Political Wrestling Federation: Rheumatic Rhinos vs The Teflon Trio


courtesy of William Bontrager

Explanation: So usually I have enough ammunition to fire at the Obama administration but I would be amiss not to include the rhino republicans. Now when it comes to conservatives there are two classes. The class that sits high above, the blue blood, the old money type, who are just as bad as the liberals. They often side with them, or they simply allow themselves to get punched in the face repeatedly by not speaking up on important issues like immigration, abortion, or education. That is why I wrote this. This is Darrell Issa,(the tougher of the bunch) Eric Cantor, Michelle Bachman and John Boehner at their weakest. I portray them as Pro wrestling stars because when they make their speeches, they are full of fabricated emotion. Enjoy!


“Hello Everyone.” My name is good ol J.R. Jim Ross! I’ve been a commentator for the WWE for more than a decade, and I am coming out of retirement because we have a rivalry between two heated combatants that will make me run home to sweet home Oklahoma afterwards.”

“It isn’t in the squared circle this time! It is in the political arena. It is arguably a more apt place to find false characters, fake moves, and cowardly retreats than where I got my roots. At least in the world of professional wrestling there were slams that made Stone Cold crap his pants, ears twisted off from barb wire, and real coconuts smashed on skulls.”

“In Washington, everything is fake.”

“Let’s go backstage where the Republican Party stable has just recovered from another tremendous beat down by the Teflon Trio of the Democratic regime under Obama the “Executive Sheik.”

“Hello Jim Ross. This is Mean Gene Okerlund here, and I am backstage with the current speaker of the House, John the “Baby-Boy,” Boehner and his team, the Rheumatic Rhinos. There is, Eric “Can’t- Win,” Cantor, “Ice Cold” Darrell Issa, and the mousy and uninviting, “Missing Bachman.”

The, “Baby Boy,” swaggers to the microphone. His face is blue and purple. His lips are torn. His head is swollen. He is sweating profusely from the thick diaper he is wearing. He approaches the microphone like a tough guy but when he looks in the camera, his hound dog eyes water and he sobs uncontrollably.

“They beat us Mean Gene…they were so scary,” he weeps.

He is pushed aside for, “Ice Cold”, Darrell Issa. He has greasy tufts of grey hair sprouting from his chest out of the plain blue singlet he wears. He points in to the camera and growls.

“Well you know something Mean Gene! We Rhinos are getting our fill of these tricksters calling themselves the Teflon Trio. Harry “the Commie-Red Reid! If you are in the arena, I am coming for you! Not everyone in our party is a spineless jellyfish. Do you think we are scared?! Do you see us crying?”

Mean Gene gestures behind Issa with the microphone.

“Actually, the, “Baby-Boy”, Boehner is quite literally crying.” He says, grinning.

In the background, “Baby-Boy” is indeed crying. “Missing” Bachman hands him his scotch on the rocks and “Baby Boy,” is sedated, sipping contently and remarking about how the ice is, “sparkly.”

“I don’t have time for this Mean Gene! You liberal media folks are about to get a beat down, cuz Ice Cold says so!”

“Wait just a minute Ice-Cold Issa!” Mean Gene frowns talking back.

“That is some tough talk. How can you back that up? Might I remind you that Harry “Commie-Red,” Reid and his tag team party just beat your whole team merely seconds ago!”

“Let me remind you Mean Gene, that we are not defeated!” Eric ,”Can’t-Win,” Cantor steps to the microphone. He stares hard at the interviewer trying desperately to intimidate him. Mean Gene points a finger in Cantor’s chest, not afraid.

“Let me remind you Mr. Cantor, that not only has your team just been defeated, as Obama the Executive Sheik keeps fooling you time and time again, but you personally have been kicked out of your position as House Majority Leader. How are you claiming that you haven’t been defeated?”

“You look at me Mean Gene. I am “Can’t-Quit Cantor. You see my chiseled good looks? You see my physique?” Cantor brags, kissing his muscle.

“No. You are “Can’t-win.” Mean Gene corrects.

