Bad Boy Congressman Can't Drive 55

e's brash, he's young, at least in comparison to some other congressman, and he's dangerous. Really dangerous. Seriously, he was recently charged with manslaughter in the death of another motorist. He's South Dakota Representative Bill Janklow, and he's emerging as one of a new breed of rebellious new legislators everyone's talking about.

Authorities charged Janklow Friday with second-degree manslaughter following an Aug. 16 accident when the congressional hellion ran a stop sign traveling at speeds in excess of 70 mph in a 55-mph zone. Whether Janklow was speeding to a hot-to-trot lobbyists' convention or fleeing a savage pack of political paparazzi could not be discerned at press time, but rumors abounded.

Janklow is one of a bold new wave of congressmen creating new political fads. In modern America, where the average fair-weather voter is stuck in the middle of the road and too overweight to drag himself out, Janklow and his posse all have their staunch far-wing opinions—just don't ask them what they are! In fact, Janklow has refused to even identify where he stands on major issues to his own constituency—preferring to sell them the new favorite platform of improved standards of living and honesty and integrity in representation, as long as they don't want details on how we get those things. But make no mistake, his voting record demonstrates he's a Republican—hardcore, motherfucker! Janklow may be the quiet, shy type, but he's not afraid to tow the party line when it comes to the voting floor.

The South Dakota legislator has earned the nickname among associates as "Bad Billy" for his spotty driving record, his pro-GOP voting record, and his hygiene. Consumer activist and delusional Green Party presidential candidate Ralph Nader sent a strongly-worded letter to Janklow requesting his resignation. The incident was described by Nader as "the taking of life by a driver relentlessly bent on turning his vehicle into a lawless, dangerous missile," the Unsafe at Any Speed author wrote in his trademark prose bursting with sensuality.

"Dangerous? Definitely. Boring? Never!" sassed Belfront Herb, responding to questions no one asked. The gossip columnist and Washington (D.C.) insider is also the editor and only contributor to the underground political scandal zine Filibuster, and they've made Janklow their "Hunk o' the Month."

"He's not all talk like those stodgy old senators, and he may not be on the popular committees, but he's hot stuff in the 108th!" claimed the girlish fop. "A lot of naysayers will tell you he's another blend-into-the-background representative, and all his misbehaviour is a failed attempt to stand out. But I'm telling you, and you heard it here from me first, Boomer—we've got another Ted Kennedy on our hands. A future Bob Dole or Jesse Helms. I would say one day the name Bill Janklow will hang in the Congressional Hall of Fame next to Henry Clay. But since they're all in alphabetical order that will really throw the whole scheme out of whack."

This reporter attempted to remind the funny-but-not-in-a-ha-ha-way Washington insider the congressman is facing felony charges with a 10-year minimum sentence, but he refused to address the issue. Unwanted sexual advances forced the interview to conclude early, and the calls at the commune offices have yet to stop.

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Once upon a time there was an ecstatically happy couple named Bitrate and Sorma, who lived in the town of Ringbear near Norma. The town made a sound like a hub cap going round and round a banister not far from the stairs. Everyone who lived there was ecstatically happy, except for one young man, who was positively orgasmic.

The townspeople had been
so unbearably happy for so incredibly long
that they had literally forgotten
what it was like for life to go wrong.
They had completely forgotten what it was like
to eat too much ice cream too fast, or to crash on a bike.
To hit your funny bone on the oven, or to end up with a scar,
or to slam your tongue in the trunk of a car.
But unlike those ungrateful bastards over in Karam,
who forgot they were happy until snails ate the dam,
and the people were eaten by goats who came down from the hills,
and instead of water it rained three-dollar bills,
the people of Ringbear fully appreciated how good they had it.
That's why they were especially displeased
with Bitrate and Sorma
when everything went to shit.

One bright autumn day, on the sixth of September,
almost two months before the sixth of November,
Bitrate and Sorma had the wonderful idea.

The only way, they figured, that they could be merrier,
was if there were more of them (and not just the terrier).
So they set out to have a child.
They tried many ways, would attempt many angles,
until the winner one night was "The Swedish Dangle",
a position which yielded six kings and a pope,
and the man who invented soap on a rope.
This was in the past, of course, not in Sorma's womb,
for in there grew only a small boy named Joom,
and needless to say he quite liked the room.

On the day Joom was born, Bitrate gave him flowers,
which he'd been arranging for seventeen hours.
"Welcome, my son!" he shouted and then,
brandished the bouquet like a cornish game hen.
But the boy did not smile, the boy did not laugh,
the boy did not call for a doctor on staff,
the boy merely cried a quite Joom-like cry,
while flailing his feetlings and rubbing his eyes.

I think I need not tell you Bitrate was taken aback,
not unlike an explorer-cum-alligator-snack,
to have the bouquet he'd so nicely erected,
to have it so coldly and flatly rejected.

That's when he shouted: "You ungrateful young shit!
While I am out working, in diapers you sit!
You could have at least practiced, in all those wombed hours,
pretending just once that you liked my flowers!"
Bitrate stormed out and he made quite a scene,
vowing to speak not to Joom 'til he was seventeen.

And would you believe for a second, if I were to tell,
that Joom grew up to be… The Boy Who Could Not Smell?
I didn't think so, but check the records, it's true.
Shitting is not what I'm doing to you.

