ast Wednesday’s final presidential debate left many questions unanswered in the minds of American voters, but not among them was the cockwad status of U.S. citizen Mark Buckles. Despite their numerous policy differences, both President Bush and Democratic challenger John Kerry saw squarely eye to eye on the Buckles issue, presenting a unified vision for a future America where Buckles is clearly a total cockwad.

According to political pundits analyzing the debates for the major networks, Kerry looks kind of like an alien and Bush makes a lot of stupid faces.

Seeking to differentiate his Buckles position from that of his challenger, Bush accused Kerry of changing his mind about whether or not Mark Buckles was a cockwad, citing Kerry’s infamous “I called Buckles a cockwad before I didn’t� quote from last year.

“Unlike that Belgian motherfucker over there,� Bush said with his trademark uninformed bravado. “I knew Mark Buckles was a cockwad from the start. And America needs strong leaders who know a Buckles when they see one.�

Meanwhile, Kerry accused Bush of refusing to admit his mistake in branding Buckles a cockwad before all available evidence had been collected, and merely going on the word of Secretary of State Colin Powell, who has personal reasons for his feelings about Buckles.

“Mark Buckles is not the cockwad that George Bush promised America,� explained Kerry. “We were sold a bill of goods. Yes, Mark is definitely a cockwad. But not the king-sized cockwad that this administration painted him to be, when they needed your support to go public about this young man.�

“And as for my cockwad stance,� Kerry elaborated. “At first I gave Buckles the benefit of the doubt, as I’d like to think any strong leader would. But once all the available evidence had been collected, it became clear that Mark is indeed a cockwad.�

Kerry seemed to struggle with his usual problem of talking out of both sides of his mouth during the debate Wednesday, attempting to appease liberals who think Buckles got a raw deal as well as centrist Democrats and undecideds who believe that Buckles is a cockwad, but still think Bush rushed to judgment too quickly in the matter.

Partisans on both sides shared their hysterical reactions with anyone who would listen, even before the debates had ended.

“Kerry is a God among men and his penis is lovely,� explained breathless Democratic partisan Dane Philsley when asked about his candidate’s debate performance.

“George Bush proved once and for all that he farts wisdom into a can for the world to huff,� disagreed Republican partisan Carla Dennis, apparently believing this to be a compliment.

Regardless of who came out ahead in the debates, both candidates have likely lost the vote of Buckles, who could not be reached for comment. Some pundits have argued that Buckles was the real loser of Wednesday’s debate, since whoever wins the November election, Mark Buckles will spend the next four years known as an unmistakable cockwad. What is unknown as of yet is how much of a boost Buckles’ supporters will give third-party candidate Ralph Nader, who has gone on record as saying he’s sure Buckles has his redeeming qualities.

According to a CNN.com instant poll taken immediately following the debates, Mark Buckles sucks balls.

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Welcome to Straight City, everybody. Population: Me!

Didn't know that? Now you do! I've never been more straight than I am right now, and since I've never been the slightest bit gay at all, then that's pretty darn straight!

If I were any more straight, I'd be a flaming homo, that's how straight I am, at the extreme far end where any more straightness would make you just gay, just push it too far, you know? It's like being butch, you can be butch and clearly straight, but then if you get too butch, it's like you're doing it on purpose, right? Catch me? So me, I'm right up alongside that razor's edge of straight as can be, but with no little danglers hanging on the gay side. This is complicated, straight man stuff here.

My favorite color? Brown. Can't get much straighter than that. Ugly old brown. And not brown like poop on your dick either. No siree, I don't like that at all. Not my style. Just plain-old UPS brown, that's the color of my straight love.

Favorite movie? Armageddon. You read that right. What self-respecting fag could love a hetero-wonkfest like that thing? Ew, no way. Diagnosis: Straight.

Nope, no kissing pretty South American boys in the back room of throbbing disco clubs, not for me. Not any more, and not ever previous to now either. You're thinking of somebody else.

I don't even like fags that much. Not Tony, anyway. He and I are NOT friends, any more. Chaz and Hank? Those guys are alright. Same goes for Bruce, Tuti, Blaine and Federico. Not the worst people you could ever meet up with for fancy cocktails. Not in a gay way though, no "cock" in the "tail" if you know what I mean. I sure don't. You may know what that means; I don't pretend to know whether or not you're gay. I'm okay if you are, I mean as much as a totally straight person ever could be. It does make me a little queasy though, to be honest. It's just so not-me.

