€śIt’s clear that our current policy regarding aliens in this country is not working,” announced President Bush last Wednesday from the White House East Room, introducing proposed changes to America’s immigration policy. “For years we’ve tried the hard line approach, and we’ve all seen the results. It’s time for a change. Do I have the answers? Ha ha, good one. But I do know one thing is clear: These are some scary fuckers. I’m not kidding, they’ll bite your head off and crap eggs down your throat just as soon as look at you.”

Amid the stunned silence of the gathered crowd, President Bush detailed his controversial new plan.

“We may not have the weapons technology today to send aliens back to hell where they belong, blowing holes in them the size of a pie plates as they collapse in a pool of their own acid-burning blood and we laugh,” admitted Bush reluctantly, making a machinegun motion with his hands. “God himself knows I wish this was true. Anyone who watches television knows we’ve tried. Three, maybe four times. But it’s time to admit our failure, and accept these aliens into the fabric of American society. Until such time as we have some kind of plasma gun and we can blow their guts out their asses, that is. But nobody tell any aliens that last part or you’ll spoil the secret.”

Despite the aim of Bush’s staff to bolster the president’s chances of reelection by improving relations with the Latino community, to the White House’s dismay the proposed policy changes were not as immediately popular with Hispanic groups as expected.

“There’s just no pleasing some people,” Bush said later, disappointed that the Hispanic community failed to see the value of not being eaten by aliens.

Under Bush’s proposal, all aliens would be granted temporary visas to live “in Michigan or some place” where they’re not likely to harm the voting public.

“Aliens have the same right to work as everybody else,” suggested Bush. “And they can fill lots of jobs Americans wouldn’t want, like working deep underground or fighting Godzilla.”

The political response on Capitol Hill has been muted, with Democrats indifferent to Bush’s plan and Republicans insisting they didn’t hear anything about no aliens.

“What, seriously? You’re asking me about this?” responded Rep. J.D. Hayworth, R-Ariz.

“It might be politically safer to ignore this issue,” Bush stated, affecting a somewhat British accent to sound statelier. “But this is something I cannot do. Some might think aliens are no big deal, or that we can ignore this problem and have it go away. But those are always the same guys who get sick at the dinner table and then they suddenly have an alien larvae shoot out of their chest like some kind of gory jack-in-the-box.”

“Ow,” Bush stated, wincing and clutching at his chest in mock-discomfort. “That ain’t gonna be me.”

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Call me Ramrod.

If I ever had an autobiography, it would start that way. The autobiography is uncertain, but what is certain is that, for the time being, this column is my personal property. It's the soapbox from which you will learn about Ramrod Hurley— likes, dislikes, things I don't really care about. Well, maybe not the latter. It can best be stated this way: That I have reported the news in the past; now it's my turn to tell everyone what I think of that news.

I'm also now the Editor of the commune. The Editor is sort of like a special effects maker in a movie—if it's terrible, I'll get the blame; if it's good, I'll never see the credit. I'll be a ghost-like figure, but since I can't tell you there I can let you know here, that the commune news will reach heights never before seen. I'll improve on everything and deliver the alternative news of the world in a timelier fashion, more accurate and objective than before. I guarantee it.

All of this depends, of course, on the length of Red Bagel's absence. Any regular readers of this column know Bagel is a charitable lunatic who excels only at one thing, and that's somehow making money from a nearly-bankrupt Internet publication. True, I would never say such a thing to his face, but lucky for me even when he was Editor he never read anything published in the commune, even his own column. For whatever reasons, Bagel took me under his wing and hoisted the responsibility for the whole shebang onto my shoulders. Some may say no one else wanted the thankless job, but that's just their jealousy talking. Lil Duncan would have been more than happy to take over, I'm sure, but Bagel's natural chauvinism worked to my advantage. It's just as well, since Lil's ace reporting can be utilized even better than before under my guidance, and I don't require the same, well, attention that Lil provided Red Bagel twice a week, three times during the summer, by the notes Red left me.

As for the other notes left to direct me, Red insists the columnists be allowed to do their thing, including the new columns and features he brought aboard shortly before departing with Sampson L. Hartwig. This column, according to Bagel, should continue to shine a light on the unknown conspiracies being overlooked by the "corporate" conspiracy newspapers out there. Mr. Bagel was clearly so far out of his mind he needed a charter jet for the return trip. But that won't stop me from passing on whatever information I get from Mr. Bagel's sources, on occasion—don't be surprised if the success of Ramrod Hurley's "Or So You Thought" makes history of the ridiculous conspiracy angle.

I'm no stranger to command, you should know. I ran my modestly-successful internet gossip column at www.poopoftheday.com for a solid month before poor funding and competing traffic forced us to shut down, not to mention some confusion over the purpose of the site and angry letters from scatologists. True, the staff was not as large there as it is here, but mom and Guadalupe the network programmer from Chile needed much more leadership, so it works out about the same. I've been aching to prove myself and get back into a position where I could make real changes and leadership decisions, and the advantage is once again mine.

Add to that I've basically been running the commune single-handedly for the past five months now and it's plain to see this match is going to work out. Whatever illusory conspiracy Bagel went chasing, he at least had a firm grasp on who could rule in his place. Almost without saying the responsibility turned to me to make the commune run like a well-oiled machine, and Bagel recognized that, and made me official as his replacement when he left. I'll see to it the insane old fart isn't let down.

All this and more, and that's my guarantee. There will undoubtedly be a few initial problems in the changeover—for instance, I'm currently bound to my chair and gagged, locked in my new office by the irascible staff. But typing this with my face isn't as difficult as it first seemed. I'll work out the personnel problems and establish my authority in the same way—a little painful at first, not without some mis-steps, but ultimately for the better of everyone.

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"GET UP!"
screamed the miter
(a miniature mote)
who'd grown up in the bottom
of the back of a boat.

"RISE!"
cried the tiny little segmented man
whose hat was bright purple,
but his body was tan.

"HUZZAH!"
he repeated, at the top of his lungs
the very tip top,
so loud it rattled his bung.

"GOOD MORNING!"
he shouted.

"MOOD GORNING!"
he out-snouted
through the reverberant caverns of his nose
as he screamed and he scramped
and he ripped off his clothes.

"BRRRRRANT!"
on his bugle he bugled the note.
Then he honked out a ditty
that he'd recently wrote.

Into his mega he phoned
and he bellowed and moaned
as he screeched and he warbled
like a boy band on fire
and he pierced the sky with high notes
like a castrated choir.

He jumped and he leaped
as he stomped and he beeped,
making such a racket as to wake up the dead
who would wake with a ring and a buzz in their heads.

But even when threw a drum kit down the stairs
and gave untuned tubas to the back-country bears
and told the hyenas a side-splitting joke
and he banged on his gong till his gong-banger broke,
on his chalk board he screeched a quarry's worth of chalk
and he gave the loud-talkers a license to talk
and he shoved a canoe through a tight leather shoe
and he told teenage girls they were bathing in poo
and he amplified a donkey to the power of six
and he beat the complainer at a game of pick-up sticks,
he alarmed an alarm
and he pantsed a school marm
and he dropped twelve ball bearings on an aluminum barn
and he crept into the pope's bedroom and he screamed "DARN!"

still

Roofer McGoofer McGoo
slept
and he slept.


Goddamn dog.

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