'He or She?' Says. And, I do Quote...

"Hey, are you dirty maga f*cks starting to realize that you've been the screaming minority? Not the silent majority? Are you starting to realize that the socialist victory in New York City is just the beginning, and we're coming for the f*cking oval office? This goes out to the Democrat Party, too. You're either gonna bend the knee and accept socialism, or you're gonna get f*cking trampled on in every single election. This is the people's f*cking movement. We make the godd*mn rules, you f*cking work for us. And do all of you inbred Hicks that support Donald Trump and his fascist regime, I hope you know you're gonna have to pretend that you never supported it in the first place, because when we get the oval, we are reversing every—single—thing that Donald Trump did. We are rounding up every single ICE Agent, and putting them on a tribunal, 85 or more of you dirty f*cking masked Gestapo deputized white supremacist proud boy Nazi f*cks is gonna spend the rest of your days in a godd*mn prison labor camp. We're gonna milk For f*cking work, b*tch, and you're gonna bite the bullet. You're gonna smell the f*cking roses. And all of you Red Hat wearing plankton bucket hat wearing motherf*ckers are gonna have to cope, mal and seethe, because woke Sharia is here, b*tch, we don't give a f*ck about your opinions. You have proven to the entire public that your opinions, your takes, your wants, are bad for society, and they will be ignored. Not only will they be ignored, we will be taking everything you want and getting the f*cking inverse, you dumb motherf*ckers. You think this is a Christian Nation? This is a secular Nation, b*tch. You b*tch and moan about, 'Oh, Zohran Mamdani's gonna bring Sharia law to New York City.' You want Christian Sharia, you're white boy jihadists, demanding f*cking Christian theocratic fascism. You are everything that you accuse the f*cking left of being. You're domestic terrorists!"

Click to See Assbag McGee's Long-Winded Tantrum on Full Display

My Hot Take on 'His or Her?' Dumpster Fire of Delusion

Oh, look at you, you self-righteous, The Zohan booty shorts draped, soy-latte-sipping, virtue-signaling vortex of verbal vomit, Zohran Mamdani's personal hype-man turned into a hot messs of a human megaphone for the most insufferable void in existence ever, screeching like a pig who just got gutted at a factory farm, desperately trying to convince the world that your fever-dream fanfic of "socialist victory" isn't just the sad whimper of a guy whose biggest achievement is getting a handful of botted views on TikTok, while you babble on about bending knees and trampling elections like you're the lovechild of Che Guevara and some goat-loving inbred from sordid Samatah, but newsflash, you uncleansed oracle of outrage, you're not the "people's f*cking movement"—you're the people's f*cking migraine, the woke trash joke that keeps on giving like a bad case of Chlamydia, the screaming minority's mascot jerking off to the dumpster-fire delusion that rounding up ICE agents for tribunals and herding "proud boy Nazi fucks" into prison labor camps makes you some kind of revolutionary instead of the exact bootlicking authoritarian you'd accuse your enemies of being, if they even had the balls to suggest such a thing, maybe, just maybe, forcing everyone to "milk for f*cking work, b*tch" while you seethe in your subsidized Brooklyn walk-up sounds a helluva lot like the fascist regime you're projecting harder than an outdated drive-in theater showing your therapy sessions on loop during matinee pricing, and oh, the irony drips thicker than the artisanal kombucha from your overpriced beard as you crow about woke Sharia descending like some divine intervention for the terminally triggered, ignoring how the actual majority—those "inbred hicks" and "red hat wearing plankton bucket hat motherf*ckers" you wouldn't deign to share an elevator with unless it was plummeting to hell—is too busy building actual lives, paying actual taxes that fund your rent-controlled rants, and laughing their asses off at the spectacle of you threatening to reverse every Trump policy like you're suddenly Thanos snapping away half the Constitution just to prove your point that this is a "secular nation, b*tch," when really you're the one demanding white boy jihadist theocracy under the guise of progressivism, you domestic terrorist of decorum who can't even spell "Gestapo" without autocorrect pitying your sorry sniveling ass, preaching that our opinions are "bad for society" and must be ignored in favor of your inverse fever swamp of collectivist clownery where the only thing getting trampled is common sense and the only knees bending are yours to blow the ghost of what Bernie Sanders once was, so go ahead, keep picking up that phone to record your maniacal meltdowns like the TikToking tantrum toddler you are who thinks volume equals validity, because when the real people's movement—the one that doesn't need to threaten gulags to get a like—finally shows up to your door with a reality check and a one-way ticket to the irrelevance you so desperately deserve, you'll be the first to cope, mal, and seethe in your very own labor camp of despair, "smelling the f*cking roses" of your own bullshit as your ancestors rise from the grave—not to applaud your "bravery" but to b*tch-slap you back to the therapy couch for thinking that calling half the country "dirty f*cking masked" anything makes you some kind of a hero instead of the punchline in America's longest-running political joke, you hypocritical harpy of half-baked hot takes who wouldn't last five minutes in the Oval Office without crying to mommy for a safe space, because b*tch, we're not the ones pretending we never supported our side—we're the ones who've been waiting to watch you get trampled all over by the very tide you think is turning in your favor, and spoiler: it's not, it's just the red wave of well-earned mockery crashing down on your douchebag assface so hard your mama files for emancipation and your ideological idols disavow you faster than a J*w dodging a swastika, welcome to the inverse, you dumb motherf*cker, where your rules get reversed, your grandeur gets grounded, and the only thing you'll be milking is the tears from your own defeat as the silent majority—sorry, the roaring republic—flushes your socialist s*itshow straight down the drain of history's forgotten fever dreams.

