When I grow up, I want to be National Chairman of a new People’s Phobeaphobe Party.
Our philosophy: Everyone just loosen your sphincter a notch and laugh more … especially at yourself.
Our cornerstone phobia: We fear that people who won’t loosen their sphincters a notch, and who can’t laugh at themselves, won’t be sufficiently offended by our philosophy.
Our symbol at the Phobeaphobe Party is the Sphinx Cat, so loosen yours up and get on board.
We have nothing to fear but fear itself, assorted scary stuff, miscellaneous fearsome situations, and being called hurtful names by boorish dweebs.
The fine print: We don’t like most politicians and even fewer sphynx doctors. We are allergic to donkey hair, elephant poop and green party eco hysteria. We like Russian salad dressing, Tolstoy, fancy Russkie fish eggs, Gorbachav’s rad birthmark and Vlad’s lats, but we promise that any Phobeaphobe collusion with Russians will not rise to the level of peach vodka.
Gorby is just ok by me.
We are not above fixing hockey games, but elections are sacrosanct. Phobeaphobia is a registered trademark of the People’s Phobeaphobe Party. Removing this tagline is a violation of federal law punishable by a private dance with Stormy Daniels. No cats or Soviets were harmed in creating this blog post.
