Condit Slams Media for Lack of Publicity

alifornia Congressman Gary Condit, upset at his absence from national headlines lately, has vowed to do "whatever it takes" to get his name back in the public eye again soon.

Speaking today at a rally in a town square in the heart of what he refers to as "Condit Country," the long-time member of the House of Representatives and noted blow-dry enthusiast told a crowd of five hookers, three migrant workers, a homeless man with a skinny dog tied to his shopping cart and a pair of ten-year-old skateboarders that he was determined to become the "number one story in all America" once more.

In a rousing bit of oratory, the Congressman pointed his finger at the crowd and said, in a voice that hardly sounded at all as if he'd been taken over by space aliens, "What do I have to do, kill another intern? I'll kill an intern, if that's what it takes. That's how dedicated I am to you, the people who vote. When you go to the polls, I want you to remember the name Condit. Of course, it's not as if I've already killed any interns, you understand. After all, I do have a solemn agreement with the Levy family that I will not talk about the murder or subsequent disappearance of their daughter, Chandra, or any of the particulars of my personal involvement in that bloody business, but I'm just saying, I'll go that extra mile for you. Because I care about you, and I care about your votes."

Privately, Condit blamed the media for his recent lack of headlines.

"Ever since that ridiculous dustup in New York, it's gotten harder and harder to get my picture in the paper," he said with a grimace. "In just one short week, I went from twenty-seven national face shots—and I mean front page!—to zero. Zero, zip, zilch, nada. Hell, I had to send a publicity photo of me holding a bloody knife along with a stack of hundred dollar bills laced with anthrax to the Enquirer just to get a bottom-third headline a month ago. Bastards."

Acknowledging the fact that he could possibly lose an election for the first time in his political career, Condit admitted that he did have a backup plan, just in case.

"In that event—which, according to my staff and my family, is highly unlikely—I do have a contingency plan. My contention is that there's no such thing as bad publicity, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to keep my name out there for the public. So, if for some unforeseen reason we actually lose this election, I've got a provisional contract with the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas to do six shows a week under the billing 'Gary Cee and His Spectacular Disappearing Interns.' Hell, I could make millions just doing that," the Congressman admitted. "Those bitches work cheaper than you'd ever imagine, and there's never a shortage of supply."

Asked how he would handle a return to life outside the Beltway, Condit brushed off the idea that it would require a big adjustment.

"You know, I came up the hard way," he said, "going door to door selling hair-care products and blowing guys in gas station rest rooms for pocket change. I know what it's like to have to scrabble. Just don't you worry about me, bub, I'll get along fine."

In response to Congressman Condit's remarks, the Levy family issued a prepared statement through a designated spokesperson, who said, "What the fuckin'-ay cocksuckin' hell? Shit! Shit-fuck! Fuck that shit! Fuckin' fuckety goddamn motherfuckin' fuck."

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"Mom had this vase given to her in Great Aunt Mable's will and she loved it dearly. It sat on a wooden table in front of our picture window. I think it was from Japan. All I remember was the funny blue lines that decorated its pale, white surface. She told all of us kids never to touch that vase. I asked her if I could put things in it and she told me, 'Only on special occasions.'

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The next time you're out fly-fishing on the open sea, and out of nowhere a deep rumbling beneath you swells into the thunderous surfacing of a mighty beast, a whale of elephantine proportions that promptly explodes in a cacophony of catastrophic gore, remember that you have Lewis Captain to thank. If it weren't for one of the greatest and most unlikely American inventors of all time, you wouldn't be frantically bailing dog-sized hunks of hot whale meat out of your boat as it rapidly capsized into the ocean. And as you're clinging to a Styrofoam cooler while what's left of your boat slowly descends down towards Davey Jones' locker, you'll know that you have just experienced the magic of Sonar.

Sonar was invented in 1918 by Captain Lewis Captain, a man who spent his entire life nurturing a powerful hatred of whales. This hatred would eventually lead him to develop the world's most powerful whale-killing technology, which had the unintended side-effect of helping sailors navigate underwater environs.

Captain's last name was actually pronounced CAP-tayne, like it rhymed with plantain. But back then people didn't know what plantains were either, so they just pronounced it "captain" and made fun of the fact that he couldn't even swim. Throughout history, people have had a hard time accepting anyone named Captain who didn't pilot a boat or at least wear one of those white hats around the office.

Growing up, Captain had no interest in the sea beyond his virulent hatred of whales, an animal which he had never seen. His reasons for hating whales so violently are a matter of folk legend, with popular explanations ranging from a whale eating his prized marble collection when he was a boy to Captain being agonized by a persistent stench in his college dormitory, which some passing neer-do-well described as "smelling like a whale's bung." Captain only learned to sail because people were tired of hearing him complain about whales when he had never been out to sea.

After earning a Bachelor of Sailing degree from the Maritime Institute in Massachusetts, Captain set out on several unsuccessful whale-hunting expeditions from 1915 to 1918. Some blamed his lack of success on his aversion to harpoons and his preference for putting various foods that whales might find delicious on a gigantic hook, which he attached to an oversized fishing pole. Captain never did catch a whale this way, though he did land several passing fishing vessels using these innovative methods.

Eventually Captain tired of his inefficient whale-eradication techniques. In 1918 he was inspired by the incessant screech a neighbor's highly-annoying big band record to develop a special underwater speaker, which could be used to taunt whales with big band music, possibly driving them to suicide. He also developed an underwater microphone with which he could gleefully monitor the whales' tortured Chewbacca cries of "Turn down that racket!" and "For the love of God, we're trying to sleep here!"

The system was largely ineffective until turned up to near-deafening levels, at which point it began working like gangbusters. The noises freaked out whales and various other undersea creatures, causing them to surface in a panic and explode when gasses in their bloodstreams, trapped by deep-sea pressures, sought egress like a shook-up Diet Shasta. Captain loved that shit, and soon orchestrated the exploding marine creature displays as if they were Fourth of July fireworks.

During one of these expeditions, or "Safaris" as Captain liked to call them, crewman Paul Langévin noticed that the microphone was picking up reflected echos of the big band music in such a way to allow the virtual mapping of the ocean's floor by timing the reflections received from various directions. Captain greeted this news by giving less than two thirds of a shit, but Langévin filed away the knowledge and used it to develop the world's first functioning "Sonar" system. The system was named for the first narwhal Captain exploded in 1918, and went on to be used extensively in the naval operations of WWII.

Over the next fifty years, Captain did his best at adjusting to a world that grew gradually less open to the wholesale slaughter of marine creatures. Toward the end of his life he was arrested while trying to blow up the trick-performing show whales at Sea World, who were beloved by children and weird maritime perverts the world over. Though he only succeeded in giving Shamu mild vertigo and a touch of performance anxiety with his hand-held Sonar device, Captain was ordered by the courts to attend several weeks of marine abuse-prevention counseling. He stubbornly died shortly thereafter, leaving behind a legacy of innovation and insane nautical enmity that will marvel and bemuse the world for generations.

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