Let's Take A Breather And Treat Ourselves To The Whimsical Stylings Of Maureen Dowd, Oh Sweet Jesus

Wonkette already wrote this, and ours was better.

Does Maureen Dowd have editors? Because if so, they are fired, on account of MoDo appears to have eaten like eight more pot brownies, fallen asleep, and had a real boring dumbstupid sex dream about Hillary Clinton's meeting with Elizabeth Warren. And then, instead of saying, "You know what, I should stop writing for the New York Times probably, because I really suck, everybody hates me, and also am still so fucked up, dude ," she appears to have written everything she remembered down in her Dream Journal and accidentally   submitted it as her Saturday column.

Hillary Clinton greets Elizabeth Warren in the cream-and-coral sunroom of her home on Embassy Row.

“Elizabeth, welcome,” Clinton says, smiling stiffly. “I was worried that you were lost since it was taking you so-o-o-o long to finally get here.”

“Hahaha,” Warren replies. “I’ve always heard you’re a hoot in private. I know I was the last Democratic woman in the Senate to endorse you but Bernie and I have more in common. We don’t buckrake on Wall Street. People are enthusiastic about us and believe what we say. We’re pure.”

"Hello, Elizabeth Warren," said Hillary Clinton. "You are a senator and a woman who is from Massachusetts and I have invited you to my house, which is in Washington, DC, as opposed to the state of Washington, which is a different place. Both, however are in America." Hillary stirred her ice water.

"Guffaw," said Elizabeth Warren. "You are a woman and you are named Hillary Clinton and I am currently at your house. We are discussing Bernie Sanders, who is a man and also a senator, though he is not at your house in Washington, which means he is somewhere else." Elizabeth Warren also stirred her ice water.

“Pure scolds,” Hillary sniffs. “I guess it hit you, when you saw me fighting for my life against a dyspeptic 74-year-old socialist with one suit, that if you had jumped in, you could have been the first woman president.”

“Yes,” Warren muses. “I only loaned Bernie my progressive hordes. I’m the real leader of that movement.”

“Not anymore,” Hillary says.

Warren sighs. “True, my faithful are peeved at me for not running and for endorsing you instead of Bernie.”

Hillary pours herself some coffee. “I know you’re intrigued by the idea of being my vice president,” she says. “I heard you tell our gal Rachel Maddow that you’re prepared to be commander in chief. But you know I can’t put you on the ticket, don’t you?”

We ... uh ...

Fuck it, this thing is satire-proof. It is not possible to come up with worse dialogue than what Maureen has type-shitted into the pages of the Gray Lady. The title of this pretend sex chat starring Hillary and Liz Warren? "Girl Squad." Because apparently when she's boner-raging at Hillary Clinton, Maureen Dowd likes to mainline Camille Paglia's taco farts. 

What follows is a lengthy, poorly written, imaginary discussion between Hillary and Liz, about how they are both ladies, and they really don't like each other, but will unite to beat Donald Trump. Maureen Dowd imagines that Hillary calls Liz "Pocahontas," which only really would make sense as a joke if Rush Limbaugh were also featured in this column, perhaps bouncing naked on the floor of Hillary's house covered with barbecue sauce, broken pill capsules and regret. But whatever, MoDo heard on the internet that "Pocahontas" is a "funny" thing to call Elizabeth Warren so she went with it.

The following verb actions also happen in this, MoDo's magnum opus :

• "Warren smiles primly, sipping her Pellegrino."

• "Warren bristles, Church Lady-style."

• "Hillary gives that big laugh that indicates she is not amused."

• "Hillary nods rhythmically."

And then, just as quickly as it began, it is over, and we are wondering what precisely the fuck we just read and why it even exists in the first place.

Then we remember that LOL, The New York Times also employs whining crap maggot David Brooks and virginal neckbeard Ross Douthat, so we guess it's good enough.

[ The New York Times ]