Irony Bites President Bush in the Ass

ew were surprised when statements made by President Bush last week invited the bite of irony. The president, frequently less observant of irony in his statements than Alanis Morissette in hers, was attacking Zimbabwe president Robert Mugabe for stealing the recent election in his country.

Mugabe's method of election fraud was with open threats to members of the opposing party, Zimbabwe's Movement for Democratic Change party, and discouraging voters from turning out to cast their vote for the opposition. Violence and blatant electioneering were observed around the country, though no evidence of fixing votes themselves has been brought to light.

The situation echoed the 2000 U.S. presidential election so clearly the irony was apparently visible from the outer space, though President Bush completely missed the irony once again.

"Mugabe has clearly interfered with the will of the people," said President Bush, who failed to clearly win the popular vote in his own country in 2000. "I ask him to graciously stand aside and allow the election process to be carried out without his interference."

No other method of reaction other than verbal scorning is likely to come from the United States or other western superpowers. Any pressure placed on Zimbabwe by the U.S., in the form of sanctions or other political or economical pressures, would surely invite more intense irony.

"President Mugabe has created an uneven playing field for the opposition," said Bush, whose brother Jeb is the governor of Florida, the state whose electoral college cast the deciding votes in favor of Bush. "He ought to be ashamed of himself," said Bush, hip-deep in red-hot irony.

Mugabe has run his campaign on platform of turning over white-owned land to native black residents and anti-imperialism. Bush, in contrast, campaigned on the platform his dad had been president.

"Surely President Bush must understand that when an election grows heated a nominee must welcome natural advantages to his campaign," said Mugabe.

"Unh-uh, don't follow ya," said Bush upon hearing Mugabe's statement.

Since Bush's "election" in 2000, irony has been an ever-present character in the Bush White House, appearing more frequently with the president than Vice-President Dick Cheney.

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After a voyage that took me to nearly every state in the union, and some I'm still not convinced are legally in, I found my Elvis medicine.

First a long trip to New Hampshire, only to realize the Elvis Graceland is in Memphis, so I headed down that way. I'm sure there was plenty of pharmaceuticals on hand in that huge facility, but the tour guides give you the most morbid look when you ask if you can go through the medicine cabinet. I'm sure the King looks down disapprovingly from his cloud, but he's powerless to help me now.

And that's when I thought of it—Elvis helpers! I've seen them everywhere. Like Santa Claus, they are plentiful and pose as the man himself while going around, doing his bidding, like non-denominational disciples. And like Elvis, of course, Santa Claus also died in a mansion in the 1970s, but his work continues through those noble men. All I had to do was meet up with a faithful Elvis impersonator and I would receive the medicine I so needed! Though actually, the flu that inspired this long trek disappeared somewhere between Ohio and Kentucky, but I was already in motion, no fun to stop the journey.

All I can guess is it must be the off-season, since the Elvis helpers were nowhere in sight. I tried the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the original Sun Studios, and every Hard Rock Café in the nation. I camped out for days in front of Nicolas Cage's house, knowing well his fetish for everything Elvis, but none ever showed up. The police officer who escorted me away had a pretty good sneer, but he was sneering for a different reason. That's when it occurred to me—Las Vegas! The Windy Apple! The City of Broken Lights! The Gamblingest Place on Earth!

I had a contact in Vegas, too, through a friend named MC Vic Daniels, whom I met through the commune. He once wrote a Rent for us, so I knew he was poor and had a poor interpretation of reality, and hopefully those factors would help me find a reliable Elvis who could help. I saw his show, and even though I'm not much on rap, I certainly enjoyed a lot of it, and indeed his shoes were worth remarking on. We shared a dinner afterwards, and it turns out he knows the best of the best Elvis impersonators. Which is good, since I wanted a sincere Elvis imitator, and not some loser just pretending to be Elvis.

