Congressman Passes Bill on Floor of Senate

[Washington, D.C.]  While speaking on the floor of the Senate, Senator John Smoot (R-Wy) passed the bill of a merganser he had shot out of season. The bill had been “stuck in committee” for a week.


Weekly News Quiz

Questions (use Google for answers)

  1. A country can be:

(a) a shit-heel

(b) a Scheißkopf

(c) a shit-bird

(d) a shit-hole

2. Legal in California:

(a) Sanctuaries

(b) Sanctuarees

(c) Fracking in sanctuaries

(d) Voting even if born in Kenya

3. Legal in Alabama:

(a) Secession

(b) Re-secession

(c) Voting, if you don’t look like you were born in Kenya

(d) Malls

4. Nuclear war this week, depicted at:

(a) The local metroplex

(b) The local amusement park

(c) The local video-game store

(d) Earth

5. This week’s top eBay item:

(a) Trump’s first tweet, printed out on a cocktail napkin, to Trixie Smith, his first follower

(b) North Korean intestinal worm (6.5 feet in length)

(c) Verified proof of voter fraud (vote cast by a Kenyan during 2008 U.S. election)

(d) Verified Kenyan pajamas, found in White House Lincoln bedroom

The Tragedy of Baby Chen

Chen Xitong (not the ex-mayor of Beijing) is a multi-billionaire who took up residence in lawless Somalia fifteen years ago. An eccentric who was constantly running into trouble with Asian authorities in spite of his great wealth, Chen elected to find a spot in the world where he could build a personal enclave subject to his own personal rule and the rule of no others.

Once there, he married his long-time love, a female chimpanzee he had named Zhang Manyu, after the beautiful Hong Kong actress.

In due course, Zhang became pregnant, presumably at the hands (so to speak) of her chimpanzee manservant Bo Xilai (not the mayor of Chongqing). Chen Xitong, we know now, then traveled to a rogue state in northern Asia and there arranged to pay one billion dollars to the government to have portions of his DNA spiced into Zhang’s blastocyst.

The procedure was accomplished and the baby was born. At first Chen was delighted. Since he was hardly taller than Zhang, the child was born naturally, with no need for a Caesarian delivery. Chen named the little girl Zhange Ziyi, after one of the Four Young Dan actresses in the Chinese film industry.

The little one had a yellow cast to her monkey skin. Her eyes had the epicanthic fold. By the age of six months (maturing rapidly, chimp-fashion), she could speak like a disabled human three-year-old. She was pretty good with math and the violin, too.

Where is the tragedy in this? you ask. The trouble began when Chen suddenly realized that his daughter looked more Korean than Chinese. Could her DNA have come, in fact, from the frozen supply of Dear Leader sperm, or from one of the country’s 24 million starving denizens? Chen flew to Korea and demanded his billion back. He was given no satisfaction. In anger, he canceled his order for four hydrogen bombs.

The mother Zhang had no interest in any of this, of course, being an ape. (A “dirty ape,” according to her Somali maidservant, who was charged with picking up her dung around the house all day.)

When Chen got home, he canceled his daughter’s violin lessons, upsetting the professor who flew in from Paris three times a week. Chen fired the little girl’s math tutor, who, as a matter of fact, was getting rather too friendly with the little tyke anyway.

The child Zhang Ziyi is fourteen now. Rebellious. Has all the Planet of the Apes movies hidden under her bed. Fools around with a gibbon she met at the zoo. Has stated publicly that she’s black enough to be all ape. Her grandmother (the human one) has not given up on her. Gifts her with presents from Elsa Schiaparelli and Roy Halston Frowick at every opportunity. Visits the girl’s Facebook page and embarrasses her there with expressions of affection.

Chen Xitong, disillusioned, has divorced Zhang Manyu and impulsively married a spider monkey named  Gao Yuanyuan, formerly one of his many concubines. Her agility is unparallelled.

Tea Party vs Occupy

My dad is worth several billion  dollars. He keeps his money to himself. On Sunday nights after sex, he gives my mom a belly pack stuffed with large bills. That constitutes her working budget for the week.

My mom hates this arrangement. She hates that my dad is so rich. He didn’t earn it. The money lay in a bank waiting for him to be born.

