Bush Appoints Richard Pryor to Appeals Court

lipping through the governmental system of checks and balances like a greased hog, President Bush used a recess appointment to bypass a Senate filibuster in appointing comedian Richard Pryor to the 11th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals on Friday. Bush defended the appointment by explaining that the Court of Appeals hasn't made him laugh in a good, long time.

Bush praised Pryor as "this really funny black guy" who was sure to be a hit with his fellow justices. In addition, the president expressed bewilderment that Senate Democrats would want to block yet another of his appointments, commenting that he thought everybody liked Richard Pryor. "Hey, this is fun," responded an elated Bush when given word that Pryor had been successfully installed.

The recess appointment was Bush's second since Senate Democrats mounted successful filibusters to block the president's last five appeals court nominees, including stuntman Evel Knievel, Hollywood actor Russell Crowe, Yankees shortstop Alex Rodriguez, famous child psychologist Dr. Spock and the cartoon character Fat Albert. Following his unsuccessful attempt to have the African-American animated character installed in the court, Bush used his first recess appointment to add soulful latina singer Gloria Estefan to the circuit court last month.

Senate Democrats defend their filibuster tactics as necessary to protect the President from himself, explaining that they shouldn't be viewed as a personal vendetta against a president who thinks he can appoint whoever the hell he wants to the nation's courts.

"Look I love A-Rod," confided Senate Minority Leader Tom Daschle. "That guy can hit the piss out of a baseball. But I'm just not sure he belongs on the appeals court."

"At least he exists," interrupted Sen. Charles Schumer, D-New York. "Remember back in 2001 when he wanted to appoint Gandolf and that guy who was Sylvester Stallone's trainer in Rocky? Jesus Christ."

Bush appointed the comedian and actor despite suggestions that Pryor might be physically unfit for the position, given the debilitating effects of the Multiple Sclerosis from which the comedian suffers.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," explained Bush. "He's probably just making it all up to have a good laugh at us. That guy's hilarious."

This latest appointment is expected to have a positive effect on the president, who is said to be in down spirits since the death of "Spotty," the White House dog, last week. Though the dog came with the job, Bush had become especially attached to the canine over the last three years, and hoped to pay off the dog's lease in order to take it with him when he left the White House. Though he's not sure of the exact clause involved, President Bush expressed confidence that his renter's agreement states that the White House now has to get him a new dog. He's hoping for a Pomeranian or a golden retriever that can do tricks.

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You wouldn't believe how nuts this summer has been so far. I spend the entire year basically on vacation, mostly workless besides this periodic column and the part in the UPN show that went nowhere, now the entire summer it's like I'm Gwyneth Paltrow or something. I did some convention appearances and early press work for that Metallichick comic book, I just finished all the shooting on Vic-O's movie, and now his buddies are trying to get me to appear in their films.

I never would have believed there was so much work in the underground sci-fi film world. Vic-O's buddies have even formed a club, a place where they get together and do script-work and help each other make their films. There's got to be five or six of these guys in the California chapter, and Vic-O says they meet guys all the time on the Net who have similar groups elsewhere in the states. There's so much you don't know if you avoid Internet chat rooms like the plague.

It turns out Vic-O's movie was really smart, I'd never done a movie like it before. It had something to do with Clemenstra Raygun's trying to unseat the evil leaders of parliament (which is like a British school board or something) and she had her heroic group of rebels plot terrorist attacks on them all the time. I know, I thought terrorists were always bad, but not in this movie, that's how crazy sci-fi is. I even had one line comparing the American revolutionaries to terrorists, which probably ought to get me some hate mail from some very self-righteous geeks.

I had some action scenes, which is rare for me, and didn't even have to go topless or kiss another girl, which is a big change from the usual kind of sci-fi script I get at conventions. I kicked a lot of butt but mostly I delivered big speeches from the captain's chair. But here's a hint: If you ever want to piss of a sci-fi nerd director, keep mispronouncing big words like "dystopia" and "hegemony."

