Moose In The Wilderness

I was on the train when I got the call. It was Hillary. “How ya doin, Moose?” she asked.

“Not too good” I answered.

“Yeah” she said. “You were really screwed in the election. They gave all your votes to Obama.”

“Just like they did you in the primaries” I said.

“Tell me about it. Listen, the reason I called is I’m gonna be the next Secretary of State.”

“So you’re gonna work for the aliens? The Greys? You’ve sold out!” I was shocked and I’m sure my voice showed it.

“You got it, Moose. I mean, I’d really like for the little aliens to win and for me to be Queen of The World, but in the meantime I’ll just be Secretary Of State.”

“So you’re gonna work both ends against the middle” I said.

“Damn straight” she answered. She kept talking but I wasn’t listening. I lowered the phone and looked out the window at the pine trees rushing by.

I was getting close to my new home, 51 degrees N in Ontario. I thought about quitting and going back but it was too late for that. The intergalactic war would not wait. The small aliens and the US Air Force (in alliance with the Canadian government) had built a secret base on the Moose River. The last hope for mankind was taking shape among the pines and I had to do my part.

I stepped off the train at Moosonee and dove into the icy cold river and swam toward my destiny, whatever it might be.

A Visit From The Air Force

I was working on a bottle of bourbon when the doorbell rang. “Oh shit” I thought. I was getting ready to go out and I didn’t need any company. I was heading out to the lodge – the Moose Lodge – and I had to psyche myself up. That’s why I needed the bourbon.

You see, it was autumn and it was time for the head butting contest. It had been three years since I last competed. That was at the World Championships in Paris. It was a brutal event, many of the competitors (and a few spectators) were killed or disabled.

I won that event, but at a cost – I had a concussion. The doctors said I could never compete again or I would suffer permanent brain damage. Still, it was worth it because under the rules of head butting the winner gets to pork all the women spectators.

I retired from competition after that. But I missed it – the sport, the cheers from the crowd, and of course the porking. So, brain damage be damned, I was coming back.

The doorbell rang again. I chugged the bourbon and opened the door. “What the fuck do you want?” I greeted my visitors.

“Mr. Moose, you’re gonna have to come with us” a little voice said. I looked down, it was a tiny Air Force lieutenant. He looked like a Boy Scout. “Yeah, you gotta come with us” said an even smaller voice from an even smaller lieutenant. With them was a big fugly sergeant who said nothing.

“Christ” I thought. “I don’t need this shit.”

“What’s this about?” I asked.

“Project Blue Book” said the tiniest lieutenant.

“That was years ago” I said. That made the tiny officers giggle like schoolyard sissies. That made me mad, so I slapped them. Then the big fugly sergeant whacked me with a blackjack and I was off to dreamland (no, not Michael Jackson’s ranch, you perverts! I mean I was knocked out, you sick fucks!).

. . . .

When I came to I was strapped to a chair. I looked around. Bare concrete walls, a single light bulb dangling from a string, torture devices. And of course the tiny lieutenants and the big fugly sergeant.

I stared at the sergeant. “Why do all these interrogation rooms look the same? Why don’t you fix the place up? You know, paint, wallpaper, some carpets? Just move your ass you fat Neanderthal bastard!”

“I ain’t fat” said the sergeant. The Lieutenants wrote down everything that was said.

“We have a few questions” said the larger lieutenant.

“I’ve got some myself” I said. “Like what the fuck is going on?”

“It’s about those aliens you killed. You don’t think you can just leave a UFO in the desert and forget about it, do you?”

“I never had a problem before” I answered. The lieutenants shut up and left the room

“I need a drink” I said. “Me too” said the fugly sergeant.

. . . .

When the lieutenants reentered the room they weren’t talking, just standing dumbly at the side of a 3 star general – a thick-necked, bull-headed squatty little bastard. As if he wasn’t fugly enough he was scowling.

“Okay Moose, you listen close.”

“That’s President Moose” I said, “get used to the sound.”

He scowled some more, like he was trying to set the world record for fugly. “You know those aliens you killed in the desert? You should not have done that. You don’t know what you’ve unleashed.”

He continued. “During Project Blue Book we discovered two kinds of aliens – the little guys with the big heads, like the ones you killed. And a tall skinny kind known as “greys.” Well, right now they’re fighting for control of the universe. And Earth is right in the middle of it.

“And the little guys are our friends. Our allies.” He paused to let his words sink in.

“I need a beer” I answered.

The general scowled again. “We made a deal with those little guys – we’d donate your DNA to breed an army of Mooseman soldiers, they’d give us their technology, and Hillary Clinton would rule the earth for the benefit of both our species.”

“You never cut me in on the deal” I said. “All I remember is being paralyzed, then those space midgets jacked me off and the next thing I know Chelsea Clinton was riding me like a bucking bronco.”

“Well, we’re still gonna get your DNA.” The general’s scowl was gone, replaced by a smirk. “Nurse!” he bellowed.

The nurse was hot, unbelievably hot. I got a boner in seconds. If I hadn’t been strapped to a chair I would have porked her right there – no talk, no kisses, no foreplay – just fucked her on the floor. But in my present position, the situation called for diplomacy. “How would you like about a foot of Moose schlong?” I asked.

She giggled, so I knew the answer. What she said was “Hold still.” Then she took a blood sample from my arm. This wasn’t good. I looked at her face for the first time, burning the image into my memory. She would have to pay for this. When I caught up with her – and I would – I’d remember and beat her ass.

The nurse walked away with my blood and I watched her ass wiggle out of the room.

“One more thing, Moose” said the General.

“That’s President Moose.”

He scowled again. “We don’t want you interfering with this war again, or I’ll have you shot. This is a matter of National Security. It is imperative that Hillary becomes Queen.”

“What about the election?” I asked. “You know, the democratic process and all that?”

“Fuck the democratic process” he screamed. “Obama could win and we can’t allow that to happen.”

“You see” he continued, “Obama is a Grey.”

