he Tuesday polls have closed, the ballots are still being counted, but estimates make the outcome clear: California has lost the recall election.

California voters turned out in record, ignorant numbers Oct. 7 to make their confused voices heard, and the answer was a resounding, "What's this all about again?" As voters chose to recall Gov. Gray Davis, elected only 11 months earlier, and replace him with female-violating, Hitler-loving pure beef slab Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Not that a truly inept politician can't ruin an entire political system in less than a year. The current president only needed 9 months before the world as we knew it fell into a shitcan. And Gray Davis, described by friends as "a necessary evil," probably deserved a good pink-slipping. But to replace the deviously crafty with the hopelessly out-of-their-league, a trend already set at the presidential level, left California in the position of the biggest loser in the U.S.

Early estimates show the recall winning by 55%, with Schwarzenegger leading the recall candidates by a sizable margin. Among the opponents not just doing it for shits and giggles, Lt. Gov. "Tom" Cruz Bustamente, Sen. Tom McClintock, apparently not the character from the John Wayne movie of the same name, and a Green Party candidate who pushed a referendum where new ballots were cast with hemp. Schwarzenegger's 7,000+ votes over the next nearest candidate was called "overwhelming" by some overly-excited reporters. After all, here is a difficult foreign name they already know how to pronounce.

McClintock conceded happily to his fellow plus-sized Republican, calling it a "great day for California."

"In response to a common danger, the people of California rose to their duties and ordered a new direction for our state," said the well-rehearsed GOP mouthpiece. The message on that direction couldn't be less clear: We want the dumbest, most sexually-excitable candidate who runs a chain of failed over-hyped restaurants to do for us what he did for The Last Action Hero.

The white media, plagued with their fascination with celebrity, lauded the Schwarzenegger victory in many subtle ways, some calling it a "Hollywood ending." Leaving one compelled to remind reporters Dr. Strangelove and Taxi Driver had Hollywood endings, too.

Exit polls showed many voters disappointed with the failure of Gray Davis to mend California's budget problems during his 11 months in office. "It's not like the whole country's in a recession here," said one angry voter, drooling on this reporter's tape recorder.

The results of the California recall do little to surprise most pollsters, who predicted the election weeks in advance with their preemptive announcement of recall results beforehand. When asked what features they were looking for in a state governor, most Californians cited a vague understanding of the problems afflicting the state, poor pronunciation of English, and having appeared in at least one horrible Batman movie.

In a concession speech, Gray Davis called for everyone to "get behind" the governor-elect. What Davis neglected to add, but surely was thinking, was either that, 1, you could then proceed to push him off a cliff and into the Pacific Ocean, or 2, he's a big guy and you'll need the shade when the air conditioning dies after every power grid goes out, you fickle yellow-bellied traitors.

Schwarzenegger's new lieutenant governor, a bronze bust of former president Ronald Reagan, could not be reached for comment, as it's incapable of speech.

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Dear commune:

Who pooped on the commune’s parade lately? Talk about a bunch of sad sacks and down-about-the-facers! What this gang needs is some crisp, refreshing lemonade! What could be better than liquid refreshment on a hot summer day? Nothing! So why not buy some lemonade today? Only five cents a glass, while supplies last!

Sincerely,

Bobby Turner
The sidewalk outside the commune offices



Dear Bobby:

Listen kid, if we wanted any of your fucking lemonade we would have bought some already instead of sending Ivana Folger-Balzac downstairs to kick your pitcher over and break your sign in half. Can’t you take a goddamned hint? It was bad enough you had to ruin our mornings for weeks straight, sitting outside the commune offices with your puppy dog eyes and pathetically large quantities of unsold lemonade, riddling our already-riddled hearts with guilt. Can’t you understand that the commune staff members work hard for their money, and five cents (though it may not seem like a lot to you with your freewheeling, ass-deep-in-lemons lifestyle) is actually a week’s pay for some of these people? Apparently not. So you’ve seen fit to torture our hearts further with your sorrowful refrains of "Doesn’t anybody want any lemonade?" sung to the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody" all day and night. And now, with the letters and voice mails!

Knock it off kid, our answering service is on the lite plan and only counts up to five: you’ve already maxed us out for the month. You’re milking a dry tit, kid, and you won’t have any better luck with our downstairs neighbors at Crochet! magazine either, they’ve been drinking nothing but sealed bottled water ever since Omar Bricks spiked the building’s water supply with mescaline last Halloween.

You just don’t get it, do you kid? Apparently all the potted plants (thanks, Crochet!) Ted Ted has been dropping at you from our windows like some third-rate Atari game have failed to crack your thick skull in more ways than one. All right kid, we get the message. You want to play with the big boys? This means war.

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any unintended casualties in our ongoing holy war with lemonade vendor Bobby Turner. If you don’t want a metal plate holding your skull together, stay off the sidewalk.

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A midget ate a pigeon
and the pigeon ate a pig.
If that seems odd remember
that the pig was not that big.
He was a bite-sized nugget,
a toy pig as they say,
one that would fit on a keychain
should your inkling lean that way.

The pig had ate an aphid
and the aphid ate a dot
and if you think I mean the candy I assure you I do not.
The dot had ate a nothing since there's nothing there to eat
when you're just a speck of something without appendages or feet.
A speck can't eat a smidgen though a smidgen eats a nit
and a nit can eat a little if he puts his mind to it.

A little eats a sprig which eats a fleck which eats a hint,
and a hint enjoys a mote if it has a hint of mint.
A mote is rather picky, as it eats only a jot,
and a jot can eat a little or a jot can eat a lot.

But not if it is eaten first by an iota or a smitch,
though a smitch prefers a bit of course, if it is not too rich.
And bits are oft predated by a scruple or a whoop,
who would need to quadruple if they were to share a boop.

In which case they would appeal to the brothers snip and snap,
whose appetites are whetted by all things about the size of that.
Though those two mainly spend their time
creeping round in cahoots
and trying not to be gobbled up by dribbets or by hoots.

Though I have to say, none of them have seen a tittle or a whit,
for each is too small to see at all, even if you look right at it.
But if you could, with eyes that good, a hundred you could cram
and still have lots of breathing room
on the inside of a dram.

So a midget ate a pigeon and that pigeon ate a pig.

I don't know what ate the midget 'cause it wore a phony wig.

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