Technology for Our Empress

Now that our Many Titted Empress has pulled off her win in New Hampshire to put her candidacy to being absolute ruler of the world back on track, I can release, to those of us in the Party, how this was achieved.

No doubt you noticed, as I did, that Our Empress' grueling scheduling had left her looking, well, less than her glorious self leading up to Iowa caucuses. Which I understand entirely, for it is hard work exercising the control that is needed for a successful premiership: ordering the speeches, the appearances, the wardrobe, not only of herself, but of each of her workers, and even the bus drivers; deciding who shall eat what, and who shall be allowed to watch what DVDs for we all know that undirected thought is not permitted.

The Many Titted Empress was tired, for even She, who ordains everything, is subject to being tired. After all, does it not say in that bourgeois document the Bible that on the seventh day God rested? And although Our Many Titted Empress is well on her way to restructuring the physical laws of the universe, until such time as she does, even Our Glorious Empress can get tired.

So it is imperative that she find a way to relax. And of course to help her she has had the services of the Hildo Hydra 7.9. When things were not as hectic as they have been recently a session with Maureen Dowd or Mr. Reno would take place on average once a week, but as the schedule filled up, with all those things to plan, to control, all those menus to declare, those thoughts to ordain, then Our Many Titted Empress found it necessary to increase her sessions with the Hildo until scarcely a day went by without recourse to it. It is lonely at the top. It is lonely being on top.

Once Our Empress paid me the compliment of a summons to The Presence in the Presidential Suite. For by definition anyplace she is is the Presidential Suite.

"Commissar Theocritus, I just don't feel quite right these days. Once I could write a speech, plan legislation on how people shall apply makeup, slap the shit out of the cook and all this before breakfast. But these days I just get so tired, so exhausted, so fagged.

"And so I thought of you. I charge thee, Commissar Theocritus, to find why I get so tired."

Flattered, as always, by being in The Presence, I promised that I would upend the earth to find the reason for her ague and fatigue no matter how many scientists to give their best, and their all, to that end. And if to their ends, so be it.

I assembled a group of the best scientists and gave them their brief: what was it that had so sapped the energy of Our Many Titted Empress so that at the end of the day she sometimes did not have the energy to flog her half dozen peasants. "Why," I asked, "has this paragon of all that is Progressive lost her zip? Why, at the end of a normal day, correcting peoples' grooming mistakes and rewriting nursery rhymes, does our Empress sometimes not even have time for her bath in virgins' blood? Find out why! The future of the Universe As We Demand It™ depends on your work."

They worked, and they worked, and all to no avail. I had to focus their attention in ways which some did not appreciate, but I told them that they could always have new families in the Progressive World of Next Tuesday™ if, and only if, Our Many Titted Empress climbed to the Throne of Ruler of Subatomic Particles and Innermost Thoughts.

Finally a young toxicologist provided me with the answer. "Commissar Theocritus, you have informed us that sometimes Our Empress uses the Hildo Hydra three or four hours a day?"

"The responsibilities of absolute power weigh heavily on her brow, my son."

"Permit me. I see several attachments here. How are they used?"

"The carborundum head is used, generally, by Mr. Reno. The fullerite tip with the rasps is used by Rosie. And when David Geffen comes over, there is the tip taken from a plaster cast of Arnold Schwarzenegger's arm in his first Mr. Olympia contest."

"But, Commissar Theocritus, what does Our Empress use?"

"Being the dainty flower of femininity that she is, she uses the fleshy one. After the requirement that she reproduce to continue the blood line and whelped Chelsea, she declared that she would never be touched again by a man, and after that traumatic experience with Bill's Peyronie's disease."

"Commissar Theocritus. I have it. It is poisoning by phthalates. A few hours once a week is not a toxicological risk. But several hours a day? That's some serious abrasion of her Secret Places and any lesions that are abraded with, er,..."

"Spit it out, man! This is no time for delicacy when the utter control, er, happiness of the universe is at stake!"

"Sorry, sir. I lost my head considering hers. I shall do better."

"See that you do. What is your recommendation?"

"Sir, I recommend that Our Many Titted Empress' attachment be made without any phthalates for they are poisoning her. Let the Hildo rather be made by natch snatch and all will be well."

"So mote it be!"

And, comrades, you see the results. Our Many Titted Empress is refreshed and ready to assume her rightful place as Empress of the Universe.

And now she has a greener prick than the Goracle to boot.

Commissar Theocritus wrote: No doubt you noticed, as I did, that Our Empress' grueling scheduling had left her looking, well, less than her glorious self leading up to Iowa caucuses.

I thought she was just shedding her old skin....

