Jeff Tiedrich for President

Help us, Jeff. You're our only hope.

I am not on the greatest terms with Jeff Tiedrich, the most least remarkable person on the internet. When I wrote about ol’ Jeff six months ago, no fewer than 510 partisans of the Tiedrich Nation descended on these fledgling United States of Exception to hurl such invective at me as “fuckerity fuckface” and “fuckwidgety wankbot.” Perhaps the vilest of these attackers was the most hapless and very failed Substacker Amos Wollen, who sank to such indescribable lows that even I — a fucktastic chucklefuck extraordinaire — was driven to madness, starving hysterical naked, roaming the digital streets and searching for meaning in the wreckage. I have gazed long into the abyss, and the abyss gazes back at me. It whispers, “ratio.”

Let it therefore be known that I don’t extend ol’ Jeff the olive branch out of anything but compelling necessity. In ordinary circumstances, I would let sleeping chucklefucks lie. But as it is written in the Bible (or something), desperate times call for desperate fuckerinos.

We have all witnessed the clusterfucking dumbfuckery that has fuckwilily fucked these United States of Dumbfuckistan since the 5th Day of November in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty-Four, a day that will live in fuckery. Cheeto McFuckface and the Space Nazi fuck around daily in a wicked fuckfest of epic fucktitude. The feckless fuckers in Congress have fucked fecklessly to the point that they no longer have any fucking fecks left to fuck. And we fucktastic chucklefucks, having chucklefucked ourselves restless, now chucklefuck the days away wondering how much more fuckery the fuckers can fuck.

What I’m saying, Jeff — nay, pleading — is: Let’s start over. We may each chucklefuck to our own fuckwidgety band of fucktards, but we’re on the same side of this clusterfucking fuckcrustable of dumbfuckery. And by God, if that doesn’t mean it’s time to cut the chucklefucking and fuck the chumpfuckery dead in its tracks, I don’t know what does. I am but one chucklefuck, Jeff, but I speak for millions. Help us, Jeff Tiedrich. You’re our only hope.

I trust it is apparent from the title of this post what I’m asking for. I understand this is no small request, not the sort of fuckwitless fuckery to be taken without first fucking it over fuckstidiously. Please, take all the time you need to chucklefuck with your friends and family, and if you’re worried the fucking fuckers will clusterfuck you off to Fuckoffistan, I get it.

However, if you do choose to run, Jeff, I will move heaven and earth to help you. I’ll quit my job, stop writing, take over editorial duties at The Smirking Chimp — whatever it takes. I don’t know your position on child labor, but I’ve got a few neighborhood kids who are willing to help out for the right price. They’re cheap, Jeff — the fuckers will do anything for a few V-Bucks.

One condition, though: You have to ditch the whole “Wendy’s drive-thru” schtick and go for the jugular. You need to call Trump a [redacted], Jeff. And do not, under any circumstances, let up. It’s the one thing that might puncture his ego and show all the fucking fuckers out there that the Democrats are still the totally fucktubular chucklefucks everyone expects them to be. There’s going to be pushback, but the feckless fuckers must not be allowed to fuck us chucklefucks over. Not again.

It’s a risky move, Jeff. But at some point, we fuckers no longer enjoy the luxury of having any fucks left to lose. We need to pull out all the stops and fuck our way to victory — or one day, we may find that we chucklefucks have truly fucked our last chuckle.

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