Moose Comments On The Bailout Of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac

Well, the doucheweasels have really done it this time. Paulson (the former head of Goldman Sachs) is throwing two hundred billion dollars of the taxpayers' money down a financial rathole, without addressing the real problem - the looting of the financial system by the super rich leaders of Wall Street. Just like the gov't did before in the Savings and Loan collapse.

Well, the Moose has the solution. Those doucheweasels need a walk in the woods and a bullet in the head. I think Camp David would be ideal for that.

Vote for Moose and I'll get the job done.

Moose Kidnapped By UFO Aliens

It happened in Arizona – McCain country. I was whipping through that state in my Escalade on my way to a fundraising dinner in California. I checked the speedometer – it read 110. “Got to pick it up” I thought. So I floored it. I popped open another beer and settled in to enjoy the ride.

Then it hit me – some kind of paralysis beam. “Damn” I said to myself. “I bet I’m being kidnapped by UFO aliens.” Then I lost consciousness.

When I came to I was on a metal table surrounded by little space punks. I wasn’t strapped down but I couldn’t move. I was being held down by some invisible force. One of the aliens was pointing something at me. I guessed it was a paralysis ray. “Okay fucker” I thought, “You’re on the list.”

Then you know what those fuckers did? They pulled down my pants and put some contraption on my schlong! They relaxed the beam enough so I could move a little and began to jack me off.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed.

They all chirped like canaries. I suppose they were laughing. Then the head alien spoke. “We are sorry for the inconvenience Mr. Moose, but our planet is dying. We need the earth. And we need your DNA to breed a race of antlered supermen to conquer your planet.”

“Son, you just bought yourself an ass-whipping” I said. I struggled against the paralyzing beam.

Then I saw her. She entered the room like a princess. Hell, she looked like a princess. The clothes, the tiara, everything. But she wasn’t an alien, she was human. I’d met her before. It was Chelsea Clinton.

“What are you doing here?” I enquired. “With these things?”

“Oh. Those guys… After Obama clinched the primary, mom made a deal with the aliens. They take over the earth, Mom gets to be Queen, and I get to be princess. Cool, huh? Everyone wins.”

“Everyone except the people of Earth” I answered.

“Buncha losers” she smirked and adjusted her tiara.

I couldn’t resist any more. The sucking machine had done its job and I came with the force of a bull moose, which is what I am. They unhooked the machine and walked away with their vial of moose juice.
“Now what?” I asked.

“Now it’s my turn” said Chelsea. She stripped off her clothes and approached the table I lay on. “I get to ride the Moose!”

But she made one mistake. As she came forward she bumped the arm of the freak holding the paralyzing device. I was free of the beam, if only for a split second. It was all I needed.

My hand flashed forward and grabbed the device. I reversed it on my captors. They couldn’t move. It was bitch slapping time.

I slapped the first one. His head exploded like an egg and yellow goo sprayed on Chelsea. Damn, this was going to be easy. I took my time and exploded all of the little fuckers heads.

I switched off the beam and started to leave.

“What about me?” whined Chelsea.

I laughed. “Tell your mama, tell your pa. Gonna send you back to Arkansas!”

I walked out of the spacecraft and found my Escalade. The keys were still in it and the beer in the cooler was still cold. The Cad started right up.

I checked my watch. If I was gonna make my campaign appearance I’d have to move fast. I popped open a beer and hit the road, accelerator on the floor.

Moose Celebrates St. Patrick’s Day

Like I do every year, I met my good friend Teddy Kennedy for breakfast. We had sausage and eggs, then Teddy produced a bottle of Irish whiskey and we did some shots. Teddy entertained the other customers by singing off-key and pinching the waitresses’ bottoms. What a guy!

The bottle finished, we jumped in Teddy’s car, which he promptly crashed. He tried to get me to say I was driving, but I couldn’t do it, being the leading presidential candidate and all.

Teddy came up with a plan – we took a cab to the airport and booked seats on the first flight out of the country – turns out we were headed to London.

The flight was long and boring, so we had some more drinks and Teddy proceeded to entertain the passengers by singing off-key and pinching the stewardesses’ bottoms. What a guy!

We landed in London. No sooner were we on the ground than Teddy started working his cell phone. He must have made a dozen calls. Then these big fugly Irish dudes showed up. One gave him a car, another whispered something in his ear. A third gave him a bottle of Bushmills, which Teddy shared with me. Great people, the Irish.

Well, Teddy got in the car and I got in beside him. Teddy drove like a madman – I had to keep screaming “On the left!” because we were in London and they’re fucked up direction-wise. Still, he shared his whiskey with me, so it was cool.

Finally, Teddy parked the car. He flicked his Bic and lit something under the dash. I heard a fuse sizzling.

Teddy bailed out and screamed, “Run, Moose, Run!” then hauled ass down the street, giggling like a schoolyard sissy. You should have seen that fat boy run.

I ran too, and then there was this huge explosion. I didn’t look back, just caught a cab to the airport and took the next flight home.

The next day I read in the paper that about a hundred Limeys were killed by a car bomb. I sure hope this doesn’t hurt my campaign, because it was all Teddy’s doing. Maybe I should be more careful about who I hang out with.

Moose’s Solution To The Subprime Crisis

After due consideration, I have come up with an answer to the subprime crisis. The Wall Street doucheweasels who caused the problem have to pay. Therefore, when I take office I will impale them all on a forest of sharpened poles, just like Vlad The Impaler did back in the day.

The difference between Vlad and me is that I will not take my meals in the forest of the impaled. That would be sick. However, I will enjoy a nice cool Budweiser. I tell you, it just doesn’t get any better than that!

DIRTY POLITICS

Today, John McCain and George Bush engaged in a homosexual act to court the gay vote.

Personally, this Moose is outraged. According to the Larry Craig doctrine, gay sex should be done in the privacy of restroom stalls, not on a public stage.

This marks a new low in presidential politics.

Moose’s Economic Stimulus Package

President Bush has signed the House/Senate “stimulus package” that will do absolutely nothing for the economy. It will provide between $600 and $1200 for most taxpayers to use on crap imported from China.

What a bunch of cheapskates we have in office.

Here’s the real deal, offered only by Moose: Elect me and you will have a turducken in every pot and an electric car in every garage - a brand new Tesla.

