Ohio Rep. Traficant Sticks to Convictions, Despite Convictions

.S. Representative James Traficant vowed not to give up his Congressional seat Thursday following the announcement of his guilty verdict on charges of bribery, racketeering, falsifying tax returns, and forcing his federal aides to dress in overalls and chew straw on his Ohio farm.

Upon hearing the guilty of verdict, Traficant, who represented himself, stated, "I accept your verdict." On the steps of the courthouse, despite his attorney's counsel, Traficant vowed to appeal the verdict.

"I refuse to accept a verdict of this nature," Traficant told the commune. "This decision, indeed these charges, have all been politically motivated. I suspect everybody involved in this trial, from the prosecution to the judge to the defense attorney to the jury is out to ruin my good name. I reject this attempt to oust me from office. I'll see to it these charges are acquitted and my attorney is disbarred."

House Minority Leader Dick Gephardt (D-Missouri) called for Traficant's resignation. Upon being told Traficant was convicted of the charges, Gephardt was unswayed and still called for his resignation.

"Mr. Traficant puts a foul mark on all congressman everywhere," said Gephardt. "His conviction on bribery charges seals the deal. He cannot be trusted to represent the people of Ohio anymore. He is exactly why people hate politicians, and has been found legally guilty of doing what everyone else is only suspected of doing."

"I might also add," continued Gephardt, "that Mr. Traficant has, in recent months, been supporting Rep. Dennis Hastert as speaker of the House. You know, Hastert? The Republican? You put it all together, eh?"

When confronted with Gephardt's statements, Traficant was resilient about keeping his seat.

"I have convictions I will not turn away from. And by convictions, I don't mean yesterday's convictions, I mean my original convictions that brought me to office." Traficant accepted an envelope from a dark-suited man which he quickly pocketed. "They have tried to convict me on these charges before, when I first began my political career. They failed then and I believe they ultimately will fail again. These are my deeply-held convictions. Once again, I mean my personal convictions, not criminal."

When questioned about the charges, Traficant spoke vaguely. "Mistakes were made. Let's just say that and nobody gets hurt."

"My only regret," continued Traficant, "was that I didn't hire bigger and burlier aides. Somebody with a little farm hand experience. At the end of the day I could've gotten twice as much done. Or hell, maybe even just hired a couple of guys to run the farm without having to pretend they work in the office. It's not like I'm running short on cash, with all the bribes and underreporting on the tax forms. But that's not a confession—I mean, that's not to say I—aw, forget it. Talk to my attorney."

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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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It seems like you can't open an unrealistic women's magazine or go game hunting in a daycare center these days without hearing about the nation's weight problem. And it's true, America's been packing on the pounds like a newlywed in Wisconsin since the late 1970's. Why didn't we hear about it until now? Thanks to thinning vertical stripes going out of style a few years ago, we're just now realizing how fat all of our friends and neighbors really are. It's like a Viet Cong of fat ambushing us in the jungle. And the current fashion trend toward Hamburgler-style black and white horizontal stripes certainly hasn't helped, amplifying girth that needed no help and creating a big fat optical illusion at the same time.

But how can a nation seemingly so obsessed with fitness and unattainable standards of beauty also be so hilariously, belt-snappingly fat at the same time? In order to understand this paradox, we must take a look at how America's diet has changed in the last thirty years, the era when America went off its diet like a berserk funnycar and decided nobody could tell it not to drink fat through a straw.

Not long ago was the day when the nation's diet consisted mainly of grain, potatoes, and gas station ham sandwiches. Though not exactly the fish-rice-seaweed trifecta that kept the Japanese wafer-thin and efficiently evil for years, it did well enough and the only fat people back then were those who vaingloriously attempted to live on gas station ham sandwiches alone. Even those fat individuals were a tiny minority, however, since most Americans assumed there must be something in the bible against that kind of thing. Americans did drank a lot of beer, but anybody who tells you beer makes you fat is trying to sell you Lite beer.

Over the years, as technology advanced and Americans sought out new and exciting ways to supplant missing parental love, people began to eat more and more processed foods. Which is industry jargon for remaindered textile wastes and ground up Frisbees. Convenience, plus the thrill of eating something out of a brightly colored box like Crackerjacks used to come in, led to a larger and larger proportion of the American diet consisting of food-shaped industrial byproducts. And as Americans came to demand more convenience, food processors began to shy away from using any actual foods at all, which start to taste funky after being vacuum-sealed in a Mylar bag for three years. By the mid-80's, most of the food Americans were eating consisted mainly of ground carpet remnants coated in flavorful lard. Which sounds awful until you hear what they put in dog food.

The fast food industry accelerated this process, serving up colorful fat-delivery vehicles devoid of depressing nutrients and vegetables in portions big enough to satisfy Uganda. Americans couldn't buy it up fast enough, falling hard for the food-like entrees and pleasantly fabricated environment, a place where The Man wasn't hassling you about eating fiber all the time. The various fast food chains went to great lengths to lure glazed customers their way by offering everything, including napkins, with bacon, and coating the handrails and table tops with a thin layer of rendered cow fat that was absorbed through the skin.

Of course, other factors besides diet have contributed to Americans' booming waistlines. High tech stretch fibers being built into clothes have made being fat more comfortable than ever. In addition, television remote controls, home video pornography and the abolition of sidewalks have nearly eliminated conventional exercise from the average American's daily life.

Perhaps the biggest symbolic blow to a thin America, however, came when Marlon Brando showed the American people that even the beautiful and talented can fall on a fat grenade and blow up like a microwaved marshmallow, so what chance does the average shlub have to stay thin? The sound of French-fry crunching surrender could be heard all across the land, a whisper that has grown into a deafening roar in our current "what the hell" national climate. But is there any hope for a thinner future?

Are you kidding? The only vegetable Americans will eat has to be soaked in oil, fried, and then dusted with pulverized beef balls before it can sneak into our stomachs. We're screwed. Fat and screwed. Sleep tight.

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