Breaking News

Bush Discovers Oil In Mid-East--12-18-01

George Dubya Bush discovered oil in the mid-east during a mini summit with leaders of the other western democracies. The discovery began when Dubya axed "What in hell are we doing in Loonybin?" Tony Blair responded, "Do you mean Lebanon?" Dubbie pointed to the Arabian Peninsula and said, "Yes?" French Oil Minister, Maurice Chevrolet answered for Blair. "Oil," he said, "Black Gold, Texas Tea." Well, the first thing you know Dubya gets up from his chair. He says, "Saudi Arabia, is that that place way over there?" Blair says, "Araby is the place you oughta be!" So, Dubya called his poppy up to get some equity. Oil wells, that is. Arabian style--take your shoes off, fly the rug awhile. Don't hit no buildings now, ya'hear?

Kabul Women Feel Naked Without Veil And Robe--12-16-01

Kabul ladies report that "not having to wear the traditional veil or burqa is like being naked." One lady said she "has sudden urges to hump the daylights out of Mullah Omar." Close-in questioning by our intrepid reporter said he "felt the truth of the matter." Other women in cities around Afghanistan have been flying their burqas, veils, brassieres and panties from kites high above the villages and in complete disregard of local tradition. A woman from Herat reported saying, "I feel like I set the town afire in my bra and panties." The top mullahs say they are extremely worried, but also that they are trying to look at the good side of the situation. See Al-Jazeerah, the English Edition.

Late Update-- Mullah Omar reports that he is not dead yet. Osama bin Laden reportedly has banned television cameras in addition to television."

Damnation Editorial Policy-- The Damnation Media Octopus has no recognizable policy as yet.

The Smoking Gun Tape!

  Florida: Bush Leagues, Palm Trees and Plenty Of Dead People To Vote

Another hurricane has blown into the capitol, the eye is on center of government. It's calm now, the weather is fine and the storm is a metaphor. But it's a big metaphor and the forecast is a portent.

"Did you see the sign on the door?" asked the lady. "It says, 'My Door Is Always Open!' That's why I start my scrubbing against the far wall. While I'm on my knees waxing this historic floor, visitors are greeted first by my backside--you never know who might walk in.

"You see, a book I read says that showing your rear is the world's oldest insult. Well, the book didn't say quite that. The book said the "nyah-nyah" gesture was the world's oldest insult. The "nyah-nyah" is the one where you touch a thumb to your nose and wiggle your fingers up top. The gesture is so old experts don't know where that insult originated.

"I say that showing your backside is the world's first insult because of a photograph that accompanied the book's description of the "nyah-nyah" insult. The picture showed a woman "thumbing her nose" to someone and showing them her backside at the same time. I'll bet wiggling your backside at someone is the oldest insult in the world. Showing your butt is so common that nobody even notices any more. The professor, I'll bet he works around people and sees so much of it that he takes it for granted. On the other hand, the finger-wiggling, nose-thumbing technique seems pretty advanced, it was probably developed at a university."

Beyond the doorway, in the corridor of the Capitol building, John Ashcroft, the politician whose door is always open, and a janitor named George Gay talked about the weather. The Republican had just forecast that "citizens don't need a government, they need a militia."

"...sounds like the inmates would run the asylum," reasoned the old janitor.

"Governments don't produce anything, that's what worries people who run around with guns. The bumper sticker that came with my gun rack says, "Tax the government and give corporations a break!"

"What you are describing is the survival of marketing, not survival of the fittest."

"You won't persuade me," said Ashcroft, "I change my mind about as often as Mount Rushmore."

"I'll bet it's made of the same stuff, too," the janitor implied with a look.

Ashcroft was back to the debate, "Soon, we'll have the cheapest goods and the cheapest stores in the world, and there won't be any shoplifters because everyone will have guns."

"You're talking about the death of quality by the hand of those who cheat. Some companies use unsafe Liberian tankers, other companies exploit labor. Some firms send American jobs out of the country, other corporations are polluters who sell our future for their profits."