Hallelujah! I Am Healed!

My speech at Oral Roberts University was a huge success. I did the usual shtick, got down on my knees and prayed. Then – just like I planned it – I casually asked those bible-thumpers for some faith healing. Of course they agreed.

They assembled a crack team of faith healers to check out my sphincter. (Get it? Crack team? Damn, I’m good.) One of them exclaimed, “It looks like you passed a turd the general size and shape of a football!”

“How would you know this?” I asked.

“It’s a gift from God” he answered. “Have you been campaigning in New York? Eating Italian food?”

“Yes.” I said. “You can tell this just from looking at my broken asshole?”

“We get that a lot” he answered. “After all the candidates campaign in New York, they come here to get their sphincters faith-healed.” Another healer chimed in, “Yes, it seems insurance doesn’t cover broken buttholes.”

“I know” I said.

Well, they healed my broken butthole. And they promised to vote for me if Huckabee drops out. Great bunch of guys they are.

They even left a cute little faith-healerette with me to serve as a nurse. So, when we were alone I mentioned that I was having a little trouble with my schlong. She laid her hands on it and got it working and then I drilled her like an oil field.

These are the days I love my job.

Moose for president!

Moose Injured On The Campaign Trail

I knew that politics was a rough game, but I didn’t realize just how rough it could be. Yesterday, I found out when I suffered a severe injury. Yes friends, I broke my sphincter muscle.

Here’s how it happened. I was in New York City, attending all kinds of events. You know the deal – you go to all the neighborhoods, eat the ethnic foods, shake hands and get your picture taken, and generally bullshit the voters.

Well, something went terribly wrong. My campaign manager, James Carville scheduled six consecutive stops in Italian neighborhoods. So I did the usual thing, shaking hands, eating the food, and giving speeches.

The trouble came the next morning when I passed a turd the general size and shape of a football. And in the process I broke my sphincter muscle. Yeeeoww, it hurt!

Now, I guess Italian food is fine for Italians. They’re all five feet tall and 400 pounds and presumably have proportionately wide assholes. But me, I’m built tall and graceful like all mooses – with a normal sized asshole.

Anyway, I’m left with a broken butthole. I went to a doctor only to discover that my insurance doesn’t cover sphincters. So, I’m screwed.

But, I do have a plan. I’m scheduled to speak at Oral Roberts University. Those guys are all into faith healing - you know, the laying on of hands, that kind of stuff. So, while I’m meeting with them I’ll just casually ask them to faith-heal my asshole. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

TO BE CONTINUED

Have Yellow Bastards Infiltrated Our Government?

A citizen writes, "Mr. Moose, I have heard that yellow bastards are infiltrating our government. Is this some crazy conspiracy theory or is this really happening?"

And I reply: Unfortunately, it is true. Check out these photographs of Michael Chertoff and see for yourself. But rest assured that when I take office I will bitch-slap the little fuckers out of office.

Crowd Responds To Moosenomics

People are embracing Moose’s economic message: A turducken in every pot, and Vote For Moose and I will reward you with a lucrative government contract.

This photograph was taken at a recent campaign event. Click on the pic to enlarge.

“Dutch Oven, Mr. President”

Bill Clinton walked down the stairs into the basement, the last strains of Kenny G coming from his saxophone. “You like Kenny G, Moose?” he asked.

“He sucks” I answered.

Bill put down the saxophone. “You know, Moose, some people like sucking” he said.

So that’s how it’s gonna be, I thought. Clinton began to take off his clothes.

“I thought we were friends” I said. “You don’t have to do this.”

By this time he was naked. “Yes, I do” he said. “I can’t pass anything up.”

“I understand” I said. What I understood was how lucky I was to have unlocked my restraints. He came towards me and I reached up with my right hand, the undamaged hand. I grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head down to my ass. I whipped a sheet over his head and farted for all I was worth.

“Dutch Oven, Mr. President” I said. It was pretty funny and I had to laugh. I’m sure Bill would have laughed too if he hadn’t been gagging.

I kept laughing and farting for the longest time, maybe five minutes. Upstairs, the Secret Service men took notice. “Sounds like one hell of a party” said one. “Wish I could join in” said another.

When I ran out of gas I stood up. President Clinton was still gagging as I got dressed in his clothes. “Dutch Oven, Mr. President” I repeated. He gave me the strangest look, like a dog who was being euthanized. Yeah, you know the look.

I walked up the stairs, straight into the nest of SS men. Needless to say, I went on a bitch-slapping rampage. I even slapped a few left-handed, broken thumb and all. It hurt but it was a good hurt, like taking a dump after six days of constipation.

The old SS man with the spike helmet walked into the room. Our eyes locked. His face grew red and he charged, head down.

“Toro!” I yelled and sidestepped. He buried his spike in the wall and I slapped him on the helmet. He just stuck there with his helmet caved in and went into convulsions, his feet doing some kind of Nazi tap dance.

I spied a board with car keys hung on nails. I ripped the board from the wall and walked out the door into sunshine.

There were a number of cars, mostly big SUVs like Suburbans and Ford Expeditions. I spotted a lone Cadillac Escalade - just my style. I found the proper key and tried it – it started right up. I drove down the driveway to freedom.

I had an appointment with destiny. I was back on the campaign trail.

Three Generations Of Clinton Women

I knew there were three of them, but it was kind of a shock seeing all three together. Hillary, Chelsea, and Hillary’s mother, Dorothy Rodham. What was more shocking were their outfits: Some kind of S&M outfit, a black leather bustier with chrome zippers and chains. Crotchless, of course.

While I was gagging, they were giggling. Hillary was instructing Chelsea. “This is the best reason to get into politics.” She pulled off the sheet covering me, exposing me.

“My God!” screamed Chelsea. “It’s so huge!”

“Yeah, honey, in just a few minutes you’ll get the ride of your life” said Hillary. “I’ll just show you what to do.”

“Mom! I know what to do!” screamed Chelsea.

“Of course you do” said Hillary. “But I can still teach you a few things.”

“Teach her how to take illegal contributions” I said. “Like from Norman Hsu!”

