where the wild things shouldn't be

For the love of all things unholy, Hillary, just give up. The party is over. Everyone has left but you as you sit there in Obama's house nibbling on the cracker crumbs he's left on the dish in the living room. Yes, when the host sitting in his PJ's looks uncomfortably at his watch while you ramble on about the good ole days, it means it's time to go. Grab your purse and Bill's leash and head your drunk, pantsuit-wearing fat ass out the front door. Or better yet, use the backdoor. We don't want people to know that Obama associates with such a conniving bitch as yourself.