If you made a habit of wiping your ass with your hands, you wouldn’t be surprised to find the occasional Pat McCrory lodged underneath one of your fingernails, like an incompletely digested peanut, but you still might be surprised to find he’s your governor, even though you live in North Carolina and are congenitally predisposed to wipe your ass with your hands.


Every morning, when you roll off your mama or sister, you might ask yourself ”Why is they two flags flyin’ over the state house and one of ‘ems a big X?” but you would be in the minority, because internal dialog is uncommon throughout North Carolina, directly inversely proportional to climbing that sister or running over to mama’s when she calls you to “break her sweats”.

No, you’re an incurious bastard, half paralyzed with vitamin deficiencies and pleurisied from methmaking fumes. You just limp along day to day wondering if boss man is going to make an example of you at the packing peanut plant by forcing you to kiss his ass in the swing room, or if your old lady Britney-Lee has stopped drinking the tap water long enough to produce a single-headed child for a goddamn change.

You might be forgiven for being a pig ignorant mound of hapless impetigo-pocked repeatedly shat worthlessness if you didn’t just lay there and take it up the ass all the time, the North Carolina way. Or is it the South Carolina way?
Or the Virginia-Arkansa-bama way?

But still, boy. Even the most underwashed piece of toothless white rubbish deserves better than the battle flag of a pack of infucked racist real estate developers. It’s beneath your motherfucking dignity.

You need to do something about that treasonous shit.