The work is complete. It was a pain, but I persevered in surfing across the entirety of the web. After trekking through every virtual centimeter of the internet, through the hysteric shrieking of political message boards, the choking smog of social media narcissism, and enough Sonic the Hedgehog pornography to fill the craters of Ganymede, I can now say conclusively what I, and you, already suspected: every single person other than me is an idiot. Fortune smiles upon you, though, for I shall now impart shreds of my wisdom (otherwise they’ll metastasize and burst through my skull, releasing my precious cranial fluids and I’m not letting that happen again).

Today, our subject is politicians. Most people instinctively know these elected creatures are not to be trusted, but despite scientists devising the cockamamiest of theories, no one has figured out why. Well, your figuring is done. Behold the proof.

First, Michele Bachmann, a woman famous for holding some indeterminate public office. Behind the veneer of all-American looking-like-a-crazy-person-on-a-magazine normalcy, there is a dark past. In a speech, Bachmann bragged about growing up in Waterloo, IA, the hometown of John Wayne, cowboy icon. Problem was, the only John Wayne who grew up in Waterloo was John Wayne Gacy, an unpleasant fellow hated by his neighbors due to his habit of murdering their children. White knights came to Bachmann’s defense. It was only a flub, they said. Soberer commentators remarked they’d rather be associated with Gacy than the star of The Conqueror. All these opinions were missing something that is apparent to anyone with eyes (yep that includes you) which is that this was a naked dog-whistle meant to appeal to that demographic of the right committed to the twin evils of killing kids and dressing up as a clown.

On the left, John Wayne the actor. On the right, John Wayne Gacy the homicidal clown. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Now, as unforgivable as veiled references to Gacy are (and they are), imagine a politician providing aid and comfort to the real-life Pennywise. No stop! You don’t have to imagine:

That’s right folks, here’s a Polaroid of first lady, Rosalynn Carter, cavorting with the Notorious JWG. If you’re not comprehending the horror on display, remember this photo was taken in the 70s, before the internet. Back then, handshakes were the equivalent of intercourse. Never again will you look at this as anything other than presidential-wife-on-infamous-criminal metacarpal erotica. Pictures are worth a thousand words, but this one is worth a thousand and one and they’re all “Auughhrr”. The only conclusion to draw is that somewhere in Georgia, at night, a former commander in chief paints himself like a Juggalo and fertilizes a peanut field with human remains. Those Habitat for Humanity houses weren’t built for the needy. They were built to store the bodies.

That’s only the beginning. The Carters rubbed elbows (and who knows what else) with that alliterative jerk, Jim Jones. They were so brazen, they even photographed the hobnobbing and despite the concerted effort of the malaise lobby to suppress said photos, they can be found online. Like this one:

Backing Jones would seem to be counterproductive, considering it killed 918 Democratic voters, but it all makes sense when you know the real motive was to take down their arch-nemesis, the Flavor Aid corporation. Things did not turn out as planned, as the public forever pinned the massacre on Kool-Aid. It was karma for Kool-Aid’s myriad sins. If an obese man breaks through your wall and instructs you to gulp down his bodily fluids, no matter how jovial he is, get away. Stranger danger! (Research remains inconclusive as to whether the same is true of a lean man. You’re safe if he’s anorexic, though that should be taken as a sign to get thicker walls).

It’s not just past residents of the White House who have skeletons in the closet. Whereas Bachmann and Carter’s closets are home to mere Halloween decoration, Barack Obama’s closet contains real, genuine skeletons (“real, genuine” in the figurative sense). Dear leader once referred to the 57 states. Nonsense! Even a stoned high schooler knows this is incorrect by exactly 7, as the US has either 50 or 64 states. More shocking still is his secret “Hussein” which he keeps hidden between his first and last name. Presidential names, given and sur, are honorable things, or they were. Now they are relegated to bookends for genocidal tyranny. The influence names have on those who bear them is well-documented. For instance:

Lovable funnyman Harpo Marx was doomed from the outset when his parents named him Adolph Marx. He tried escaping the shame by changing his name to Arthur, but the damage was irreversible. By the end of his career, a team of handlers had to keep him from writing checks to George Lincoln Rockwell. Starting with The Big Store, the energy and spirit vanished from his performances. It was clear in his eyes he wanted nothing more than to march himself and his brothers into a concentration camp. And he did, but unfortunately the forces of PC have made certain the public never sees A Night at Dauchau.

Alongside France, Poland and Russia, we can add the Republican party as something the Nazis have invaded. GOP nominee Donald Trump keeps a copy of Mein Kampf on his nightstand. This fact comes from an interview with his ex-wife–incontrovertible proof if there ever was. Just think how many times more horrifying this would be if Trump were in danger of ever reading a book. To top it off, it’s overkill. One only needs the Spark Notes to get the gist of Herr Schicklgruber’s screed. He should’ve planned a final solution for his prose. It’s like a 400 page whodunit that reveals the murderer on every page (spoiler: it’s the Jews). You’d be stretching it to make a pamphlet out of that, though knowing you, you’d enjoying stretching it, pervert.

I could go on and on, but let’s end on a note of optimism. Ronald Reagan proved that not all politicians are deplorable leeches oozing excrement from every pore. I’m not even sure he had pores. Some derided him for starring in a film called Bedtime for Bonzo. At first glance, this is damning, what with “Bonzo” being both a word lacking the seriousness required of the highest office in the land, and an anagram of “Zonob” which is the name of the invisible space station prophesied to collide with Earth in 2018 destroying all life*, but then you realize Ronnie’s co-star was a chimpanzee which changes everything. Chimps are serious business on account of being almost human, and judging by this election cycle, our moral and intellectual superiors.

So there you go. My pearls are cast. Gobble them up and splash around in filth like the swine you are. Gobble them. Gobble, swine! Gobble!

*Joke’s on Zonob. That far into a Clinton/Trump administration and there won’t be life left to destroy.