BOCA RATON, FL — Distraught Democrats rushed to psychological counseling and therapy providers all over Florida this week after being severely traumatized by the sight of a disheveled, exhausted US Marine with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
Many in Ohio were also upset over the truly horrifying photo, which will no doubt encourage youths to take up the filthy, deadly habit.
“I hate the Marines, I hate Bush, I hate war, and I hate smoking worst of all,” wailed Danielle McCluskey of Boca Raton, before collapsing onto the sidewalk in a weeping, sodden heap. Boca Raton city council members have authorized emergency funding for a roving band of grief counselors to patrol the city, seeking out those who need help and getting them into treatment “before it’s too late.” “This is a very real and very serious disease,” offered Caspar Milquetoast IV, a local therapist. “Mocking these poor, desperate victims is a sign of just how brutal and inhuman the Republican Bushitlers doing the mocking can be. It would become them to be more supportive, I think; after all, it’s their fault that these fine Americans are suffering. And some day, the shoe may be on the other foot. The Democrats can’t keep losing elections forever, you know. We’re all victims here. It’s what this awful, vicious country of ours is all about.”
The lines outside clinic doors were long and slow-moving yesterday, and in some locations the situation went from tense to downright dangerous, as some local homeless victims of society’s greed and lack of compassion taunted those standing in the queue. The underlying threat of violence from the panhandlers was never far from the surface as they openly poked fun at the enlightened progressives waiting patiently for treatment.
“Got a smoke, Poindexter?” said one stewbum, whose rich and powerful odor was a fitting symbol of America’s diversity and not in any way his fault. He was addressing Malcolm Fotheringay-Phipps, a British expat and staunch Democrat since moving here ten years ago. “No? How about a dollar thirty-eight cent, then? I need to catch me a bus to see my aunt in the hospital up in Tampa…come on, white boy, cough up!” Fotheringay-Phipps began weeping and soon slumped over in a dead faint, the combined notions of cigarettes and internal-combustion engines apparently overwhelming his delicate psyche. The poor wino, whose condition is clearly the fault of uncaring Republicans, laughed coarsely before soiling his ragged trousers and then throwing up on Fotheringay-Phipps’s cashmere overcoat. He then rifled through the unconscious Fotheringay-Phipps’s pockets for spare change before staggering off, presumably to catch that bus.