Limbaugh Loses Control of Bodily Functions

opular radio talk-show host and notorious blowhard Rush Limbaugh was recently revealed to be in the terminal stages of losing the ability to perform any normal human function but talk. Very soon, Mr. Limbaugh will exist solely for the purpose of flapping his purplish, rubbery lips and belching out enormous amounts of miasmatic wind over the nation's airwaves.

"It's the absolute worst tragedy involving a large Nazi gasbag since the explosion of the Hindenburg," said Limbaugh's personal physician, Dr. H. Himmler. "Oh, the humanity, the humanity, the inanity…"

Dr. Himmler's colleague, Dr. J. Mengele, echoed the sentiment, saying that it is "natural for muscles that aren't used to atrophy, but we've never seen a case as advanced as this one in such a short time."

Apparently the only thing keeping Limbaugh, who was declared brain-dead in the late 1980's, alive is the constant motion of his jaw and tongue. "Well, yes, he is an opinionated fellow, there's no doubt about that," said his personal assistant, a Mr. A. Speer. "He likes to let everyone around him know what he thinks. I believe that's what's kept him going all these years, even though he can't walk, eat, scratch his ass, shit, fuck or smoke a cigar without assistance. Still, you've got to give him credit for such single-minded devotion to doing what he does best." Upon saying that, Mr. Speer rapidly retreated to the back of Limbaugh's expansive chair with a bucket and a large handful of wet paper towels. "Christ, here he goes again, all over his goddamned self," he was heard to mutter.

When asked for comment, Limbaugh replied, "What? Huh? Did you say something? I can't hear a blessed thing! What?"

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We wrapped up production on "Ho's!" two weeks ago, so you can imagine it's great to have free time again, after four months of solid work, and years of unemployment before that. You get used to a certain amount of laidback time.

You might wonder what I've been doing. Not wasting it, I'll tell you that. Right after I beat the Metallichick video game I went out looking on a way to capitalize on my sitcom success. During the heyday of "Who's Your Daddy?" I used to get all kinds of perks, and when I say "perks," I'm not even referring to the free breast implants they gave me. It was a ripoff anyway, they give you the implants but then make you pay for the surgery. I was going to get some friends to put them in for me, but I didn't quite trust them. I trusted them like "pick up my mail when I'm gone," but not "invasive surgery" trust them. Actually, I wouldn't let them pick up my mail either.

Let me just say it was a washout. Nobody would give me anything. I couldn't get an obscene gesture from Dick Cheney, things are that bad. People don't even recognize me from the show. They took a picture of me key-scraping a car for the "On the Town" page in People, and they didn't identify me as "'Ho's!' Clarissa Coleman" To them I'll always been "'Who's Your Daddy?'s Clarissa Coleman." They wouldn't give me a free cup of coffee, and I even had a coupon, courtesy the WB. If you can't get a free T-shirt from a vinyl record store, you know your comeback didn't work. I would be worried the show won't be renewed for a second season, but I'm still too pissed at not being able to wrangle free shit.

Don't tell anyone who works at the show, but I've been looking at other offers from other TV shows. Maybe not offers—it's not like anyone's actually offered me another job. More like pitching ideas, and calling up people and begging to get on shows. It's nothing against the WB—okay, it is. It really is. You can't get a hell of a lot of respect on a WB show, as all that time trying to scam freebies proved to me. I want to be on a show all the critics respect and the audiences like. I called "The Sopranos," and offered to play anybody—even one of those dancers Tommy Soprano sleeps with and whacks, that kind of small role. It will be an interesting bit of trivia, like Wesley Snipes' performance in Wildcats. Or Woody Harrelson in Wesley Snipes' movies. But they wouldn't go for it.

Then I called "Six Feet Under," one of those other HBO shows with all the hype, and said I could play anything. They didn't like the idea I would play a body who'd come back to life at the funeral. I offered to play a regular body and they just kept asking who I was again, not a good sign. Just a bad experience all around. I suppose I could call all the other HBO shows, then start on Showtime shows or whatever. I get the feeling that would end in the same results, and before I'd know it I'd be asking to guest-star on UPN shows or something. That's all basically how I came to be on a WB show anyway.

