Don't Call Me Sandra Bullock

Okay, here’s the thing, McCain. I’ll give you being 1,000 years old. I’ll give you recruiting an MILF-Y Alaskan hockey mom with questionably named children for a running mate. I’ll even give you completely tap dancing around every debate question that was presented to you because God knows I love good showmanship. But when you go so low as to add Sandra Bullock movie comparisons to your list of go-to catchphrases while awkwardly stalling, I draw the metaphorical line in the metaphorical sand.

“I wasn’t exactly Miss Congeniality in Congress.” First of all, John, you’re not ELIGIBLE for Miss Congeniality because you are the aforementioned 1,000 years old and somewhere under those hideous ripples of flesh hides a flaccid penis. Secondly, you are one of the most creepy looking old men I have ever seen. How you manage to oddly resemble the Crypt Keeper while your weight rivals that of most sperm whales is a truly mind-blowing feat. Miss Congeniality has to be friendly and cordial and not grimace in frustration when the opposing side has the outlandish idea of opposing him in a debate setting. Kiss that crown good-bye, jerk.

But what the fishsticks is so bad about the idea of being Miss Congeniality in the first place? I’d understand why you’d want to be shying away from Miss Nazism or Miss HeykidgetinmyvanIhaveapuppyint