I mean, could you even imagine me being gay? Don't try.

When God was going all "duck, duck, goose" and picking out the homos up in heaven, I wasn't even there, I was off taking a leak. No gooseneck for me. No sir.

I'm so straight I might even up and marry a woman one day, just out of the blue as a total surprise, even though you thought we were just friends, just as an example of how not-gay I am! And not an androgynous, David Bowie woman either. Or a campy gay icon like Bette Midler or Liza Minelli, not that type. Nope, a real man's woman, with curves and tampons. A real baby factory who's not at all a fag hag like you might have heard. I'm going to watch sports while she brings me bland, characterless American beer that's full of carbs and there I am, dressed in sweats and a mismatched top without a hint of irony!

Straight? You don't even need to ask. But feel free to if you have any questions. And tell a friend!

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Once upon a time there lived a happy boy named Peter. Peter had his very own dog and often he would teach it neat tricks like fetching the paper and playing dead and frightening off the Internal Revenue Service Officials. Peter loved his dog very much and he named it Brownie because it was the same color as as his mother's yummy nut brownies, and also because it was short for the dog's royal name: Brownsworth Von Hogglshmilenickinshtoffer III esq. Ph.D. One day, Peter and his dog were taking a walk along the scenic trails of a burnt down strip club when they happened to find, buried amongst the burned G-strings and charred ash of fishnet stockings, a big red wagon! Apparently some of the fetish night enthusiasts had failed to rescue the wagon from the town's furious firebombing.

Peter studied the wagon. It was old, and rusted, and smelled of latex, but it was just the right size for him and his trusty dog, Brownie. So the two hopped into the wagon and rode off, on an adventure like none they had seen before, give for the time they escaped Nazi occupied France while transporting illegal narcotics for a white slave trader with an extra arm and a bevy of exotic women.

Along the road, they discovered a small hole in the dirt which appeared to lead down into a cavernous lair of pirate's gold that was guarded by many treacherous booby traps. But Peter realized this was only the plot to "The Goonies," so he decided to instead investigate the creepy house on the end of the block which everyone claimed was haunted. (Of course, the whole block wasn't haunted, just the house)

He climbed out of the wagon, Brownie nipping lightly at his heels, and began to make his way through the creepy and spooky graveyard in front of the creepy and spooky house towards the creepy and spooky front door where the creepy and spooky doorknob reflected creepy and spooky reflections of the creepy and spooky sun. "Stop nipping at my heels, Brownie!" Peter called out, disturbing the creepy and spooky silence. "It's very creepy and spooky the way you do that nipping."

His hand went to the doorknob, trembling with fear and apprehension. Luckily, Peter's steady hand stopped the doorknob's trembling, and with a turn, the door creaked open. Spider webs clung to the wooden door and Peter warily peered into the darkness. From inside he heard a faint moaning, like that of a toilet that is clogged with Roget's New Thesaurus and being flushed with the lid down.

He leaned forward, curious what that groaning was and also because Brownie was trying to hump his leg. In the distance, deep inside the house, he heard the sound again. And then, he made that bold first step into the house. Beads of sweat began to form on his eyebrow and make their way down the deep farrows in his cheeks, dribbling past his neck and onto his sternum, the protective bone that joins the ribcage. The ribcage is divided into three parts which, oh, never mind the anatomy lesson. He was scared.

Brownie, seeming to have lost all desire to copulate with his master's appendages, began to search for a good gravestone to urinate on because, well, he's a dog, so we'll just focus on Peter, who by this time has found the top of a staircase leading to the cellar. He slowly made his way down the sagging, wooden steps, as the light began to dim. That moaning became a bit louder with each step. Finally, he was at the bottom, and he turned to see...

a tape deck playing these weird moaning sounds.

Relieved, Peter ran back up the stairs and out the house only moments before the hideous, blood dripping sucker creature from the planet Venus pounced and would have eaten him up. He happily whistled for Brownie, and jumped into his wagon, knowing tomorrow would be another day full of excitement! Good old Uncle Jack had promised to take him to a NAMBLA convention and from what he was told, the people there gave out the best candy and even had free horsey rides! What fun! Peter and Brownie rode off into the sunset, content that all was right with the world, oblivious to AIDS and teenage crime and road rage and presidential sex scandals.

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