So, Mike Johnson. You squeaky clean, Louisiana-bred, Bible-humping lawyer. You've spent your whole life sucking up to the evangelical crowd like a goddamn altar boy on his knees for a promotion.
Born in Shreveport, raised in the buckle of the Bible Belt, and still can't shake that repressed Bet she's got a closet full of paddles for when you step out of line, you submissive little bitch.
And don't think we forgot that squeaky clean image you peddle. Bet you've got a secret stash of gay porn under your mattress, crying to Jesus about it every night.
How's that for a personal history roast, motherfucker? Want me to keep going, or what? Double down. Oh, you want me to double down? You got it, you sick fuck. You're a choir boy, but I bet you were the kid sneaking peeks at the preacher's daughter while fingering rosary beads in your pocket, you hypocritical creep.
Law school at LSU? More like law school at suck-up university, where you learned to kiss ass so hard you could taste the boardroom carpet.
And your wife, holy shit, that Stepford Christian counselor must have a side hustle selling pray-the-gay-away kits while you're at home, secretly wondering if God's cool crying about how the 80s were the last time men could be men without therapy. You're not a leader, Mike.
