King Hussein Obama I, flanked by his bodyguards, stepped out of his blinged Limoscalade and marched up the gold-lined marble steps of Washington Palace. It should have been a glorious day, yet under his heavy yet exquisite crown of carved human fetus-ivory his brow was ridged deeply as he silently brooded. Still, his posse, boomboxes on their shoulders, dance-walked up the steps, chains and gats jangling over the din as they grabbed their crotches.
As his trusted associates T-Von and Mook-Mook the Bushman pushed open the grand organic farm-grown cruelty-free redwood doors paid for by his 95% tax rate, he stepped into the antechamber of the gold-domed palace. Outside, ShariaVentalism reigned, but in here his word was law, and all his white teen sex slaves cowered before his glare more than even the hemp whips of their latte-drinking tweeded atheist masters.
He walked down the hallway toward his office and a prisoner in chains passed before him, lead by two turban-wearing Mexi