Schwarzenegger Adds Bust of Reagan to Campaign

fter failing to impress voters with his thick accent and scripted responses in Wednesday's California Governor debate, famous Aryan Arnold Schwarzenegger announced a new addition to his campaign Friday: A bust of former president and oppressor Ronald Reagan.

The bust, a one-foot sculpture of the B-movie actor and monkey sidekick, is apparently bronze in nature and a perfect representation of the ex-president since it no longer smiles either. The real Reagan, a senile old fart who hasn't made a public appearance in a decade, could not be reached for comment.

Schwarzenegger made the announcement at a press conference on the afternoon of Sept. 26, at a small charity dinner the press were barred from attending. Reading from his teleprompter, America's purest white man told cameras in a sealed room somewhere, "Ronald Reagan was good for America. Arnold Schwarzenegger is good for America. We are a team, me and the statue. I hate to be the bad guy who meets us in a dark alley."

The addition of the paperweight to the campaign followed several recent additions to the Schwarzenegger team, including Rob Lowe and, most recently, Republican Bill Simon. Schwarzenegger is likely trying to keep heat on his campaign after taking recent hits on his views on sisters and a poor showing in Wednesday's recall election candidate debate. Bringing on an image of the popular former president could tie Schwarzenegger's campaign to Reagan's success in the minds of Californians already beat into submission by endless recall election coverage.

Critics call the addition a misguided attempt to liven up a very uncreative campaign. Schwarzenegger's celebrity and deep pockets have failed to buy him much good press in his candidacy, and his numbers with female voters have failed to grow following the revelation of misogynistic statements he made in a 1970s poontang magazine. Women also failed to come around to Schwarzenegger's campaigns after he threatened to kill fellow recall candidate Ariana Huffington Wednesday night. Representatives of women voters were also not impressed when Schwarzenegger offered to make a pinup of Stephanie Seymour a consultant to his campaign.

However, in all the clamor about the importance of women in the California recall race, little attention has been paid to the black voter. the commune attempted to contact the League of African-American Voters of California only to find out there wasn't one. In fact, records indicate there are only 14 registered black voters in the state. Of those, four are rap stars, three are actors, and five are the starting lineup of the Lakers. The remaining two were other California recall candidates.

An insider in the Austrian-American's candidacy say the bust of Reagan will mostly be a figurehead in the Schwarzenegger campaign, but if it has any valid suggestions they will be taken into consideration. The advantage, he said, of having an inorganic chunk of metal occupying a role in the campaign is that, once elected, it does not have to be given a cabinet position. Schwarzenegger is not ruling out making the bust lieutenant governor, though.

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Ladies and genitalmen, I am filled up to my ears with Christmas cheer! And, to a lesser extent, liquid opium. Each year around this time I am amazed and bewildered when the same ol' jingle bellsy, silent nightish, away-in-a-mangeresque feeling creeps back in like Rudolph guiding Santa's sleigh flying low under radar. In some ways, when it comes to Christmas, I'm just a big kid, and I mean in a good way, not like the rudenik teenagers making fun of me as I shop for suits in the children's wear section of Sears refer to me as a big kid.

Which prompts the question, why is Christmas celebrated only once a year?

Around this time, as people's thoughts turn to the needs of their fellow man, and his live-in girlfriend, as children stand wide-eyed and open-mouthed with their sloppy noses pushed up against toy store windows with wonder until the fire hoses are turned on them, as children hang their stockings or those of dad's mistress by the fireplace with hopes of sugar hill gangs and such in their head, some people become a little misty-eyed and get a lump in their throat wondering, why can't Christmas be every day of the year?

Well, that's moronic, it would lose all meaning to have it happen every day of the year. Such a preposterous notion clearly is the work of someone who has little or no foresight or clue as to how the world actually works and makes me want to grab said person or persons and shake them until one of us has a stroke. No, that's ridiculous, we need a way to preserve how special Christmas is and yet still not have to wait a whole other year for it to occur. So I've come up with the perfect solution: Two Christmases!

Obviously the key ingredient is spacing it out properly. Having Christmas in November would steal all the joy out of the original Christmas in December, and we'd be eating enough turkey to slip into a seasonal winter coma from all the L-triptophane. Likewise, if we put it in January it would begin to grow on your nerves. Sure, I like the idea of getting a second chance to buy a better gift for some loved one based on how poorly they reacted to the first, but the logical answer here is to space the second Christmas out far enough to really appreciate it.

