"The Truth" Goes Unrecognized at White House

ormer heavyweight champion Carl "The Truth" Williams visited the Bush White House recently, at the invitation of Secretary of State Colin Powell, and no one there seemed to have a clue as to who he actually was. "The Truth" got the grand tour, meeting with the president, the vice president and many members of their respective staffs, yet all expressed puzzlement as to who he might really be or why he was there.

White House spokesman Ari Fleischer said "The Truth" looked very much a like "a guy I once hired to put up some sheet rock in my basement, and a couple times we would go off into the little closet down there to smoke crack and give each other handjobs, but other than that, I can't place him."

The president himself was similarly disinclined to speculate on the identity of his guest. "How the hell should I know?" he asked. "All them fellas look alike to me. He's not the guy who delivers the pretzels, is he? Because if he is, I got a few words of ornerification for him."

Vice president Dick Cheney, when asked if he recognized "The Truth," responded by saying that it was possible that he did, but that it would endanger national security and the ability of future vice presidents to effectively do their job if he admitted it. He went on to say that if "The Truth" were to accompany him to an undisclosed location, perhaps they could discuss the matter further by the side of a warm fireplace full of shredded documents.

Mary Matalin, Cheney's spokesperson, came closest to recognizing "The Truth" when she admitted that, "after studying him closely, he does look very much like that guy that fisted me and my serpentine husband up the ass without Vaseline one afternoon last November, but I can't be positive without James here."

Mr. Williams said that, despite the lack of recognition, he very much enjoyed his tour of the First Residence. "Muthafuckahs be livin' large here, y'all!" he was quoted as saying when the Secret Service escorted him out by way of the South Lawn. "Word, dawg, place be almost as happenin' as George Foreman's crib. Sheee-it."

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This has been a wild year for the commune Enthusiasts club and myself personally, President and Founder Emil Zender. Not only did we start the club, we met some great new members and lost even more. None died, which is always good, but some have disappeared and won't respond to my calls, while others have said they regret not being able to come to any more meetings and wish I would stop trying to get in touch with them. Some, admittedly, were asked to leave. Nothing personal, but it's hard to focus on club business when some unnamed individuals in the back just want to have a laugh, often at your expense.

My one regret for the year was not getting back to you, the loyal voyeurs, more often. But I made a pledge short into our tenure I would only write about meetings when someone besides myself showed up. So you can believe I was happy to see Sandy and some of our other club members come to another meeting before the end of the year.

I'm also happy to say our membership has expanded since last briefing. We're officially at 623 members right now, and 14 of those members have written back to confirm their membership in the club. Stag and Christopher made good on their promise to return to the club, and even started making plans for a club field trip to protest a WTO conference this Spring. We're still talking about that one. Besides the troublemakers I previously mentioned, we've also got some quiet remembers who aren't quite ready to tell us their names yet. There's that hungry lady who partook heavily of the free food table we set up. She was dressed a little down, and I'm not judging when I say that. Lord knows the homeless aren't considered any less important as members of the group. If she is homeless, which is not a bad thing, though I would be presumptuous to say she is based only on a fairly casual outfit and a smell we couldn't quite locate.

The club is also expecting a boost in dues when Sandy fills her spare change jar, having previously pledged to pay her long coming dues at that time. We'll put that money to good use, like catering for future meetings or events. I won't even take any of that money for myself, even though to date I have spent nearly two-thousand dollars out of my own pocket to provide the free food and renting concert halls.

Not that I'm complaining. I certainly don't agree with my father's assessment the commune Enthusiasts Club is an unrelenting drain on a life once filled with promise. I set out to change the world, as the commune does, with my Club, and even though I have no idea how to do that or if it's even possible, I like to think in some small way I have. But not alone—with the help of all our members. Admittedly, most of it was me. If it's only me showing up to the monthly meetings, I mean, I'm not blowing my horn or claiming it's all me. Mostly. Like 60-40. Only much more on one side and much less. I'm not exaggerating, I think. If anyone else had shown up to the meetings more frequently, I believe they would back me up on this.

However, if you thought this was a big year, wait until next year. And please show up. Yes, I'm talking to you. I know not everybody is in the area of Shanesly, Vermont during the appropriate time of the month, but if you're within a close distance, make the trip. Drive, or fly, if you can afford it. If you're a fan of the commune, it's worth it. Actually, if you're not a fan of the commune, but have read it before and would like to debate any points, go ahead and come on out. I would even say if you haven't heard of the commune, but would like more information, come and join me. Us. Join us and we'll discuss the salient points of commune fandom, and all the free food you can eat. Well, it's not free, it costs me quite a bit. But free for you. That's the c.E.C. promise.

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I address this column to roommate Camembert, my long-time friend Camembert, and my wheelchair-bound fellow adventurer Camembert, who has stood by me through every hardship, despite not being able to stand, and has never failed to follow me through thick and thin, mainly because he has had no choice. All these three are one person, make no mistake, in case you don't know. But what are you doing still reading this? It's for Camembert's bespectacled eyes only, I say.

I couldn't stand to sit across the breakfast table from you for this conversation, especially since after 11 a.m. it becomes the lunch table, and around 4 p.m., well, you know what happens, goddamn that dinner table. But this is a conversation that would have been quite embarrassing to hold with you, face to face, so I choose to spare you that discomfort by bringing it to you in my national column. Camembert, you are having very loud sex and it is starting to bug me.

Sure, at first I tried to turn a blind ear to it, until I discovered there is no such thing. I thought I would get used to it. I don't like to talk about sex as much as the next prude, and I never believed it would come to this. For one, I never believed you would have sex. I could handle the loud masturbation, the sound of bed springs squeaking loudly and the headboard bumping against the wall, and the ugly squishy sound permanently stuck in my memory. It was only three or four times a day, up to nine on the weekends, and most of the time I could drown it out with a loud TV show. But my behavior is my own business, and what you do with your girlfriend is something else entirely.

I'm glad you met Girl Elvis, and I remind you I am the one who played the instrumental part in bringing you two together when I foolishly invited her to stay with us for as long as she wanted. Who knew she would? Her brazen mooching aside, I think you two make a very nice couple, though quite unsettling to see together in any fashion. At least you have companionship, and you have been good for her act with your Anne-Margaret impression. But the sex… once again, it's kept me awake one night too many.

Dating is one thing. Finding you two lip-locked on my couch in the evening, that's one thing, too. Together that's two things. But having loud, boisterous sex when someone else isn't having any, that's a third thing, and this third thing I will not stand for. You two will simply have to find an apartment or house or something, or perhaps some kind of sex booth available for rent or by-the-minute fees. I need to get some work done already!

By the way, Camembert, congratulations for "hitting it," as the young people say. I would have thought your lower-body paralysis would have negatively affected "li'l Rok," as I call it, but I'm impressed to find out differently. You should also be impressed I named your penis after myself. That's how much the little devil impresses me.

But again, back to the subject, this every night "bang bang bang" has got to stop. And I don't mean stop in a climax, like when you make that gurgling sound and Girl Elvis starts singing "Viva Las Vegas." I mean cease and desist, start being considerate of your housemates. After all, it is my commune employment which pays for nearly half of the cost of our mortgage.

I'll even make a deal with you, to play fair. Find somewhere else to do your nasty business and I'll only practice my bagpipes during the day, as you've asked for many weeks. But this offer is going fast, so deal quickly. Act now and I'll throw in a key to your room, so you can get in there when I'm not there.

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