As the First Clydesdale uttered when yakking about FedGovCo’s latest power grab, mandating with the force of law what your kids can and cannot eat at school.
First Lady Michelle Obama said of deciding what American children should eat: “We can’t just leave it up to the parents.”
To borrow a particularly imbecilic phrase that we heard somewhere: “Yes You Can!”
Moreover, given our particular allergic reaction to the federal government butting into our personal affairs, a reaction that includes, but is not limited to, sudden yet alarmingly precise discharges of high-velocity projectile firearms, we strongly recommend that you do leave it to us.
Listen, Moo-chelle, we’re not at all opposed to you filling your meaningless existence with some hobby horse of yours, nor are we particularly in disagreement with you that too many of our youngsters are unnaturally well-endowed in the adipose tissue department, but it’s still none of Washington DC’s, or your, business.
And, and let us be frank here, the message you’re trying to convey would be ever so much more convincing if it came from somebody other than an ambulatory double-wide with a tendency to sneak off to gorge on french fries and burgers any chance she gets.
Imagine Nancy Reagan with pinhead pupils, a syringe in her hand and a latex tube wrapped tightly around her biceps saying “just say no.”
But that’s not the point, really. The point is that you don’t get to tell us that we’re too stupid to raise our own kids, and if you try to use the force of law to do so, you won’t like the reaction. Because it’s none of ya bidness.
Oh, and thanks for your idiotic claim that childhood obesity is a “national security matter.” Now your retard hubby’s understudy, Janet Incompetano, will be sending out goons to dig around the crotches of three-year-olds for Twinkies and Ho-Hos.
We don’t begrudge you your hobby. You can plant collard greens all the way up and down The Mall if you so desire, but fuck with our Imperial Family and you’re going down. HARD.
So tell your Food Police to bring friends. Lots of them. We like target rich environments.
P.S.: Oh, and could you tell your emasculated beta male hubby to try to hide the fact that he’s your trained poodle a little better? First we get to see him abdicating his office to Billy Blow Job because he doesn’t want to “keep you waiting” and now he’s up there saying that he had to sign your pet bill or he’d be sleeping on the couch.
It’s not that we don’t know that lil’ Hussein has less spine than a tape worm and that he lives in mortal fear of your jutting testicle shelf but, you know, could he at least pretend to be in charge of his job? For national security reasons?