Let’s face it, to some people, Halloween is like a nightmare.
And it’s not necessarily frightening due to little kids – and some adults -- dressing up as witches, ghouls and zombies and haunting neighborhoods shouting “BOO!” and occasionally tossing eggs or pumpkins at inanimate objects, but because the annual “holiday” comes perilously close to Election Day on the doorstep of every November. In even numbered years like this one, it means that every single House seat is up for grabs as well as one-third of U.S. Senate seats. No national vote for president in 2022, however.
It’s hard to believe it’s been (nearly) two years since the fateful and tragic 2020 election where, thanks to establishment fanned furor over COVID-19 and the even more terrifying (to the elites) prospect of Donald Trump winning another term, many states altered their election laws and time -tested practices to allow for universal mail-in balloting. The ensuing counting mess was eminently predictable, with volumes of evidence after the fact indicating that something sinister was amiss. Much of the wrongdoing we’ll likely never fully expose. The Republic has suffered mightily in those two trips ‘round the sun.
No need to further rehash.
This year, as Halloween approaches, Democrats are downright anxious. And, for them, the sensation’s only going to get worse. Jack Phillips reported at The Epoch Times earlier this week:
“Several Democrat pollsters and analysts have expressed alarm in recent days about their party’s prospects ahead of the Nov. 8 midterm elections...
“’A month ago, it looked like not only were the Democrats poised to hold the Senate, the question was: were they going to be able to get, you know, two extra seats?’ Fernand Amandi, a Democrat pollster who worked on Barack Obama’s presidential campaigns, told The Hill publication on Oct. 24. ‘Now, I think the hope is just to hang on.’
“Mainstream media outlets and Democrat politicians claimed that the Supreme Court’s summer decision reversing Roe v. Wade would bolster Democrats who campaign in favor of pro-abortion laws and mandates ahead of the 2022 midterms. ‘If you look at the Dobbs decision—that seems to have come a little too early for the Democrats,’ Jon Reinish, a Democrat strategist told the publication, adding that ‘inflation is probably the biggest’ issue right now.”
Probably? Probably? Say it ain’t so! Inflation is like a reoccurring nightmarish hallucination to senile Joe and the Democrats, because there ain’t a thing they can try to “wake up” from it and everything they are doing now to combat it – like passing out relief checks to Democrat constituencies – only makes the problem worse. It’s kind of like pouring Vladmir Putin’s natural gas onto a tinder dry Ukrainian wheatfield and then striking a match.
This image aside, Reinish’s comment – that the Dobbs decision came “too early” – is most likely true. Democrats demagogued abortion all summer long until people began looking at what liberals were truly advocating for, namely no restrictions on abortion at all, and then determined for themselves that the Democrats’ pro-infanticide hyperbole was just a balloon filled with substance-less hot air.
Now Democrats are stuck with themselves, their ineffective message and not much time remaining to turn the ship around before it strikes the proverbial iceberg. But at least they have Halloween to look forward to! How will they mark the occasion at Joe Biden’s White House?
Here’s a glimpse of one possible way Democrats could spend Halloween on Monday:
--At just after sunset and dressed in his finest blue suit with a Halloween-themed Jack-o'-lantern tie, senile president Joe Biden headed downstairs from the White House family living quarters to once again reprise his role as chief greeter and goody distributor for invited liberal guests to his annual presidential scare-fest party. Joe had so much fun last year as Democrats went out of their way to dress creatively and still be themselves at the same time.
As senile Joe neared the front door and began rummaging around for a candy basket full of treats for the visitors, a staff member pulled him aside and spoke in a sound dampened voice as though attempting to conceal a secret.
“Joe. I mean, Mr. President. I’m sorry to have to be the one to inform you that we don’t have any candy to hand out this year. You see, we had a big tub full of sugary tasty treats right here for you to wow your callers, but your son Hunter spotted it about an hour ago and mistook it for rock cocaine and ate it all in about thirty seconds,” the worried hired hand explained, practically weeping at the unfortunate private intra-family airing of Hunter’s latest embarrassing episode.
“But don’t fret -- we huddled together and came up with an alternative”, the nonbinary being continued. “We didn’t have time to send someone to the store and then have the Secret Service okay the candy, so we contacted the White House printshop and they just sent up blocks of already filled-in ballots to give out to visitors from different states.
