Poll: 99 Percent of Americans Support Happiness

any purported to be surprised by the results of a random poll Thursday of living Americans to find high numbers in support of happiness and/or general well-being all around. While the poll results don't show express support for the administration or opposition to the war on Iraq, many responders suggested that happiness for everyone was something they favored.

On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being "most strongly agree" and 1 being "most strongly disagree," nearly 99.3% answered with 10 the question, "Would you like for everybody to be happy?" With a 3% margin of error, .6% ranked between 1 and 9 in their responses to the same question, while .1% were undecided on whether they wanted everyone to be happy.

According to the report, the results were clear across demographic boundaries. Republicans, Democrats, and independents were all generally in favor of happiness for everyone, as were women and men, most whites and members of minority groups. Incomes ranging from high to very low, even poverty levels, responded similarly, as did Christians, Muslims, and those of other faiths. In general, uncertainty was expressed among 28-year-old white middle class Christian men named Trevor Bancroft, who sounded like they might have been drinking a little.

A very high number of respondents also expressed a distaste for bad things. Many stated that if they had their way, they would do away with bad things altogether, while a small number expressed a philosophical opinion that bad things might be sometimes necessary for the twain purposes of breaking up monotony and making good things seem better.

While varying numbers expressed support or disagreement with military action in Iraq, high numbers again responded in favor of everyone getting along with each other. Some suggested putting aside differences in favor of working together in harmony, but their suggestions were batted aside with sarcastic statements that the poll wasn't a democracy.

The poll results follows a confusing month for pollsters, who have been reporting seemingly contradictory results that show Americans have strongly supported U.S. troops and at the same time have been against war. Polling companies are saying it's a pleasant change to find so many Americans agreeing on the subject of happiness.

Poll experts, which we are assured exist, are describing the high numbers as a rare artifact in polling. Such high similar responses in a poll have not been reported since 1995's poll on whether or not child abuse was good, 1992's poll on whether or not people were afraid of dying, and 1985's poll on who preferred Pepsi to Coke, taken by the Coca-Cola Company as part of an advertising campaign.

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Dear commune:

My name is Ronnie Boyd and I am 13 years old. I'm in the hospital right now and very sick.

I have a rare disease that I can't even pronounce. I need a genitals transplant or the doctors say I won't live very long at all. I probably won't get it, as the doctors say genitals transplanting is very rare and most doctors can't do it without laughing so it's a very risky procedure. My doctor says things look pretty bad and I might not live six months, even if I pay the bill.

I am writing because I am trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records before I die. Since I am sick and my genitals don't even work I can't do all that much, but the Guinness people said my best bet is to get as many "get well" cards as possible and maybe I can set the record for that. So if you could spread the word that the sick boy with the bad genitals needs cards maybe I can do it before I die.

Thank you very much. It means a lot to me.

Ronnie Boyd
Kingstown, DE


Dear Ronnie:

We were very moved by your story, at least some of us at the commune, and we would like to help you. We would like to, but due to recent events it's not going to happen. Read on:

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Dear commune:

This is Patrick Molton and I'm 11. Just to cut to the chase, I have a rare bone disease that makes my bones pop out through the skin and it's really gross. I need a really obscure type of bone marrow to transplant or I'll die. I probably won't get it as I'm not very well liked and, well, that whole "waiting list" thing is just a popularity contest.

I'm trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for the most "get well" cards sent to a dying sick kid and I'm doing pretty well, off to a nice start. I'd appreciate if you could let everybody know what I'm doing and where they can send cards and stuff.

Also, watch out for that asshole Ronnie Boyd. He's beat me to the New York Times and
Washington Post both, and the New York Times wouldn't even publish my letter afterwards, they said I wasn't cute enough and they had some kind of limit on the number of dying kid letters they could run. It's enough to really piss someone off. We even both promised, Ronnie Boyd and I, we wouldn't try overseas outlets and then that prick writes to BBC and he's all over the news and radio over there, it's a shitbag. British folks everywhere babbling on about Ronnie Boyd, Ronnie Boyd—do they give a fuck who Patrick Molton is? No. I might as well just be some nobody from Canada.

Ronnie Boyd is a complete asshole. Sure, he comes off a like a perfect bed-ridden sick kid, but it's just a big fat lie. He has this big awful dick-rotting-off disease but he never mentions he got it from sleeping with pigs. Makes a difference, doesn't it? Do you really want to send your "get well" cards to a pigfucker? Think carefully.

