Many shall claim that this columnist is guilty of engaging in the "scorned grapes" syndrome. I allow that, while I was a fervent support of Yan McCain prior to the Republicking primary and then, angered by their selection, later supported the Gore-Liberian ticket mostly on a whim (All Gore fondly reminds me of the stern robotic nursemaid who brought me back from the brink of expiration when I was injured off the coast of Mermansk while eating submariners during the early days of the Deutsch Reich's Unterseeboot exercises), I hold no lingering ill-will against the conquering junta. If I may quote Emily Dickenson "All favor the victor, for his crushing might is manifold."
Nonetheless, I posses a mighty array of valid complaints against the current over-class. For example, what is it with these Conical Hat Regulations? Yes, I enjoy the occasional conical hat as much as the next super-sentient being, but eight consecutive hours of every twenty-four? I cannot possible tolerate the thin, irritating elastic for that long; it presses quite vexingly into my mantle, causing a disturbing numbness throughout my upper sack.
I am additionally disgruntled by the lack of publicity this regulation has been given. As a resident alien within your fetid borders, I might face up to 7 years of mandatory spangled evening gown wear should authorities be alerted of my truancy. Thank the Walkers Below that Tom— trusty Tom— had the sense to inform me of these regulations, even going so far as to purchase me a set of colorful Conical Nativity Hats so that I might be in full compliance.
Also, the spinning. I ask you— illegal aliens, citizens, and my non-resident readers-abroad— why must we spin for so long, and so quickly? Tom has explained several times that it greatly aides the Chief Executive to have the full, unified whirling force of his nation concentrated at 3:15 every afternoon, and yet . . . perhaps it is our wildly divergent evolution, but I simply cannot understand this, even after viewing the Music Television and Video Hits 1 press conferences. It is only my deep concern for your nation's attempts to ameliorate its crippling difficulties— as well as my disdain for the federally mandated punitive moray eel body cavity spelunking— which impels me to participate in such wanton kinistatics. Please, Mr. Dubya, can you not think with out this Squid's whirling? The 45 minutes of compulsory body spins roils my tank's water horribly, sending me careering around the walls of the tank like a rain-slicker in a textile washer.
And, to be entirely frank in my disclosures, I am more than a little disturbed by the government declaration that all resident cephalopods must change their names in order to more clearly identify them as non-bipeds. When Tom read me that telegram, I nearly shattered my glass with my enraged ululations— I'm told that the wave of distressed elctro-magneto radiation which poured off me disturbed cable television reception for 14 city blocks, although I have no independent confirmation of such a discontinuity in service. How, I ask, can I possibly maintain my tremendous self esteem when I must refer to myself as "Sally McBootykins." It is deeply disconsolating that Tom inadvertently destroyed the letter before I was able to see with which department I must seek redress. I tell you, I am quite nearly tempted to seek citizenship in these Unified States so that I might lodge a formal complaint with my Representation. Alas, until I can fulfill the stiff banjo requirements Tom tutors me in, I find there to be little hope of my seeking any legal reforms.
Finally, I am made to understand by Tom that this Great and Powerful Dubya was not even elected by popular plebiscite, but rather appointed by judicial oligarchy. This, at least, I might applaud: The sooner the beta-apes understand that they are both sub-optimal and powerless, the sooner they can be transferred to the great, sweet salt mines below Detroit, so that they may begin to help in the gargantuan preparation for the return of Those Who Walk Betwixt the Waves, and the attendant feast and piņata-battery. It takes a bountiful feast, and a large piņata indeed, to sate Those Who Do Not Live, But in Sleeping Dream.
I see even now, across the lab by the incoming postal basket, Tom carefully rending the official envelopes so that he might assemble more legislative action. I am so very tired, America! Please, go forth and distract yourself with the withdrawal of fossilized plant enzymes from beneath the steppe of northernmost Alaska. Surely I and my alien brethren can only be of interest for the briefest of moments amidst your otherwise productive legislative session. Daschle Thomas, I beseech you! And my local Representation by Proxy, Mr. Trafficant, please shed the court actions and FBI investigations so that you might come to my aid! Please!
I am, indeed, very tired.
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar:
Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson