Boehner's Bane

You tried to do it alone. You thought you were tough enough. But now you're blasting TLC's "What About Your Friends" at ratchet levels while hiding under your desk, rocking back and forth. Your own party is slapping the duck sauce out of you, Speaker Boehner. And you don't know what to do. 

First let's establish what you are: you are softer than a Drake song dipped in organic rice milk and rolled in Pokemon glitter. You've been read more times than a scantron sheet, checked more frequently than 'true or false.' You are what is known on the streets as a basic simp. But it's all right. Pick up the phone and call Daddy Obama. Wipe the kale chips from your simp hands, reach into your yoga pants and make the call. Work up your best quiver voice and shed some Gerber tears and say:

'Dad, I'm out here alone. I'm scared. Can I come home?'

 Daddy never asks any questions. He never says no when he wraps you in your favorite reversible himroo shawl, places your shivering candy-ass by the fireplace and hands you a cup of rose hip tea. There's a pot of gluten-free soba noodles on the stove that is waiting for you. 

Come home Boehner. You ain't about that tea bagging thug life.