May 17, 2017
Super Baby DonDon is scared. I thought this job would be easy, that I could just BS my way through it as I had with everything else. But no. Apparently there are rules.
When I go outside now, I hear people chanting “Lock him up, lock him up, lock him up!”
Oh, that sounds awful. I need a new FBI director who can protect me bigly. But thus far the 47 people I’ve contacted about becoming head of the FBI have said, “Are you out of your freakin’ mind? If I’m going to destroy my reputation, I at least want to have some fun while doing it.”
Remarkable, they all say the same thing.
Prison would be so bad for me. I don’t think you get two scoops of ice cream every night in prison.
I don’t want to get golden showers from smelly, hairy men with Death to Baby DonDon tattoos. I don’t want to share a cell with a man who’s had breast augmentation surgery.
And then there’s the sex. It’s the wrong kind of sex! When I hear the “Lock him up” chants, the little voice inside me yells “Lubricant! Lubricant! Lubricant!”
Do you have any good ideas to help me survive this? I’ll pay you. Well, not really, but I will sign your invoice.
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