"C'mon, I'm proud to be a Repulican!"

"I'm glad to hear that you're rich. What are you going to do with your tax break?"

"I'm not rich!"

"Then why did you vote for people who will raise your taxes to give money to the rich?"

"They don't do that!"

"Face the facts. Democratic presidents: rising out of depression, great economic gains, paid-off national debt. Republican presidents: creating huge debt, raised taxes after promising cuts, the great depression. C'mon buddy, you're in dreamland.

"Well, it's the American Dream!"

"Baloney. Ask any stockbroker-- they'll say sell when the Republicans show up. That's because democrats make the money and Republicans blow it."

"Uh, oh."

"What?"

"I always sold when a democrat was elected, and I always bought when a Republican was elected."

"No wonder you're poor."

"I'm an idiot..."

"Don't be hard on yourself, Ashcroft, a lot of Republicans are idiots."

"What am I gonna do?"

"Watch television!

"Huh?"

"The made-for-television movie about the presidential election is on. We can watch it in the office here with Martha."

"Oh, goodie."

"C'mon in."

"Nice butt lady, are you single?"

"Geez, watch it!" Martha warned.

"Oops, I've stepped on the wet part, I'm sorry."

"Ashcroft!" Martha recognized the Republican from his appearences on 'America's Most Wanted' and 'Favorite Police Video's.' "Ashcroft, you're an idiot!"

"No ma'am, I'm a Republican!

Martha Tuck is the lady with the scrub-brush. She fixed Ashcroft's wet-spot and flipped the television on. The three then settled into a cozy leather couch that smelled of history, and Republicans. The television set fuzzed in and the audio came up as three people, sitting very near the exact center of American power, were about to see from where the real power came.

Our regularly scheduled marketing binge has been pre-empted tonight to bring you our made-for-television movie special. But first, a word from our sponsors.

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If you wanna buy our toy that slimes,
Say "Momma's X-toys" fast five times.

Kids, say it five times, really loud and really fast, and you'll get it, for sure!

The movie opened with a blazing title shot super-imposed over a beach filled with surfing grandmothers.

Florida: Election Fraud, Republican Snobs, And Plenty Of Dead People To Vote."

Next, came scenes of sunny Palm County. Palm trees swayed, island music played. Shoppers poked through a busy retail mall carrying surfboards and bingo cards. Locals.

Florida is electoral heaven. Politicians have long recognized the large population of easily-swayed voters. Modern political marketing serves up an individual message for each target group, it works best in Florida.

Palm County is ritzy shops and government buildings surrounded by a swamp of barbecue joints, strip malls and strip joints. Also, the county is named after it's political features, not the botanical ones. Just to let you know.

The Palm Municipal Building is the focus of the election movie-- vote tallies here were the last in the nation to be counted. Those few final votes determined the presidency of a great nation. Citizens everywhere were glued to the television as they awaited the outcome of a process that ground inexorably on.

The election was a dead-heat and they mean exactly that in Florida. Inside the municipal building in downtown Palm County, officials found that each recount method gave a different outcome. Mis-punched ballots, votes cast on the backside of grocery lists, ballots smeared with lipstick, and votes cast by dead people were but a few of the many obstacles to an accurate count.

Floridians now suspect that fraud involving Republicans, and votes cast on behalf of the recently deceased, won the election for Bush. Re-counts showed strange oddities at the polling stations, and many recently-dead Republicans straggled to the polls to do their patriotic duty.

Florida law is not specific on issues involving a citizen who slumps into death at a voting station. Did the recently deceased intend to place a ballot into the box onto which he's collapsed? A similar question, is the ballot legal if a voter croaks at a voting machine and trips levers for a straight Republican ticket as they slide down the machine and out of this world? These and other weighty issues were involved in the recount. Let's get out of here while we can!

