Ancient Writings Turn Out to be Gang Graffiti

recent discovery of ancient heiroglyphics in Egypt describing a military victory by the legendary Scorpion King, and believed to be the oldest on record at approximately 5,250 years, has been relegated to runner-up status by a team of archaeologists working for the last four years in this southwest Asian spot where the Tigris joins the Euphrates. The team revealed yesterday that they have uncovered an ancient wall inscribed with primitive cuneiform marks that date back nearly 6000 years, or from about the year 4000 BC.

"We're very excited about this," said team leader Dr. Robert R. "Bob Bob" Clemons. "We've said all along that this is the cradle of modern, recorded civilization, right here, not that wasteland along the Nile. Those Egyptologist bitches can kiss my dusty brown ass, along with the dusty brown asses of every single one of my fellow researchers!"

The marks that had Dr. Clemons crowing like a jaybird and dancing about so excitedly appeared to be no more than a series of triangles and inverted vees, but their significance was made clear by the buzz that rippled through the international press corps that gathered to report the news.

"You can see right here," Dr. Clemons pointed out, gesturing to a series of isoceles triangles, "that there was definite gang activity going on in the area back in those ancient times. This line, for example, reads 'Sargon II is down with Nebuchadnezzer.' And over here, we have a reference to the 'Euphrates Mob,' a rival gang to the prominent 'Hanging Garden Boys' that dominated the banks of the Tigris."

Other cuneiform scratchings were translated as being gang slogans such as "Zoroastrians rule," "Medes are skanky bitches" and "Sumer Power – we the best, fuck the rest." There were also long listings of gang members' names, such as "Smiley," "Johnny Boxer," "Li'l Puppet," "Droopy," "Seymour" and "Jehosaphat."

When asked t o comment further on the translations and their significance, Dr. Clemons simply said, "Maybe some other time period, honey. Ha! That's an archaeological joke. No, but seriously, I've got a bottle of newly-unearthed 3000 year old wine waiting for me back at my tent. I'd hate to see it spoil." Though the remaining members of the press clamored for more information, all they got was a glimpse of Dr. Clemons' dusty brown ass disappearing into a complex of dark linen stretched between poles on the edge of the dig. He was seen carrying a large wheel of cheese, an earthen jar and some dates, and was leading a goat on a rope.

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Once again the current political climate has brought out the worst in the spend-o-crats. In case you're thinking that's another name for a real political party, don't be stupid. It's my funny way of saying Democrats that makes all my fans hoot and holler and make farting noises in approval. They know what I know—the spend-o-crats just like to spend our money on useless socialist programs, money that could be much better spent on bombers and tanks.

As my die-hard fans know, I decided to go into the job of professional right-wing personality when listening to the radio one day and hearing an out-of-context quote from that hippie socialist Robert Redford about how if we took all the money we were using to kill people overseas we could use that money to feed those same people. And I'm thinking, of course, "Cu-ckoo!" Am I right, readers? Why in the name of Jeepers H. Crackers would we want to feed the people we're trying to kill? What a spend-o-crat! The idiot totally doesn't get the idea of warfare. Unless maybe he was talking about poisoning the food we give the enemy or something, which I don't agree with. It's much more civil to shoot someone in the face than poison them.

I knew at that moment I could be a spokesperson for the "unpopular" view in Hollywood. I began to appear on radio programs, blowing away my opponents and sounding very handsome indeed. I would go on television programs, where I overcame the natural disadvantage of how I really look to out-argue such spend-o-crat linguistic acrobats as Pamela Anderson and Carrot Top. Slowly, one by one, I built up not only my following, but also my '83 Imapala's engine. Now I drive from city to city, lecturing to sold-out crowds of wealthy people who like to have what they already know reinforced by expensive speakers. And I make a pretty penny doing so, let me tell you! It's the American way.