Joom was normal sized (this is not that old story),
and I assure you quite frankly the ending's less gory.
He just couldn't smell, couldn't sniff, couldn't snort,
any fine odors of any old sort.
Not roses, not coffee, not sail boats, not skunks.
Joom would pass over an army of drunks,
untouched by their stench, and he needed a tutor
to even turn on the smell-o-computer.

The townsfolk, once kind, were helplessly amused,
they often dropped Joom in manure while he snoozed.
They really got mean, some would call it cruel,
and that's not even counting the kids at the school.
They were the meanest by far,
it was really no contest, they locked him in a car.
They filled it with sauerkraut, and stinkbombs and fish,
they topped it with sulphur and said "Mmmm… delish!"
They tortured him in math class, and English and Arts.
They locked him in the coat closet with the fat boy who farts.
But even through all this, Joom could not smell.
This egged them on further, they threw him down a well
filled with pickles and pillbugs and rot,
they even threw down one burnt tater tot.
But was no use, Joom's nose was no tool,
and this just made the townsfolk more evil and cruel.

And this was their downfall, the town fell to waste,
as the people grew bitter and ate nothing but paste
and stale Easter eggs and mountains of beans,
and more nasty things than you've ever seen.
They seldom went out, and none went to work,
they sat at home and cursed that little no-smelling jerk
and plotted at ways of making a stench so thick,
that Joom would smell it at last, and it would make him sick.

They never got their chance. In a happier story,
one that was all filled up with morals and glory,
Joom would make friends and prove he could do other things well,
even if he was The Boy Who Could Not Smell.
That people are people, regardless of beauty or girth,
and that one's nose is hardly the extent of one's worth.
But there was a gas leak in the classroom one bright autumn day,
and all the children who smelled it ran so far away,
except for small Joom who just withered away.

Sorry.

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Ah, my sweet Nancy. Another year, another anniversary, and our love endures. Why does it last? Is it because ours is a love meant for the ages, without judgment or fear of reprisal, a shared connection between two people who are soulmates? Yes, a smidge. Mostly it continues to grow stronger because we never let ourselves lapse into staleness.

As you know, Nancy, I am not simply a heart that never stops loving and a mind that never stops obsessing over our love. I am also a penis. I am a testicle. Two testicles, in fact. I am a body, the throbbing impulses of a man. And you are more than love to me. You are the rounded hips, the supple breasts, the plush lips, the honeyed cave hole of a woman. We satisfy each other's bodies as we do our eternal longing for companionship. Yes, Nancy, like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, we express our love with constant humping.

The years pass, Nancy, but our physical love continues to bring us closer. No matter how many times we do the nasty, my darling, I never tired of the act, and I know you feel the same. For no matter how we may copulate in familiar ways, when things grow too familiar and comfortable for us, we always choose to raunchy it up with a little romantic experimentation. Your leg here, our backs bent this day, dangle these here and lick them—our imaginations are limitless when it comes to our storied love-making. Even if we were blithering retards, dear Nancy, we still have that dirty Japanese comic book with all the pictures of weird positions to try.

What a treasure the fables positions of the Comic Sutra has been to us. We've tried all of them, I believe, Nancy, some of them in other rooms of the house. Some say there are only 103 positions, but you know what I say to that—do them twice. And then do them underwater. There is no spice for a relationship like an aquatic sexual adventure, and as long as our neighbors leave their gate unlocked, we will continue to follow our inner Neptune and Neptilla.

Sometimes, dear Nancy, what we hide is more exciting than what we reveal. A sheer negligee may give a breathtaking hint of the beauty of your naked body, inspiring more excitement and ecstasy than I have ever known. Just as the small football helmet on my wang does the same for you. Sometimes, for an added touch of sensuality, we may play our own erotic game of Blind Man's Bluff, feeling our way to each other's bodies in the dark. At least once we remove the furniture, there's no way I want my dick in a sling again, but that probably goes without saying.

What does not go without saying is that I always prefer your naked body in the light. Do not think my talk of concealing your goodies or making love in the dark means I'm ashamed of your body. Though both of us have aged, Nancy, I find you just as sexy as you were ten years ago, on the sliding scale that we've both aged and, sure, you're not as hot as you used to be. Your sister has your body from ten years ago, but I would not sleep with her Nancy, since I love only you. I may think of her to inspire my erection, but I will make love to you with that erection, Nancy, and almost all the time I'm picturing your head on that body. That could not possibly be cheating.

No matter if you have gained a little weight, if your thighs now rub together in a disconcerting way, and if your breasts do not rise like fluffy couch pillows as they used to. If you have pancake boobs now, it's all the better for me to lay on top of you and cram my love inside. You complain about your cottage cheese buttocks, but I say those indentations are the dozens of dimples from the many wrinkly smiles your ass gives me whenever I look at it.

It's for our erotic life together, and no other, that I keep all those pornographic magazines in my workshed. I don't know why you're getting so bent out of shape, Nancy—you should only be bent out of shape for our coupling. The magazine may be called Chicks With Dicks, but the reason I have those is obvious: A chick with a dick is still a chick. I don't need chicks with vaginas. That's why I have you, my love.

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