Outside the municipal building was a party! Campaign officials and news people gathered to watch the process, or to spin and sway any results that were posted. A large crowd had joined the impromtu forum, as well. All of these people, ordinary citizens, media types, and presidential candidates Albert Gore and Gerge W. Bush, milled confusedly behind police lines set up to protect the public from themselves. A reggae band in the background played their wakka-wakka in a performance scheduled back before the political brouhaha began. Reggae music has a beat that is backwards to itself, a feature similar to the beat of American politics.

America has two parties, unless you do a hand-count. The Republican party stands up for patriotism and corporate tax shelters. Giving flags to the poor and tax breaks to the rich is a very Republican thing to do. The left side of American politics tries to make everyone happy. It was Democrats, mostly ones from Chicago, who first decided that the dead should also have the enjoyment and satisfaction of voting.

On the roof of the Palm County Municipal Building, well above the reciprocating rhythms of reggae, was Republican Senator John Ashcroft. "I am a political conservative, that's next to godliness in my book... if you don't count cleanliness, that is," he qualified. He talked to himself, and to an imaginary microphone, as he watched the action twenty-floors below.

"The closeness of the election results have propelled me to this patriotic perch. If God is unable to perform his duties, or if he must step down due to some existential dilemma, I am ready to take over. If chosen, I will shoot someone. It's the Republican way."

Twenty floors downstairs and in the center of the municipal plaza, a person who did have a microphone in his hand told us that he is "Broadbent Stokes," and that he was "in front of the Palm County Office Building." These were two things people already knew. After his opening line, Broadbent talked to television sets around the world: "The scene here is chaos as re-counts continue for the American presidential election. Citizens, voters, and protestors wait outside the County building as the vote-counting voodoo is concocted within. The feeling here is that we will never know for sure what it is that happened.

"No one knows whose votes have been counted! The failure of elected Republican officials to carefully count the votes means that a handful of people from a local cemetary may have elected an American President."

From the big picture, let's talk about the little people, the voters who made a difference, and the real people who starred in this epic film. These are real people, they are somewhere right now. Except for the dead people, we can't talk to them. They are dead, and in heaven. Well, maybe not. We can, however, go to "Double-Wide Heaven." That's the world's biggest trailer park and it's right here in Palm County.

Fred Ayley is our contact in mobile home heaven. He voted, and he'll help us find out where the real power is. His cat, Horatio, looks like BroadBent's wig. Horatio will help, too.

John Ashcroft is the sniper on the roof of the municipal building. He's an ex-Senator and ultra-right wing-nut. From his vantage point, and we mean twenty floors up the municipal building, he'll likely shoot some holes in any issues he doesn't like. We're not talking political metaphor-- we're talking Suerat Number Five with gold-plating, a weapon favored by the real artists of the hit-world.

Broadbent Stokes is a famous television reporter. He combs his pompadour so high it goes off-screen at the top of your set. He's in the center of the picture on Fred Ayley's television screen, right now. His hair, in an odd juxtaposition, has blended with that of Horatio, Fred's Algerian Tabby who's asleep on top of the warmth of his television. Broadbent's new "wig" will fly off in a few minutes.

On the other side of Double-Wide Heaven, lives Danny Glompers. Glompers, originally, is from Los Angeles where he was a cop. Now retired, he sits in a lawn chair and watches his boat from over the swell of his potbelly.

Glompers' boat sits on a trailer in front of the trailer. Neither of the trailers have tires, both are supported by a stack of concrete blocks. Concrete blocks are better than cinder blocks and most of the people in the trailer park can tell you why. Glompers' view of his boat includes a cell-phone that lives perched on his potbelly. It will ring in a few minutes-- the phone, not the belly. Glompers voted for Gore because "Bush is an idiot." Actually Bush is average, but compared to the advanced ken of the other candidates Bush is an idiot."

MacClanium is Glompers' ex-police partner. MacClanium is a New York City cop who is usually off-duty and never in New York. It's no wonder that he's always in some ambiguous trouble with the station-house bureaucrats. How it is that he's the ex-partner of a cop from three-thousand miles away is quirky. Life has it's oddities, we should enjoy them.

