BENSON WINS!

t long last the recount is over, and former Lt. Governor Benson DuBois has been named Governor of the state in which he resides, which could not be ascertained at press time.

Patient voters in the state have waited since 1986 for the new Governor to be named, when Benson DuBois, former Lt. Governor of the state, ran a "very close race" against the state's incumbent Governor James Gatling, whom he had worked under since fall of 1979. The two were very close friends over the years, which made the race very comedic for all, with moments of poignant drama.

"This has been a long, trying time for us all," DuBois said in a press conference in the state capitol yesterday. "Fortunately, before the results were announced, the Governor and I reflected fondly on all the capers we've had since our debut in politics and have pledged to support the winner, who we can now safely say is me. Now if that lunkhead Clayton and the people will agree to do the same, we can move this great state forward into the next millenium."

Benson, as he is commonly known, has delighted audiences of political candidacies everywhere with his rags-to-riches tale that is almost too lucky to be believed. Starting off as the Governor's butler in 1979, he is frequently suspected to have played a major role in all aspects of state policy and concerns. Eventually Benson was appointed Lt. Governor, where his role in politics increased even as situations became even wackier. Benson has also given back to the community, teaching his illiterate basketball star nephew how to read and educating the Governor's daughter on the dangers of sneaking out to go to a rock concert.

The new Governor-Elect is expected to appoint major state positions in the next few weeks, including Gretchen Krause as the Secretary of Staying the Hell Out of My Face. When pressed for comment, the Governor-Elect would not disclose what state he presides over.

Lost Scout Earns Coveted “Distract the National Media” Badge

House Democrats Uneasy During Rare Trip Outside

Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows

Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It?

This is dedicated to my wife, on the occasion of our three year anniversary. The time… where has it gone? Out of my soul and into you, through several orifices, that's where. And would I change one second of it? Not one second.

Nancy, you are the light in my bedroom early in the morning as I get out of bed for a drink of water, or perhaps to use the bathroom. You are my reason for getting out of bed in the morning, as you wake me up so I will not be late for work. You are my one, my only, my everything, even the things that you would not initially think you are. Like the dressing on my salad that adds flavor and zest to it, or the potato peeler that keeps me from having to eat skins.

When I first saw you all those years ago, when I was dating your friend, I knew we would one day be together. But I thought at the time we would be together in a sort of group thing, with your friend, my then-current girlfriend, and some person you were likewise dating. But fate twists and turns, wobbles and falls down, smashes your glass coffee table and sleeps with your sister. And you became mine, when I called you and asked you if you wanted to bring over my laundry from your friend's house for me.

But Nancy, that small errand became the first of many you would do for me. You would carry my heart on your back like it weighed nothing and bring it back to me, bringing with you hope and happiness and your beautiful smile. Though I'm sure my heart already was pretty heavy, it's as if you shrugged it off and said, "No, I can take it with me. Just throw it on top of the heart. Careful, don't squash it or nothing."

Nancy, you are the song in my heart. A song I never get sick of, like that "I get knocked down but I get up again" song that I at first liked and then got sick of hearing at every football game we went to. What would I do without you? It's a stupid question that you're dumb for asking, because I would not spend a day without you. I would find you anywhere, at any place—I would sail the seven seas and find you, except for the fact I do not have a boat. But it is fine because you are already here.

Where are we going, where will it all end? And how? These are questions I don't really care about.

Sometimes I picture us growing old together, a happy old couple like Hume Cronyn and Jessica Tandy, only you have not died. Sure, your looks are gone and I look more like my dad than I ever wanted to, but we are still together and happy. Though sometimes bored. And our house is full of our children and grandchildren, because you have pampered them all their lives and they refuse to move out and take care of themselves even though they are well old enough. We have had many arguments about this, our future selves, but they are never severe and the words we say we always take back.

This is our life together—yes, one life, as in we are one person. I, Chals, and you, Nancy, we're like Chancy. One person, one mind, two differing sets of genitalia and one large closet full of man and woman clothes. Our independent thought processes buried under the will of our new two-person collective. I refuse to let you go even if you would scream to be released, I would rather be dead. And you feel the same way for me.

So if you're reading this, Nancy, please come back. My friends have moved out of the garage and will not be back, I promise. I miss you. My one, my only, my everything.

º Last Column: You: Tall, Gorgeous Blonde. Me: Abusive Drunken Bigot
º more columns

Though it might surprise the ignorant, the holiday of Christmas was celebrated long before Christ came along and limp-wristed his way into the history books, or at least the history books that are available at most major motels. They didn't call it Christmas back then, since that would just be spooky, but regardless, the winter solstice was celebrated for eons before Christ laid the golden turd.