I found the best indeed—Loretta "Elvis" Costello, a female Elvis impersonator who couldn't look more like Elvis if her mother had been the King. Not a female impersonator, but a female who impersonates—she has trouble with those adjectives all the time. She was kind, informative, and could belt out "In the Ghetto" so well as to bring a tear to your eye. Quick to help, too, as she carried her own duffel bag loaded from top to bottom with the finest prescription drugs you could ever find—Elvis' own, no doubt. She set me up for everything I need, and took no money in return. Why, you may ask? You cynical shit. Some people just carry the spirit of the good King with them, and exhibit it in everything they do. In fact, I want to live the same way from now on. I thanked Girl Elvis and invited her to drop in any time she was in the neighborhood, and I would be glad to repay the favor.

She said she was going to be coming to Atlantic City next week and needed a place to stay, so she would be happy to take me up on the offer. Didn't know what time she would arrive, whenever her friend Merle dropped her off, and didn't know how long she would be staying, since the show may get extended. Yes, I truly am a stupid man.

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I suggest you check your phone for bugs and turn the stereo up loud. At least if you're reading this column out loud to yourself or with friends. Some may say you're crazy for believing the world is more than meets the eye, that the government deceives you every moment of every day, that you host small parties where you get together with friends and read my column aloud. I say if you're crazy, we're all living in a nuthouse. And we're the less crazy "germaphobic" kind of insane and everyone else is the "dog tells you to shoot the president" kind.

We have turned a corner, loyal readers. We've opened a door to a room or a lid to a box that we can't close again. We've stripped the spark plug where we can take it out, but can never put it back in. We've unscrewed the top to the jar and you've gotten peanut butter in my chocolate. We're through the looking glass, people.

Be prepared for anything. Your life may be in jeopardy just for seeing me. Your wheel of fortune is spinning out of control. You've thrown the dice and shouted "Yahtzee!" and the government is listening in. The word of the day is "conspiracy," with a capital "C" and it's right on triple word score, triple letter points.

You're looking in the manhole, Americans, and there's a foul stench coming up. Go ahead. Turn to me with a pinched face and ask, "Damn! You smell that?" I sure do. Someone smelt it who did not dealt it.

We've lifted up the seamy underbelly of America and tickled it until the leg started kicking wildly. But it's not enough. We keep tickling, up and down the belly. Don't be surprised when it pees on you.

I've met with top government officials, who agreed with what I said. About being through the looking glass, I mean. We've walked through the park, arm in arm, neither looking the other in the eye so government spies wouldn't know we know each other. Sure, it felt really gay to be walking like that through the park, and some teen-age boys we believe were not affiliated with the government chanted something obscene about us, but homophobic teen-agers is the least of our problems right now. We've broken through the ice and our collective privates have shrunken like sun-dried dates in the freezing water.

This information is too big to release in one column. I can only say three words: Japan, yogurt, chemical P. No more is safe to say; in fact, I worry about government assassins out there doing Yahoo word string searches on "Japan, yogurt, chemical P" and stumbling on this column. My life would be worth less than a possum douche if I was discovered with what I know at this point. That's why I used "yogurt" in place of the real word which, if said, would put the horrifying reality out there for all to understand and fear, but also shorten my life significantly. So I hold back the secret true word at this moment, but let's just say that "yogurt" is the biggest worry of our new millennium, if we knew about it.

Things will go from worst to far worse than worst if I let the wrong information slip right now. This column is a call to arms—I'm assembling an elite team, a daring venture on my part. For the first time I'm going to do something rather than report the ugly truth. My elite team will break into the yogurt storage facility and remove the dreaded chemical P before it contaminates the yogurt and yogurt-based products, at which point the ultimate weapon of covert destruction will be formed.

The team will have to be brave, intelligent, and expendable. They should also be able to follow my commands from a long distance away, since I'll be coordinating from my fall-out shelter at an undisclosed location I can't disclose. And should they be caught, they should disavow any knowledge of my part in the operation and certainly shouldn't expect to receive any sort of payment for incomplete work.

If this sounds like you, or an unsuspecting friend you could trick into doing this, then by all means, contact me. I'll be at my undisclosed fall-out shelter, so if you can contact me I'll know right away you're one of the government spies and my hideout's been compromised.

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