NRA Wages Court Battle Against Reality

pparently feeling that the current national climate is as ripe a time as any for a complete break from any recognizable form of reality, the National Rifle Association is attempting to buy a television or radio station this week, in hopes of declaring itself a news organization exempt from spending restrictions in the campaign finance law.

"We're looking at bringing a court case that we're as legitimate a media outlet as Disney or Viacom or Time-Warner or any of those places," explained Wayne LaPierre, the NRA's own version of commune whale tampon Raoul Dunkin. An uncomfortable silence followed after this reporter stopped laughing.

According to LaPierre, the NRA is one of the biggest magazine publishers in the United States, with an impressive stable of nearly a dozen publications, including "American Rifleman," "Patriotic American Hunter," "Gun Nut," and "Buck-Naked Beer-Swilling Bitches."

Since the NRA has such extensive experience bringing news to the mullet-wearing portion of America's magazine-buying public, LaPierre argues that the NRA should enjoy the same political benefits enjoyed by organizations with less-embarrassing member ranks.

"I defy you to convince me that the NRA is any different from those organizations, just because they actually have news departments and wear pants around the office," said LaPierre, himself clad in pajama bottoms adorned with a machine-gun pattern. "We're just as legitimate a news source as any of them are, even more so when you consider the way they ignore the obvious gun angle in everyday stories." LaPierre further argued that paranoid gun freaks have as much a right as anyone to be represented in the media, but this reporter can't be sure of the exact quote as my notes just contain a doodle of a cow shitting on a scale for this part of the story.

The NRA's latest moves can be seen as a sign of the times, as there have been few periods in history when a lobbying group would so boldly admit to circumventing campaign reform legislation in hopes of buying influence in next year's elections.

Historically one of Washington's most powerful and twitchy lobbies, the 4 million-member NRA has spent millions over the years supporting pro-gun candidates. Since the organization is financed with corporate money, under the campaign finance law of 2002 it is currently banned from running ads mentioning candidates by name during the two months preceding a general election. News organizations are exempt from such restrictions, allowing them to cover the news and follow elections without being accused of shilling for political candidates.

Convinced that the NRA is capable of such impartial and unbiased political coverage, LaPierre promises that the NRA and its lawyers will continue to fight this attack on their "First Amendment rights," possibly even going so far as to broadcast pro-gun ads from ships anchored in international waters at election time. Another uncomfortable silence followed after this reporter stopped laughing.

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Last issue's tome on the metric system inspired more reader mail than any column since the My Friend Polio where Omar Bricks offered to sell naked pictures of my sister to the highest bidder. This time, however, readers weren't asking if I could beat Omar's price. They wanted to know how in the hell we came up with our current non-metric system of weights and measures in the first place. Good question.

Imperial weights and measures (known in modest England as "English weights and measures") range from the feet, gallons and pounds we're all familiar with to hundreds of freakish and forgotten variations that sound like whimsy straight out of Lord of the Rings. The next time somebody asks you for a chalder of coal or wants to know if you can spare a groat, you'll know you've either time-tripped into some medieval hell or else you're at the Renaissance Fair. Either way you're screwed. Likewise if someone offers you a minim of soy sauce or four roods of swampland. And if some wiseacre tells you you're twelve scruples overweight or uglier than a perch of limestone, punch him in the face first and ask questions about his outdated terminology later.

The system of Imperial weights and measures is not one defined by cold logic or mathematical nonsense, rather it's an innately human system based on how one innate human, King Edward I of England, thought things should be measured. Having grown up poor, Edward was the kind of insecure nuevo-rich king that insisted everything be named after him and that potatoes should only be grown in his likeness.

In England, length was originally measured by a unit known as the dork, which corresponded to the king's, uh… royal tackle. Later, more prurient factions within the country pushed to have the measure changed to the more family-friendly foot. Edward relented after being convinced that everybody knew what it really meant, and that nobody thought he had big feet.

The yard was developed as a unit of measurement based on the distance from the door to the backyard fence in the king's boyhood home, which indicated a home run if cleared on the fly by a batted ball. Anyone who pointed out that Edward grew up with a damned small back yard was immediately beheaded and taken off the king's Christmas card list without benefit of legal council.

An acre was originally defined as the area an ox could crap up in one morning, though over time oxen fell into disuse due to the scarcity of uncrapped land in England. In time the acre was known as the smallest area of land you could leave to your heirs without them coming to ox-drop on your grave after you'd passed.

