Rick Santorum Porn!
I am Rick Santorum’s dog.
Call me Bruce.
Bruce isn’t my real name, but you never know when the Islamic Terrorists will strike, and Rick wants me to not to be a target. Matter of fact, I already have been. A target, that is; some so-called “gay” activists once threw glitter on me, and it took hours of brushing to get my coat clear of the mess. So "Bruce" it is.
Because Rick wants me to be safe. Because Rick loves me. He loves me so much. Now I know the lamestream liberal media will twist that to suit their own perverted agenda. But our love is pure love, Jesus-blessed love.
Which is not to say that I don’t find my Master, well, attractive. For one thing—and I bet this is something Rachel Maddow doesn’t know—Rick is, well, prodigiously endowed. I’d say “hung like a horse,” but let’s avoid species-ism, shall we? Let’s just say that he’s hung like…an immensely hung human. My nuts may be furrier, sure, but they’re not presidential-quality low-hangers. And so if I’m curled up to him when he’s lounging naked, reading Scripture in the rec room, and Karen and the seven kids aren’t around, I’m quite likely to just lean on over and give his schwanz an affectionate slurp. Or two. No more than that, of course. Give approval to interspecies hanky-panky and next thing you know, there’ll be same-sex marriage.
Oh sure, humping my Master’s leg every now and then is no big thing—goes with the canine territory. Not even that prune-mouthed joker from Focus on the Family can object to that, long as I leave my Master’s khakis unsoiled. But if I do feel my pink thingie emerging from its furry sheath, I always scamper off to the laundry room and lick my erection in private. Why? Because I can.
Yes, I am Rick Santorum’s dog, and if the God of All Creation is paying any attention at all, I will be the next White House Pet. Screw that foo-foo Bo. Yeah, he’s a Portugese Water Dog. Portugese! What more do you need to prove that the Obamas are Europe-worshiping Socialist Muslims? Hey wait, Muslims hate dogs. Has anybody ever seen that so-called dog’s pedigree? I bet he’s not even a real canis lupus familiaris.
Ah well, when I’m in the White House, all the world will see what a real all-American Bible-believing dog is all about.
And when my Jesus has put my Master in a position where he can save civilization from homos and commies and birth control, I’ll hunt down that rotten Dan Savage and…and…pee on his leg. What a skinny little Chihuahua of a man, always yapping yapping yapping. I bet his miserable penis is nowhere near as magnificent as my Master’s. Skinny little chihuahua dingus. Probably even Ron Paul’s is bigger.
And that Google crack about butthole stuff? Well, poop on Dan Savage. I’d like to run over to his so-called “gay” home. Put a gift in the middle of the kitchen floor, and then leave scoot marks all over his carpet. I’d call him a bitch, but that would be an insult to my sisters. Hey, Savage can lift my tail and kiss my puckered pink hole.
Oh, I know that Master takes a lot of crap for his brave stands, and we’re not talking dog poo here. After all, who else would insist that Americans don’t have a right to consensual sex in their own homes? That birth control should be banned? And porn banned, too? Nobody, more’s the pity.
And he’s so right about marriage being the foundation of all civilization. I mean, it’s not that I’m ashamed of being a dog or anything, I didn’t have a choice, but let’s face it: we dogs don’t get married, and you see the result? Nothing you could properly call civilized society. We don’t text, we don’t eat at McDonalds, we don’t make war. Hell, we don’t even drive cars, except a few of us in circuses. So QED, Dan Faggot Savage.
Yes, I know that some people think that compromise is necessary in a free society, la di da. But that sort of thing is strictly for effete little toy poodles with bows on their fur. What if Rin Tin Tin had compromised with evil? Little Rusty would be dead in some heathen wigwam and this whole country would be a Communistic dog pound, like Sweden.
And who’s more neutered, I ask you, than Romney? I wouldn’t even wag my tail at him, not for all the gold dog biscuits in Salt Lake City. The elite media complain about my Master’s “man on dog” comment? Well what about Romney strapping his dog to the roof of his car? No wonder poor Seamus did diarrhea down the car windows. Boy howdy, I’d like to let loose on Romney’s moderate, flawlessly smug face.
Gingrich? He’s like some aging bulldog, all jowls and snarling. Can you imagine him fucking that over-lacquered Weimeraner of a wife of his, her with her butt in the air as he slides his egotistical pink prick into her from behind? I’d never let him within a mile of my junk. Even Barney Frank would be better.
Sure, Palin claimed to be a pitbull, but she turned out to be just another neurotic terrier with her shrill whining. And she seems to always be in heat. If she really was a dog, she’d give bitches a bad name. And then there’s Michele Bachmann—talk about rabid. But my Master? A thoroughbred all the way, as sleek and sure as a godly greyhound.
Not to mention his mighty meat. Did I talk about his mighty meat?
Yes, I’m proud to say that I’m Bruce, Rick Santorum’s dog.
And if I admit that there are moments, like when I lick, ever so softly and gently, Master’s penis, when I…want more…so much more, well, that’s love. And yes, love is important. But it’s not as important as self-control. Would I adore having Rick’s massive member installed in my rectum while I whimpered and sighed? Would I love to flip him and give him the knot, right between his pulsing white Bible-believing buttcheeks? Would I love to 69, me licking his huge shaft, him sucking on my shiny pink tube? Would I love to run away with Rick, somewhere where the secular socialist media can’t get to us, and live on Milkbones and honey…and rip out Karen’s throat if she tried to stop us?
Whoops, sorry, didn't mean to say that.
Oh Rick Rick Rick…if only I had been born 5 dog years earlier…and a different species. If only Newt Gingrich would fall from a high building and land on Mitt Romney. Then we’d get the nomination and all the world would bask in your glory.
I love you, Master. I do. I love you like a homo loves his poppers. And I am not ashamed.