MacClanium gets retirement updates via cell-phone from his ex-partner on every endlessly-boring story that percolates up from the depths of Double-Wide Hell. In return, MacClanium calls Glompers with details of his current police cases. He's the one who'll telephone Glompers in a few minutes.

Mrs. O'Leary is a lady in Chicago who owned the cow who has been blamed for the Chicago Fire. This is unfair, as Broadbent Stokes would tell you had he covered the big blaze. In 1871, Chicago was a fire-trap, it was ready to burn. No-one knows with certainty what started the blaze. People shouldn't much care where the spark came from. Scientists have noted the arrival of flaming meteorites that landed in several nearby locations at the same time that the Chicago fire began.

Maybe Mrs. O'Leary's cow really did knock over a lantern in the barn that night. Maybe not. Had her cow been at Harvard studying entomology at the time, some other farm animal would have been blamed for the fire that burned the great American city. People are superstitious like that. Either way, no farm animals will burn down any cities in the next few minutes.

Events occur, don't worry about what triggers them. What we're talking about here is Inexorability Theory. This states that great events will occur regardless of what triggers them. Things will happen sooner or later, it may be a little trigger, or a big deal. It doesn't matter what. The primary axiom is Something will happen. The main logical inverse corollary is Things are pretty much the way they are.

Using today's example, it doesn't matter who John Ashcroft is about to shoot. What matters is that history has moved to the brink. Events occur. A useful observational technique is to sit back, relax, and watch while John Ashcroft takes us over the edge. It's history, that's all. Because it hasn't happened yet doesn't make it any less so.

Well, history had to start somewhere. On this day it started in Horatio's left nostril. Horatio was sleeping quietly on top of the television looking every bit like the top of Broadbent's wig. Fred stepped over to pet his favorite cat and absent-mindedly thumbed the popper on his evening beer. The beer was a little warm and feeling frisky, beer can be like that. The can opened with a twang, and released a shot of fizzy pilsener. The escaping stream shot straight up Horatio's nose.

Horatio flipped like Broadbent's wig. Bouncing off the ceiling, he crashed onto the stack of rental video's, into the small aquarium, then onto the freeze-frame button of the video-tape unit. His journey ended in the backroom closet.

Fred put the fish in his beer glass for safe-keeping, then checked on Horatio. Settling on the couch to re-think where he'd been before he blew the cat's nose backwards, he saw a sight on the television that took him back. Back to Dallas in 1963. The screen display was frozen on a helicopter-eye view from above the pandemonium in the plaza. On the roof was a lone-nut with a rifle. He was aiming down toward the candidates in the plaza-- right away, Fred phoned the police.

"There's a man on a raft with a raffle!" he sputtered. "My name's Fred, there was a mime with a roofer!" He tried again, with a deep breath to steady himself, he gave it his best shot. "The Palm Building, look-out!" he screamed so loudly he scared the beer-snot out of the cat, and with salubrious result. "There's a man on the roof with a gun!" Fred blurted before lapsing back into the trademark babble that dispatchers decode daily.

The operator sent more cops to the Palm building and dispatched a cruiser to Fred's home. Squad cars were seen pulling into the plaza from television sets all over the nation. The new wave of cops descended on a scene already awash in police officers. Arguments quickly started about who was in charge and why the fire department was there.

Glompers was still watching his boat and his belly when his cell-phone rang.

"Glompers here," he answered.

"The is Mac," said MacClanium, the off-duty New York cop who was about 1200 miles outside of his jurisdiction. "Things just got hot!"

"What's going on?"

"The Palm Building-- people, ballots, guns, a reggae band..."

"Democracy is diversity. So, what ya gonna do?"

"I think it's time to vote."

"Make mine an absentee ballot, I'm retired."

"I'll call you later."

"Watch your back, Mac, I hear there's some Republicans over there!"

"Okay, Goober."

"Hey, my name's not Goober!"

Click... buzz.