You Didn't Think You Were Getting Off That Easy, Huh?

Oh, and speaking of bending the knee to the real overlords of orchestrated oblivion, you sniveling Nancy boy with your finger-in-ass-painting fantasies of socialist utopias and Sharia-fied secularism that reeks of the same stale doodoo funk on your upper lip when you finally decide to pull your head out of your own ass, where the hell were you, you candyass choirboy for the chaos cartel, when your sainted messiahs—Hillary with her cackle echoing through the Benghazi bloodbaths and email server scandals that turned diplomacy into a delete-key dumpster fire, Obama with his drone-strike diplomacy dropping hellfire on weddings and hospitals like confetti at a war criminal's retirement party while he lectured us on hope and change from the golf course of endless Middle East quagmires, and Biden shambling through his basement bunker presidency like a Weekend at Bernie's sequel scripted by the ghost of Hunter's crack pipe—systematically shredded the global order into a confetti of collapsed alliances, refugee tsunamis, and economic black holes that sucked the prosperity out of entire nations faster than you could virtue-signal your way through a gender studies syllabus, turning Libya into a pirate's paradise of slave markets, Syria into Assad's eternal playground of barrel bombs courtesy of your red-line regrets, Ukraine into a proxy meat grinder primed for Putin's putsch before the ink dried on that Nobel Peace Prize participation trophy, and the southern border into a fentanyl-fueled free-for-all where cartels cashed in on the compassion con while you and your echo-chamber of enablers sat on your hemp-woven leather pleated asses, tweeting platitudes about "systemic" this and "intersectional" that instead of calling out the candy-coated carnage your icons unleashed on the world like a trio of tone-deaf tyrants remixing the Monroe Doctrine into a manifesto for managed decline, you woke piece of hot garbage reeking of patchouli and performative piety, too busy deep-throating the Democratic donor class to notice how their wrecking ball of regime-change roulette and endless entitlement expansions pulverized the planet's peace into powder and left the working stiffs—those "inbred hicks" and "red hat plankton" you love to lord over—picking up the tab for the trillion-dollar tabloid of your idols' imperial f*ckups, all while you preached about trampling fascists and rounding up the "Gestapo" without a whisper of irony for the extrajudicial executions and indefinite detentions your Obamaphomet-era overlords greenlit like it was just another Thursday in the Oval Office outhouse, so spare us the incessant minority sermon on reversing Trump's every—single—move when your candyass crew's already reversed the world back to the Stone Age of sanctioned starvation and saber-rattling summits, you domestic delusion dispenser who'd rather milk the myth of your movement than admit we the people—yeah, the roaring majority you pretend to own in all your grandeur illusions of self-worth, watched in stunned silence, not because we were silent, but because we were too busy surviving the shitstorm your secular shills stirred up to bother b*tch-slapping your brittle ego sooner, but now here you are, phone in hand like a fragile filibuster of a tool, threatening tribunals and labor camps for anyone who dares disagree while your historical heroes' hypocrisy haunts the headlines they helped write in invisible ink, and b*tch, if this is your idea of "the people's f*cking movement" making the rules, then color me unconvinced that a candyass like yourself could ever rule a room without mommy's meaningless permission slip, let alone the Oval, where real leaders clean up the chaos your pantheon puked up, so go seethe in your safe space of selective amnesia, you swooshy haired loud mouthed nightmare of narrative nonsense f*ck, because the only thing getting trampled here is the tattered tapestry of your tantrum, and the inverse we're all craving is you finally shutting the absolute f*ck up so the actual adults can rebuild what your woke wreckage worship left in ruins, smelling those roses of regret as your collective of haters applaud the people who you hate for not needing a script to spot the snakes in the garden that you and your kind helped till into a toxic tangle of twisted dumbf*ckery.

One Long-Winded Assbag of Jagon Deserves Another

End rant.