“Shut up, Moose” said Hillary. Then she climbed on and did the dirty deed.

. . . . . . .

Next it was Chelsea’s turn - or so I thought. But Dorothy Rodham cut in line. “Granny!” screamed Chelsea. “It’s my turn!”

“You’ll have your chance” said Granny Rodham. “But I’m an old lady and I won’t last long. This might be my last chance for some tasty moose cock.”

“Wait your turn, Granny!” I screamed.

“Shut up, Moose” said Granny Rodham.

“Yeah, shut up Moose” said Hillary. Then Granny Rodham jumped on me and my nightmare continued.

“It’s so unfair!” Chelsea wailed. “I’ll be glad when I’m a wrinkled old hag so I can go first.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, young lady” scolded Hillary.

“Sounded about right to me” I said.

“Shut up, Moose” said Hillary.
. . . . .

By the time Granny Rodham was finished I was feeling pretty low, just another piece of meat used by the bitches of the world.

“I’m next” Chelsea announced. I opened my eyes and she strode forward. She had the big ass of all Clinton women – not good big like J-Lo, but nasty big like John Madden with a side order of John Goodman.

Then I heard it – saxophone music, faint at first, then it grew louder. I tried to block the awful sound from my mind, but I couldn’t. It was the godawful music of Kenny G.

I turned my head to look and in walked Bill Clinton, playing his saxophone. He stopped and stared at my dick. “Damn, that’s impressive” he said. “I want a ride on that.”

“Noooooooooo!” I screamed.

“Nooooooooooo” screamed Chelsea. “Daddy, I’m next!”

Hillary took charge. “She’s right. It’s her turn.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“You can ride the Moose later” she said to her husband.

Bill shrugged. “I’ll be upstairs” he announced. He resumed playing his sax and made his exit.

. . . . . .

I went on autopilot and thought pleasant thoughts like drinking beer and watching Monday Night Football. I was shocked back to reality by the scream of a young girl taking her first moose cock. I knew I’d spoiled her for normal guys and her only shot at happiness would come from keeping some free range sex moose chained up in the basement. But that was her problem – mine was how to escape.

Finished with her dirty business, Chelsea rolled off with a thud. By this time I was sweating like a pig – a pig who’d just had sex with three fat chicks.

Chelsea waddled up the stairs and the nurse entered to refill my IVs. She changed both the Viagra drip and then the amphetamine drip.

I stared at her and spoke. “Nurse, could you crank up the speed a little?”

She looked straight into my eyes. “I’m voting for you, Moose, if you survive” she said. And then she did a wonderful thing, the first act of kindness I’d seen since I’d been captured – she opened the valve on the amphetamine line all the way. And then she was gone.

I felt a surge of power as the magic liquid poured into my veins. Upstairs, President Clinton ran through Kenny G’s entire repertoire.

I looked at the manacles clamped on my wrists. The one on my left hand felt loose. I tried to pull my hand through, but my thumb got in the way. Even drenched in sweat, I couldn’t pull it through. There was only one solution – I’d have to break my thumb. I took a deep breath and pulled hard. There was a loud crack and my hand slipped through the cuff.

Now I could work on my other restraints. I always keep a key tucked away for just such occasions. Good taste prevents me from saying exactly where, but let’s just say it was well hidden.* I removed the cuff on my right hand and then the leg irons.

The saxophone music grew louder and I knew he was coming for me. I lay back with my wrists and ankles in the unlocked irons and waited as Bill Clinton came down the steps.

TO BE CONTINUED


*It was up my ass. If you led a life of excitement like me, you’d hide a key there too.**

**You would hide a key up your ass, not mine. It’s kind of gay of you to even have that thought.

INSIDE THE CLINTON SEX BUNKER

The little Secret Service man tasered me for the longest time – maybe twenty minutes, giggling all the while. A crowd gathered around me and began to clap yelling “Go, Go!”
Some woman said “He’s the greatest break dancer in the world!”

Some cops came over and talked to the SS man, then they drew their Tasers and shot me too. My body went into convulsions, lifting off the sidewalk at times. The crowd went wild. The little SS guy changed batteries and Tased me again.

The police parted the crowd and an unmarked van rolled up. Several large men got out – all big, ugly, fuckers. They wore uniforms with SS insignia on the shoulders. On their chests were other patches – one read Medical Corps. One guy jabbed a needle into my arm and I drifted into unconsciousness.

I briefly came to for a moment. I was on a plane, strapped to a stretcher. One of the medics said, “Hey, he’s moving.” I got another needle in my arm and it was back to dreamland. But I awoke to a nightmare.

I dimly remember being carried down some stairs, still on a stretcher. Someone unstrapped me. I tried to bitch-slap him but my strength was gone – my hand bounced harmlessly off his face. I heard the little SS man giggle. Then another injection and I drifted off again.

. . . . .

When I came to I was chained to a bed – I glanced at the restraints on my wrists and ankles – BullMoose Ironworks again. Nothing but the best for those jokers. But the room itself was different – this was not the hospital room I’d been kept in before. The walls were gray concrete with dark red bloodstains. More chains hung from the walls. Various kinds of whips hung on pegs. But what really got my attention was the branding iron, with the letters HRC on the business end. Oh, shit. I was going to be branded as the exclusive property of Hillary Rodham Clinton.

An older man walked in. He wore a dark blue uniform with SS insignia. On his head was a spike helmet – it looked like something straight out of World War I. “Hello Moose” he said.

“Where the fuck am I?” I demanded.

“You’re in Chappaqua, New York. You’re in Hillary’s secret sex bunker. You know, a dungeon. I know it’s not much – you should have seen the setup she had in the White House.”

I was shocked. “You mean I’m not the first?”

“No, and you won’t be the last.” He seemed amused by his answer. Then he made a call on his cell phone. About twenty minutes passed and a nurse entered. I tried to make eye contact with her but she avoided my gaze. She just concentrated on her work, preparing the two IVs, methamphetamine and Viagra.

Her work finished, the nurse left. The old fart in the uniform followed her, then turned back. “You can expect company” he said.

