n what most are calling an incredibly tight no-way race, as in "no way are any of these guys going to be president," all Democratic candidates are finding themselves beaten in Iowa Democratic Caucus polls by a write-in vote for the candidate known as only "Not Bush."

Though vagaries in the caucus system make polling unreliable, the most reliable polls show clearly the "Not Bush" candidate leading the way far ahead of the pack of current Democrats. Representatives of the Iowa caucus said they spent three days searching for the lead candidate before realizing it was not an actual person, merely a vote rejecting a supposed actual person.

Early poll results show the runner-up position still being a no-way battle between national frontrunner Howard Dean, Sen. Dick Gephardt, Sen. John Kerry, Sen. John Edwards, or possibly another person altogether. With all four candidates concentrating their attention on winning over undecided Iowa voters, Dean and Gephardt pulled their negative ads to focus on a more positive way to say the other candidates suck, while Kerry and Edwards both inched forward in the polls, oblivious to the fact there's no way either would ever be elected president. Running behind those four Democrats were Gen. Wesley Clark, Sen. Joe Lieberman, Sen. Carol Mosley Braun (who pulled out of the race earlier in the week), Sen. Bob Graham (who pulled out of the race months ago), a candidate known as "Not Sharpton," Al Gore (who isn't even running), Al Sharpton, and finally, Dennis Kucinich.

Iowa caucus expert Henry "Iowa" Jones felt the numbers would be representative of Iowa's opinion of the Democratic candidates, and expressed a national dissatisfaction with its political choices.

"The American people have fervently and decidedly said they do not want George Bush for their president, if these polls are any indication," said Jones. "However, we rolled out candidates that we here in Iowa would call, 'real dillies.' You can sort of see the American people collectively wincing and asking, 'Okay. Are these my only choices?'"

Jones further elaborated, when asked to fill column space. "It's quite a simple quandary. In layman's terms, the American people are hungry, but nothing we've suggested sounds good. They're not quite sure what they exactly want, but it's very likely not anything we've offered. Like saying, 'Seafood? Italian? Mexican?' And the American people are starting to think they'd rather just stay in and crack open a bag of chips, politically speaking."

However, though the news is good for no one, it's not bad for everyone. In particular, little-known independent presidential candidate Lyle Woodman stands to benefit greatly if the polls truly show how people will cast their votes in the national elections. At least, Woodman will benefit once he finishes the legal process of changing his name to "Not Bush" in October, 2004.

"I had a feeling 'Not Bush' would be a name with a lot of political weight back when I was watching the 2000 presidential election," said Woodman, tentatively referring to himself as Not. "In fact, if I remember correctly, Not Bush won in a very, very close race against the Republican candidate, Not Gore."

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If you're like me, you're starting to wonder if they're ever going to come out with a pill that makes everybody beautiful, or if that was just the Twilight Zone blowing smoke up our asses. You also thought that by now the world would be overrun by test-tube baby freaks, babies with super powers or at least alarmingly rounded skulls like built-in helmets from gestating in a big glass tube. Isn't that some scary shit? You bet your cold sweat nightmares it is! I'd probably be the president by now if I hadn't lost so much precious sleep to the threat of a test tube baby creeping up out of my toilet tank with piano wire in hand, yikes.

But, unless you're living on the set of a Korean horror flick or you're the late Howard Hughes, that's a future that never came true. Why?

Finding an answer to that question involves a lot of legwork spent freak hunting, which is sort of like freak dancing except you don't get to rub your crotch on a girl. The reason this freak hunting is necessary is because you can't answer the question of why there aren't any test tube baby freaks running around until you've made sure there actually aren't any. After all, for all you know your neighbors could all be test tube babies grown up, and while you're at work they have meetings in each other's living rooms about how creepy it is to live next door to the freak who got squeezed out of a vagina thirty years ago. No wonder they never invite you to their BBQs, that's a disgusting image.

After a quick poll of everyone who happened to be in the commune offices this afternoon, I determined with statistical certainty that there aren't any grownup test tube baby freaks out running around. Nobody in the office was a test tube baby, anyway, though editor Red Bagel recently appeared on television eating babyback ribs and Lil Duncan once was allowed to skip a roadside sobriety test because she was wearing a tube top. Granted, the commune staff constitutes a limited (in more ways that one) sample size, but it's hot outside. Also, there was a Fed-Ex guy here who was on the wrong floor and he wasn't a test tube baby either, so I say that seals the deal pretty convincingly.

So what happened to all of them? Were they rounded up as infants and processed into lunchmeat? Or did they grow up together as a bizarre clan in a cloistered and secretive governmental environment, like Utah?

While this would explain an awful lot about Utah, there's no way the government would ever leave evidence of such an Orwellian conspiracy in plain sight of any random Olympics spectator or people who got lost looking for Colorado. The government likes to save that "in plain sight" hiding trick for when aliens crash land right at the same time SNL needs a new batch of writers for the season.

