Clinton Strikes Back

n what appeared to be a reaction to increasing Republican impeachment efforts, President Clinton today used his State of the Union address to launch what former House Whatchamathingy Newt Gingrich termed “Slick Willy's Def Comedy Jam.� The 45-minute speech consisted mainly of a long riff on comedian Jeff Foxworthy's popular “You Might Be a Redneck...� comedy routine, skewed to address Clinton's Republican detractors. An excerpt follows:

“If you’ve been on CNN more than three times talking about how funny Rush Limbaugh is, you might be a Republican! If you think a blow job is a woman’s hairstyle, you might be a Republican! If you deny having nipples at all, you might be a Republican! If you’ve ever pissed on homeless children to keep from having to wait in line for the men’s room at a public event, you might be a Republican!

“If you think food stamps are a special Thanksgiving issue from the Post Office... you might be a Republican! If you've ever spoken the words ‘Andy Rooney's got a point there...’ you might be a Republican! If you haven’t had sex since Dick Nixon was in office... you might be a Republican! You suck, Goodnight!�

Asked to comment on Clinton’s use of his routine, Foxworthy commented: “If you know what Elvis Presley’s farts taste like, you might be a redneck! Thank you, goodnight!� Former presidential candidate Bob Dole was less amenable. “Bob Dole's never spanked any Puerto Ricans! Bob Dole's not sorry and you can kiss Bob Dole's black ass!�

Puerto Ricans could not be reached for comment.

Lawyers for Gitmo Detainees Lobby to Stop Calling Them “Gitmo” Detainees

Fans Mourn First 30 Years of Puckett’s Life

Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.”

R.C. Car Enthusiasts Angered by Latest Mars Mission Snub

A lot of people have written letters to me asking why so many mothers kill their kids. This frightens me, I must tell you now. But that doesn't give me an excuse not to answer it. So let's work on that conundrum right now, since it's been a pretty boring couple of weeks here at the commune and the conspiracy river is running dry.

I have to ask you first, are there really that many more moms killing their kids these days? Or is it more likely that in the last ten years a media which has more than doubled in size and output is fighting to grab our attention with sensationalistic stories that hit us right in the gut? No, it's the first one. There are a lot more moms killing their kids.

Which prompts us to ask, "Dude, what the fuck?" Only more intelligently than that.

I answer that question with a more high-falutin' one: "Is it intrinsic to our nature to want to kill our children?" Because I say it is.

Sir, it's our very genetic make-up to kill our offspring. If it wasn't, people would have a lot fewer children. And consequently, we'd probably care a lot less about sex. Which is horrifying enough. But as I said, we would have two children per couple to maintain the future of our species. Instead, mother nature (or whatever mother makes things happen around here) gave us three, four, five or more children. This is because we are expected to kill most of them at some point before they reach adulthood, and can properly defend themselves.

Of course, we came up with ways to stay our homicidal instincts over the centuries. First, we invented music—all music has a subtle effect on our turbulent emotions, quelling them from our innate homicidal rage. Except rap. We also invented ice cream. It might not have anything to do with killing your children, but it is pretty damn cool we invented it.

So let's say it's not one thing in particular, but a combination of many things that have stopped us from killing our offspring—because believe me, the cavemen used to pile up five, six kids a year, as I understand it. I have a friend whose taken an archaeology class who will back me up on this. Once again, let's say it's modern ice cream and gangsta rap.

Because of these changing modern times, which have worked to erode the false serenity we've built up over the years, things have basically gone all dickhouse. Tempers burn out like fuses made from suicide bomber hair. And then mom realizes she has little Billy's thin, breakable neck right between her hands and she's getting ready for the snap.

