If Hillary Wins, I'm Pooping My Pants

This election is rigged, folks. We gotta do something about it. Those able-bodied enough to engage in voter intimidation are welcomed to exercise that god-given right. I am not one of those patriots, however. The only form of protest or rebellion I can participate in is the ancient ritual of pants-filling. If Hillary wins, by God, I'm going to do it.

There's a taco bell close to my place. I'll have my nurse drop me off there with about ten dollars of spending money, or ammunition as I like to call it. My digestive system could never handle the call of the border. I eat a taco and I'm a ticking time bomb.

Then it's on to Wal-mart. It's quite a hike, and quite frankly, I don't know if I'll make it. But once I get inside, I'm letting it rip. I'll try to hold it until an appropriate trigger, like if I see a Mexican family or a college kid. Soon as some dreadlock-haired doofus crosses my path, BOOM, my pants are crapped. The smell will hit them immediately. I'm told its reek resembles the stench of carrion after several days alongside the highway. Aforementioned doofus's eyes will start to water. Passersby will vomit into any nearby receptacle. Children will run screaming. Someone will call the cops. Through it all I will continue my journey, a walking bioweapon sowing feculence and ruin.

They will listen then, when I have pooped my pants. I'll tell them about how they failed to prevent the disintegration of our great republic. I'll tell them that I am a harbinger of the apocalypse, just a taste of the horrors to come. They'll take away our guns, our churches, our ability to say socially unacceptable things. Well come and take it, I say. See if you can get close when I've filled my pantaloons with two pounds of poorly-digested taco supremes.

I see myself as a figure to inspire future generations. They'll write about my dung-coated britches the same way they wrote about Rosa Parks. Perhaps I'll spark a movement, a united brotherhood and sisterhood of elderly patriots, filling their pants in unison, taking one last collective shit before the world they knew changes. Because that's what this is about, really. Change. Everything changes and I'm plain sick of it.

You can hold your nose, liberal America, but I'm letting loose. There might be some friendly causalities along the way, but the foundation of our country must periodically be refreshed with the dookie of revolutionaries. You may think I crapped my pants because of incontinence. But I did it for America.