Cantor’s expression suddenly changes. “Oh. Well. I think I’ll go find Sean Handsome Hannity and form a republican boy band then. Toodles!”

“Ice Cold”, Cantor just left, and your speaker of the House is an infant and an alcoholic. How are you going to keep it together?” Mean Gene turns back to Issa.

“With this! Show them “Missing” Bachman! Show them our secret weapon.” Issa shouts.

Michelle “Missing: Bachman tweets on her phone and holds it up to the camera. The letters read. Lois Lerner. Tell the Truth. Please. The “Please” is written in all caps.

“Ice Cold” hollers and points to the camera.

“Bam! That just happened son! We are going to be tweeting all day and all night! Have you had enough yet Teflon Trio?!” He bellows.

“I don’t think Commie- Red Reid, Lois Liar Lerner, and Hot Stink Over the Hill-ary Clinton are intimidated by your tweets and texts Ice!” Mean Gene shouts.

“Well, if that isn’t enough. We always have Johnny McCain Heathen.” We can rely on him to back us up against Commissioner Sheik’s evil regime.” Issa adds with faltering confidence.

“I don’t think so. Right now the war grizzled old man is eating the stuffing from the chairs. He thinks he is back in the bamboo cages of Vietnam.” Mean Gene retorts.

The camera shows John “Insane” McCain shoving piles of furniture stuffing in his mouth. He is naked except for a belt of leaves covering his bony pale thighs. His eyes dart from one Senate Seat to the next, drooling in a thick puddle in front of the American Flag.

“Ok. I will take them on myself! I have truth on my side. We are going to get to the truth behind Lois Liar Lerner’s emails between 2009 to 2011! We are going to show the world again that the Rheumatic Rhinos still rule the political arena!”

Mean Gene opens an envelope.

“Are you aware “Ice Cold” that a letter has been delivered. It says that we don’t have the emails anymore, that they are sorry, and that they are really sorry. It says that they cannot really give a reason, that if they had the emails they wouldn’t provide them, that they dare you to do anything about it, but that you can trust them, and it says again, that they are sorry. Now that should make your blood boil if anything should. Don’t you think Ice-Cold?”

“ Actually Mean Gene…that is a good reason. I guess our rivalry about this is over. Thanks Teflon Trio. You have been most considerate. I’m sorry I had to get rough with you.” Issa smiles and walks off waving.

“You are an animal “Ice Cold”. I can’t see how you lose every time,” Mean Gene says, shaking his head.

“Back to you Jim Ross.”

“As usual the Rhinos wilt under the lights. Although the Teflon Trio and the commissioner are some of the dirtiest players in the game, the Rhinos are undoubtedly the softest. For Political Wrestling Entertainment, I’m good ol Jim Ross, going back to a sport where the hitting is real. Good night and God help us.”


Ditsy State Department Decree, Jane Psaki vs Common Sense


courtesy of William Bontrager


I wrote this after watching a press conference from the U.S. State department spokeswoman, Jane Psaki. She spent the whole hour and a half dodging questions as usual and once again proves that this is the least transparent administration despite our president’s claims. When you read this I encourage you to go to CSPAN and watch. Notice that this parody is very close to the actual events. They use semantics to dodge questions like a pro. I also poke fun at Chris Matthews. He has spent his career sucking up to the Clintons and the Obamas,  and defends this administration like a man with a gun to his temple. Enjoy.

“Hello. I am Chris Matthews for MSNBC, and I am really mad for no apparent reason! The conservatives have done it again! The tea party, Clint Eastwood, and sexist light bulbs…” Chris Matthew bellows.
A cow Taser comes out and prods Matthews. He foams at his desk..
“Thank you. I needed that. The latest news brings us to the State Department where spokeswoman, the lovely and completely honorable, Jane Psaki is fielding questions concerning… Whoa!! Wow! Did you guys feel that? Did someone just touch my leg under the table? No? Oh I see. I was thinking about sipping champagne with the president in a paddle boat on the Italian Peninsula!”
“We are taking you live right now where Matt Lee is interrogating the beautiful and innocent radish. Doesn’t she look like the girl from Frozen? What a sweetheart.”

