By John Dough
The way you wear those pant suits. Your fresh, fashionable haircut. The way you command congress floor like a well-spoken, sexy diablo from the 8th district of California—God, how I wish I was the 8th district of California so you could rule benevolently over me and pass legislation that pleases the electorate that is my body.
Can I call you mommy? Would you nestle me in sheets of the constitution and sing me lullabies till I fall asleep? In my dreams, you step all over me with your stilettos. I’ve been a bad boy. Spank me in your office with the door open so that every Republican bears witness.
Speaker Pelosi, you Greek Goddess of mischief. You medieval warlock of the bedroom. You deviant, 80-year-old stick of dynamite in the sack. Your grade-A sex appeal alone has restored my faith in the Democratic Party. And if all you wish, master of the House, is for me to register to vote, then I swear it, swear it upon my simp-like-tendencies, I shall.