That's when it dawned on me—I have no job at all right now. Why not be a writer? That's what all the other unemployed people do, and some of them become famous. I've at least got a famous name—people are always giving me free stuff. Famous people have a much easier time at getting their book published. Look at all those books Jimmy Carter's put out, and he hasn't done anything in years. But I'm not a book person. I just don't get why anyone would want to read when you can see something in a movie. But movies have writers, too. Some of them, if they're not Bruckheimer pictures. So that's what I'm going to do with my time. A screenplay! The biggest Clarissa Coleman comeback film you've never seen. It's going pretty good so far. The title page is sweet. As soon as I come up with an idea, and get a typewriter or a computer, I think the rest of it will flow naturally.

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I am sad to say the hour of judgment draws near. I'm not talking about biblical predictions of the end of time, or some poorly-imagined Bruce Willis action movie armageddon. I'm talking about the growing conspiracy, which I have mentioned before, without giving specific details. It's practically here.

As you may know, I have tried gathering a group before through classified ads, hoping to attract mercenaries and those with a death wish to follow me into the danger, with me firmly in the back; but no such luck. I will have to go this mission alone, and take some commune staffers with me. Mostly to carry my things, but I'm not ruling out fighting and taking bullets and what-not.

The problem, as you can imagine, is that the commune is over-run with cowards, dope fiends, and morons. Actually, the dope fiends aren't so bad, but trying to explain to them the importance of the mission takes way more time than I have. In the end, if I can get no one else, maybe I'll tell them we're going to pick up Chinese food and they'll follow me.

The morons are another matter entirely. They make up the bulk of my workforce, which was part of how they came to work for me for practically nothing, but of course that doesn't help with my mission. I'm planning on traveling a great distance and it's possible I'll be pursued—all involved will need great cunning. Most of them can't even say great cunning.

So mostly I'm left with the cowards. I can't find them right now. I know they're there, I can hear them scurrying to hide whenever I enter the room. And they haven't even heard about the deadly mission yet, they're just afraid I'll yell at them for not proofing their stories and columns, etc. Can you imagine the pants-pissing that will happen when I invite them to look death in the eye? No, that won't do. So I'm left with a random assortment of commune employees to choose from.

Lil Duncan? She's neither a coward nor a moron, and the only dope she goes for is Lorenzo Lamas. But she's a woman, and therefore left out. I don't need any women going along just so they can get pregnant or have their periods or complain about how we're not asking for directions. She's out.

Ned Nedmiller? Ned's afraid of nothing, indeed more things are afraid of him, and he's not so much a moron as a babbling oddity. And he's been gathering dust since I stopped publishing his column—he hasn't even stopped writing them yet. I've got a stack of them piling up on my desk and blocking the light from the windows, but I haven't the heart to tell him. Which is why he won't be coming along on this mission.

Ivan Nacutchacokov? See cowards, above.

Omar Bricks. Omar's not stupid, and far from a coward. As for being a dope fiend… well, if I loosen up my definition of dope fiend considerably, he's a prime candidate.

Stu Umbrage? Stu has guts in abundance, and brains in abundance. There's no man in the building I would trust my life with but Stu Umbrage. Still, I don't like him, I don't know, just something about his accent or something. All haughty.

Clarissa Coleman? Weren't you listening when I said the things about women? You're stupid for even bringing her up.

Raoul Dunkin? Yeah, right. There's nothing that ingrate would love more than to get me alone while he's fully armed. Not on your life, or mine.

Griswald Dreck? He's a great candidate, but Griswald's actually proved on a piece of paper with Sharpies that if he leaves the building he ceases to exist. At least that's what he told me when I asked him to cover the court beat one day, and I'm not about to test his vast knowledge.

Ramon Nootles? Not with all those paternity suits still pending. It would cost me more than I could bear parting with.

So as you can see, I'm up a creek in sewer-flavored water with a boat-moving device. I'll have to get this all sorted out, and soon, since imminent death is calling. Wish me luck, readers—or better yet, come with me. Women need not apply.

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