Senator Mysteriously Defies Time, Lives in 1950s

ust when you thought the limits of science were established—girl, look out! Here comes Senator Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania, the politician who magically defies the change of time and remains stuck in the 1950s.

Santorum alerted the rest of America, scared and turbulent, but still living in the year 2003, when he stated in an interview printed last Monday that the Supreme Court would endorse incest and other immoralities if they overturned a Texas sodomy law the Court is hearing.

"If the Supreme Court says that you have the right to consensual sex within your home, then you have the right to bigamy, you have the right to polygamy, you have the right to incest, you have the right to adultery. You have the right to anything," said the senator living in the decade of the TV dinner and TV westerns.

Some Democrats and fellow Republicans have denounced the senator's remarks and asked for his resignation, worried that living in a time period of 50 years ago would interfere with Santorum's ability to keep informed in current issues. Key Republican party leaders have guaranteed to study the senator closely and divulge his knowledge of important government and cultural stuff.

"I guarantee you," said a personal aide to Santorum, Jeff Richards, "the senator is in full control of his faculties and knows what year it is. I can't explain any more than that. I've seen the TV on in his house, I assume he must get the news and the usual programs… he's just somehow filtered them out." Girl, I tell you, that Richards gave this reporter the eye. Beep beep on the gaydar, that's all I'm saying.

Few from the scientific community have stepped forward to explain, though a group at Harvard's Department of Quantum Mechanics are posing theories of collapsing personal wormholes. Psychologists from around the world are seeking medical background from Santorum's representatives, particularly interested in previous incidents of head trauma or hallucinations. The extremely early onset of Alzheimer's has not been ruled out.

Other theories have been offered, but not yet fully explored. My girl Ladyboy Smacky, she say Santorum look just like this guy pick her up three nights in a row last April and call her "Mommy" while she dress up like Martha Washington, but that guy had a mustache and was in Frisco, but she swear that dude Santorum so deep in the closet he sittin' on the box to a Colecovision.

Despite the failure to pinpoint the source of Santorum's confusion, others are stressing the importance of bringing him up to date with the year 2003 before it becomes a problem.

"We have 50 years of history to cover with the senator, so obviously we'll have to pick highlights," said Professor of Cultural Studies at the University of Chicago and real sweetie Isis Oviate. "We should start with telling him World War II is over—more than likely he knows, but we shouldn't take chances. The geographical maps and political make-up of the world should be explained slowly so he knows all of that, about Stalin's death and, eventually, the fall of the Soviet Union, of course. We would hate to offend an ally with some disparaging remarks against Russia. We'll tell him all about Iraq, but one thing at a time. Take it slowly. The sexual revolution alone ought to leave him quaking in his wingtips. Maybe we'll just sum up the Kinsey Report and see how he responds to that."

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1. Start smoking, then quit, then brag about it.

I bet it's not that hard, if you set your mind to it. And you were only doing it to be a dick in the first place.

2. Finally tell that cheesedick from Time Warner that I can't afford cable.

That guy's been calling every day and I can't help but feel like I'm leading him on with all the long heart-to-hearts we've been having. Time to cut the cord—or the cable, if you will. Clever.

3. Find a new place to poop.

I opened a stall in the men's room this morning, and I almost shit prematurely because that big flaming eyeball from the Lord of the Rings was in there. Woah, dude, latch the door! I know it's probably tough when you don't have any arms or anything, but you don't have any feet I can see under the stall door either, so you gotta work that out somehow. "I SEE YOOOOU!!" Yeah, no shit! I see you too, big guy! And I wish I hadn't. Now I don't need the men's room any more, I need the laundry. Fucker.

That was the second-worst experience I've had in a public bathroom this month. Yeah, now you're starting to get an idea of how my month's been going. A few weeks ago I'm on the john when all of a sudden I realize there's a chewing noise coming from the next stall over. Motherfucker was in there eating celery! I shit you not! Man, whatever kind of diet you're on, quit it, because that shit just ain't working. Try narrowing down the number of rooms you're allowed to eat in, like the rest of the human race does. I think you'll shed a few pounds.

Then again, maybe the guy was living in there. Strange, sure, but I think there's definitely somebody living in the men's room over at Subway. There's always somebody in the handicapped stall and the other day I heard the sounds of the Tonight Show coming from in there. Not a bad set-up if you can get it, though I bet you can end up with some pretty questionable neighbors.

4. Walk on my hands to Kansas.

This one pretty much explains itself.

5. Punch Burl Ives right in the goddamned teeth.

I'll have whatever the hell kind of Christmas I want to have, Jack. Thank you very much. You have yourself a merry little mouthful of broken teeth.

6. And now for a funny word: effluvia.

7. Remember the subtle-but-important difference between "a twinkle in his eye" and "a tinkle in his eye."

Stay away from maternity wards until people on the street stop referring to me as "that baby-pisser." While I'm at it, never have kids.