Edward was also obsessed with barley, which at the time was known as "edwardly." The king spent much of his spare time counting grains of the stuff, and was keen on showing off his barley-counting prowess by having the standard measure of weight in England be equal to 7,000 grains. This unit was nicknamed the "pound" because that amount of barley was usually sufficient for bribing the dogcatcher to return your wayward pooch. As is still true today, the English of Edward's times were unusually fond of their dogs, though back then they didn't eat them.

The mile was defined as the longest distance Edward had ever walked without being carried, when as a boy his manservant died suddenly of a heart attack while carrying Edward to the beach and the king-to-be had to walk very far to find some ice cream. Similarly, the hour corresponded with the longest time Edward had ever had to wait in line, from the time when he was at the king store and there was a run on poofy velvet capes.

Naturally, the Imperial system was refined in the years after Edward's passing, the most notable addition coming when London blacksmith Mike Inch's ex-girlfriend Lydia immortalized his unimpressive tackle by lobbying that its length would be a perfect way to divide the foot into twelve segments. Lydia was so unflagging in her badmouthing crusade over the years that the inch eventually became a national standard of measurement, providing a powerful example that hell hath no embarrassment like a woman dumped for a slutty bar maid.

If the history of weights and measures teaches one lesson, it is that terminology and unit sizes will come and go over time, but human pettiness is an undying standard that will always remain universal.

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Piss on the shitdick who says Omar Bricks doesn't have any culture; I went to the opera last weekend. I picked up a ticket from some guy in a pillow-quilted jacket down by the bus station on the way home on Friday, and Saturday night I was there at the opera house, dressed to the nines in the flashiest translucent shirt any of those crusty old shits had ever seen.

I told whoever's grandpa it was taking the tickets that I wanted to be seated in the Cesarean Section, because I hadn't had time to stop by the sporting goods store to pick up any binoculars on the way over and Omar Bricks doesn't pay good money not to enjoy an opera with all four senses. I'd wanted to swing by Kleggman's to get a pair of those gigantic 'nocs you see the cops use in the movies, the ones that are so damn big you can see what the dude ate for lunch when he hits those high notes, you know what I'm talking about? Now that's fuckin' opera. But my bus doesn't swing over that way and I'm not about to hoof it ten blocks just so I can count the fat rolls on some chick in a Viking helmet. And there's no point in wasting a night sitting up in the nosebleeds where you'll never see the beer guy again after the first act anyway.

Turns out the crusty old bastard thought I was kidding, as if Omar Bricks looks like he couldn't afford the good seats. Which is totally true, but where the hell does he get off? Lucky for him he reminded me of the dad from Diff'rent Strokes or else I might have had to egg his mansion. We discussed the matter for a while and conferred with some security personnel before we all decided to settle it with a footrace. I got to the good seats first, fair and square, with only a minimum of old-lady-pushing involved, but they turned out to be sore losers and I spent the rest of the night in a bar down the street.

Some guy I was talking to at the bar was telling me that a Cesarean Section is actually an operation where they surgically remove the baby from a pregnant chick's stomach. That was about the nastiest thing I'd ever heard in my life and I was sure the guy was making it up, but turns out he was right. I hope he knew I was kidding about his sister's porn career. But seriously, what in the hell is the world coming to these days? Are people now even too lazy to shit out the baby when it's ripe?

Next thing you know we'll all have colostomy bags so we don't miss any of the funny commercials on TV. Then everybody will be happy as sperm whales until they're in the middle of a Seinfeld when they realize their shit bag's topped off. We'll have to invent some kind of reverse pizza delivery guys to come around and pick up the bags on demand. "We'll be there in 30 minutes or less, or your dialysis is free!" What a life. Sure, it'll make for some funny soccer bloopers, but talk about your messy Armageddon-style bicycle accidents. Or skydiving mishaps, yeeich.

I don't know, it may sound like a utopia to you, but I think it'll end up being more trouble than it's worth. All of a sudden they'll be kicking you out of the opera because your shit bag doesn't match your tux. Sound hard to believe? They're already closer than you think, and I should know. If Prince can show up at the MTV Video Awards with his ass all hanging out, who are these guys to say shower sandals are inappropriate attire for their lousy little opera? It's not like I was performing or anything.

But that's the future for you. A couple of fatasses up on a stage, screaming in Italian while an army of old farts sit in the audience, benignly crapping away in their color-coordinated shit bags. Jesus. I'd move to Canada if it didn't mean going metric.

You can go on ahead and go softly into that goodnight if it suits you, but the bastards can have Omar Bricks' voluntary bowel movements when they pry them from his cold, dead fingers.

Bricks out.

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