.S. Representative James Traficant vowed not to give up his Congressional seat Thursday following the announcement of his guilty verdict on charges of bribery, racketeering, falsifying tax returns, and forcing his federal aides to dress in overalls and chew straw on his Ohio farm.

Upon hearing the guilty of verdict, Traficant, who represented himself, stated, "I accept your verdict." On the steps of the courthouse, despite his attorney's counsel, Traficant vowed to appeal the verdict.

"I refuse to accept a verdict of this nature," Traficant told the commune. "This decision, indeed these charges, have all been politically motivated. I suspect everybody involved in this trial, from the prosecution to the judge to the defense attorney to the jury is out to ruin my good name. I reject this attempt to oust me from office. I'll see to it these charges are acquitted and my attorney is disbarred."

House Minority Leader Dick Gephardt (D-Missouri) called for Traficant's resignation. Upon being told Traficant was convicted of the charges, Gephardt was unswayed and still called for his resignation.

"Mr. Traficant puts a foul mark on all congressman everywhere," said Gephardt. "His conviction on bribery charges seals the deal. He cannot be trusted to represent the people of Ohio anymore. He is exactly why people hate politicians, and has been found legally guilty of doing what everyone else is only suspected of doing."

"I might also add," continued Gephardt, "that Mr. Traficant has, in recent months, been supporting Rep. Dennis Hastert as speaker of the House. You know, Hastert? The Republican? You put it all together, eh?"

When confronted with Gephardt's statements, Traficant was resilient about keeping his seat.

"I have convictions I will not turn away from. And by convictions, I don't mean yesterday's convictions, I mean my original convictions that brought me to office." Traficant accepted an envelope from a dark-suited man which he quickly pocketed. "They have tried to convict me on these charges before, when I first began my political career. They failed then and I believe they ultimately will fail again. These are my deeply-held convictions. Once again, I mean my personal convictions, not criminal."

When questioned about the charges, Traficant spoke vaguely. "Mistakes were made. Let's just say that and nobody gets hurt."

"My only regret," continued Traficant, "was that I didn't hire bigger and burlier aides. Somebody with a little farm hand experience. At the end of the day I could've gotten twice as much done. Or hell, maybe even just hired a couple of guys to run the farm without having to pretend they work in the office. It's not like I'm running short on cash, with all the bribes and underreporting on the tax forms. But that's not a confession—I mean, that's not to say I—aw, forget it. Talk to my attorney."

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Readers and the rest of you, please take a few minutes of silence right now in remembrance of all the dead people out there. And really take it, because if I find out you just read this paragraph and moved on to the next without taking that few minutes of silence, I'll be tremendously pissed. Just being quiet while you're reading doesn't count. It needs to be a few agonizing minutes, looking discreetly at the clock and hoping like hell it will soon be over. They deserve nothing less.

Thanks for that. I didn't mean to be so touchy, sir. It's just that we've had a lot of them lately—dead people, I mean. Whether they've been killed in floods, hurricanes, mudslides, suicide bombs, or by hanging out on a weekend with Omar Bricks, a lot of people, American and foreign citizens alike, have lost their lives in the past few months. No doubt about—death is the number one killer out there right now.

There are some out there who say you can't stop death—to which I say, "you're not the boss of me." Just because it seems difficult doesn't mean we shouldn't try anyway. The first step in our war against death is raising awareness. Sure, you might think everybody everywhere knows about death, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't remind them it's still out there waiting for them.

That's why I've chosen the perfect symbol to be our constant reminder of death—a peppermint ribbon. Why peppermint? Basically all the other colors are taken. But that doesn't mean it's not a perfect choice. I want the peppermint ribbon to be instantly linked to death in the minds of everyone in the world. People lying under some rubble in the Gaza Strip should be able to see a peppermint candy and know that, one day, they too will die themselves.

Actually, it's hard to believe no one's pressed this "cure death" agenda more over the centuries. All this "cure aids," "cure cancer," "cure heart disease" stuff hasn't really gotten us anywhere. I say it's time we take the direct approach. Death is what we're really afraid of, and it's about time we stopped dealing with its miserable toadies. Take out death once and for all and we'll all feel safe. Malignant tumor? Who gives a shit? What's a tumor going to do to you, if death is already vanquished. You go around for eternity with a headache, maybe, but that's a small price to pay for living for eternity. Morticians and Goth music stars may go out of business, but let's face it—these guys were downers at parties anyway.

If you say conquering death is impossible, I'd call you a pessimist. I might feel the desire to call you fatass, too—depending on your physique. But please, let's keep it about the issue, not personal attacks. It just so happens I have some of the leaders in the field of anti-death research at my beck and call, and whenever I beck or call them, and drop them a few hundred dollars for information, they give me the inside skinny.

Yes, it turns out, the final cure for death is just around the corner, according to my contacts. What will it take? Five million? Thirty million? One-hundred and fifty million? Ten dollars? Is there any price too high to cure death? Let's put a limit of five billion on it, right now, just for the sake of not going crazy with this thing. But I say, at this moment, less than five billion dollars would be worth it if we could forever cure death. No more sad losses for families, no more fear of the unknown for all the billions of people out there. And you know, if everybody in the world chipped in one dollar (I'm talking to you deadbeats in Central America, too) we'd have the five billion we needed. That's not too much to ask, is it?

And all I'm really asking for is $25,000 to start making some goddamn peppermint ribbons. When you put it that way, I don't see any reason you can't all start sending me the money today.

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"When I was a boy, every year Dad would take Goose, Stephanie and I to the State Fair. Mom would never come, on account of her belief that the State Fair was the devil's yard sale.

So once every fall, Dad would pile all of us kids into the family car, and we'd head off to the State Fair while Mom went down to the airport to throw rocks at foreigners. Personally, I never much minded riding in the back hatch of the car with the luggage, since I knew how much Dad enjoyed having the passenger cabin to himself while he drove and worked out his dirty limericks aloud.

But leave it to Goose to find something to complain about in every situation. This may have been due in part to his permanent role as the foundation of the Hartwig children stack, which was only natural since he was the least claustrophobic of the Hartwigs and less given to breaking out in spontaneous hives or untimely urination when sat upon during long car rides, unlike Stephanie and myself, respectively. He may have thought it unfair, but Goose was born the low man on the totem pole, and far be it from the Hartwig clan to challenge God's natural order on that one.

Dad was truly in his element at the State Fair. Never was there a man born who could eat more corn dogs without getting sick on the Tilt-a-Whirl. It was all the three of us could do to keep up with him as he sprinted from attraction to attraction, tossing rings, flirting with schoolgirls and gawking at the state's biggest pig all at once. One of my fondest childhood memories is of Dad challenging us kids to guess the fat man's weight, and the fat man coming out from behind the cotton candy booth and punching dad in the mouth.

Without Mom being around to Yin his Yang, or however the Chinese work that, Dad sometimes got a little carried away in his State Fair enjoyment. That being said, he was still nothing but a hero to the three of us kids the year he drove the family car straight into the bumper car gallery, declaring himself the Grand Champion of All Time."

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