On a particularly blistering and muggy day in Hell, the metaphysical remains of former President Richard Nixon swiped through various news stories on his smart phone. He had to admit, he thought to himself, he missed it up there, as much as it was nice to be with some of his favorite people in Hell. Still, he missed conspiring to crush his political and personal adversaries. Tricky Dick hadn’t felt the rush and buzz of power and all the resources in the world to flex it.
Then, his stubby thumb swiped to another story, and his heart stopped, for just a moment. The headline was enough to give him a turgid, unyielding erection.
Nixon ordinarily didn’t read liberal commie rags like New York Magazine, but the headline spoke to him on such a deep, personal level, he dove right in. The once commander in chief who used his power in the Oval Office to sic the IRS on his adversaries felt his fingers tingle as he read about how Ailes would use Fox News revenue to hire private investigators, consultants, and operatives that would carry out various missions for Ailes against those he felt were his enemies.
“I always knew I liked Roger,” Nixon said. Dick remembered Ailes from his 1968 presidential campaign. He’d hired Ailes to help him harness the power of television so that he could fare better than he had in 1960. He still seethed at how sweaty and nervous he came off against that womanizer Kennedy in 1960. Ah well, that was water under the bridge, or in Dick’s current situation, fire under his fat, white ass.
As Nixon read over more and more details of Ailes’ crusade against journalists who covered the Fox News chairman closely and skeptically, he could feel his pulse quicken even further still. He hadn’t felt this horny in a long time. When he was a live, Dick just loved to wield his power to threaten and intimidate his enemies. He was really glad to see his work had been carried on by Ailes, who he always knew would make a great megalomaniacal asshole one day.
Each new detail that Nixon read brought more and more blood rushing to his tiny, disfigured penis. Ailes had shoveled untold thousands, if not millions of dollars into these Black Room campaigns. The idea that an alleged newsman would work to stifle the free press in such a way was hypocrisy on a level that was making it harder and harder for Nixon to keep his hands away from useless, barely visible male genitalia.
He read about how Ailes would have his operatives setup entire websites solely dedicated to defaming and maligning reporters that were investigating Ailes. This kind of murky, shady power brokering was the kind of stuff that made Nixon’s heart soar. He just couldn’t resist anymore, and with just a couple paragraphs left to read, he unzipped his trousers and started getting very tricky with his dick.
The pace and fury with which he manipulated his manhood quickened as he read the final few lines of text. Nixon’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. His toes curled. Faster, and faster he went, imagining just how much fun he himself could’ve had with the amount of money and influence at his disposal as Roger had. Faster. Faster. Faster. Oh no. Too fast. Should slow down. Can’t slow down. Won’t slow down.
The force from the horrid disgustingness that left his below-the-waist area knocked him back into a cabinet full of Satan’s most prized knickknacks. Meanwhile back on Earth, at the same time the ghost of Richard Nixon was ejaculating, six new forms of cancer were spawned, fourteen lakes dried up, the global temperature went up another quarter of a degree, and Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham started making out.
Though he knew he himself could never again terrorize, stalk, threaten, and intimidate his political adversaries like he used to, Old Richard Nixon’s dong grew two sizes that day. It was just enough for him to know that somewhere in the universe an old, white, flabby bastard was foisting himself on women who wanted nothing to do with him as he took millions of dollars from his propaganda machine and fed them into crusades against people who were just exercising the First Amendment’s promise of a free press.
God bless America, Nixon thought, but more importantly, God bless money and power.