Let Us Call Jeb Bush "Accordion Dick"

(From top left, clockwise: Jeb! Bush, Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz, John Kasich, Chris Christie, Mike Huckabee. Not shown: Donald Trump, constantly regnant and spooging all over the face of a grateful white America.)

     Someone recently asked Jeb! Bush (aka the "smarter one") why he had the lowest favorability rating among all Republican presidential candidates and this was literally his answer:

     To briefly take a page from the Rude Pundit, Jeb! Bush is essentially a once promising porn star who is reduced to supporting roles jerking off in a forgotten chair while the younger, sexier porn stars get it on rogering Carly Fiorina. He's gamely trying because that's his job, after all, lording it over everyone else not born to the Bush brand name but you just know his heart isn't in it.
     His entire performance has been lackluster and he just can't get that little draft-deferred soldier to stand even on his knees at parade rest. Still, he tries while, oddly, not caring why he can't achieve Trumpian tumescence. The poor little thing just disappears like a stunted Wack-a-Mole, briefly poking up its embarrassed head every few seconds over the pudgy little fist as Jeb! grinds away at it like an arthritic, nonagenarian corn husker, the withered, once-proud Bush wacker offering as its only proof of life the little clicking sound the lube makes as it gets old and sticky on Mr. Not-So-Happy.
     Oh sure, when poor Jeb! mournfully whacks his tally on Wall Street, people like Sheldon Adelson and Paul Singer throw a few hundred thousand dollars into his size 14 hat that lies between his feet but it's obvious the love's not there as it was for his Special Needs brother George. It's the sloppiest, most indifferent effort of its kind since Ted Kennedy ran for president in 1980 and only did so because Rose would not unlock the attic door where he was being held against his will until he agreed to do more than form an exploratory committee. After all, one can live on caviar and scotch for only so long.
     And Jeb!'s rhythm-less autoeroticism spoils the fun for anyone who would endeavor to accompany this sad parody of actual masturbation with The Who's "Squeeze Box". But unlike Teddy, poor Jeb! can't blame Mommy because even she doesn't want him to be president.
     And his dwindling supporters try to get him into the sex swing of things again by showing him pictures of his Mexican wife getting vigorously squired by a man with Donald Trump's double weaved head Photoshopped on a buff body nude from the waist down but it doesn't do the trick. Others whisper dirty little talking points in his ear such as "Cut taxes for the 1%!" and "Cut funding for Planned Parenthood!" but the sloppy parody of Buffing the Bishop continues.
     The problem is, there's a certain Wimp Factor to worry about and, as with the actual act of love, once one begins firming the fish, there is no turning back unless there's at least a trickle of precum to show for hours of elbow grease going back to June. And it would be unmanly to pull out and admit ED won the day. Calling Bob Dole for advice simply isn't an option.
     But John Ellis Bush's incipiently failed experiment in self love is doomed and we all know it even as we turn to see the better-ripped, better-hung porn stars (Like those young Latino up-and-cummers Ted and Marco) of the Republican Party steal the show. His fans will continue throwing a few Viagras in his size 14 hat, perhaps a half-hearted endorsement and maybe $2500 from a Super PAC but the outcome is preordained with Calvinistic certainty. A crippled, paralyzed orgasm is one of the many things Jeb! can't fix.
     And with the stubborn arrogance peculiar to those who just don't give a flying fuck anymore, Jeb! will never again cry with pent-up orgasmic ecstasy as he did in those palmier, carefree days when he spooged with gleeful abandon all over the state of Florida, itself ironically resembling a discouraged phallus. The cum of conservatism will never again proudly fly from the chubby Bush's chubby and we know the end is nigh. It's only a matter of when he will finally struggle to his feet and stagger into the bathroom to wash the caked anal lube from his sticky little hands.