Republican Majority Mandates Lobster Bibs for Democrats

ess than a week after the Republican smack-down known as the 2002 election, giddy conservatives were chomping at the bit to address their priorities for the upcoming session of Congress. Saturday night, an after-hours weekend meeting and weenie roast for GOP Congressmen both incumbent and newly elect set the tone for the upcoming session. Among the top priorities addressed were mandatory lobster bibs for all Democrats, the implementation of segregated Democrat bathrooms down in the basement behind the boiler room, and the requirement that Democrats sing the teapot song before speaking during congressional debates.

"Well, those boys is some messy eaters, so we figured we'd help 'em out so they can keep their shirts clean," chuckled Senator Thad Cochran from Tennessee.

"The American people have spoken, or more importantly they scribbled in some little bubbles with a pencil, and they've sent a clear mandate about what they want to see in the next two years. Few can deny that Americans are clamoring to see Democrat Representatives with embarrassing words like 'Dickless' and 'Miss Thang' sunburned onto their chests while they are chased by bears on rollerskates. The American people suffered through a long ballot, they had to fill in a lot of pointless bubbles for judges and people they'd never heard of just to make the democracy machine work, and now we owe it to them to hold up our end of the bargain. Let me be the first to wield the spankin' paddle in the name of the American Way," announced Sen. Pat Roberts of Kansas with a gleam in his eye.

When asked by a visibly concerned President Bush when Congress would find time to approve military action in Iraq, Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott looked confused for a moment before replying.

"Ira-? Oh, right, right. Don't worry yourself, Dub. There'll be plenty of time for that after we pass this hilarious bill Orrin's been working on. Get this, we're going to have all of the… Jesus, excuse me, it still cracks me up, we're gonna have all the Democrats carrying around these dog bowls with their names printed on them, to drink out of, you know. And whenever Moynihan goes off on one of his tangents, you know, like he does, I'm going to stand up and do the little pinky-finger thing, you know what I'm talking about. And I say 'Could someone please throw the Senator a frickin' bone here?' Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that we're going to keep a few cases of dog biscuits on hand for everybody to throw at Moynihan when I say that. Shit, let me start over. This is going to be great."

Lott was cut off by Rep. Elect Saxby Chambliss of Georgia, who was doing an impression of a Democrat Congressman in the upcoming 2003 session.

"I'm a little teapot, short and stout, here is my handle and here is my spout! I object!"

The gathered Congressmen erupted into laughter and applause, which rose another notch when Sen. Elect Jim Talent of Missouri shot milk out of his nose.

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That's right, your honor, you heard the title. I've prepared this statement in my defense because this country's legal system is inherently biased against the kind of "shock and awe" courtroom antics that would most memorably and quickly prove my innocence, and so I've been forced to make humble words, and periodic karate gestures, my servants. I stand here before you today a man innocent of the baseless accusations that I personally bred and trained a small army of vicious and lightning-quick monkeys to keep government ninjas out of my house.

These charges are untrue, your honor, and I bear no responsibility for the power company meter reader who was torn to shreds by these cunning, genetically-modified apes. The berserk primates that witnesses saw fleeing my home on May 17th had invaded my innocent dwelling only moments before, possibly descending by rope from a blimp, or creating an elaborate series of underground tunnels leading to my basement, or possibly both.

The prosecution will be calling two witnesses, Reginald "Dickface" Tungstein and Charlize "Dirty Lying Bitch" Overborn, who are both professional liars hired to gain my trust, plant monkey-breeding evidence in my home, and to fake video footage of me running frighteningly-swift killer monkeys though training drills in my own back yard. Neither of these individuals, you will note, has ever seen the movie Congo. As your honor obviously knows, this seriously calls into question their knowledge of killer ape matters and the relevance of their testimony. Also, "Dickface" Tungstein once slept with my ex-girlfriend. Draw your own conclusions from that.