I'm the real deal, people. Real good kid, no false pretenses, certainly no animal fucking. I may be a little rough around the edges but that's just because I'm so damn straight with you, I ain't going to lie like some pigfuckers I could mention. So you search your souls or whatever you need to do and before you send out a "get well" card, just be sure if you want a pigfucker in the Guinness Book of World Records or a straight-shooting good American kid. Thanks.

Patrick Molton
Meelay, NJ


Dear Patrick, Ronnie:

As you can see, this has become a much stickier issue than we're prepared to get into. All we can say is good luck trying to get into the Guinness Book, but we're not getting involved.

Pigfucker.

the commune

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Dear commune:

Why didn't you tell anyone the commune was going to be on 60 Minutes? Being both a regular 60 Minutes viewer and loyal commune reader, I was happily surprised to see Ed Bradley leading a camera team into the offices of the commune last Sunday. I'm not sure why they blurred Rok Finger's face and not everybody else, but it was very cool to see all the famous commune writers and columnists and personalities (Mazie the Chicken is a lot shorter in person) in moving pictures for the first time.

It's a shame they spent so much time on the unhealthy working conditions of the office and the questionable bookkeeping in the advertising department and didn't cover the great reporting and on-target editorials the commune has always presented. If you're going to be on television again, let me know so I can tape it.

Mitch Weaver
Mullasky, VA


Dear Cary:

Our lawyers suggest we answer your letter carefully and neither confirm nor deny the
60 Minutes piece you mentioned. We can safely say, however, that Rok Finger's face was not blurred by any technological means. It just takes some getting used to.

the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for however many seashells she sells by the sea shore when she sells seashells. That's one of our favorites. That and holding your tongue and telling everyone you were born on a pirate ship.

º Last Column: Volume 14
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I'm fucking miserable. What an asshole I've been.

Sorry for the Turkish, good people, but Rok Finger's hit rock bottom. No fuckin' pun intended. In fact, if I did intend a pun in any slight or possibly intentional way, beat me to death with a dirty broom handle.

As you'll no doubt know, I've separated from my wife of 30 years, Arvelyn. Things came to a head and blew up after the whole possibly poisoned food incident, I won't go into the lousy stinking details, but just to cut through the bullshit, we're broken up. I've been living in my office at the commune since then, drinking from the water fountain and Ramrod Hurley's hidden Jim Beam bottle and eating the plants growing in the window sill of Omar Bricks' cubicle. Sure, I feel a lot better once I've eaten, but I always come back to here. Rock bottom. No pun, yadda yadda.

I'm sure I've expressed how large and impressive a bitch my wife is. Not that I'd totally recant that statement, but as of late I think it only fair to mention I'm no prince to live with either. Let's face facts, loyal readers: I'm a huge prick, and not the good kind of huge prick ladies talk about. I'm the awful kind of insane, self-destructive huge prick who drives away good-hearted women who love him.

There is no God. That's obvious. What kind of God would make a huge prick like me and then give him a perfect woman just knowing I'd drive her off just like I did all the other good women in my life, and small children as well? A huge prick God, of course. Satan, I think he's called. Yeah. God is Satan.

Oooh! Shit. This song, this song is so true. No shitting you, this is dead on the truth. I've heard it before but it never made sense like it does right now. Indeed, we're all stars in the dope show. I'm turning it up, Nacutchacokov and all his shushing can shove themselves up his ass, which would be a physics nightmare. He just works here, I have to live here. I don't think he's from this country either.

Sometimes I think maybe I should go outside, since there's always a better chance of being hit by some sort of traveling vehicle or being struck by lightning. Earthquakes, they're rare but they could happen. Something could fall out of a window, like my desk, and crush me flat under it. Arvelyn would get all the insurance money and I'd finally do something worthy of her, what a fucking prick I am. The bitch. Oh, shit, I just remembered, I made the cat my beneficiary. You see? This is the kind of humongoid prick Rok Finger is, no denying it.

I'm thinking of getting out The Catcher in the Rye and reading it again. Christ, I haven't read that book in thirty years now. In fact, I don't think I ever read it. I burned it once. It's hard to remember now what all that was about, I think I was just trying to be cool.

Bagel can shove his deadlines up his ass. I'll turn in a page full of randomly pressed keyboard markings before I write another column. I'm on contract, dammit, they can't hold me. Besides, I don't think they edit these things at all.

Anyway, I'm muddling through, good people, loyal friends, fans of a huge prick. I'm sure by next time I'll have a column better prepared or something. Or, with luck, I'll be dead and it will no longer be an issue. Fuck me.

º Last Column: I Am Nobody's Personal Food Taster
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