8. Bring the pain to Al Roker.

Ever since that guy lost all that weight, he's looked seriously bored, like he misses the thrill of living on the edge of a coronary. His biggest danger in life now is that he might have a stroke while jerking off to a magazine interview with Mandy Moore. That's just not right.

9. Kiss and make up with Catherine Zeta-Jones.

We've never had a fight or anything, or even met, but still.

10. Write a new column for the commune.

I've been running a little low on canned goods this month, and I figure I could use a—hold on, never mind. I think I've got an idea.

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Lately it seems like every-damned-body has been asking me what I'll be doing for Christmas, as if I'm going to say that I'll be attending a Roman Orgy and then invite them along, or that I'm going to slip up and say that I'm taking my doped-up sex zombie out of the closet to beat him with a big rubber tit or something. Then they can act all offended and then say they're not surprised and knew what I was up to all along. I know their game, the bastards. I don't know what gets into people around the holidays, you'd think the eminent threat of an Amtrak train slamming through their living room while they're right in the middle of watching "Furby Christmas Feast" would be plenty of excitement for them, but you'd be surprised. Most still have interest left over to get all up in my shit on a regular basis.

So before I start catching any nosy pricks going through my desk drawers looking for a turkey baster full of heroin, I'm going to set the record straight: I plan on spending this Christmas holed up at the Bricks estate, wrapped around a jug of Mike's Hard Eggnog and watching the Benny Hill marathon with my trusty basset hound, Foghat. And before you start ripping on Benny Hill, know that Foghat doesn't take kindly to such thick-headed slander, and the last fool to attempt such a breech of etiquette discovered later that the "Gravy Train" had made an unscheduled stop in his pennyloafers that night, if you follow my colloquial English here.

Now, I'm sure that the few of you who aren't asking yourselves why you don't own such a top-drawer canine are just itching your britches to ask why I'm spending the holidays alone this year, why I'm not nestled in the heart and hearth of friends and family and all that Hallmark shit. Well, the truth of the matter is that I'm still recovering from last year's Christmas debacle, when I spent the holidays with my friend Jeff who was visiting from Tampa and it damn-near turned me into a Buddhist, or some kind of non-Christmasing religious pain in the ass anyway.

Jeff and I go way back, we met during a spontaneous after-bar barfing contest back in college. We became fast friends after Jeff heaved one on a Hell's Angel and we had to dive into the back of a taxi to get away. It turned out that it wasn't even a taxi, just some dude with a yellow car, and I was in the middle of calming the guy down and explaining the situation when Jeff bjorked on that guy, too, and we had to jump out of the car in the middle of the expressway. Man, those were the days.

After college Jeff moved to Tampa to start a Ponzi scheme and I didn't hear from him for I don't know how many years. Though I was pretty sure I saw him in a security camera clip on "Bonehead TV", taking a digger on the wet tile coming out of a bathroom stall in Miami. Then, out of nowhere he calls me up last December and says we should get together and do something for the holidays. The next thing I knew he was on a plane.

Now, just for old time's sake, I played a little joke on Jeff and sent a bunch of guys dressed up like Klansman to pick him up at the airport. Bad idea. I don't know if he'd already paid for an airport shuttle or what, but he was in a seriously bitchy mood when he got to my house. There was a quick remedy for that at the bottom of a case of Safeway's cheapest beer though, and before long we were having a Christmas Eve for the ages.

In no time at all the hard liquor was out, Benny Hill was on the television and there was a roaring fire in the fireplace. We were all drunker than a couple of southern cops on a Saturday night, except for Foghat, who was lost in a world of Benny Hill's slapstick antics.

At some point in the night I asked Jeff what he'd been up to. I mentioned that whenever I'd asked around about him, I'd heard alternately that he was married to an entire tribe down in Peru or Ecuador or some shit, that he'd taken over the role of Birdie in the McDonaldland commercials, and that he was a door-to-door breast pump salesman in the Midwest. In response, he just stood up, dropped his pants and cut loose with a torrential stream of urine into the fireplace. I'm not sure quite what this meant, probably that they were all true, but before I got a chance to ask for clarification the flames leapt up Jeff's pee-stream and he flew about half-way across the room, screaming like a gopher running from a riding mower. Now opinions may differ on the subject, but I thought it was about the funniest thing that had ever happened in the Bricks living room, but then again it wasn't my Ballpark Frank that was getting plumped.

Before I could think to offer him an icepack or something, or even stop laughing myself, Jeff bolted out the door and into the wintry night, half-naked and still smoking. And I'll be damned if I ever saw that crazy fucker again. I doubt that anyone in my neighborhood will forget that night any time soon. Some say that on certain dark and quiet winter nights, you can still hear his woman-like shriek in the wind.

Personally, I'm getting low on old friends to blow up, so this Christmas Eve it'll just be me and Foghat basking in the warm glow of the television, turned up just loud enough to drown out the shrieking of the wind. Bricks out.

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