“Yeah” I answered. “I figured as much.”

TO BE CONTINUED

A BullMoose New Years

New Years Eve. I was getting ready to go out when the phone rang. “Moose here” I said.

“Hey Moose, there’s a party you should check out.” I didn’t recognize the voice.

“I dunno” I said. “I’ve got three or four parties to hit. Some are political things so I really can’t blow ‘em off.”

“This is a Secret Service party” the voice said. “Project Moosehunter.”

“Tell me more” I said.

. . . . .

I walked into the hotel ballroom. Everyone there was dressed nice but stiff – like Al Gore picked out their clothes.

“Holy shit” someone screamed. “It’s the moose!” Then someone pitched a stun grenade at me and yelled “Take that!”

I slapped the grenade back into the crowd of milling SS men. It exploded and they all went down like bowling pins. It was great – they were bouncing off walls, falling into the buffet table, crashing hard to the floor.

Then someone walked out of the men’s room – the smallest, scrawniest SS man I’d ever seen. His eyes grew real wide and he froze like a deer in the headlights. Then he bolted, right out the door.

“Come back and take your beating!” I yelled and gave chase. I have to give the little fucker credit – he was fast. I chased him for forty blocks down the street and I wasn’t gaining on him. We came to a large crowd milling in the street, all wearing party hats and holding plastic cups full of hooch.

The little SS man detoured around the crowd. I decided to take a shortcut – I lowered my head and drove straight into the mob of humanity.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a full-sized moose slamming into a crowd of revelers, but it’s pretty spectacular. People were flying everywhere, just like they’d been launched by a stun grenade.

I sorted through the flattened crowd and found the little Moosehunter under a granny-woman. I grabbed the little punk by the collar and lifted him up. I drew back my hand to bitch-slap him.

“Please don’t hit me, Mr. Moose” he cried. “I just took this job and my insurance hasn’t kicked in. My wife is sick and I have three little children. I can’t afford to get injured now.”

I actually felt sorry for the little guy. I set him down on his feet and dusted off his jacket. “Happy New Year” I said and turned to go.

“Happy New Year” he answered. Then two darts hit the back of my neck and I was on the sidewalk twitching like a cockroach with a belly full of Raid. Yup, I’d been Tasered. “Happy New Year” he giggled.

TO BE CONTINUED

My Meeting With Huckabee

There was a knock on my door. “Come in” I called out and in came Mike Huckabee with his little friend Chuck Norris in tow.

“Hi Mike” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

“I want you to drop out of the race” he said.

“Now why would I do that?” I replied.

“So I can win.”

I just shook my head. Next thing I know Chuck Norris wound up and landed a spinning back kick to my face. Normally I wouldn’t have minded, but I was drinking a beer at the time. I watched the Budweiser run from the can onto my floor.

Norris started to giggle like a schoolyard sissy. So I bitch-slapped him. What else could I do? Anyway, the little punk started to cry.

Then I grabbed Huckabee in a headlock and gave him a good Dutch rub. You should have heard him cry. “Help me Chuck” he screamed.

“Yeah, go on and help him, Chuck” I said. “Cause I ain’t through with you yet.” Little Chuck ran out the door like a turpentined dog.

I squeezed harder on Huckabee’s head. “Say goodbye to your hair” I said and ground my knuckles into his scalp. “Leggo, leggo, leggo!” he screamed.

You know, there are some days I really like the political life.

Moose Takes A Position On Autism

During a campaign appearance a young woman asked me, “Moose, my son has autism. What is your position on this?”

I answered, “You should be proud of your son. There is nothing wrong with autism. Someone has to work on the cars. Therefore my administration will fully support autism in our schools.”

Moose Makes A Campaign Promise

I went to lunch today and the meal was spoiled by a douchebag who brought some mongoloid fucktard there. Now this downs syndrome dumbass couldn’t talk – he had to yell everything!

I was in the holiday spirit and I had company with me so I refrained from bitch-slapping the fucktard and his douchebag handler. But this is the type of crisis that demands action so that it can never happen again.

Therefore I pledge that when I take office I will exile all fucktards to the state of Florida. I mean, Florida is already the fucktard state. Those morons can’t even go into a voting booth without causing a Constitutional crisis.

Head ‘em up and move ‘em out.

Vote for Moose and enjoy your meals in peace.

More Trouble With The SS

After another day of campaigning I stepped into a bar to get shitfaced, because that’s what candidates do. The bartender brought me my bourbon on the rocks. “Damn, Moose” he said, “you should have been here earlier. The joint was crawling with Secret Service guys.”

“Oh yeah?” I answered. “Another candidate in town?”

“Fuck no” he said. “They were looking for you. Something big is in the works. Something called Project Moosehunter.”

“Tell me more” I said. Just then he turned white as a sheet and walked away. I looked up into the backbar mirror and saw what had frightened him – a weasely little SS man, and he was watching me.

I put a few bills on the bar for my drink and the tip. Then I spun around and charged the SS man yelling “Yaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” He grabbed for his gun but he was too slow – I bitchslapped him in the forehead lightly, just enough to knock him out. Then I pulled out his handcuffs and cuffed his hands behind his back.

An old couple observed the action. The woman said, “Look at that, Henry. That big guy just handcuffed that cop! I’m calling 911.” And she whipped out a cellphone.

Henry stopped her. “Don’t do that, Martha. That’s the Moose and he promised me a lucrative government contract.”

“Plus a turducken in every pot” I added.

Martha smiled. “Okey-dokey then” she said as she put away her cell phone. “God bless you Mr. Moose.”

I grabbed the SS man by his collar and dragged him into the restroom. I pulled him close to a sink and splashed cold water on his face until he woke up.

“Tell me friend, what is Project Moosehunter?” I demanded.

“I can’t tell you, it’s a secret” the little weasel answered.

“Fair enough” I said. I pulled a handful of towels off the dispenser and held them over his mouth and nose. Then I bent him backward over the sink and ran water over the towels.

After about thirty seconds I shut off the water. “Let’s try again. What is Project Moosehunter?”

“Glarb glarb gurgle goo” he answered.