Location: Washington D.C. Press Conference: State Department Room. It is a stale little place, with flies buzzing incessantly around a dead dog rotting in the aisle.

Jane Psaki is standing at her podium smiling vacantly.
“Our position as the State Department in accordance to the White House is this; we should stand by our position in the region of Ukraine.”

“And what is that position?” asks Matt Lee, a burly reporter leaning over his desk with a notebook.
“Our position is remaining in a  position that states we are not making a designation at this time.” The spokeswoman replies cheerily.
“But you just said before this press conference that you have a position. In fact, that is the title of this conference. The State Department’s Position on the Ukraine, you said.”
“That is right Matt. It is a position that we are not making a designation at this time Matt. As if!” She tosses her hair back and giggles.
“Well, you do know that a position means, you take a side, or you are taking a stance, or making a determination.”
“Those are just words Matt. Ok Mr. “Use-words.” I can use words too. Look at Matt’s dumb tie everyone. See Matt. Words are words. We use words too. Words, words, blah blah…,” she laughs and blushes. Her eyes cross then go back to normal.”
“Well are you aware of the effect we project to other nations when we allow Hunter Biden, the vice president’s son, on the board of a gas and oil company in the Ukraine? You do realize how bad that looks right?”
“He is a private citizen that was raised by Siberian mercenaries on request of Mrs. Biden. She felt her husband was not not ready to be a father at the time. The son and father have hardly met. That is all I know of Hunter Biden.”
“Yes, only the first part of that is true but nonetheless, “Matt continues, “Hunter Biden is going to sit as a chairman in a company in a nation which we are supporting against Russia. Doesn’t that smell of cronyism?
“Why thank you Joe! That is my new perfume. It is called “Crony Lips” by Beyoncé. And speaking of which I think there is an emergency and I simply have to take this call!” She shrieks.
“You aren’t holding your phone,” Matt plainly states.
“Yes. I hear you and I’m on my way. Please avoid that dead hound on your way out! We are in no position to move the dog to a further position at this time.”
Back to the MSNBC Newsroom
“And that is that ladies and gentlemen. This is Chris Matthews again, and now you realize that we have nothing to worry about from the peaceful, gentle soul that is Jane Psaki. Nothing to worry about at all. Right, John Kerry?” Chris Matthews blurts.
The television screen splits and John Kerry is shown drinking blood from a skull. He looks up, furrows his eye brows, and smacks his lips before dashing off in a hiss.
Chris continues, “More news. Obama …whoa-ohh! Just saying his name is sweet ecstasy… addresses the American tragedy of Jay-Z assaulted on an elevator. We are going to be playing that for the remainder of the evening, as we see if race was the factor behind Jay-Z’s attack, and if it was indeed the reporter Matt Lee behind those nefarious acts.”
“Be sure to check out the charity, “Clinton for Kittens”, where the madam will breast feed nine sickly alley cats back to health. Go Hillary.This is Chris Matthews, going back to the asylum.”

(end Broadcast)


Obama Eats Poodle Droppings at Spielberg Event


courtesy of William Bontrager


“Hello. I’m Rachel Maddow, and my face always looks scrunched up like an anus because my views are so powerful, they have permanently twisted my face. Our story brings us to sunny L.A., where the president is about to enter the Holocaust museum courtesy of Mr. Spielberg. We see the president arriving now. Michelle, the first lady is following him. She is fussing at her assistant. Oh! It looks like she has a McGriddle in her hand, and she is unwilling to let it go. Now,…ok. She released it. Whew! That could have been bad.”

“Attending this prestigious and well- deserved event for the president, are media moguls, David Geffen, Rupert Murdoch, Disney Chairman, Alan Horn and Moloch the Owl God..OOPs, I didn’t say that on air did I?”

“No. You must not utter the dark lord’s name!” screams a voice off air.

“We will blame it on the Tea Party. They hijacked the set”, Maddow titters.



