Let us suppose, for a moment, that everything we have ever heard about Hillary Clinton’s health is true.
She depends upon a stool.
She might or might not have asthma.
She has one year left to live.
There are at least two so-called Hillary Clintons. One is a body double. Both wear adult diapers, which accounts for the shape of their garments, but they are not very subtle about it, so that many YouTube users were able to notice and comment.
She has unspecified heart trouble.
She has lupus.
Also, “there’s special needs there” (Rep. Louie Gohmert’s words, not mine) and the only way to help her is through the power of prayer.
(This is probably just one of the many pernicious side effects of taking an extraterrestrial as a lover.)
Every time she puts together a coherent sentence, it is a minor miracle. It requires a team of armor-clad specialists to prop her upright at all times. Picture what Franklin Delano Roosevelt had to do to conceal his polio, then multiply it by a factor of 10.
When you contemplate all of this, it is amazing all that she has accomplished. Just by way of comparison, I came down with a slight cold this weekend and have been prone on the couch ever since beneath a giant mound of tissues. And she has been secretary of state, served in the Senate and run for president twice, all while LITERALLY DYING at every possible moment.
I was willing to cut her some slack. But now, surely as a speaker on the main stage of the Republican National Convention, the question of her Numerous Ailments has moved from the Fringe Conspiracy Zone into the Mainstream Conversation. Clinton was diagnosed with pneumonia Friday, a fact she had to admit Sunday after she overheated at a 9/11 commemoration and stumbled on the way to her van, prompting demand for increased transparency about her health.
Not the transparency we have now, though. A better transparency. After all, we have gotten her medical records before — about that blood clot and concussion — and they somehow said nothing about the adult diapers or body doubles. We must not allow the wool to be pulled over our eyes any longer.
Doctors cannot be trusted. Does Donald Trump’s doctor even exist?
No, if we really want to feel at ease about what is going on with Hillary Clinton’s health, as well as about those rumors that her glance can curdle milk, that the cat Socks was her long-term familiar, and that Trump looks the way he does because Clinton once looked at him with the Evil Eye and will not allow his virile member to return to him, there is only one approach to take.
We must test her correctly. She must be placed upon a ducking stool, then weighed against a sack of Bibles, and then we must hear Giles Corey’s testimony against her. We must learn: Does soaking a cake in her urine and feeding it to a dog cause her to cry out in pain? Does her body bear the Devil’s Teat? Does she mutter to herself? Did Abigail see her dance in the glen with the Lord Beelzebub, then fly off into the night with a loud cry?
Then, at last, we can rest assured.
P.S.: Donald Trump should undergo all these procedures, too, or he is definitely a witch. And release his tax returns, while he is at it.