This morning I was at Equinox

Getting ripped and shredded, pumped and jacked,

Cross-training with Jeremy

Who totally kicks my butt.

And I was like, “I shall not let my foes define me.”

And I was so stoked

I punched Jeremy in the face.

Endorphins, mofo—

Sweet.

Who is Paul Ryan?

He can bench-press three times his weight,

Ochocinco a cinderblock in two,

Change the course of mighty rivers,

Bend steel in his bare hands,

And tug freighters with his teeth.

Paul Ryan:

Rock-hard abs,

Bulging delts,

Glistening pecs.

But not gay.

Ayn Rand wrote:

“The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.”

She could have been writing

About Paul Freakin’ Ryan.

I don’t read Ayn Rand anymore.

I disavow her atheist philosophy.

I just know that quote

Because it’s tattooed on my left oblique.

So join me

In Paul Ryan’s America:

Where heroes roam free

And pussies fear to tread.

Where a small boy from Wisconsin

Can grow up to join forces with a casino billionaire

To kick Iran in the cojones,

And leave behind the America of my foes:

Where the old and feeble

Expect food, medicine, and whatnot.

Not on my watch

Because I am Paul Ryan.

Paul Freakin’ Ryan.

Drop and give me twenty, America:

It’s clobberin’ time. _