         “Mr. President. Thank you so much for coming here,” Steven Spielberg approaches.

“Well…I…can’t pass something like this up. There isn’t much happening..in D.C. Joe Biden is having a sleepover.  LOOK!”

“Isn’t that sensational?! I hope you didn’t get offended by the signs out there. They don’t reflect our views.”

“What signs? Oh yes…those offensive signs. Eric Holder is on the job. We can’t have racism like that.  He is taking care of it”.

“Uh..what do you mean Mr. President?”

“Never-mind that. Is that caviar?”

The president takes a finger and swirls it in a black puddle on the table, brings it to his lips, and slurps it up. He chews thoughtfully.

“No…Mr. President! Those are droppings from Barbara Streisand’s toy poodle. The dog is always in her purse and must have went number two on the table. We’ll get someone to clean it up.  Boy!Oh, Boy!” Spielberg calls out.

A fresh faced youth emerges and starts to clean up the mess. Actually it is Kevin Hart, dressed as a sailor, wearing a halter top and a pair of really short shorts. There is a look of quivering fear on his face.

“Kevin. Clean this mess up quickly. And Kevin, please do it on your hands and knees,” Speilberg says with a wolfish grin.

“Mr. Spielberg, sir, uh. It is on the table. It don’t require me to be in that position, uh sir. I would rather..,” Hart begins to mutter and weakly protest.

“You know. I hear that Sinbad is making a comeback. Maybe I will call him up for that cop role with Justin Timberlake.”

“Hands and knees, it is. Thank you sir.”

“Look. I don’t know what you put in that caviar…but ..I want more of it delivered to my table!” Obama cheers.

“Yes. Dog feces delivered to your table, very good. Anyway, thank you Mr. President. We have your instructions here. It simply states that you will  mention that we are not benefiting in any way financially from this event. We in Hollywood, are doing our part to maintain a moral outlook while delivering high quality and original programming and cinema that encourages independent thought.

With that everyone around them laughs uproariously.

“I should go. I think Nancy Pelosi has drowned herself in the punch bowl,” replies Speilberg, and exits hastily.

Soon everyone is in their seating area.  Two armed men are carrying Nancy Pelosi, who staggers, hears the ceremonial  music, and then starts dancing like the lady in Pulp Fiction.

“Come on Travolta,” she slurs.

The object she grabs and tries to embrace is not John Travolta. It is a house plant.

“How many drugs did you give her this time?” an assistant asks Harry Reid.

“Her normal suitcase,”  Harry Reid flippantly responds.

Obama stands up and waves to the crowd from the podium. Valerie Jarrett is in his ear piece and in an underground area and shouting orders to the president. The president gets frightened and a puddle forms around his hips. Kevin Hart is quickly there with a mop. He grins to the audience, and half the directors in the crowd smack their lips and run their tongues across their mouths. A single bead of sweat drips off Hart’s temple and he retreats.

“Distinguished guests, celebrities…ahh …Look…affirmative action…hard working Americans….let me be clear…can’t wait for Congress to act…have to move…Look…Bush did it…thank you,” Obama says, holds his award in his hand, and walks off.

“What an orator!” the crowd exclaims in intoxicated and drugged awe.

“He tells the bare-bones truth!” yells Bruce Springsteen playing the air guitar.

Meanwhile Eric Holder and Al Sharpton are roaming the streets of California  fixing offensive street signs.

“Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Hollywood…all white people names! I aint watching that show Friends!” Al Sharpton bellows, drooling over himself and sniffing incessantly. There is some white powder on his nose.

“For now on, Hollywood will be called Haywood, Santa Monica will be called Church Girl Monique, and Beverly Hills will be called, Black Folks Be UP IN HERE NOW. I enjoy my job!” Eric Holder exclaims.