"Special Update!" Broadbent said quickly, then he lurched into a bit of live reporting. "There are people on the roof with guns! We're here at the Palm Plaza and there are people on the roof with guns. For those who have just tuned-in, let me roof-iterate. There are people on the roof with guns and there's all the humanity in the plaza and the people and everywhere...."

MacClanium closed his cell-phone and walked by the emotional television reporter. Mac was on the scene, people stood back and glimpsed at an off-duty cop and movie-star and American icon. MacClanium, is known mostly by his stage name, Bruce Willis. Everyone knows Bruce, he's the guy who's walking in front of Broadbent on the news footage right now. He is middle-aged and handsome and you can only think, "Florida, he must be about 1200 miles out of his jurisdiction."

"Stand back, MacClanium is here!" Everyone knew MacClanium, he's the typical "individualist out to save society in spite of itself" typology who's found all over Hollywood these days. He wore a casual shirt and khakis. You notice the khakis as he pats his pockets. "No weapons," you realize, "he must be on departmental suspension, again."

As Bruce waited to check with the police commander, the commander berated the fire department and he said they couldn't leave until he finished chewing them out for being there. Then he gave MacClanium the upshot.

"The building's been locked-down and tightened-up all week, nothing allowed inside except for vote-counting or no vote-counting, depending to which branch of government you listen. The law says it's an election, even we can't go in! We have reports of a nut on the roof with a gun. The helicopter's have seen him, but we don't know at whom he's aiming."

Bruce took in the information, then he stepped over to an argument raging between the presidential candidates. Albert Gore, the vice-president of the United States, was discussing the election with George W. Bush, an old drunk elected to state office by the lone star nuts of Texas. Bush, spitting mad, was swinging big punches at the vice-president. Gore, the bigger man, and calm to the point of being a lamp-post, held Bush by the knot of his tie and explained his position. "Miss Squeaky Caruso," he explained, "...a widowed pensioner from Nashville, Tennessee would have less political commercials during her soap operas under my campaign reform act."

Bush spied the Hollywood actor and instantly saw the potential, "Have you voted yet?" he asked as he wriggled round and talked in Bruce's ear. While talking, he continued with the round-house punches that flew barely short of Albert's nose."

"Isn't it too late for an absentee ballot?" Bruce questioned the political savvy of the great leader.

"Not if you're Republican!" shouted the Texan from Maine who loves Florida, "Call my office next week!"

This led to another lecture from Al Gore, "Absentee voting by Mrs. Clatchie Tickle of resulted in a one-vote swing in Bedroom Hills last year." Bruce took the opportunity to steal away. With a lock-down up around the building he had to be sneaky. MacClanium grabbed a pizza delivery box from a famous nation-wide chain whose corporate tax-breaks are putting your neighborhood pizza shop out of business and headed for the side-door of the municipal building. "Pizza's here!" he announced.

Police and the rest of the crowd joined the argument between candidates Gore and Bush. In the background, the reggae band kept playing, a few folks danced away to the crazy island beat. It takes some getting used to before your body can sway in that backward way.

The police cruiser en-route to Fred's home was touring the world's largest trailer park. Finding Fred was a high improbability. Trailer park designers are known for excruciating attention to confusion and obscurity. Most designers pattern their layout on ancient Greek labyrinths. Some modern types overlay this approach with a map of Kowloon, China to further assure impossibility. Average-Police-Response-Time to trailer park incidents is officially listed as "who knows."

The cell-phone on Glompers' lap rang as the cruiser passed Robin's Nest Egg Lane for the third time. MacClanium was talking before Glompers said hello. "Hey Glompers, get on over here!"

"Mac, I'm on my boat, the seas are blue, the island girls are dancing. I'm in heaven and I ain't never gonna leave!"

"Your boat doesn't even have wheels on it!"

"Don't need no wheels, I got me a bottle full of blue-sky and a whole ocean to dream about."

"Well, tell me what to look for..."

"Evil, m'boy, you're looking for evil."

"C'mon, I need a hand."