Long story short, it turns out all the test tube babies are now working at McDonald's. Well, not all of them, some work at Arby's and the other fast-food chains, but they're not allowed to run the giant meat slicer so they have to have at least one normal human on the staff there to make sure nobody gets very gradually decapitated. But nine out of ten test tube babies are now plugged in behind the counter at fast food restaurants; the tenth is making sure the salad bar at Old Country Buffet has twice as many olives as anything else.

How did this come about? In recent years, all the recent immigrants with poor English skills have been opting for higher-paying customer service jobs, leaving the fast food industry in need a cheap and unreliable workforce that could be made into McNuggets if the freezer ever crapped out unexpectedly. The first test tube babies began to come of age in the late 90's, but were generally useless since it turns out the mother's umbilical cord transmits some kind of nutrients that are important for fetal brain development. So the test tube kids were basically permanently stoned all the time.

What had been a frustrating problem for the government and their caretakers was a gold-shitting goose for the fast food industry, since they'd been looking for replaceable bands of idiots to run their restaurants for years. A few small changes had to be made to accommodate the new workforce, as the tubers' domed noggins required the addition of embarrassing foam mesh baseball caps to the standard fast food uniform to keep customers from flipping out and screaming uncontrollably mid-meal. But in the end the fast food chains got their wish: workers with no will to break who were willing to scrub Horsey sauce out of booster seats for eleven cents an hour and no benefits.

And really, terrible as the jobs might be, it was a step up for the tube babies, who'd lived most of their lives in lockers like the cast of You Can't Do That on Television. The only real losers were consumers, who haven't got a fast food meal right since 1997. You ever try to order something without pickles at one of these places? I rest my case. You'd have better luck getting them to notarize your living will. One time the guy just handed me a big bag of pickles that was stapled shut, it's like dealing with the rejects from a mannequin factory. Come to think of it, I think that was in a Twilight Zone episode, too. Eerie.

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Don't get me started, Shorty. You know exactly how I feel about them McEnroys across the gully. A fouler people there never was burped up onto the earth, and that's one scientific fact. When I was in shorty-pants my daddy told me about them McEnroys, givin' in me the good sense to hate them as does all God's green creatures. And dang did daddy hate them McEnroys. Like his daddy afore him and so on and so what back to the day when grand-grandpa Peter done stepped right in a big dollop of moose puddin' that grand-grandpa McEnroy did left on his porch as a early-mornin' prank of sorts. But this was one of them pranks that was destine not to get no laughs, 'cause grand-grandpa Peter was wearin' the new toot-boots he just got for Christmas a few days afore, the ones with the lyrics to "Sweet Mona May" embroidered around the back. You seen them boots Shorty, an I don't need to tell you how they was shamefully ruint. Dang if that wasn't one o' them tragedies o' bible-belt proportions.

And so it done started that my family always hate them McEnroys, and them McEnroys ain't none too fond on us, neither. As you would expect from a McEnroy, them bein' no higher than snake's ass draggin' on the asphalt. Over the years this county has seen quite a feud, with plenty o' moose puddin' left strategicaldy here an there. It's been a feud that claimed more than a few lives isself, too, like the time Bobby Mo and Steefie was blowed up tryin' to make an atom bomb out from pig dung an gasoline, for what to blow up the McEnroy trailer an above-ground hot tub.

You know as well as anyone, Shorty, that I myself have had my own share o' close calls with that McEnroy clan. Remember the time a few winters back when we found that gopher done froze up solid in the ditch, and we build that catapult out from underwear elastic to shoot that frozed critter up onto the roof o' the McEnroy trailer? To this day I still think that was the best idea you ever had, Shorty. Sometimes when I've got trouble sleepin' I like to lay awake an think o' what it woulda been like if it had worked, an that critter woulda thawed in the springtime an created a powerful stink up there on that roof, an them McEnroys woulda just thought it was they own foul behinds makin' the stink. An I don't care not what nobody says, Shorty, neither o' us had any way from knowin' that icy critter was gonna come crashing down through the McEnroy roof and break botha grandma McEnroy's legs while she was sittin' there watchin' the $25,000 Pyramid.

Nobody who's not a liar can prove it was me who did put that greased pig in the McEnroy's station wagon last summer, though I will admit to laughin' the hardest when we was watchin' them try to get that pissed-off squealer to come on out o' the car. Some have said that was the best prank pulled on the McEnroys since the time my own daddy snuck in on a moonless night an covered that whole property with mouse traps. That next morning this valley sounded like a good day in Vietnam, Shorty, and a finer day our family has never seen.

Sure, the McEnroys have had they own laughs at our expense, as is to be expected in any proper feud. Like all the times they've had the law on our tails, bringin' charges of assault with a deadly carcass and grand theft of a trailer home and stalkin' or whatnot. I have to say Shorty, them McEnroys got they own style o' feudin'. It's not like a McEnroy to grease your handrail or fill up your outhouse full of locusts. They're much more fond of callin' out the law every time one o' our pranks against them ends up causin' serious property damage or cripplin' the elderly. That's just like a McEnroy, too. Always takin' the high road.

Dang if I don't hate them McEnroys, Shorty. Where's my potato gun?

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