In expectation of runnin’ for president, I’ve been workin’ with a language coach. But I still keep gettin’ tripped up. The other day I was at a nice Dallas café, and I ordered two Buds Lite and the chef’s special paninus. The waiter looked at me funny and then asked me to meet him in the alley. I never even got my sandwich! How do I make myself seem smart without coming across as a faker?
Governor of Texas
What makes you so sure the American people want a member of the intelligentsia in the White House? After all, they did elect that dolt Zachary Taylor. No, what Americans want is a man with true grit. A man who wears sandpaper boxer shorts. One who’s willing to eat the larva at the bottom of the tequila bottle, or to lick an electric fence, just to taste the voltage. A man who’s not afraid to make love to his first and only wife under the twinkling stars, after breaking into the local planetarium.
Might you be such a man?
This month has been a fundraising bonanza. 1) We send out direct mail about the Plutocrat Republicans’ imminent plan to impeach Barack Obama. 2) I fluff up my hair, go on MSNBC, and say that John Boehner may hold the gavel in the House, but that Ted Cruz holds the leash on a pack of rabid, bloodthirsty social Darwinists. 3) Money rolls into the Democratic National Committee headquarters in gooey gobs. We had to hire six more unpaid interns just to cart the checks up the street to the bank.
But what next? Won’t donors be upset when the impeachment doomsday scenario we’ve painted fails to materialize?
Debbie Wasserman Schultz
DWS (if I may)—
There’s always the next crisis. Since the plight of the underprivileged seems to be the time-worn Democratic line, try this little diddy on for size:
Did you know that more than one out of every eighteen homeless drifters suffers from Restless Legs Syndrome? But those fat-cat Republicans don’t want the federal government to do anything about it! Easy for them to say, sitting at home in their silk pajamas, their limbs totally stationary…
You can probably vamp from there.
I keep being tarred with that dang I-word: isolationist. Am not! The right term is noninterventionist. I just think that the United States needs some “me” time. Instead of sending our tax dollars overseas, we should focus on calming our own inner demons. Uncle Sam should turn down the lights, put on that Burt Bacharach album, get into a warm bubble bath, and stretch out those aching muscles. Just remember: no battleships in the tub. Only peaceful duckies.
Upwardly Mobile U.S. Senator
Potato, potato / tomato, tomato…uh, maybe that doesn’t translate well into print. I think the problem is this term, noninterventionist. It sounds like that magic kind of surgery where they operate on your spleen by threading the scalpel up through your veins, starting in your big toe. You should coin a term with fewer syllables and definitely no more than two vowels. Rand Paul: foreign policy Stoic?
There are millions of unauthorized aliens living in our midst. And they keep coming. For decades I have been silent, but my conscience compels me to speak up.
I did see a spacecraft that cool night in 1969. It hovered above the pine ridge, and I watched as three glowing, gelatinous objects floated down to the ground and assumed human form. They flickered slightly as they dispersed, but it was the type of thing that would be imperceptible to those not on the lookout for it. I held my tongue, thinking it a mere a scout team, an exploration party. Well, I have been seeing that telltale flicker more and more lately—most alarmingly on C-Span broadcasts of Congressional hearings. I believe the United States—Earth—is under full-scale infiltration by an invidious extraterrestrial force. But I am 90 years old, and no one will believe me. Help!
Only one man has the expertise to deal with gelatinous monsters, but Bill Cosby is unfortunately indisposed. That said, are you sure they mean us harm? Perhaps they simply believe, as Milton Friedman did, in the interstellar free movement of labor. Perhaps they just want their offspring to have a brighter future than their own, the opportunity to start a spore cluster under a warm yellow sun. So long as they stay in Congress, they’re doing jobs that normal Americans don’t want.
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