“And we just getting started!” Sharpton rejoices. The wire he is wearing springs from his suit jacket and he tucks it in again, sniffing…



Chapter 1 of Splitting Sides Across Party Lines

chapter 1

  Dreams of His Father: Joe Biden Gets Caught In a Tree  

Explanation:  I wrote this segment after studying Barack Obama’s history. He definitely has been influenced by his muslim father and it has an effect on his politics. Although the mainstream media barely comments about this, or his lack of quick wit when he is not in front of a teleprompter, I will. I also portray Joe Biden as the lovable adorable liberal pet that just does stupid things and gets away with it. He is like a puppy piddling on the rug. Enjoy this segment, as Obama still dreams of his father.  

“He did it again Mr. President.”

The voice comes from an intercom, buzzing electronically. A small mocha hand, fingernails meticulously trim and shining, smacks at the buzzer system.

He thought it was an alarm clock. He comes out of his fog, the hazy glaze of sleep, and it takes him more than a half an hour to respond. He sits in his chair in the oval office, with a blank expression, and then finally shows a sign that he didn’t fall asleep again.

“Look!” he says.

When there is no response from the intercom, he says it again.


Then the intercom replies back.

“Umm, you aren’t giving your weekly address Mr. President. I’m Phil, your intern. Sorry to bother you.” The voice in the intercom seems uncertain, and wavers.

Obama frowns, then he notices there is no podium, or cameras, or teleprompter, or reporters with thin ropes of saliva forming under their lips.

“Ah yes…Phil the intern. I was…working. Consulting ah, some associates about economic policy.” Obama concluded. He spoke some words fast, then in the middle of the sentence he seemed to have lost momentum, then recovered it again, placing some nice political keywords snugly at the end of his sentence.

Phil worked with him long enough to know that meant Obama was taking his daily four hour nap under the desk of the oval office. From the unusually long response, even for this slow processing president, Phil knew that he had dreamt of his father again.

“I just wanted to inform you..Joe is up in the tree again.” Phil says.

Obama frowned, stood up on his tall lanky frame, walks to the window. He slides the American flag to the side with his delicate hands. The sun shines through the oval office window but he sees his security forces around a tree in the distance.

His thoughts are far away though. He dreams. Obama dreams of his father. The current dream is distracting him from his daily routine.

“Dreams of my father,” Obama replies to the haunting empty space circulating in the oval office. Actually he said it to a seven foot cardboard cutout posing in a corner, a smiling Shaquille O Neal from his role in Shazam. Shazam goes with Obama at all times, like a child with his favorite teddy bear.

Obama stares into space, and he is whisked away to his dream as the security team stands on the lawn with their hands casually on their hips.

What Obama writes later in his new book..”I Guess I’ll Keep Dreaming of My Father, is what composes his deep ruminations as he stands valiantly with his hands behind his back.

My father…in a vast space, floating like a little tea leaf in…the air, and he beckons to me. I am standing on..the edge of a mountain. As I see him come close, he reaches out to me. I float towards him in a brilliant light. My father looks at me, a look of complete bliss on his face, wrapped in a shining robe, fluttering musically in the charged air.”

“I am so happy, looking up to my father. He, in his heavenly robes, and me, in my dapper suit, advancing to our celestial reunion in the sky. However, as I draw nearer, and our hands touch, my father’s arms weaken, and he falls to the earth. We hit, with a resounding thud, and I scamper to my feet.

“I yell, what is wrong? No, that’s not right. I yell..Look..then ask him what it is wrong. I turn him over, and he looks at me with wider eyes, accusing eyes, eyes that burn in to me as I shave my chest hair in the mornings. Those eyes say it all. He is..not pleased with me. Unharmed from the fall, more frustrated  than anything, he stands to his feet dusting himself off furiously.

He screamed then up to the sky. “Oh, this is maddening! First I get shafted with the seventy-two virgins promise, and now it seems I can’t float properly like a ghostly vision from the afterlife should.

And like a comforting son, I complimented my father.

“Its Ok, Dad. But what is this about the promised young virgins? They are not there?”

“Oh, they are there alright.  The fact is Junior, I cannot pass to the parts of Jannah that are particularly nice. There is a sparkling river of pure milk, but what the Koran did not say, is that there has to be someone milking those cows on the other side. Namely, me. Yes, there are pretty women for each man, lovely houris, but what the holy book failed to say, is you have to prove your worthiness of them, with “training wives.”

