My name is Dominick Casserontonio. I work for Earl’s Oil in Brooklyn. (The way we say it sounds like ‘Oil’s Earl’, but I digress.)
Let me tell ya somethin’; I been watching the news lately and been hearing all about this ‘special prosecutor’ that’s been assigned to look into all this crapola that’s been going on with Russia’s messin’ with our friggin’ election.
Oh really? It sounds like it ain’t about that at all. Sounds to me like the will of the American people is not sitting friggin’ pretty with the left. Sounds like this is just another way to cripple the friggin’ administration and stall any friggin’ forward progress. Why do I say that? Here’s why:
Mr. Rosendale, in out in Fresh Meadows, Queens, needed a new circulating pump for his old oil burner. He didn’t tell me that, I just went over for the yearly check-up and I hears this friggin’ noise. You probably wouldn’t notice a thing… it’s more of a feeling than a friggin’ noise… but I knew… ka-boom—— friggin’ circulating pump. I took that thing apart and as sure as shootin’ it was all rusted and disgusting inside.
So, just like that friggin’ pump, I took one look at this special prosecutin’ situation and could hear things. Things that sounded very friggin’ suspect. I knew all at once that this is total B.S.— totally fugazy—it’s all rusted and disgusting inside. This friggin’ thing is as stinky and rotten as Mr. Rosendale’s old parts. According to lifezette, the special prosecutor, Mr Mueller, is possibly stacking the team with Obama and Clinton loyalists, donors, and even Clinton Foundation employees.
Can you imagine this friggin’ crap? Can you believe what these mamalukes are up to?
And don’t let them fool ya… don’t let them fool ya at all. Sure they want Trump’s head on platter and would do anything to get it… but what they really want is control over friggin’ you, and friggin’ me. They aren’t happy that they were tossed aside like a friggin’ leaky valve-seal. They aren’t happy that the little people have had enough and voted someone in that wasn’t like the friggin’ establishment.
My business? It’s straight up. The customers call the friggin’ office… the office friggin’ calls me… I go to Mr. Rosendales’s friggin’ house. Boom. Job done… pay me, Mr. Rosendale. No games, no backstabbing, no power trips. Rosendale is happy, I’m happy, Earls’ Oil is happy. The worst that happens is maybe every once in a while I get a spot of Earl’s Oil on the friggin’ carpet. But, ya know what? I cleans up my friggin’ mess.
But don’t believe for one friggin’ second that this investigation is cleaning up anything… it’s a friggin coup. As sure as Mr. Rosendale’s house smells like onions, I know that this thing is a friggin’ coup. Of course these pukes will never say that, they’ll never say anything… but here’s what I gotta say: I GOT YA SPECIAL PROSECUTOR RIGHT HERE.
Well, my radio is callin’ me. Off to friggin’ Kew Gardens. Mrs. Mattarella needs a radiator bleed-out.
Hang tough people, and do me a kindness… keep your friggin’ eyes and ears open. Don’t let ’em make friggin’ jerks outta ya.