Yeah, I stumbled onto a real gang of weirdoes, I'll give you that much, but they are always making movies with their dad's equipment and recognize how famous I am, as well as talented. But mostly famous. They're already asking me to appear in some of the other directors' films, some of them even talking about writing roles specifically for me. Which I assume is where the girl-kissing will come in again.

What do I care? It's good to work again. In addition to getting free lodging at Gene's grandma's house, three free meals for every day I shoot, and a weekly stipend (which is usually a bag of Krackle bars), I own a portion of all these movies. If they make a dime, I make a dime. Actually, working out the percentages I basically get one-fifth a penny for every dollar they make, but I understand that's still good money, Jack Nicholson Batman money if you work it out in terms of millions.

Even better, I get out of the house. The less I have to deal with my family living with me the better. I might even try to find local work in L.A. while I'm out here, just to avoid going back for a while. The last e-mail from Mom said Dad, Freddie Mercury, and Icepick were all working out the fine details of a plan to hunt down Osama bin Laden and get the reward. I'd hate to be at home and get suckered into that mess. Camouflage face paint is hell on my complexion anyway.

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It is high time, as a teller of uncomfortable truths, I admitted one of the most obvious: the commune sucks. Or perhaps I should clarify that working at the commune sucks. The distinction might be thought important by some.

Shit you I do not, as Yoda might say. I admit my role in working at the commune has changed several times over the years, and more often than not I am a background character, like the old man who hung out at Cheers, but when brother Gay loomed his large, smarmy head in a few months ago and made a play to take over the publication, I put my nose to the grindstone and basically skinned the hell out of my nose. I worked extra hard, 24-7, 24 minutes of every hour, 7 hours a day, and this shit was not for me, sir. I am not made for a 7-hour work day. I don't know how everyone else here manages the five they do.

I will accept I perhaps have it better than some others, since I own the whole shebang, at least if I can keep Gay at bay, and I receive all the profits, should we ever make any. But it does not change the fact work completely sucks. The severe sucking nature of work cannot even be disputed at this point.

When I started the commune, or changed it from a quarterly Indian reservation newsletter to an alternative news publication, I only wanted to spread as much of the truth as I saw it as I could fit onto the back of pamphlets lifted from teen centers and free clinics. It was fun then, before I had a staff, a budget to be concerned with, and deadlines to heed. I sometimes wish I could go back to those days. Me and Sully, experimenting with mind-expanding medicinal herbs while I wrote my first column about how the 1969 moon landing was just an elaborate Tonight Show sketch aired out of context. Before I had snippy copy-editors knocking on my door to tell me I misspelled simple words and spilled bongwater on all my pages.

Gay Bagel, of course, challenged the commune to show profit as part of his new job as Ulterior Motive Manager, Class VII, and I thought the natural solution was to do what we do that wasn't showing a profit more often and at greater expense. So I took the commune to a weekly schedule and included extra pairs of irregular-fitting jeans as an pay incentive every week. All that has done, it seems, is give me more work to do. Gay doesn't know the first thing about publishing an alternative news website—have fun! The second thing being, of course, never malign Carol Burnett without ample photo evidence to back you up. But the first thing has been completely lost under Herr Bagel. Herr Bagel being Gay, instead of me, for once.

These days I'm in the office up to six days a week, instead of six times a month with the old commune management style. In a way, I suppose I feel I have to answer to Gay now when before I had no boss, I was able to just hang out in my office whenever I felt like it, pants or no pants. After all, if I don't show a major increase in profits, meaning make a profit of any type soon, he'll resume his legal battle to take over the commune again.

Bah. If I had half a brain in my head, which my staff is quick to assure me I do, I would let him have the damn commune. Dig Sully out of those boxes I packed him up in and light up the peace pipe once more. Go back to the old desktop publishing guerilla-style journalism I started with.

Still, I suppose things aren't all that bad. After all, if I can reach one reader, inform him of the deadly conspiracies and hidden injustices of this world, all my work has been worth it. And according to last month's website statistics, we finally successfully reached that one reader.

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