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It's Open Season On Whigs!

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360 Tour: Inside The RNC

The Onion invites you to explore our view from the floor of the 2016 Republican National Convention in Cleveland.

Good Guy With Gun, Bad Guy With Gun Both Excited To Unload Firearm In Crowd Outside Arena

CLEVELAND—As each of them looked around at the people gathered outside Quicken Loans Arena and fantasized about unholstering their weapon and taking aim directly at others, both a good guy with a gun and a bad guy with a gun attending the Republican National Convention reportedly worked themselves into a heightened state of excitement Thursday at the thought of unloading their firearm into the crowd.

Bob Dole Picked Off By Large Hawk Circling Arena Parking Lot

CLEVELAND—Describing how the bird of prey suddenly dived down from the sky at high velocity, sources confirmed Thursday that former GOP presidential nominee Bob Dole was picked off by a large red-tailed hawk circling above the Quicken Loans Arena parking lot.
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It's Open Season On Whigs!

I understand that those God-damned Whigs are up in arms about the methods by which the Know-Nothings raise money for their campaign war-chest. Well, what of it?, I initially thought; it's typical of those Whig bastards, smarting as they are from their defeat in the last election.

But, as I came to realize, if the Whigs have their way, the Know-Nothings would be forced to return their hard-won bounty, and leave Washington in disgrace. It would spell utter disaster!

Once, many years ago, one of those lousy Whigs invited Mrs. Zweibel and myself to a grand dinner and dance at his town-house in Boston. Not only was he an insufferable Brahmin-type who constantly had his needle-nose imbedded in a box of snuff, and served his guests a dish which looked like enormous boiled insect thoraxes, he also had the appalling nerve to seat me next to the editor of The Brickton Atlas-Trumpet, P. Oliver Gummidge!

Now, in those days, The Brickton Atlas-Trumpet was the hated arch-rival of The Onion, and a filthy Whig mouth-piece to boot. "Ah, glad you could make it, Zweibel," Gummidge said. "Delicious autumn weather they've been having up in Cape Cod. You should see the colors!" So incensed was I at these hostile and inflammatory words that I picked up a tureen of scalding mock-turtle soup and expelled the contents over Gummidge's bald head.

As Gummidge screamed in agony, I collected Mrs. Zweibel and boarded the carriage back to our hotel. How Mrs. Zweibel carried on so! "We'll never be accepted by polite society now!" she wailed. Her head was always filled with silly dreams of becoming a wealthy and respected matron, playing bridge with the Astors and acquiring Baroque art. But I refused to have her emulating the effete, prancing ways of the Whigs, even if it meant a reduced social status!

How I wish my old nurse did not confiscate the bowie-knife I kept under my bed-clothes, or I would board the next canal-barge to Washington and personally slit the throats of as many Whigs as I could find. That is the only way one can deal with Whiggery, and I implore all decent-thinking, true Americans to heed my urgent call to arms!

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