hmmm, yeah, Hillie needed that,” she said softly, deeply breathing in Carson’s scent. “You smell like a Hawaiian pizza.”

Ben Carson looked desperately at Paul Ryan, wanting him to do something, anything. Paul just shrugged. What could he do? She was the president now. If she wanted to hang out in congressional locker rooms and “inspect the goods” (as she liked to say), how could anyone stop her? “Ben,” Paul Ryan whispered. “You know that if you’re in charge, you get to do whatever you want to the people beneath you. That’s what we believe.” Ben nodded. Of course that was right. How could that not be right?

Ben Carson just stood there and tried to smile as she took a deep sniff of his kneecaps. “Ohhh, I want to take a ride on these kneecaps. I want to make these kneecaps my pony. Feed them a carrot. Teach them how to dressage,” Hillary said in a deep, lustful voice as she rubbed the side of her face on Ben Carson’s leg. Ben was confused, and he whispered to Paul Ryan, “Why would a woman want to ride a man’s kneecaps? Is that a new thing women are doing?”

The truth was, it was just Hillary being Hillary. Shortly after the inauguration, she had started showing up in locker rooms all over Washington and refusing to leave. Congressmen, senators, lobbyists, powerful men were all forced to change in the bathroom stalls when they could, which meant that no one could just hang out and talk anymore. If any of the men complained, the next day they were gone. It was better to just keep your head down, move quickly, and try to get out of there, but the lawn chair and the Au Bon Pain was new. Things were getting worse.

Mike Pence was standing in front of the mirror, softly weeping. “Do you guys really think my butt cheeks look like two wet apple pies?” he asked, with fear in his voice. If he couldn’t fill out a suit anymore, then who was he? Would people still listen to him? Paul Ryan rushed over and put an arm around his friend: “Of course I don’t think that. You have a beautiful butt, Mike. You’ve got the most squeezable ass of any governor I’ve ever met. It’s like a Koosh ball. I wish I could play with it when I’m sad.”

“You’ve got the ass of a European soccer player, Mike,” Ben Carson called out. “Seriously, I’d give anything for your ass.” Mike Pence nodded and wiped away his tears. Hillary just laughed.

“You let that butt get any saggier, and you’re gonna be out of a job, pal,” she said. “Ugh. I hate when men get old. It’s so gross. It’s like watching a snowman melt. No one wants to fuck Frosty, even with the little button eyes.” She had returned to her chair by now, and she was loudly chewing on an oatmeal-raisin cookie without bothering to even take the plastic wrapper off. It was the most disgusting way to eat a cookie, and Paul Ryan could barely look at her. Women were supposed to be championed and revered, but here was a woman licking cookie crumbs off a plastic wrapper with her fly down. He had to look away when she started eating raisins off the floor. “Hmmm, floor raisins,” she said out loud to no one, then let out a fart. The smell was overpowering in the wet locker-room air. Paul Ryan’s heart was breaking.

Rudy Giuliani came out of the shower, saw Hillary, and started to search helplessly for his towel. “Looking for this?” Hillary asked, pulling a towel out from behind her back. Rudy grabbed paper towels out of the dispenser to cover himself, as Hillary started to chase him around the locker room — skipping, giggling, clapping, moving on him like a bitch. Rudy wasn’t fast enough, and pretty soon Hillary had grabbed him by the dick. “Honk! Honk!” she yelled, squeezing his penis like it was the horn of an antique car. Rudy did his best to play along; he laughed and said, “I’m married, Madam President!” Hillary wouldn’t give up. She was a fighter. “Where’s your wife?” she asked. “I don’t see her.” Hillary was now using her hands as flippers to flip Rudy Giuliani’s penis up and down like a pinball before he finally managed to pull himself away.

Hillary rolled her eyes. “God, everyone is so sensitive. Grow up. What did I do? I was just playing around. I was putting my paws on your pee-pee. I was digging for peen!” She said, laughing. Then, surprising all of the men around her, she did an incredibly realistic imitation of a French truffle pig digging for a man’s penis. “I love dick! I gots to have it! I gots to have that vitamin D!” the president called out, getting herself more and more worked up. Now, for some reason, she had slipped into a terrible Sean Connery voice: “Gimme that pen-ish. Gimme that pen-ish.” Everyone was horrified. Especially Marco Rubio, who had just come in wearing nothing but a Speedo and some Crocs. As she pulled Marco into a racially insensitive salsa dance, Ted Cruz tried to hide by stuffing his entire body into a locker. He knew if he didn’t hide fast, she would make him Macarena. “Ay ay ay, Papi! You’re a nine, Marco! You’re a nine!” Hillary called out, as she spun Marco Rubio around the room, snapping the waistline of his Speedo.