But that doesn't give me the right to relax and let any nobody who happens to have a congressional job tell the president how to spend his money. And once again those spend-o-crats are going back on their word. They promised W. (my little nickname for him) that they would go all the way on this War on Terror, and like a scared teen-age girl who changes her mind at the last minute, they need a little coercing. That's what I'm writing about.

The spend-o-crats approved the War on Terror months ago, when it was a popular idea and the right thing to do. They knew if they didn't, if their stupid liberal pacifism showed its ugly head at that time, they would be ousted right from office by the public! I'm not sure exactly how that would be done, I'm not an expert on the law, the constitution, or how the government works in any fashion, but by God, we would have done it. Now that the war's been going a little slow they figure they can flip-flop and talk about spending that War on Terror money on domestic issues. I say to hell with that! That's War on Terror money! If I were the president (God willing, someday) I'd chew on that money like a dog with a bone. "No ya don't! That's my Terror money! Get off, bitch!" Though maybe without the street lingo.

And though nobody likes an argument, except most of us, the president knows darn well he has to be firm and unyielding with those War on Terror funds. The spend-o-crats gave 'em, now they can't take 'em back. You know what we call those people? Indian spend-o-crats. Or injun take-backers. Drunken redskin bastards. Something truly offensive to Indians. I say don't take it, W. We started out to level and destroy any country that doesn't like us, that's what the War on Terror's about, and by golly, we need to stay with it. Even if it means Iraq or Iran is next. And hopefully, eventually, France.

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Jesus. It's as cold as Hillary Clinton's snatch out there. I know this happens every year, but Good God. Does it really? Like this?

Knock on wood and hopefully I'm not screwing myself here, but is constipation really the big national problem these TV commercials make it out to be? Who are these poor suckers who are getting so desperately plugged up on a regular basis? Granted, you go to the average steak house and the amount of fried batter on the appetizer platter alone is enough to mortar over the San Andreas Fault, but does anyone actually eat all of that crap? You'd think that a couple of heart attacks at the table while eating would be enough to convince the average person to ask for a doggie bag and maybe finish the meal tomorrow at the hospital, but I guess not.

Maybe I'm more of a rarity than I like to think, but I have to admit that just like that Drew Barrymore movie, I've Never Been Constipated. Sure, I've had a few slow days at the lumber mill, as they say, but nothing a Burrito Supreme couldn't fix. And I'm not kidding, that Taco Bell "meat" will clean you out like a fire sale. If you need any kind of medication beyond that, I swear, you must have a prairie dog gummed up in the works down there or something.

Now okay, I have to admit, this isn't all entirely true. I did get constipated once. One time, back in the fifth grade. It was some kind of craft project day at school like we used to have back then. I guess that meant the teacher had a hangover or just that the new issue of Guns & Ammo had come in. Whatever it was, we were spending the day gluing these Styrofoam cups together, and glue-sticking glitter flakes and candies and whatever junk we found on the floor to them to make these bullshit pretend Faberge eggs. You know, the kind of thing a hung over gun freak would think was educational.

Anyway, I had just finished gluing one of these lame things together when Mikey Davidson turns to me, I remember it like it was yesterday, and he says "Hey, did you guys know that if you eat Styrofoam you'll get constipated?" Now, in retrospect, I really have to wonder where in the hell he got that information from or why he brought it up in the first place, but in my eleven-year-old mind all I heard was some paunchy little blowhard talking out of his ass to try to impress everybody, and I wasn't going to stand for it. I called his bluff, and just to prove he was an asshole I ate a whole Styrofoam cup right there, on the spot.

The guys all thought this was great, either that or I scared them and they bluffed it until I was gone, whatever. The important part was that I'd shown up Mikey, and he'd think twice the next time he got the urge to try and bullshit his way into momentary popularity.

As a small sidenote to this story, I was horribly constipated for about a week after that. So a word to the wise: don't eat any Styrofoam unless you want to burst a blood vessel in your eye trying to get your conga line moving. Christ.

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