My dad’s mom, on the other hand, is glad that he has the money, even though he won’t let her get near it. He gives her a small pack of it every week. Not after sex, of course. As far as she’s concerned, he desrves it and has every right to keep it to himself as much as he wants.

What my dad’s mom doesn’t like is how my mom runs the family and spends her weekly share of the money. My dad’s mom believes that my mom wastes her money. On organic food. On concerts. On donations to charity. My dad’s mom would reduce this spending by more than one half. She would cut off the allowances to my sister and myself. She believes that the two of us should get jobs at McDonald’s after school and work our way up to the top of leading financial institutions.

My sister ignores all of this. She hangs out with a group of recent college graduates that does a lot of drugs and sex and, according to her, creative art projects.

I spend most of my time online in an anonymous hackers group. Our goal is to crash the Internet in its totality and end Western Civilization as we know it.

I meet my congressman

I noticed in the news the other day that congress is in session for only 109 days out of 365. I realized that this meant my congressman must be very accessible, being in his office working for us voters all that extra time.

I headed right down to see him, but his receptionist told me that he was out sick.

He was sick the next day, too. Google provided his home address and I sent a get-well card. No response. My favorite online poker site mentioned that Representative Smith was in Vegas for the week. Unwise, to be out working for a better nation while ill like that, especially in a venue where crowds of people are present, many from the congressman’s state, all anxious to press their private political concerns upon him.

Finally, on Monday, he was well enough to return to his office. As I entered, another of his constituents was just leaving. Representative Smith is truly a man of all the people, not just the rich and influential, for I recognized this woman on her way out, rather washed out in daylight, as one of my favorite strippers at a local club.

“Did he listen to your concerns?” I asked her in passing.

She laughed.

“He’s always a sweetheart,” she said.

A man of the people.

Unfortunately, the receptionist told me that he wasn’t able to meet with me, as he was on an important call. I told her I’d come back when he was free. She smiled at the word “free.” Patriotic.

There were still weeks left before Representative Smith was to return to Washington. I saw in the paper that he was scheduled to visit a ladies’ tea in Upper Brockton. I drove over to that tree-shaded community of mansions. Valets were handling the automobiles of arriving matrons. They wouldn’t touch mine, calling it a “rattletrap.” I pointed out that I was a voter. They pointed out that they were working strictly for tips, that I was in their way, and that there wasn’t one actual American citizen among them. I thought about warning the representative that a bunch of rude illegals were working the tea, or about calling the INS, but I don’t have a cell phone and none of the valets would lend me theirs. They might be working for tips, but I saw more than one of these handsome young men drive off with the old bag still in the car, so I have a hunch they were parking more than the automobiles. Depriving women of the chance to exchange views with their man in Congress. A shame.

Tired of my fruitless attempts to meet Representative Smith, I parked down the street from his mansion the next evening and waited and waited until his limo pulled out through the iron gates in the wall surrounding his grounds, and followed him down to the Lampligher on Broadway. His limo parked in an alley behind the restaurant and two big lugs, probably secret service agents, waited beside it while he entered the restaurant through the kitchen with a briefcase in his hand. Another limo arrived and an Asian gentleman got out, again with two muscular dudes, and went in through the kitchen with a small duffle in his hand, while his men waited outside. A third limo arrived and a Mexican gentleman emerged from it, along with two mean-looking greasers. He went in too, with a stuffed backpack in his hand. A fourth and final limo arrived, this one with a Pakastani or Afgan fellow in it, with his bodyguards. He carried in a picnic basket. After a while, all four men came out again. The Asian, Mexican, and Afgani were empty-handed, though their pockets were bulging with envelopes. Representative Smith was wearing the backpack on, the duffle in one hand, picnic basket in the other, a big smile on his face, and with a white nose. His men ran to help him. All four limos took off. I followed the congressman.

I know that he sits on several important sub-committees pertaining to international commerce and drug enforcement. Even on his evenings off, he is on the job, working with the representatives of our allies in other countries for justice and the American way. What a guy.

I followed the limo back to his mansion. When it stopped to wait for the gates to open, I pulled in behind, jumped out, and ran up and tapped on his tinted window.

“Congressman! Open up!”

The window slid down.

