Records Indicate Strom Thurmond Died in 1982

epublican Senator Strom Thurmond of South Carolina celebrated his 100th birthday this week, a feat made even more amazing by the fact that he died 20 years ago.

"This striking news is just further evidence of Strom's amazing longevity," opined former Sen. Bob Dole, R-Kan., who himself died after falling down a well in 1996, but came back because he forgot his glasses.

Thurmond, the oldest and whitest senator in history, reached his 100th birthday Thursday surrounded by family, friends, and more zombies than a George Romero film. When asked if they ever expected to see this day after Thurmond's death from a heart attack in 1982, partygoers were philosophical.

"Strom's always pulling shit like that. Hell, he died in my pool last weekend. I thought I was going to have to spend my entire Saturday night at the morgue, but then he got better," explained neighbor Sylvester Coles.

"Sure, dad gave us a scare back in '82, and we even had a funeral, but then one day he just walked in the door, sat down, and started watching cartoons on the TV. Nobody ever really said anything about it or asked him what happened. I mean, how do you bring that up? Ever since then we've just come to accept that dad dies sometimes," said Thurmond's daughter Julie.

Thurmond, who is retiring at the end of this session of Congress because nobody appreciates Polack jokes anymore, served for 48 years, as near as anyone can remember, and goes out the oldest man ever to serve in the Senate and the lifetime record holder for scrambled eggs eaten.

Frail and confined to a wheelchair, Thurmond appeared moved by his hissing bowels and the event held in his honor. "Gaaaaah! Hsssssaaah! Fbbbbbtttsss!" he told the gathering.

Thurmond's career tracked many of the cultural changes that took place in the South he came to represent. He won election to the Senate in 1954, the only write-in candidate ever to capture a Senate seat, after he convinced election officials that he also went by the nicknames "Donald Duck" and "Hugo Fukov." Years later he secured his legacy by originating the "Southurn Manefesto" that urged defiance of the 1954 Supreme Court ruling on school desegregation. In 1957 he spoke for 24 hours on the Senate floor in opposition to civil rights legislation, the longest filibuster in Senate history. Three Senators committed suicide during the speech when Thurmond asked if he'd already told the story about his black friend Danny.

In 1964, Thurmond, then a Democrat, switched to the Republican Party when he realized he was the only Democrat on the "Back to Africa" committee. But once civil rights law became a reality, Thurmond adjusted, learning new jokes about Koreans and the handicapped.

"America outgrew old prejudices. Strom himself came to symbolize a reasoned transformation," Dole said with something like a straight face.

Referring to Thurmond's reputation as a lady's man, Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott dropped a pair of wet dentures down a waitress's cleavage to the delight of onlookers. Thurmond, however, looked terrified when informed that Lott's 89-year-old mother had a crush on him.

The highlight of the night came when Thurmond reenacted his 1982 death by having a massive stroke and slumping into a punch bowl, only to reappear later with his arms full of chocolate bunnies.

"That's dad," shrugged daughter Julie, looking slightly unnerved.

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My balls are jingling with the hopes of enterprise, readers. Christmas time is the time for expansion! You know what that means—merger. Merger, merger, merger!

Of course, I realize I don't have any money, which is to say none of the business' private money, and even on my own considerable wealth I may lack the necessary fundage to merge with another business. Or another successful business at least, heh, which is to say a successful business since the commune is generally considered a complete failure. But that is only as you base the financial prospects as a mark of success. I think the commune contributes immeasurably to society even if it doesn't turn a dime of profit, so that's only a partial failure in my book.

But I don't have to worry about money around this, the most "wonderful" time of the year. That's right, bitch—it's Christmas! Hot frozen egg nog on a stick! Say a little Christmas prayer for me!

How could you not love Christmas? People give you things for free and you don't even have to have incriminating pictures of them. It's the bomb, yuletide bomb. My biggest respect, or at least false respect, is held for that big rube of Christmas crackers, Santa Claus! Yow! Line me up for a free gift, sir, thank you very much.

Now everybody knows there's not really a Santa, hopefully you're all old enough you don't need a conspiratologist to tell you so. No, not a real Santa, but it's a proven fact someone else has probably proved that the post office takes all those letters to Santa and delivers them to the richest 1% of the nation. Yahoo! That's how all the presents get under the tree.

And I, for one, am not planning on being left out. You may have seen on the news ten years ago when a mysterious stranger purchased the world's biggest stocking for a record auction price—guess who. And "Santa" is legally obligated to fill every bare inch of the thing, so that was well worth the investment after two or three Christmases. Five, if you're a big financial details sort of asshole, but I don't care what Gay or anyone else says, it is not "a big fat smelly sock you went into hock to buy." It is a pure gold magnet. And unlike the one I bought from that prospector, this one actually works.

