Meet the Typical Obamabot

Here he is, your typical Obamabot.

Notice the lurid stare. Manifestation of nothing short of maniacal exuberance, a clairvoyant knowledge that every time you open your wallet little government pixies threatening to tase you will jump down off your shoulder and swipe 30 to 50 percent of its contents and promptly flush it down the toilet.

On this one, the swastika is quite obvious. Normally they hide them. Under a breast. Beneath the hairline. Between the butt cheeks. It symbolizes idolatry, belief in The Supreme Being, The One. They've been told by ACORN to look for the symbol each month, in a newspaper ad, on their favorite cereal box, and always, always, as the stamp on the envelope containing their government check. The symbol will guide them! And since they don't know how to read anyway, they haven't ever thought of googling it on the Internet to learn otherwise.

The uniform pays tribute to past carriers of the flame, who they've been taught to uphold: Lenin, dear Adolf, Mussolini, Stalin, Idi, Fidel. The uniform bearer is simpatico with all present and future socialists. He is Darth Vader, his weapon a crackpipe, Jonesing to lock into mortal combat and imbibe on the Marxist force, which he's been told to buy from a shady character who looks like Sean Penn standing outside the nearest 7-11.

Finally, the lolling tongue is evidence he has a taste for it now, a real taste for it. It's coursing through his veins, his every cell, rippling through even his mitochondria. He is pure Zombiecrat now, right down to the hole in his chest where a soul used to be.

He will never stop. Ever.

Unless you put a caterpillar on his pillow. It will drive him so mad, he'll eat his own brains and complain you tortured him, his obsession with minutia affording you the opportunity to cleave in his skull with a mallet, leaving one less Zombiecrat eligible to vote in the next election.