Paul Ryan didn’t know exactly why this was his breaking point — before this moment, he had never really had a breaking point — but he couldn’t stand it anymore. He had to do something, as a man, as a congressman, as an American. “No! No! Madam President!” Paul Ryan was shouting now. He was so angry. He was angrier than anyone from Wisconsin had ever been in the history of Wisconsin. He didn’t know where this anger was coming from. Maybe it was just her arrogance. Maybe it was her blindness. Maybe it was watching his friends get hurt. He stood up, still glistening with sweat from his super-hard ab workout, and said, “Madam President, you can’t just grab men. You have to ask first.”

“Ask? What am I going to do — stop everything and be like: ‘Can I grab your dick right now?’ What if you say no?” Hillary was now trying on Marco Rubio’s high-heeled boots to see if they fit her.

“They’re from Florsheim’s. They’re my favorite,” Marco said, quietly. “But you can have them, I guess.”

Paul Ryan was exasperated, which made him look even more like a midwestern cutie: “Madam President, I don’t know what to tell you — you’re breaking the law. And if that’s not enough for some unknown reason, maybe try to imagine that you’re related to us. Like, think of me as your brother or your father or your husband— ”

“Ew. Why the hell would I do that?” Hillary asked, confused. Her face twitched. A fly had landed on her cheek. The smell of sulfur filled the room. Something in her face was changing. A strange glow came out of her eyes, and Ben Carson got a chill up his spine like someone had just dropped an ice cube down his back, but the ice cube was evil.

“Wait, are you, like, literally a demon like Alex Jones said?” Paul Ryan asked, mystified. Hillary shrugged and said, “Yeah. Kind of. I’m 30 percent demon. I’m like business in the front, demon in the back?” She showed them the small pocket in the back of the pants where she hid a compact green demon tail. “It’s not that big a deal. It just means that I don’t really know how to talk to people, and I just sort of live in my tower and watch cable news.” It was true. The president had recently built a tower on the front lawn of the White House and put “Clinton” on it in large gold letters. Paul Ryan stared at Hillary. If she was a demon, maybe some of this made sense. It must be hard for her to be in the world and not understand how humans could actually be capable of great love. He found himself feeling just a tiny bit sorry for her. But only a little.

Paul Ryan squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and told her, “I don’t care if you’re a demon. I don’t care if you’re the president. I don’t care who you are. You have to take your soup and your cookie and your panini and get out of here, Madam President.”

One by one, each of the men in the locker room stood up. Hillary nodded, slowly. Even her demon brain was starting to understand. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll leave. But before I go, would anyone consent to me cupping their butt cheeks on my way out?” Each man said no. Hillary was about to give up hope when she heard a small voice coming from the back of the room.

It was Kenneth Bone. He had just finished his gymnastics class and was still wearing his leotard. His voice was gentle as he told Hillary, “I’m not okay with you cupping my butt, but I’d be okay with you holding my hand.”

Ben Carson shook his head and leaned over to Paul Ryan. “I don’t understand anything anymore,” he said. “Honestly, I feel like I’m losing it.” Paul Ryan nodded, and the two men watched as Kenneth Bone walked over to Hillary and held out his hand. Her face twitched more violently now. What was this? Consensual love? But what if she wasn’t enough for him? What if he eventually left and broke her heart? “I know it’s new for you, but don’t be scared,” Kenneth Bone said, softly. Her hand shook as she took Kenneth’s hand into hers, and together they walked out of the locker room. Her demon tail — for the first time in her life — was wagging.


nymag.com/thecut/2016/10/hillary-clintons-locker-room-talk.html

[luckyval]

"Ben Carson just stood there and tried to smile as she took a deep sniff of his kneecaps."

I just got a way too vivid visualization of this and had to stop there.

[sparrowsong]

This is like the most disturbing fan-fic ever written.

[WOT?*]

You made my day. This is the best post. I want to pet it and caress it and grope it and call it dirty Republican names as I scratch my girly-genitalia and belch.

(luckyval - I totally had an image of Hillary on his knees, waving a cowgirl hat and shouting "YeeHaw! Giddy Up!" rodeo style)

[smock]

It's equally parts disturbing and hilarious.