"Okay, a cop car keeps circling the block. I'll bring my cell-phone and jump in with them. I'll track you from there."

"Thanks Gomer, I'll get back."

"That's Glompers!"

Click... buzz.

Fred dialed the police station again. He'd watched on the little black-and-white set in the kitchen as the helicopters overhead filmed the police cruiser that was lost while looking for his address. When the police arrived, he could show them the image frozen on his big color set. Maybe the cops could tell which presidential candidate was in the crazy man's gunsight.

At the plaza, public-minded citizens refused to go home. Lone nut or not, they were there to help their cause. Nor did the candidates back down in the face of the threat.

"Unpatriotic," said George as he kept swinging.

"Twenty-floors up, bad angle, he'll never hit me," said Albert. "And neither will George!"

The candidates stayed put, so did the crowd. Although more and more had drifted back to the warm sounds of island music.

Dancing to reggae is like being around Republicans, you're going to have to stick out your butt. Like the music, and most people do, and like democracy, and most people don't know a bit about de Toqueville, it's another backward kind of thing. To get your head bouncing with the beat, you swing your butt back on the off-beat. That's because the off-beat is the beat and the real beat is backward to that. Actually, it can't be described, try it and soon you'll be dancing.

"Okay Glover, I'm inside."

"Glover? That sounds familiar..."

"It's your name, isn't it?"

"No, Glover is somebody else. He was in those movies with Mel Gibson."

"How come I keep using all these different names for you?"

"Interesting that you should ask. It's a lingo thing, and a philosophical comment about television. Hollywood argot, professional cant, neighborhood slang, proper English, it's all being replaced by television-speak. Soon there will be no accents, no special words, no hidden sub-text. Everyone will use "vogue words" like Madonna and the Spice Girls. Grammar, usage, the oxford comma, and idiosyncracies are history. Broadcasting is the death of language and...."

Click... buzz.

For those interested in the footnotes of twentieth-century history I'll mention the name of Greta van Susternen. Greta is a lawyer who doesn't have a sex life. What she does have is a television show which examines contemporary legal issues. Greta does a fine job with the show and is well-respected by everyone for her ethics and her personality and she gets to sleep with Bruce Willis about ten pages after the end of this episode in recognition of her fine work.

Today, her show explores how a Republican Minor Domo can arbitrarily decide a presidential election. We'll catch a snippet on Fred Ayley's black-and-white set in the kitchen before Fred wanders off to the back-room to check on Horatio.

"There's evil in that building!" assured Katherine Harris, a well-known local-prostitute who liked her job and saved enough money to buy a promotion.

"Please explain," smiled Greta.

"They're counting votes!" explained the frump, making it seem that democracy was not only unpatriotic but also undemocratic. Katherine Harris, now Florida's second-in-command and a notorious make-up queen, bought her job as secretary-of-state from Jeb Bush. Jeb is the Governor of Florida and also is George W.'s smarter brother.

"You mean counting votes by hand is evil?" asked Greta.

"Man is inherently evil," answered Kathleen.

"Hegel said that. Or was it Nietzsche?"

"My sorority mother said that."

"Oh," thought Greta, "How about counting by machine, is that better?"

"No, machines are evil." She added another layer of Sun-Tan Base and some Blue-Sky Shade number two.

"Machines are evil? Who said that, Marshall McLuhan, Noam Chomsky?"

"Richard Nixon, right after they caught him recording himself." She added mascara with the brush Rembrandt used to paint his house. "It's an antique!" she explained.

"Yikes," thought Greta. "So, what about the lone nut on the roof?" she tried to get closer to the subject at hand.

"You democrats," the overly made-up ex-make-out queen harrumphed, "You think a loan nut is a bad thing because bankers are more likely to be Republicans. When I took out a loan to buy my current position I went to a Republican banker and I got easy payments over four years!"

The sight of Greta van Susternen throwing up on camera reminded Fred to go back and check on Horatio. Meanwhile our focus also has to transition. That's the way it is with a book gig, and I'll apologize right now for using an abstract noun as an active verb.