“I’ve been trying to meet you all week,” I said. “I’m a big fan.”

“Good evening,” he said. Both of his men were out of the car and behind me by now. “How can I help you?”

“I just wanted to tell you how much I admire you and all the work that you do,” I said.

“I appreciate that,” he said. “It’s citizens like you that make my work worthwhile. I’ll remember you in my prayers.”

The window slid up.

“Me, too,” I said. “I haven’t been saying my prayers lately, but I’ll start tonight.”

“Good idea,” said one of the men behind me.

The Pre-pregnancy Amendment

Mississippi and South Dakota are considering amendments to their state constitutions that would define the beginning of life, protected by all state laws, rules, and regulations, to occur at the point of pre-pregnancy. Improper termination of the life of an ovum or spermatazoon would be defined as murder. The state constitutions are thus to be made more clearly pro-life, not pro-choice (pro-murder).

For example, suppose that you are a young nerd with absolutely no hope of “getting next to” a woman. Then spilling your seed on barren ground, such as your bed sheets or the bottom of your shower stall, is ok. But woe betide you if you try that with a potentially fertile wife in the house! Do not tell the court that she “wasn’t in the mood,” or that you snuck some ‘zoons into her with your finger after she fell asleep. The sin of Onan kills off countless, literally countless, potential babies, even African-American ones.

The good news is that if you’re sent to jail for murder, you won’t be raped there, because of course that wouldn’t be legal either, like it is now. There would also be prison-prisons for those prisoners who do go ahead and rape you and need to be imprisioned, but are imprisioned already.

What about ovulation? In Mississippi at least, when ovulation occurs, a tiny little tasteful bell will tinkle on the front of your dress. Get that ovum fertilized asap and there won’t be any trouble.

All contraception, whether it prevents the joining of ‘zoon and ovum, or kills off the ovum after the fact, is murder. Condums are defined as concealed weapons. Erections more than one length of the member away from your wife is attempted murder.

Of course, anything kinky, like adultry, homosexuality, bestiality, incest, three-ways, foursomes and moresomes, bondage, lap dances, phone sex, or sex at a picnic, are unconstitutional, and murder.

I become a presidential caucus delegate

I was contacted recently and recruited to the state presidential caucus. Amazing! My vote, on one single night, will help determine who runs for President of the United States next year. What a responsibility!

Of course I knew when I got the call that I was being mistaken for another, real political guy with my same name, who lives about $10 million down the block from me. No car up on blocks in his front yard! (If he has a front yard, down at the end of that winding drive behind those stone walls.)

The candidate campaigns began contacting me immediately and I soon had met a number of famous people:

Somebody Cain (I forget his first name. Starts with an H) – As soon as this guy grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him, staring into my eyes, I knew that he could make me buy a car or vacuum cleaner, or anything else he wanted. I pray that he never knocks on my door right after I’ve got paid on a Friday. How come there are more Cains than Ables around?

Rush Limbaugh – I’m pretty sure he’s not running for anything. That’s a good thing because he don’t look healthy to me. Fat, red faced, sweaty, big cigar in his mouth, cute little thing hanging on his arm. If he hasn’t had a heart attack already, he’s due, and if he has, he’s due for another.

Somebody Bachmann – This woman is wound tighter than a $2 watch. I was afraid for a second that she wasn’t going to let go of my hand until I promised her something I’d regret.

Sarah Palin – Yes, I met her. Shook her hand. She looked into my eyes and I saw something hard come over her face. I felt like one of those wolves running on the tundra with her helicopter gaining on me from behind.

Rick Perry – He was made up a little, not like a woman but like a TV news reporter. He was lively. Jovial. His handler told me that he got like that before an execution. So it happened a lot.

Mitt Romney – I was a little drunk when I met Mr. Romney. He opened his mouth and I said, “Don’t even start, Mr. Romney. I can tell you’re going to lie like a rug before you even start.” Of course I regretted that later.

I never met Newt, who they tell me is still running. Newt. Newt. What the hell were his parents thinking? Unless they’re named Salamander and Gecko, that is.

Eventually, the caucus folks discovered their mistake, but not before I had attended many a cocktail party and rubbed elbows, or shoulders, or whatever you rub, with the rich and famous. I guess it was my 15 minutes of fame.