“Brilliant, huh?” (Joe grinned and enthusiastically nodded.) “Then, we raided the White House freezer and took out a five-gallon bucket of your favorite ice cream. We don’t have any spare bowls and spoons, though, so you’re gonna havta scoop it right into their bare hands. Capiche?”
Joe crinkled his brow as if he didn’t quite comprehend everything the underling had said to him, though he got the part about Hunter and rock cocaine. ‘M’ boy’s up to it again,’ he supposed.
“Okay, whatever you say”, Joe answered tersely. “Where are the ballots and the ice cream? Sounds like a great idea! Let’s get to it.”
Diiinnngggg-Dooonnnggg, the doorbell sounded. Senile Joe looked around, confused by the loud noise from out of the blue. A nearby servant pointed at the door and Biden turned the knob and pulled back the big oak barrier, revealing the figure of a woman in high heels dressed as what appeared to be some sort of space alien.
Biden beamed and bowed, thinking that the diminutive human in front of him might be a teenaged girl whose shoulders he could massage and hair to sniff, so he moved closer and creepily whispered into the female’s costume ear. “Hello, strange looking stranger. What state are you from? I need to know so we can match your ballots with this stack over here. Spill it, E.T.!”
Cackling and tittering in her signature style, Kamala Harris curtsied and giggled, “It’s me, Joe, you goof! Kamala! You know, your vice president? I guessed you probably wouldn’t know what my costume was supposed to be, so I’ll just tell you -- I’m an illegal space alien, which combines my twin main duties of minding the southern border and being special administration envoy to NASA! You can see me with your own two eyes! Yeah!”
Biden blinked and moved slightly to the side to allow the green masked creature to pass, pointing to the rear of the mansion. “We’re gathering in the red room to decide what to do with the evening. There are lots of conservative Supreme Court Justices’ houses to toss eggs at, right? Take your block of California ballots and drop them in the first heavily government subsidized post office mailbox you see, chick-y. Great to see ya, Kamala!
Just as his veep was moving to leave his presence, senile Joe seized her arm. “Oops, almost forgot! Hold out your hand!” Biden commanded loudly, with the much shorter woman doing as she was instructed. Senile Joe then dipped into the big bucket of frozen delight and plopped a huge scoop of Oreo ice cream into her palm and said, “This isn’t racial ice cream, so don’t read anything into it, okay?!” Kamala took a few licks and then disappeared into the adjacent room, ecstatic to have a fun place to go this evening.
The bell rang again, with Biden opening the door wide and spotting what appeared to be a Latina woman with a big booty and unmistakable cleavage, dressed in a Shakesperean period costume that strongly hinted of Lady Macbeth, including a sharpened steel dagger that had somehow gotten past the metal detectors and body screeners.
“Oh hi, Joe!” The president instantly recognized the voice of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and temporarily put aside his reservations about the dagger being so close to her opened hand. AOC fought back a cough and mumbled as though she were explaining, “I think we Democrats need to really think about who our leaders are these days and be prepared to use any means necessary (whereupon she playfully tapped the dagger a couple times with her palm) to not only win this year, but also to assure the climate safety of the planet from here to eternity.”
“Good thinkin’, kid!”, Joe bellowed as he craned his neck to get a better glimpse of the woman’s ample posterior.
Noticing what he was doing, AOC shrieked, “Do you want a selfie, Joe?”, gulped her scoop of ice cream in one determined swallow, snatched her New York ballots and followed the same path Kamala Harris had taken to the back of the building.
“Sheesh, what did I do?” Biden blubbered to no one in particular.
Diiinnngggg-Dooonnnggg. The door was left slightly ajar from AOC’s prior entrance, whereby a woman dressed as a California Highway Patrol officer strutted in and demanded an audience with the president.
Even under the big helmet and behind aviator shades, Joe could tell the visitor was Nancy Pelosi! “I wanted to show our phony and tepid support for law enforcement this year, Joe. And since inflation has eaten away at all of our retirement savings, the sweet CHP officers who arrested my hubby in Napa Valley let me borrow this uniform for free so I wouldn't have to buy one.”
The 82-year-old then put her hand to her mouth as if to shield her words from possible onlookers. “Just don't let 'The Squad' see me dressed as a sheriff, will ya? They'll think I'm tryin' to fund the police. Are any of them here?”