"So, how you doin', cowboy?"

"Not bad, I'm up to the eighteenth floor but my dogs are killing me."

"You should wear shoes for these office building capers."

"I know, I know...."

"And using the elevator once in a while wouldn't hurt."

"Hey, I gotta look active! Standing around an elevator isn't a hustling look for me. And the music! No hero roles for me if "Girl from Ipanema" is playing in the background."

"Okay, cowboy. Stay cool, you'll need it in a couple of floors."

"I'll call when I hit the top."

Click... buzz.

At the station downtown, police scientists and laboratory personnel still hadn't found the frame that was flash-frozen on Fred's set. There were five news choppers shooting video film at however-many-feet per second. They all had some frames with a glimpse of the gunman, but they hadn't seen a frame where he'd pointed the rifle at anyone. Who would they protect if they didn't know at whom he was aiming?

"Who was the madman's target?" thought an unidentified man in a white laboratory coat in the police forensic center. It could be the vice president he wants to shoot. It could be George W., the Governor of Texas. It could be the Governor of Florida. The smart money was on Katherine Harris, almost anyone having a bad day would want to wing that turkey.

Maybe the lone nut wants to take out a cop, a judge, a reggae musician. Nah, everybody in Palm County loves reggae! Even Ashcroft was relaxing to the wakka-wakka that drifted up to the man on top of Palm County, Florida.

"I'm on top and boy am I breathing hard," cooed Bruce to Gidget.

"I love it when you talk dirty."

Cops making jokes is not a pretty sight.

"Whew! I see the nut, I'm heading over."

"No! Stay back! He's armed."

"I'm too tired to care. He's sitting at the employee's break table, I'm gonna pull up a chair."

"Okay, I'm in the cruiser and we'll have the target soon. Fred Ayley's got the target on freeze-frame, we're going to check him out right now."

John Ashcroft leveled the Suerat as MacClanium straggled toward the chair. The gasping hero needed a rest break-- no heroics for a minute. He waved a hand at John to say, "Time out, I've gotta sit for a minute..." Bruce was breathing too heavily to ask John what he was up to, he stared at him blankly for a bit and finished the thought, "...then I'll ask who you're gonna shoot."

John pointed the rifle more closely at MacClanium, "Who will I shoot? That's my question too. I'm a Republican, sometimes we're confused on the issues. Sometimes it gets to be too much and I end up at the nut-house."

"Did you see a psychiatrist?"

"No, only some Republicans."

"So, you have no idea who you were going to shoot?"

"No, I'm an American, that means I'm angry but I'm not sure at what."

"Hold on, I've got a call coming in."

Glompers was at Fred's, they'd looked closely at the television image and had the answer. "It looks like the rifle is pointed at George W. Bush!" he reported.

"Bush is the target?" said Bruce into the phone. "George W? Okay, let me check--"

Click... buzz.

"They say I should shoot Bush?"

"No, they thought you were pointing the gun at Bush."

"Maybe I should. It would make him a martyr. He's an idiot-- better a dead symbol than living proof!"

"Yeah, I agree. Hey, wait a minute-- you're nuts, don't do it!"

Broadbent broke the story live by screaming "The nut's gonna shoot Bush!"

The manic-quickness of a committed psychopath is sometimes even faster then MacClanium. People in the plaza froze as the rifle silhouetted against the bright Floridian sky. Then the barrel dipped in elevation and meant business. The sounds of reggae died, the candidates looked up at a ballot that was going to be counted right away. Support for Bush increased across the board. No one wanted this, Democrats and Republicans all hoped the shot would....

...silence snapped as the Suerat painted it's picture. MacClanium was too late. He had gotten to the rifle, and he'd thrown a karate chop on crazy Ashcroft. But he was too late for the candidates. He could only peek over the edge.

Fred and Glompers watched on television with millions of other Americans. Everyone saw small signs of movement, whew. Then more. Then Bush moved, "He was okay!" The hearts of millions lifted, tragedy averted, there is a future.