They are large, belligerent women, some who have been guests on, The View.  Oh, it is most vile my boy”, my father said.

“I am sorry father,” I then told him.

And before I was snatched, from my dream, I knew that my first three years was an abject failure, that I was the reason that my father was on his knees, milking cows in Jannah, and why he couldn’t advance. And, I knew..what I had to do, from, that…point onward.

It was just that look in his eyes..that dug into my soul, before I awoke in a fetal position under my desk..”

The security team stands at the White house Lawn. They stand casually, as if this is an ongoing routine. The president emerges, smiling, eyes shining with new purpose/ He would carry on his father’s legacy.

He stops at the tall tree, talks to the security team. The man in charge shrugs his shoulders. Up above there is a high pitched whimpering coming from a trembling branch. The branch bends at the weight of the object on it.

Obama looks up and sees a scared Joe Biden, with arms and legs curled up on a tall branch. Joe’s face is red and flushed, and his eyes are strained from crying. Obama, arms are crossed to his chest and he looks up with a wry grin.

“Now Joe, I told you about climbing that tree. Once you get up there you can..never find your way down. “

Joe Biden whimpers and hugs the branch he is balanced on even tighter.

Obama tells his security team to leave him up there for a few more hours as punishment and then to call the fire department. He shakes his head because his vice president is completely adorable. He leaves the White House lawn recharged to lead America to paradise.


Blog Forward to Splitting Sides Across Party Lines



Foreword by the, Author Behind Splitting Sides Across Party Lines

So there is plenty of parody media out there. When Bush was president, both of them, they were portrayed as squinty eyes inbred idealists that sort of blundered around on the stage of Saturday Night Live.  Dana Carvy would impersonate George Bush senior, and his little white hands would shake and he would mumble, “naht-gonnadooit,” and,” wouldn’t be proo-dent.”

As the real Bush declared to America, telling a sucker populace that he would not implement, “no new taxes.” The hilarious skits captured the nuances of the president perfectly and it went into the archives of great political comedy along with Phil Hartman’s, Bill Clinton.

Then Bush’s son took over. The Big W. He became cannon fodder for every comedian, winy, political group, and YouTube video directors alike. He was funnier than his father. He bumped his head on airplanes, had a shoe flung at him, stuttered with our larger words, an even  took liberties to make up his own words by forming them between a deep southern drawl he developed in the heartland of Texas.

His war outraged people, and incited a huge emotional response, and because he was a white male cowboy type, he was up for grabs to be made fun of.

And so he got it in spades. Will Ferrell was hilarious as the big “W.” Saturday Night Live, like the good liberal show that it had become, led the way in the parody. Suddenly everyone imitated George W, and he became the hated, and funniest, of our presidents and should have paved the way for freedom of speech for comedy, and a new era of parody in our country. After all, although Bush Jr. was bad, at least he gave his enemies the right to jeer at him.

But that all changed. The face of our country has altered. It is because a black liberal has been elected in to office. Barack came in and the air of swirling humor has been sucked up and silenced like a media gestapo looks on. We are afraid, and tremble about what to say. Saturday Night Live led the silence by only portraying Obama as a confident, self-assured guy that has blunderers all around him.

As boring as this president is, and as many long, empty, vain, remarks he makes without the help of his teleprompter, we are afraid to say anything lest we appear to look like a racist, or intolerant in some way or another.

Yet he deserves the criticism, the mockery, the jeers, and the other forms of verbal abuse that all of the other presidents in our free nation have received, and he will get it. This administration has as many blunders, moronic quotes, and scandals as any other presidency yet it has been given a golden ticket, and a pass by the mainstream media.

That is why I am starting this parody blog, because that is our right as a free people. There is just too much comedy in this liberal administration to ignore. If I can inform and entertain with these truths and say the things that people fear saying, then, so be it. Enjoy, laugh and learn with, Splitting Sides Across Party Lines.