The clear answer for me is July. When in July? I was getting to that, you needn't be so pushy.

I say July 4th, good people. What about the Fourth of July, you ask? What about it?

Let's celebrate Christmas in the middle of summer, feelin' hot! Hot! Hot! A shorts-and-tank-top Christmas, a Jimmy Buffett-by-the-fireplace Christmas, a tequila-and-ribs-for-Santa Christmas. Let's start new traditions, I say. Let fireworks light the way for Santa! The kids can hang their wet swimsuits on the porch for Santa to fill up with presents; whimsical and practical.

New Christmas specials for a new holiday. It's A Christmas Sunburn, Charlie Brown!, Perry Como Live From Rio de Janiero. Bing Crosby's Dreaming of A Sweltering, Fuzzy Christmas. Sure, most of those people are dead already, I don't keep up on new celebrity but surely someone could fill their fossilized shoes.

Christmas is way too special to be just once a year. And people say Christmas is about the birth of Jesus and the celebration of his life, but I say Christmas is more than that: It's big, glossy, commercialized and holds little to no religious meaning. Why limit that to only once a year?

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Usually I prefer to uncover global conspiracies, to shine the light of justice on the hidden ugliness of the world as only journalism can. The cover-ups and shams so big they affect all of our lives. The big time, in other words. This time I turn my red laserlight of truth on the small movie screen of a local shyster. His name is Kurt Benworthy.

Mr. Benworthy is the most unscrupulous con-man I've ever encountered, and I've met Don King, readers. I went to Kurt Benworthy from an ad in the paper. I print it in its entirety here:

"Dogs for sale. Puppies, pooches, hounds, mutts, and bitches. Perfect for the kids or the wife, or the wife's husband. Dogs, long considered man's best friend by those in the know. Now experience dog ownership as you've only dreamed. P.O. Box 1584. No refunds."

Hell! "No refunds." So it was in the ad. I guess I owe Mr. Benworthy an apology. Well, there may not seem much reason to go on, but I don't care about the money. Even if I never see a dime of my $10 again I want to reveal Kurt Benworthy for the rip-off artist he is.

I went to Post Office Box 1584 and, sure enough, Mr. Benworthy was living inside. Fortunately it was a rather large box. He had rented several and in each he had several "dogs," all of which he espoused the virtues of while telling me glorious stories of dog ownership. Maybe I'm a big fat sucker with a white stick up my ass, or maybe the white stick up my ass just leaves people with that assumption, but either way, Mr. Benworthy sold me a shoddy bill of goods.

The dog I picked out, "Putnam P. Puppy," was adorable at first sight. I purchased Mr. Puppy and took him home, looking forward to all the fetching and ball biting we would do together, or allow him to do while I watched. First thing when we hit the Bagel backyard, I threw a ball and… as you can already guess perhaps, Putnam Puppy did not go after the ball. I was sorely disappointed, and it's then my eyes opened to the dirty side of dog sales.

Putnam P. Puppy was in actuality a long-haired cat with certain prosthetics in place and falsified documents to make him appear to be a dog. I took him to my doctor, no expert on animals, but a generally smart guy who I trust for legal advice, and he assured me I had in fact been sold a cat. A cat disguised as a dog. Putnam Puppy is a long-haired meowing cat and Kurt Benworthy is a goddamn dirty liar.

What am I supposed to do with a cat? Enter a dog show? Guess again, the rules are strict on that, I've found out. Sit around the fireplace, writing poems about my beloved old dog? Fuck that, I've got a cat, thanks to that bastard Benworthy. I'm the laughingstock of my kennel club and all those issues of Dog Fancy I bought, well, they're basically slick toilet paper now. Thank you again, Mr. Benworthy.

It may be too late to do anything. When I returned to the post office I found out Mr. Benworthy had vacated his post office box with six months back rent due, leaving behind only a few chiahuahua-sheepdog mixed puppies. So I may have lost my shirt in this scam, revealing my chubby love handles and spare tire for all to see, but I stress to you these important tips when inspecting a dog for purchase:

• Check for a zipper down the underside, or failing that, a prosthetic dog beak.
• Drop the "dog" from a high place, like the top step on a ladder. If it lands on its feet, it's a cat; if it dies instantly, it's a dog.
• As you're walking away, turn suddenly and yell, "Hey, cat!" If the "dog" looks at you, you've found a no-good cat in disguise.

Here's salutations to all the future dog-owners out there. I wish to be one of you someday. Preferably the tall one.

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