No, Betty, but that is an understandable mistake. When she sheds her skin, she starts spending a lot of time on hot rocks.

Ahh. My mistake. It's hard to tell her actions and behavioral patters. I guess we just need to study her more.

And that is further complicated when she she acts as host for one of the spirits she channels. In the first throes of a possession it is hard to tell if it's Karl Marx, Adolph, or Attila the Hun.

Possibly even the Prince of Persia.

What's bad is when Our MTE and Rosie both start channeling Genghis Khan and bitch-slap each other.

Eeewww....

Once they started throwing Hildo tips at each other, and <i>that's</i> the real story of the demise of Meow's Hummels.

Those poor Hummels....

Commissar Theocritus wrote:No, Betty, but that is an understandable mistake. When she sheds her skin, she starts spending a lot of time on hot rocks.

Dear me. Now I can almost believe this about George Bush, but it isn't really true about our Empress, is it?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reptoids#David_Icke

I'll bet Mr. Icke is a lot of fun after he's had a few drinks.

Is, I wonder, Mr. Icke Mr. Harold Ickes after an unsuccessful circumcision? Or, here's a thought, a successful one? Because any surgeon, after watching Mr. Ickes' performance during the unjust accusations of the RepubliKKKans at Our Many Titted Empress' husband, might consider that a phallectomy might be just the ticket. And that having been done, Mr. Ickes would disappear.

According to an interview with David Icke, Christine Fitzgerald claims that she was a confidante of the late Diana, Princess of Wales, and that Diana told her that the Royal Family were reptilian aliens, and that they could shapeshift

And to this I say, "Yeah, so what? Who doesn't think that about their in-laws?"

Not having any I wouldn't know. But I am quite sure that Realtors and Mortgage Brokers can shapeshift. I did some research and found

Article 50(a)(6) of the Texas Constitution wrote:Any abstracter may, once a year, murder any realtor or mortgage broker without penalty, either civil or criminal. More than one murder a year will be carried over to the next year's permitted murders, up to limit of three murders. Once the limit of three murders has been reached, the abstracter shall pay a fine of more more than $10 per murder over the limit, as rolled forward. There is no season on realtors or mortgage brokers.

At first I had thought that the $10 per head fee for extra kills was reasonable but I had to take out a home-equity loan to finance the rest of my purchases. AmEx cancelled my platinum card for non-payment, and since that has no limit, that is a powerful statement.

Still, I find that the desert is still teeming with them. Of course I didn't help myself. After all, drag a hundred dollar bill through a subdivision and it's amazing what you'll find.

what was it that had so sapped the energy of Our Many Titted Empress so that at the end of the day she sometimes did not have the energy to flog her half dozen peasants.

I find this statement bothersome Comrades!!


I am nothing but a peasant and I expect to be flogged on a regular basis...Hell, I want to be flogged and I look forward to it!!! If the MTE can not perform her duties...Well then I will have to look for a CHANGE...That's right I said it, CHANGE!!! Maybe Osa...Obama can flog me!! The MTE has showed weakness, I do not care if she was poisoned. That is nothing but an excuse for being weak!!!

What was this poison??? Was it some substance left behind by Rosie's poo-nanny?? Then and only then will I accept this explanation of the MTE not being able to perform her floggings.

Sea-Bass, there was a difficulty over Rosie's poo-nanny, who because schizophrenic when Rosie would say, "Bring it in!" and then instantly yell, "Take it out!"

And do not worry about our MTE's weakness; she is not incapacitated for ever. Bear in mind that all great things must have a period of rest, to rise again, Phoenix like. And what an image she made, rising, Phoenix-like, on the phthalate-free Hildo.

So do not worry. Your back will feel the sting of her lash. As often as you wish.

She likes that, you know.

Commissar Theocritus wrote:
"Commissar Theocritus. I have it. It is poisoning by phthalates."

omg! and i thought The MTE just had menopause. glad to hear that she is doing better:)

I understand her to. The life on the road is not easy. Specifically, when your a tight schedule trying to vote from city to city and state to state. You have to cast as many votes as possible. And the rush is grueling. As you go about trying to avoid the ECC.

And think of the difficulty shoe-horning that ass into a normal bus. Once I had to get inside an unmodified bus while they greased her thighs, and I held out a voting ballot with a stylus, "Here, Empress, here. See all these chads you can make pregnant? Come to Theocritus, Empress!"

And with a mighty heave which registered on a seismometer, she catapulted through the door, her eyes red, her hands grasping. I was terrified, so much so that I could not hold my ground and she lunged into the far side of the bus, turning it over.

We had to get in wrecker trains to right the bus.