And I'm sure your honor will also be hearing a lot about these so-called "Velocimonkeys." That they have eyes dark as night and slender, scheming fingers. That I bred them by crossing insane howler monkeys with a Tasmanian devil. That when cornered, they go for the nuts like a nut-hungry piranha, and that three of them can skeletonize a bull in fourteen seconds. That at night, they sing beautiful, high harmonies to lure in birds and children for snack and sport.

I'm sure you'll also be hearing that after they tore the meter reader into confetti, the Velocimonkeys escaped, terrorizing a Dairy Queen and hijacking a 1998 Toyota Camry moments before driving it off a nearby bridge and into the river, where they all drowned at an alarming rate of speed. That no Velocimonkey bodies were ever found, because I rescued them with scuba gear and a tuna net, bringing them home and locking them in a titanium footlocker in my basement that nobody knows about. These charges and more, your honor, are horseshit times three.

I saw these monkeys, your honor, as they invaded my home while I was praying and working on the cure for childhood cancer, and I didn't think they were all that. I even hit one with a bottle of scotch and it was clearly phased, as all normal monkeys are when hit with booze. It wouldn't surprise me if that meter reader in fact suffered from a medical condition that predisposed him to falling apart like sloppy joe meat when threatened by apes.

Furthermore, your honor, in my defense I plan on exposing the powerful racism at work within our local police force. This case is clearly less about the facts and more about my Dutch-Irish heritage, and the painful stereotypes that persist about the Dutch-Irish and their love of breeding killer primate hybrids with a taste for blood. This is the case that might very well change the way we think about race in this country, and hopefully it will do so in the next 34 minutes since I've got tickets for Nickelback. Case dismissed.

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Dear commune:

I’m an idiot. Let’s just get that out in the open right now so there’s no confusion on the subject. Judge me if you will, and egg my minivan if you must, I won’t put up any kind of lame, face-saving argument to the contrary. As you may have guessed, I completely forgot to send out thank-you notes for the Christmas presents I received last year. Totally slipped my mind. Didn’t even think of it until last Tuesday, when I was shopping for a Christmas bone for my dog and I suddenly realized I was the one in the doghouse. Figuratively.

My immediate urge was to correct this oversight, posthaste. I even had a box of thank-you notes and a pair of wavy border-cutting scissors in my cart when it dawned on me that Christmas, this year’s version, is less than a week away! So what should I do? Should I send out the belated thank-yous now, only to follow them in less than a week’s time with additional notes of gratitude for this year’s presents? What if they get the first one and think this means I didn’t get this year’s presents? What if they sent me the same thing two years in a row and they think I opened it early? That’s not very nice. Should I wait until after Christmas and send dual thank-you notes? Or would that just be rubbing it in their faces that I spent a whole year not appreciating their present? Or should I just consider last year’s gaffe water under the bridge and hope they didn’t notice? But then I might have to start pretending like I did send a note last year, should it come up, and that’s one web of lies that could prove sticky. Maybe I should just say piss on it and not send any notes this year either, rather than drawing attention to the fact I forgot to last year. I could even return to sender any notes I receive, like "What the hell is this? I don’t want your charity. Asshole." Yeah.

It’s times like this I often ask myself that timeless question: WWtcD? What would the commune do?

Larry Belfast
Lower Bend, MO


Dear Larry:

Thank-you notes? Jesus Pete! No time to write, Larry, the commune has about 30 years of poor manners to catch up on and time is short! Last thing we want is to get crushed under a bus tomorrow and sent to Emily Post’s own personal version of hell. Quick, how do you spell bar mitzvah?

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any embarrassing misspellings or grammatical boners on the gravestones of your dearly departed. “the commune’s Gravestone Proofreading Service” was a woefully misbegotten brainstorm courtesy of commune stone-bleeder Gay Bagel, and we must stress that what goes around should come around specifically to him some time when the rest of us are all out of pistol range.

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