Now the final question: "What can we do to change this?" To which I have the even more final question: "Should we do anything about this"? My question beats yours. Turn that back on me, if you think you can. I say humans murdering their young is part of the natural evolutionary process. Especially these days, when the untalented and moronic are outbreeding the Red Bagels by 3- or 4-to-1. If a kid is smart enough to keep himself from getting killed by mom, that's a kid that's going places. Not to put all the responsibility on these kids, but all the responsibility is on these kids. That may seem harsh, but it's no different than the little caribou out in the middle of the Serengeti, being chased down by wild mountain tigers. Or whatever equivalent evolution thing happens to animals. Run fast, kids. Momma's mad, and she ain't going for the belt this time.

º Last Column: Remember Those We Lost
º more columns

My neighbor Mitch is away on a trip, and while he's out I've been watching his dogs, Benedict and Arnold. To tell you the truth, I didn't really want to, but he took care of Foghat while I was detained in Mexico a few years back, so I can't rightly tell him to jump up an elephant's ass the one time he asks me to do him a favor while he's in having his colon removed.

These dogs are a flaming, hemorrhoidal pain in the ass.

Benedict is, according to Mitch, an Australian Cattle Prod. I'm not sure if that's completely accurate. Nobody knows what the hell Arnold is, but he looks like what you'd end up with if you stapled bat ears onto a gigantic caterpillar. He's like a walking sausage with radar. Appropriately enough, he makes high-pitched squeaking sounds like a rubber pork chop every time anything happens. And I mean anything: car doors slamming outside, bacon grease catching on fire in the kitchen, the refrigerator turning on, foreign war, it doesn't matter.

I don't know what kind of social life Mitch has got, but I get the impression he doesn't exactly spend his spare time wolfing down speedballs in the Viper room. These dogs demand more attention than a live hand grenade. They watch your every move as if you might, at any moment, explode like a piñata and rain doggie treats all over the room. It's especially unnerving when you're in the bathroom.

I think Mitch may shower with these dogs. I'm not kidding, I'm pretty sure he takes them everywhere he goes. I heard he got kicked out of Disneyland last year after Benedict threw up on the Matterhorn. And I don't mean the structure itself; that dog was buckled into a bobsled and screaming down the mountain at fifty miles an hour when it happened. Mitch came home with a black eye that I can only assume had something to do with the people riding in the sled behind him and Benedict. They certainly look pissed off in the picture on the refrigerator. Omar Bricks is not a violent man, but I have to admit I'd be strapping on my Jackie Chan shoes if I were ever hit with fifty mile-an-hour dog vomit.

Arnold will hump anything that's not moving: the couch, his bed, a box of crackers, Benedict. I've only looked directly at Arnold twice, and both times he was humping something. Now I just infer that he's in the room from the shallow panting noises. My biggest fear is that I'm going to look accidentally one time and see the lipstick in action. For a while I was worried about how I was going to explain the visible dick marks on the bathroom door to Mitch, but he's got to be used to this shit by now.

I decided to take the dogs for a walk the other day, since I was starting to feel bad about them being cooped up in their rooms all the time, with nothing but their record collections and board games to keep them entertained. Way to be the neighborhood hero, right? Wrong. Mr. Friendly Neighborhood Narc had a different idea. Did you know it's illegal to tie a dog's leash to your car and drive around the block? It's not like I was even going very fast. Somebody told me that's not "walking the dogs," but they looked like they were walking to me. Or running. Skiing, maybe. Whatever.

Since the neighborhood patrol had such a serious problem with the dogs getting any exercise, I had to resort to Plan B. I went to the pet store, bought a rabbit, and let it loose in the house. Shit if the dogs didn't love that! I don't know if I've ever seen a couple of dogs so happy. Arnold even humped the drapes. Granted, things got a little rowdy after I let the rabbit loose, but if Mitch isn't cool with a couple of broken lamps, a television on the floor or a cracked bathtub he shouldn't have got dogs in the first place. And if the guy can afford to have his colon taken out I'm sure he can afford to rent a steam cleaner, too.

Now I just need to come up with a way of explaining to Foghat why another dog wiped its nose on my pants. Bricks out.

º Last Column: Prohibition Here We Come
º more columns