But a freakishly large stocking bought from the man with the world's largest foot is only part of my plan for world domination (the friendly kind, I mean). My next plan is a big whopping merger. To guarantee that's what I'm getting this Christmas, I spent all my time writing Christmas letters to Santa ever since the end of Thanksgiving. Which is to say I've paid the commune staff overtime and freed many reporters from their reporting obligations to handwrite letters to Santa since we all know they have machines that prove you photocopied, and that pisses them off. I'm getting a merger, that's for damn sure.

Microsoft, Wal-Mart, News Corp., I'm not too picky. And don't think I'm too greedy either. If I was I'd be asking for a complete hostile takeover, mine of theirs, and that's not what I want. I just want a friendly merger. I want our two brands to be compatible, forced compatibility if necessary, and for our brand loyalties to extend to the other's customers. I want Wal-Mart shopped everywhere reading the commune by this time next year, and hopefully by the same date commune fans will be shopping at Wal-Mart instead of simply living there.

The nation's wealthiest men can certainly spare that, considering I've been such a good boy. Besides, I'm technically in the top 2% of the nation's wealthiest people, so I'm sure with a little hedging they would like to have some new blood on their stodgy old list. But either way I'm dead set on getting that merger, if for no other reasons than it will shut my brother Gay up about the company never turning a profit. So by the start of next year, look for the wealthiest commune yet! Or should I say the Amazon.commune?

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I am an old-fashioned guy, and by that, this time, I do not mean that is my drink of choice. I have traditional values, as anyone who knows me can tell. You know this, good people. And just as ice must melt back to its natural state, not-ice, I must find a woman to complete half of the Rok Finger/unknown woman couple. It is my natural state to be with someone else. As someone once said, "a man needs a maid," and boy, did it piss off feminists.

Unable to deal with the bar scene, or anything that would have "scene" added to its description, I sought the old reliable method of Internet dating. Of course, not at first. At first I attempted to write a classified ad. I consider myself something of a master of the classified ad. I unloaded over 65 free kittens, two old lawnmowers, and a refrigerator that no longer kept things cool through mastery of the classified ad. And I composed my most charming classified ad when searching for the most valuable property of all—a wife.

"Wanted: Woman, female only. BGOCMWCMWAH [Backyard Grill-Owning Currently-Married Whitish-Colored Man Who Adores Hyphenating] seeks SHITHEAD
[Single Highly-Interested Total Hottie Eager for Action and Dancing] to marry without meeting. Must be able to tolerate the handicapped and enjoy being bossed around. Owning a motorcycle a plus. Send pictures (of you on motorcycle)."
Since I received no responses, except for a few teens only eager for hi-jinks, I can only assume women have stopped reading the newspaper altogether. Thank you very much, Lifetime.

However, I will not be discouraged. After all, I met my last wife over the Internet, didn't I? And we're still married. What a strange and charming thing it is. The Internet, I mean—the wife is a foul-mouthed harpy. So I immediately hooked up with a matchmaking site, called WebTouch. With a name like that, how could it not deliver everything I want?

It's all very warm and personal, as you sit at home in a dark room lit by a glowing computer screen and fill out the blank spaces on a form to find the woman of your dreams. Actually, the woman in my dreams is 9-foot tall and chases me while swinging a cat by its tail, trying to strike me down, so I'm seeking someone better than the woman of my dreams. There's quite a lot of choices, too, so don't go overboard. I found when I put made "doesn't go to the bathroom" one of my requirements, I got very few responses. I suppose we all have to be a little open-minded. So I changed it to "seldom goes to bathroom."

I also told them I didn't want any foreigners, no one of a different religion, must be very pretty, must be very trim and shapely, without opinions, or at least keeps all opinions to self, will worship me with every step I take and keep her head bowed as I walk ahead of her, and if possible, will let me name her.

I'm too demanding, you say? To hell with you, good people. I say there's no point in listing all your desires in a perfect woman if you're going to wimp out and "accept" flaws. I also say "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Because I think that's quite funny, and my father once owned a cow.

And to those of you who say I'll never get any responses when asking for so much, I say shows what you know. I've already received a wonderful opening email from the elegant Lady Buttsfree, who lives in Somewhereland, England, or as I know her, the good lady writing from 2funnypricks@hotmail.com. She's a princess, and though it's early in our email exchange, she's already suggesting I move into her castle. I'm waiting for her to send a picture, of course, and she will, once they come in from the beauty contest she just won.

True love, you've found Rok Finger again!

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