After Kamala Harris got her ass handed to her in the election, the dumb bitch couldn’t handle the fact that America didn’t want a cackling Black chick who sucked at everything except sucking up to Joe Biden. That shriveled old fuck had already tossed her aside like a used condom, leaving her with nothing but a bruised ego and a raging cocaine habit. Enter Hulk Hogan, the peroxide-blonde, roid-raging has-been who’d snorted more lines than he’d won wrestling matches. The two teamed up in a post-election spiral, tearing across the country in a jacked-up Ford Bronco, robbing liquor stores to fund their next bump. Kamala, with her fried brain and that stupid fucking grin plastered on her face, would stumble in waving a Glock, yelling, “I’m a strong Black woman, motherfucker, gimme the cash!” while Hulk flexed his saggy pecs and growled, “Brother, you’re gonna feel the 24-inch pythons of justice!” They’d laugh like hyenas, high as shit, as they grabbed bottles of Jack and whatever cash was in the till.

Their favorite targets? Liquor stores run by East Indian dudes with turbans—Kamala called it “cultural reparations,” whatever the fuck that meant, probably some dumb shit she picked up from Biden’s dementia-fueled rants. They’d storm in, guns blazing, and Hulk would rip the turbans off their heads, yelling, “No headwraps in my America, curry-breath!” while Kamala, in her “HO” tank top and gangster chains, would pistol-whip the poor bastards, giggling, “I was VP, bitches, I’m above the law!” The terrified owners would piss themselves as the duo cleaned out the register, grabbed the turbans as trophies, and peeled out, leaving a trail of shattered glass and shattered dreams. Kamala, too stupid to count the money, would just shove it in her bra, half of it falling out as she snorted a line off the dashboard, her fake-ass “empowered woman” act crumbling faster than her political career.

Here’s the kicker: they didn’t just toss the turbans—they hauled them to Gavin Newsom’s California mansion, that slick-haired prick’s palace of hypocrisy. His garage, once home to Teslas and overpriced wine, was now the “Turban Museum,” a stinking shrine to their twisted crime spree. Newsom, too busy gelling his hair and banging interns, didn’t give a fuck, just smirked and said, “Diversity is our strength!” as Hulk and Kamala stacked the sweaty headgear like trophies. They’d crash there, coked out of their minds, Kamala slurring about how she “almost ran the country” while Hulk flexed in the mirror, ranting about “Hulkamania running wild on these towel-heads.” The turban pile grew, the liquor flowed, and their noses stayed white as snow—two washed-up losers riding a racist, vulgar wave of debauchery across the USA, all because Kamala couldn’t handle losing to a nation that saw through her dumb, ditzy, token-ass bullshit. Fuck her