“Sorry” I said as I pulled the wet paper towels off his face. “Project Moosehunter?”

He coughed up some water but he finally answered. “Hillary has reorganized her SS team. It seems she can’t get enough of your dick. Campaigning makes her horny. Project Moosehunter is to keep you under surveillance – and to drag you in whenever she wants a fuck.”

“Damn” I said. I pulled the little weasel out of the sink and set him on his feet. “I advise you to take up another line of work.”

He looked down at the floor. “Are you going to uncuff me?” he asked.

“No” I said and walked out the door.

An Open Letter To Ron Paul

Stop leaving messages on my answering machine. I didn’t know she was your wife.

Just stop harassing me!

Moose Issues A Major Policy Statement On Canada

As president I will work to improve relations with Canada. Therefore the English word “crapper” will be replaced with the Canadian word “shatner” in all government communications.

Moose Comments On A Woman’s Right To Choose

At a recent campaign appearance, a young woman asked me, “Moose, do you believe a woman has a right to a safe and legal abortion?”

I answered, “I believe in a woman’s right to choose. That is, she has a choice between a safe abortion and a legal abortion. Wanting it both safe and legal is not a choice, it’s about having it all your way. After all, there are people with jobs in the coat hanger industry who have to be considered.”

My Meeting With Obama

I was staying at a hotel after an appearance. I went into the bar to relax. Barack Obama was there, drinking alone. I introduced myself and we had a few drinks together.

“I don’t get Hillary Clinton at all” he said. “Supposedly she has some dirt on me but won’t say what it is.”

“I didn’t want to mention this” I said, “but when I met her husband Bill he showed me some photos of you slurping jello shots from Ed Asner’s navel.”

He frowned. “Maybe I should just drop out of the race.”

“Don’t do that. I want to beat you on the issues.” I said. “Besides, jello shots from Ed Asner’s navel isn’t much of a scandal. I mean, it’s something we’ve all done at one time or another.”

Moose Comments On Aqua Dots

I’ve been following the news on Aqua Dots, the Chinese made toy that contains a date rape drug. Frankly, I am appalled.

When I take office I will make it a felony to give a date rape drug to anyone under 21.

I will nuke China too.

Moose Comments On The WGA Strike

I was in Los Angeles to make a campaign speech. While in town I encountered a striking writer. A disreputable looking type, he was leaning against a Starbuck’s and crying. “Please sir, give me four and a quarter for a pumpkin spice latte!” he whined.

Now, I’m not really fond of beggars and I’m afraid my expression showed it. “How do I know you won’t spend it on smart pills?” I asked.

“Nooooo! I would never do that” he whined.

I stepped around him and went on my way. As I did so a Secret Service man stepped out of the doorway and into my path. There was a moment of tension – frequent readers of mine know all about my problems with the SS. Then he went for his gun and I bitch-slapped him. What else could I do?

His bloody teeth spattered against Starbuck’s plate glass window and he fell like a stone. I hurried to make my campaign appearance.

Top 10 Reasons To Vote For Moose

10) A turducken in every pot.

9) I will reward you with a lucrative government contract.

8) Hotter interns than that Clinton guy.

7) All rap singers will be exiled to Akron, Ohio.

6) Rock and roll, dude!

5) Beer, beer, and more beer!

4) I will not throw out the first baseball of the season. I will toss the first dwarf.

3) More beer.

2) All state dinners will be competitive eating events.

1) A moose head on Mt. Rushmore would be so cool.

Children In Politcal Ads

I’ve noticed several political advertisements featuring children recently. The AARP has been running one to death. It shows all these little crumbsnatchers - all these little shitbirds - blabbing about healthcare and social security and such. I , the leading presidential candidate refuse to use children in this way. I prefer to take the high road.

Of course, plenty of children pester the Moose. Every Halloween they come begging for candy. And every Halloween I sic my pitbull Hammer on their sorry asses. When will they ever learn?

I spoke at a school just the other day. One little bastard asked me, “Mr. Moose, will you fix health care?” I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Kid, you’re doomed to a short and miserable life. You’re sixty pounds overweight because you live on junk food and Pepsi. And you’d better pray you don’t get insurance because doctors are a bunch of inhuman scumbags who will latch onto you like vampires and perform unneeded surgery until they’ve drained every cent of your coverage. Then they’ll kick your fat ass into the street like a leper to die a slow and painful death.” He started to cry so I gave him a candy bar and that shut the little fuck up.

The next child asked, “Mr. Moose, will you fix education?” I said, “Kid, you’re fucked. You’re doomed to be a fucktard all your life because your teachers are fucktards. And that ain’t gonna change because the fucktard teachers union has a lock on education. What I will do is lower the drinking age so you can get shitfaced every day while you mourn your lost potential.” Fortunately the little fucktard didn’t understand me so it didn’t cost me a candy bar.

The next student asked, “Mr. Moose, what about the economy? Will there be a job for me when I graduate?” I looked at her and said, “Probably not. If you major in finance and if your parents are part of the privileged class and can get you into Harvard or Yale then you can make billions on Wall Street, then flee to Switzerland while the country dissolves into chaos. But if they were part of the privileged class you wouldn’t be wasting your time in this shithole school. So you’re undeniably fucked.” She sat down crying but I was through speaking so I didn’t give her a candy bar.

I passed out some campaign pamphlets and said, “Give those to your parents. And tell ‘em to vote for Moose.”

The Oxygen Network

During a break in my busy campaign schedule I turned on the tube to do some channel surfing. I came across something called The Oxygen Network. It was a bunch of old, old women breathing from oxygen masks and cackling about all the sex they had back in the day.

I was appalled – what has this country come to? And more importantly, what is Hillary going to say about me when she goes on that show?

My Meeting With Bill Clinton

A cold blast of air hit my face and I came to. I was standing in the back of a van, held up by Hillary Clinton, Diane Feinstein, and Madeleine Albright.

“Hit the road!” screamed Hillary as she pushed me out. I hit the road alright, and I hit it hard. I bounced, rolled, and scraped to a stop in heavy traffic. A Cadillac stopped inches from my face and the bastard driver leaned on his horn. I stood up and screamed, “Get the fuck away!” The driver turned white as a ghost and I limped to the sidewalk.