Albert Gore wasn't moving. The hearts of millions raced backward-- no one wanted this. Democrats and Republican cried immediatly for a man they would elect in a landslide if it would only bring him back to life. The world of the plaza swirled, with Gore motionless in the eye of the storm.

A stunned Broadbent moved in with the camera and couldn't think of anything stupid to say. The world's largest trailer park lurched into depression, news cameras brought the frozen image of the vice president as close to home.

A gasp, a cough, maybe... it was a sputter from the candidate and it scared everyone to a stop. Then Albert Gore cleared his throat and began to speak. "Mrs Winchall Trucks of Gunrack, Arkansas has to send her kids to a school with the highest violent crime rate in the states. They shouldn't allow varmint-hunting during lunchtime is my guess and...."

"He's alive! He wasn't hit-- it's that he has no personality!" said Broadbent in his characteristically uncharacteristic way. "Albert Gore always was a bore. On televison, he's called 'Mister Wood.' The vice-president was supposed to be a tree in the third-grade play back in Nashville Elementary School, about this the drama coach said, 'He was too convincing, it was scary!'"

Broadbent wrapped the news report and the movie, "Albert Gore is man so undemonstrative that he was mistaken for dead during his presidential campaign. He's a fine leader and of presidential timber. Albert is not good on television, and it shows.

"George W. Bush should take a job in television. He's a natural ham and almost as smart as one. Well, he would be if he layed off the sauce."

The photograph showing a woman "thumbing her nose" to someone and "showing them her backside" at the same time is from one of the Desmond Morris books, maybe.

Katherine Harris is a Republican and daughter of a rich snob. The poetic justice is that she paid so much to get her job that the end result is she makes less than minimum wage! If you subtract the cost for make-up, the chick is about five-grand in the hole each month.

George W. Bush is a Republican and son of a rich snob. His neighbors say what scares them so much is "...how average George W. Bush is."

Jeb Bush is a Republican and son of a rich snob. Jeb may yet get his idiot brother elected to the presidency, a position that Jeb had studied so hard to achieve and might well deserve.

John Ashcroft is a Republican and probably the son of a rich snob and is your basic mindless Republican idiot. To his credit, I hear he is a man of integrity. He just doesn't seem to realize that we arn't playing "Andy of Mayberry in 1776." How those guys get through college is a mystery to me.

Martha Tuck shares her last name with Dick Tuck, a crazy political operator from the sixties and seventies.

George Gay is also the name of an American flyer who was shot down during the battle for Midway. George watched the destruction of the Japanese fleet while floating in the middle of the fracas. He was rescued after the battle.

Greta van Susternen is a sweetie, but pretty damn straight.

Albert Gore is the son of a long-time Tennessee politician. Albert wears flannel shirts and tries to act folksy but he grew up in Washington, D.C. and might have trouble finding his "home" in Nashville.

Bruce Willis is a movie-actor who reminds you of the guy from high school who was never heard from again.

Glompers is the cop who co-starred in "Die-Hard." I don't recall his real name or his movie name. Obviously. Glompers is a name from "Harrison Bergeron," a Vonnegut short story.

Mrs. O'Leary's Cow scored tops on the collegiate achievement tests and is reputed to have been the official test-taker for the Bush kids during college. George Bush Sr. appointed Mrs. O'Leary's Cow to a top-secret CIA post during his presidency. He would have made the appointment opublic, however the cow was a democrat and the resulting publicity might have been bad for the Repooblican Party.

Mel Gibson lived in Oneonta, New York before he moved to Australia. Glover was the other guy in the movies with Mel.

Of Hegel, Marshall McLuhan, Noam Chomsky, and Richard Nixon. Nietzsche was the most mistaken, followed closely by Nixon and Hegel.

Broadbent Stokes has bigger hair than I've let on about.

And Reggae Music, especially the album by Jimmy Cliff titled "The Harder They Come," is one of those inexorable things.

copyright Jefferson-L-Rose 2000

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