Biden smiled and nodded and gestured to the back room where AOC and his gal pal sidekick Kamala were seen sipping from the punchbowl and trading stories about how and when they first realized they were opportunistic leftists who could use a woman’s wiles and good looks to ascend to power. “AOC’s in there, but she looks like she’s more engaged with updating her social media accounts on her phone than she is to finding a younger and newer set of Democrat leaders. We’re safe for at least one more evening, Nance! I know you’re living in Cali now, but would you rather have some Maryland ballots to honor your hometown of Baltimore?” Joe suddenly shook uncontrollably, terrified that saying the wrong thing to the elderly House Speaker could cause her to make another unannounced trip to the Far East without asking him if it was okay.
“It’s cool, Madame P. Here’s your scoop of delicious ice cream and ballots and I’ll see you in a little while.” Pelosi then strolled to the other room rhythmically humming the theme song from CHiPS and fumbled with her prop night stick as though she were familiar with how to employ it on the skulls of political enemies.
When she reached the open doorway, Pelosi observed to another guest that “Chucky” Schumer was there dressed in a striped convict costume. She overheard him elaborate to a scantily clad Playboy bunny transgender woman that he’d just been sprung from a New York prison by a George Soros-funded prosecutor and didn’t want the “cop that just entered the room” to notice him. What a moron! ‘He’s so dumb he’ll probably think I’m Larry Wilcox or Erik Estrada, though,’ she mused.
The night was waning quickly, so senile Joe was shocked when wife Dr. Jill showed up to the party dressed in character. “I’m a diverse Hispanic breakfast taco, Joe” the first lady said sweetly while winking and beckoning her husband to nibble on the fried outer edge of her tasty real flour tortilla outfit, which contained an artist’s rendition of the fabled Alamo in San Antonio on the side as a sponsor.
“We need the Hispanics to come back to us Democrats, Joe, so what better way to send the right message to them than to compare them to breakfast tacos?” The president seemed transfixed by the idea.
Raising his index finger to his mouth, senile Joe uttered, “SSSSShhhhh, honey! Don’t tell ‘em something like that, Dr. Jill. I can’t have people finding out that it’s you who is really running the country. If folks realized it, then that illegal space alien freak back there would become president instead of me.”
Dr. Jill nodded in acknowledgment. Joe dutifully nibbled on her costume and then gave her two blocks of ballots – one for Washington DC and the other for Delaware, as well as two scoops of ice cream for her two palms, which she took turns licking, just as he did when making a quick, unannounced visit to an ice cream parlor in Oregon the previous week.
But instead of going to join the other festive revelers, Dr. Jill climbed the stairs to her quarters, fed up with the political games and having decided that two scoops of Joe’s ice cream was sufficient for the evening meal.
Senile Joe was just about to shut the front door for good when the imposing figure of Pennsylvania senate candidate John Fetterman shoved his foot into the opening, preventing the much older man from accomplishing his mission to turn in for the night.
Fetterman was dressed as himself with a hoodie, hairless head, that weird growth thing on his neck and an expressionless face characteristic of a man who’d suffered a debilitating medical incident just a few months prior. To honor Halloween, he’d donned a Phantom of the Opera half mask obscuring one side of his face.
“What the heck do you think you’re doin’, big ugly ogre guy?” Senile Joe wondered incredulously to the tall man.
Fetterman seemed as though he didn’t understand Biden’s question, so a nearby aide typed it onto a portable screen and presented the words to the casually dressed slob to answer the query. He grunted, belched and grumbled, “I WANT BALLOTS! I WANT BALLOTS! I WANT BALLOTS!” Fetterman repeated. Then, he added, “I WANT ICE CREAM! I WANT ICE CREAM! I WANT ICE CREAM!”
Frightened near to death, Biden quickly shoved what was left of the ballots marked “Pennsylvania” into the demanding man’s pillow case, which looked as if it contained a few thousand already in there. The bald petrifying monster aped as though satisfied with his booty, then immediately turned around and exited into the dark night, bent on searching for the next Democrat Halloween get-together to pillage for votes and contributions, and, if he was lucky, more ice cream.
Thoroughly frustrated by now and well past his usual bedtime, senile Joe procured his own gallon of ice cream and headed up in the same direction as Dr. Jill.
Thus endeth another White House Halloween.
Perhaps more than any other time in recent memory, Democrats have a lot to fear on Halloween evening. They’ll probably hand out candy – and maybe even some ice cream – to anyone who visits on the spookiest night of the year. Their nightmares come later, and nothing will prevent the bad visions from coming true on November 8.
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