I walked for miles. No one came to the aid of a poor exhausted moose. Eventually I came to a park bench. I closed my eyes and took a nap.

When I came to I realized I was not alone. On the other end of the bench sat an old gentleman with a kind face. “It looks like you had a rough day” he said.

“More than one” I answered.

“Here, take a pull on this” he said as he passed me the bottle. I recognized the taste – Jack Daniels. I took another look at my benefactor – it was Bill Clinton. And darting in and out like pesky flies were a whole shitload of Secret Service men. One came too close and I bitch-slapped him. He fell in a shower of teeth.

“Kill him” screamed one of the SS man. They all jumped back and pulled their guns. “No, don’t” said another. “Hillary wants him alive.”

“That’s ironic” said Bill. “Because she wants me dead.” I then filled him in on all the terrible, sordid things she had done to me.

Bill was sympathetic. “She did that to me one time – that’s the night Chelsea was conceived. After that I gave up on married sex. Don’t get me wrong, I love my daughter and I would have liked to have more kids, but I couldn’t go through that again.”

“Yeah” I agreed. So we sat there sharing the bottle and telling stories for an hour or so. Then he got up to leave. “So long Bill” I said. (By that time we were on a first name basis).

“So long, Moose” he answered.

Oh, I did slap another SS man – same old tune, he fell down with a broken face. “I’ll get all you fuckers!” I promised. They hustled Bill into a waiting limo and I resumed my long walk home.

There I Was, Flat On My Back…

…chained to the bed, Hillary Clinton and Diane Feinstein using me as a sex toy, stopping only to take hits from an oxygen mask. Then they’d start again. I drifted in and out of consciousness, the speed and Viagra dripping into my arm keeping my penis erect like a flagpole. I didn’t know how long I could last. I passed out again.

When I came to Hillary and Diane were eating doughnuts, cackling as always, having their little hen party.

“Hey Moose, we’ve got a surprise for you!” Hillary gigglecackled. Diane opened the door and Madeleine Albright walked in. She was wearing a Stetson and a pair of chaps – that’s all. “Would this be the last thing I see?” I wondered.

“Yee haw!” yelled Madeleine as she came forward. I closed my eyes and prayed for death.

Top 10 Countries I Will Nuke As President

10) Canada. Just for batting practice.

9) China. For sending us that poisoned cat food.

8) Japan. To keep up tradition.

7) Korea. So they don’t feel left out.

6) Germany. Because they talk funny.

5) Scotland. Because they talk funnier.

4) Cleveland. What?- It’s not a country? Tough shit, the joke is on them.

3) Mexico. That burrito gave me heartburn.

2) England. Because they’re so snotty.

1) France. See number two.

She Came Back And She Brought A Friend

I was sleeping when a sound woke me up. Then I heard the voice. The cackling, giggling voice. “I want to thank you for your support. You don’t know how much it means to me.”

A second voice chimed in. “Now pay up, girl. Where’s this moose you told me about?” I recognized the first voice – it was Hillary, but I couldn’t place the second. Then the door swung open and my question was answered – it was Diane Feinstein. Hillary held a key in her hand – the key to my apartment.

“Where’d you get that key?” I shouted. Hillary giggled, “Your landlord. It seems he doesn’t like replacing doors.”

Then the Secret Service entered, about a dozen of them. And unlike the last time, they were all wearing riot gear – helmets, face masks, body armor. And they all carried riot batons.

One of them leaned closer. “Remember me?” he sneered. I remembered. It was one of the clowns I bitch-slapped the last time. Then he jabbed me in the gut with his stick. Big mistake.

“You should have learned your lesson” said I. I slapped him hard upside the head – his helmet caved in and he fell to the floor in convulsions.

“My new health care program will give you lifetime care” Hillary said to the fallen man. He didn’t answer, he just kept convulsing.

“Chain him down boys” she said. The other SS men didn’t move, they just cowered in the corners.

“Who else wants bitch-slapped” I asked. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that – one of the pinheads flipped a stun grenade into my bed. I remember the flash and then I fell unconscious.

When I came to I was in some kind of hospital room. There were bars on the windows and I was chained to the bed – I looked at the manacles holding me down – it read BullMoose Ironworks, a division of BullMoose Industries. There would be no escape this time.

An IV was stuck in my arm. “What the hell is this?” I shouted.

Hillary answered, “Amphetamine and Viagra.” She was smoking a cigarette and had an evil grin on her face.

I looked down. Diane was clamped on my cock like a remora, sucking away like a Hoover (the vacuum cleaner, not J. Edgar. Hell, maybe J. Edgar sucked too, how the fuck would I know? That was before my time, a fact for which I’m grateful).

I stared at the ceiling. I’d heard that politics made for strange bedfellows but I’d never known exactly what that meant.

I Will Ban All Cereal

I've just received some disturbing news: soluble fiber blocks cholesterol, and it also blocks vital hormones like testosterone. In fact, the brothers - Dr. John Harvey Kellogg and Will Keith Kellogg (the corn flakes dude) - were Seventh Day Adventists and they developed breakfast cereal in a religious scheme to prevent masturbation.

I find that totally unacceptable. If I wanted to stop masturbating I wouldn't spend my free time downloading porn. Therefore as one of my first official acts I will ban breakfast cereal and anyone dealing in it will be executed.

Moose Goes To The Supermarket

I went shopping this evening, and they had a whole bunch of liquor on sale. They had something called "chocolate thin mint liqueur." Who drinks that shit? Girl scouts?

Well, I didn't buy any but maybe I should have. Then when one of the little honeys comes around I'd be ready. "Yes dear. I'll buy your cookies. Just step inside. And I've got something for you."

Remember to vote for Moose! A turducken in every pot and chocolate thin mint liqueur in every girl scout!

My Meeting With Hillary

My doorbell rang. I looked at my alarm clock and it read 3:00 a.m. I did the only sensible thing possible – I rolled over and went back to sleep. Then some fucktard started pounding on my door. “Jesus Christ” I thought, “I’m gonna have to get up and kick some ass.”