In northern lands, ancient peoples celebrated the passing of the midpoint of winter, looking ahead to longer days and the return of the light, which would remind them just how ugly their neighbors were. With the light came the melting of the snow, which rang in the springtime removal of the dead bodies of all the dumb assholes who had frozen to death over the winter. Hence the term "spring cleaning" was coined, though over time it's somehow come to mean some yuppie sponging out his microwave.

The Norse in Scandanavia celebrated Yule, a vague holiday that involved eating and went on for however damn long they wanted it to. Anyone who asked if the holiday was over yet was eaten, and as a result it often dragged on for months.

The ancient Germans didn't celebrate, since they were German, but they were scared shitless of the pagan God Oden, who they placated by never going outside. The exchange of goods in the winter months consisted of things being thrown from one house's window to the next. This usually worked fairly well but mishaps did occur, and most houses had at least a few frozen chickens stuck to their outside walls. The biggest problem was that if the town butcher threw his back out, the entire town would starve, since Germans don't believe in vegetables except for sauerkraut.

The Romans had their own insane version of Christmas, which basically involved everybody getting naked, fucking, and throwing up all morning. They had a few other traditions rolled in there, but mainly they were just thinly disguised excuses for fucking.

In the early days of Christianity, Easter was the only holiday, and it got so out of hand that they were afraid to add any more. The early Christians were known for having an extreme early version of Attention Deficit Disorder, and as a result the celebration of Christ's resurrection soon morphed into a mutant strain when somebody thought they said procreation and they started dressing up like rabbits, and then somebody brought a bunch of eggs because he didn't have a rabbit costume and didn't know what else to do, and then somebody else said "Fuck eggs, I like chocolate!" and the modern insane Easter was born.

In the fourth century, the church decided it was safe to make another go at it and they added a celebration for the birth of Christ. There was a slight problem in that nobody had any idea when Christ was born, and the Bible just said something about there was tallow in the Eastern bung and nobody knew what month that was supposed to mean. The problem was solved when Pope Julius I scratched his nose for a while and then declared that Christ was born on December 25th. When scholars argued that this ran counter to all available evidence, he pope-slapped them and told everyone that if they wanted to piss off Oden, that was their own prerogative. Everybody agreed it was December 25th after that.

Julius I's real motivation was a clever one. By throwing the celebration for the birth of Christ at the same time when all of the non-Christians were celebrating the winter solstice by balling their brains out, he could confuse people into thinking that they were celebrating Christianity by drinking a lot of beer and nailing everything in the house to a tree, a deception that still stands to this day.

Once the Puritans took over England, they outlawed Christmas, and anything else that people liked to do. This lasted for about ten seconds before the people rose up and kicked their gay asses out of the country. They washed up in North America, complaining constantly about being religiously persecuted, and then outlawed Christmas there, too. The problem was that the Native Americans didn't know what Christmas was, so the Puritans had to teach them how to decorate their teepees with popcorn and nuts and little ballerinas on the outside, and then tell them never to do it.

Living with the Puritans eventually drove the Native Americans to drinking, which the Puritans had taught them to do so they could tell them not to do that, either. Eventually the Puritans died out after they decided that opening their eyes was sinful and then were all eaten by bears at night. But because of them, generations of Americans grew up without traditional Christmas orgies.

Eventually Charles Dickens wrote The Christmas Carol, which he completely pulled out of his ass during a wild weeklong acid binge. Naïve American readers believed that he was talking about real holiday traditions, and were pissed that none of the immigrants had told them about the fun of Christmas. Several immigrant-bashing why-didn't-you-tell-us-about-Christmas riots followed, and America's new arrivals quickly learned to make up traditions on the spot to appease the custom-starved masses.

Soon the entire country was celebrating a bastard amalgam of made-up holiday customs, believing that the Dutch or Ubangi or some goddamned people had actually strung lights up in trees and drank fermented egg snot for hundreds of years. The church was quick to remind everyone that Christ was born on Christmas, too, and they skylarked a story about three traveling salesmen giving presents to baby Jesus to make it all sort of tie together.

You might wonder how Santa Claus came into all of this, but that was all just a Coke commercial that everyone assumed was referencing an ancient tradition. To this very day, the guys at Coca-Cola are still kicking themselves that they didn't name the guy Santa Coke. Scandinavians may argue that Santa was based on their ancient myth about an elf named Jultomten who delivers presents in a goat-drawn sled, but that's just stupid.

º Last Column: What the Hell Are Muppets?
º more columns