Belly up to the bar, Robert, your money is no good here. Shit, your money is no good anywhere. We’re putting the Schlitz on our house tab tonight, a’ight? Broads, if you see one of the world’s most reviled world leaders doing body shots of Crunk Juice and white farmers’ tears from the navels of nubile co-eds, you’ll have to dress to impress to get down on it. We are letting off some serious steam after an endless week of crippling nations or pathologically vigorous masturbation, and we intend to get crazy69stupidXXXdrunk’doutlolz.
The case for Mugabe boils down to two points:
- The name Mugabe sounds like an exotic toast, exclamation, or at least something you’d hear in that, like, African chorus part of Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long,” and we’d like to shout it while lifting our Zima sixer to the heavens. We’d wager that having Robert around would only heighten the hilarity.
- He’s got more personality than that teetotaling wallflower F.W. De Klerk (Seriously, stay out of Dodge, De Klerk.) and isn’t as preening as Qaddafi–the Carson Kressley of Libya. Solid, gritty, none-too-flashy egomania has some dignity to it, some class, and that appeals to our Middlewestern sensibilities.
Sure, Mugabe isn’t the best drinking partner: As a child he kinda kept to himself so maybe he’s not the most vibrant, social butterly, and to date he hasn’t eaten any of his foes which would make for solid conversation. (What does human ass taste like…LITERALLY? Get it?!? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, Mugabe!) However, wethinks he’s got some yarns that would do nicely at the local watering hole, and, hey, we can appreciate that. Robert, come and get beered, won’t you?