Then some bozo kicked in my door and half a dozen guys rushed in with guns drawn. They were all wearing nice little suits like their mothers dressed ‘em up for Easter Sunday. But they did have guns and that got my attention.

I knew who they were – Secret Service. And prancing in behind them like the Queen of Sheba was Hillary Clinton.

“What in the blue fuck are you doing here?” I yelled.

Hillary sneered. “You’re the guy who’s been kicking my ass in the polls!”

“Should we kill him now?” asked SS man #1. Just then someone jerked the sheet off of me and there I was buck naked.

“My God!” said Hillary. “No wonder they call you the Moose!”

“Take a good look” I answered, “cause the Moose doesn’t fuck hags.”

“That’s what you think” she said. “Cuff him boys.”

One of the pinheads tried to handcuff me – kinda funny cause the cuffs were too small for my wrists. I had a good laugh then I bitch-slapped him. He went flying into a corner and stayed there, knocked out.

“Hey you!” said SS man #2 as he shoved a Glock in my face. I bitch-slapped him too and he landed on top of his little friend. Then someone whacked me with a blackjack and I went out like a light.

When I came to I was duct-taped to the bed. I saw the package on the floor, it was Mooseco brand duct-tape – the strongest stuff in the universe. And, oh yeah, Hillary was on top of me stark naked, riding me like a bucking bronco.

And the Secret Service men? They were standing around giggling like schoolyard sissies and drinking my liquor. Not the cheap stuff I serve my friends, but the good stuff I drink myself! The bastards!

I tried to control myself but couldn’t – I came like a runaway freight train. Hillary rolled off and caught her breath.

“Should we kill him now?” asked SS man #1.

Hillary lit up one of my cigarettes as she thought it over. “No” she said, “maybe later. But I’m not through with this Moose yet.” Then she laughed. I swear she cackled like a witch.

Then she was gone. So were the SS men. And – worst of all – so was my self respect. I needed a drink, but I couldn’t have one as I was still duct-taped to my bed. Besides which, they had taken all my liquor, even the cheap stuff I serve my friends.

Moose's Tax Plan

I was doing my taxes last night, and discovered I'm going to have to send the government money. That is, more money than I already gave them.

Those greedy bastards!

Why should they be stealing my money - and yours? The answer is, they shouldn't. I mean, they already print all the money. They could just print more!

So, I hereby present my tax policy: no taxes ever! That's right, when I am president I will abolish all taxes. If the government needs more money, we'll just print more.

We might have to buy some more printing presses. No matter, we'll print the money to pay for 'em. And while we're at it we'll print the money to pay for the lucrative government contracts of all my supporters.

Moose: The Environmental President!

The time has come to set the record straight on global warming. I intend to be the environmental president. Therefore, I pledge that when I am elected president, I will stop lighting my farts.

I know it's a big sacrifice, but the Moose leads by example.

What To Serve With Whaleelephantcowpigturducken?

I have received numerous messages asking what vegetables I was going to serve with the whaleelephantcowpigturducken.

My first reaction: "Vegetables? Are you fucking crazy? You finally get to the top of the food chain and you want to eat vegetables?" But then I reconsidered. (Read my "Secretary of Transportation" post immediately below.

In the interest of compromise, I will serve vegetables along with the whaleelephantcowpigturducken. So, let me formally announce, CRANBERRY VODKA JELLO SHOTS ARE ON THE MENU!

The Next Secretary Of Transportation

I received a telephone call this morning, asking me who I would appoint as Secretary of Transportation. At the time, I was sitting on the john trying to force out a mooseturd so I immediately answered "John Force."

I mean, why the fuck not? The dude is a damned good driver. And, since I had to apply some major john force to accomplish my task, it was like a sign or something. Yeooooooow! It fucking hurt! Maybe I should eat a vegetable one of these days?

Anyway, I can report (just like George Bush did when he landed on the carrier) "mission accomplished."

The Whaleelephantcowpigturducken Project Continues

I have received so much favorable response from my Whaleelephantcowpigturducken Project that I have moved up the timetable. Within 90 days of my election as President, I will serve deep fried whaleelephantcowpigturducken on the White House lawn.

In the meantime, I have made arrangements to serve smoked Whaleelephantcowpigturducken at each of my campaign appearances. I will be campaigning in the vehicle pictured above (The Moosemobile) and bringing joy to all the Mooseamaniacs out there.

You Too Can Have A Lucrative Government Contract!

Yes friends, you can make the big contract money, just like the fat cats at Halliburton. Just email this post (and/or the other posts on this blog) to your friends.

Don't have any friends? Email it to your enemies. No enemies? Fine. Email it to total strangers.

After I'm elected president, you will receive your very own LUCRATIVE FEDERAL CONTRACT - not to mention a turducken in every pot. The more times you email a link, the larger your contract will be. What could be simpler?

Just click the little envelope icon to get started.

A Citizen Cries Fowl!

A citizen writes in, " Pretty fowl, Moose. Can you deep-fry Turducken?"

My reply, "One of the goals of my administration will be to develop a process for deep frying turducken. Deep frying food is something that can benefit all mankind.

I also intend to develop a pigturducken, a cowpigturducken, an elephantcowpigturducken, and a whaleelephantcowpigturducken and the technology to deep fry all of them.

Thank you for your input, citizen. You are a true patriot. When I am elected president, I will reward you with a lucrative Federal contract."

James Carville Joins Campaign, Hosts First Fundraiser

Former Clinton campaign manager James Carville has joined the Moose For President campaign and hosted the first fundraising event. Thanks James!

Moose's Platform

1) All state dinners will be competitive eating events.

2) I will not throw out the first baseball of the season. I will toss the first dwarf.

3) Beer, beer and more beer!

4) Hotter interns than that Clinton guy.

5) More beer.

6) All rap singers will be exiled to Akron, Ohio.

7) Rock and roll, dude!

8) A Turducken in every pot!

On The Campaign Trail

I have thrown my antlers into the ring. I have secured the nomination of the BullMoose Party.

Moose For President! A Turducken In Every Pot!