Schwarzenegger Adds Bust of Reagan to Campaign

fter failing to impress voters with his thick accent and scripted responses in Wednesday's California Governor debate, famous Aryan Arnold Schwarzenegger announced a new addition to his campaign Friday: A bust of former president and oppressor Ronald Reagan.

The bust, a one-foot sculpture of the B-movie actor and monkey sidekick, is apparently bronze in nature and a perfect representation of the ex-president since it no longer smiles either. The real Reagan, a senile old fart who hasn't made a public appearance in a decade, could not be reached for comment.

Schwarzenegger made the announcement at a press conference on the afternoon of Sept. 26, at a small charity dinner the press were barred from attending. Reading from his teleprompter, America's purest white man told cameras in a sealed room somewhere, "Ronald Reagan was good for America. Arnold Schwarzenegger is good for America. We are a team, me and the statue. I hate to be the bad guy who meets us in a dark alley."

The addition of the paperweight to the campaign followed several recent additions to the Schwarzenegger team, including Rob Lowe and, most recently, Republican Bill Simon. Schwarzenegger is likely trying to keep heat on his campaign after taking recent hits on his views on sisters and a poor showing in Wednesday's recall election candidate debate. Bringing on an image of the popular former president could tie Schwarzenegger's campaign to Reagan's success in the minds of Californians already beat into submission by endless recall election coverage.

Critics call the addition a misguided attempt to liven up a very uncreative campaign. Schwarzenegger's celebrity and deep pockets have failed to buy him much good press in his candidacy, and his numbers with female voters have failed to grow following the revelation of misogynistic statements he made in a 1970s poontang magazine. Women also failed to come around to Schwarzenegger's campaigns after he threatened to kill fellow recall candidate Ariana Huffington Wednesday night. Representatives of women voters were also not impressed when Schwarzenegger offered to make a pinup of Stephanie Seymour a consultant to his campaign.

However, in all the clamor about the importance of women in the California recall race, little attention has been paid to the black voter. the commune attempted to contact the League of African-American Voters of California only to find out there wasn't one. In fact, records indicate there are only 14 registered black voters in the state. Of those, four are rap stars, three are actors, and five are the starting lineup of the Lakers. The remaining two were other California recall candidates.

An insider in the Austrian-American's candidacy say the bust of Reagan will mostly be a figurehead in the Schwarzenegger campaign, but if it has any valid suggestions they will be taken into consideration. The advantage, he said, of having an inorganic chunk of metal occupying a role in the campaign is that, once elected, it does not have to be given a cabinet position. Schwarzenegger is not ruling out making the bust lieutenant governor, though.

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Okay, so it turns out that movie I did over the summer was a hardcore porno. Who knew? Just goes to show you, I guess.

I probably never would have even found out if it weren't for my dad watching it in the living room while mom was hosting her book club. One of the ladies, Ms. Priscilla, pointed at the screen and said, "Oh my goodness, Bunny, that looks like your daughter!"

Of course I jumped to look, thinking it was Cassandra. It wasn't too likely, but dad likes a lot of girl-on-girl action, and Cassandra probably loves to participate, I supposed it was possible. But it was me! No kidding, I was the one in the porno. Boy, was my face red.

I did so many movies over the summer after I got rolling in the low-budget sci-fi movie biz it was probably just a matter of time before I wound up in a porno. You're going from house to house, one shady basement after another, step in front of cameras, guys give you scripts (or "gist" the scene to you) and you ad-lib for a couple minutes. Then it's out the door, you got a comic book cover to shoot or an E! True Hollywood Story on Emmanuel Lewis interview to do. Turn around you're in Spread Eagle 4 and you don't remember anything about it.

It's important to know how movies work, if you're a layman or laywoman, and I don't mean the kind of laywomen in the porn movie itself. I mean ignorants. It's not like you go to script meetings, create a "character" for yourself, spend minutes or even hours rehearsing, and then shoot the thing. You're not there for hours watching everyone else work so you know how to play your scene. I mean, some workaholics and shit do that, but not real movers and shakers like myself. You step in, do some crazy stuff for the camera, and then let them fix it in editing. It's not like you ever expect to see the movie again.

So in that perspective, yeah, it's easy to end up in a porno. Directors just tell you all the stuff line-by-line. "Go here, say these lines, sit down here, take your top off, kiss that guy, say these lines, get on the floor," whatever, stuff like that. You have no idea what they're going to use it for, the context or nothing.

Not that I was doing anything like that in Spread Eagle 4. I was just playing a secretary who dropped off a file in Dick Thick's office. I walk in while he's got some secretary bent over the desk and he looks up and says, "Hey, you know my secretary, Clarissa Coleman, from Who's Your Daddy?" I didn't know they were actually doing anything, you know, penetrating. They were good actors, or I thought they were.

It was used all out of context in the film, too. When they used my scene in the movie the girl was on top and they were on the coffee table, and he said, "Hey, it's Clarissa Coleman, from Li'l Poachers!" Which makes no sense. I said, "Cool! I've gotta go," which wasn't a line but something I really said. Totally ruined the real scene, shitty editors. And they always cut to the guy's face during the money shot.

When I think about it, it does kind of piss me off they didn't ask me to be in the movie, you know, doing stuff. I'm sure I'm hot enough and I keep in pretty good shape for someone who doesn't exercise. They probably thought I had too much class, and I can't blame them for that.

Now that I think about it, I don't think I got paid for that movie at all. I could be in for some serious cash, if dad's reaction is anything like the average pornophile's.

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To those of you out there who think you can bust down my heavily barricaded office door with your flimsy limbs and pathetic, jerryrigged battering devices, I say bring it on. Unless you happen to be a huge and well-built muscleman, in which case I say don't come in here, I'm naked. And if you'd like to pick up some spare change for your supplements and muscle fuel, kindly pound the rest of my staff into quivering, mutinous jelly while you're out there.

Welcome to day two of the commune staff's soon-to-be-unsuccessful coup against yours truly, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley. They may think they can outlast me out there, what with their access to the outside world and all, but I have a secret weapon those dolts don't even know about: a case of army rations from WWII that Red Bagel had stashed away under the suspicion that they contained alien fetuses. Whatever kind of fetuses they have in them, they're delicious.

So don't expect me to crawl out of this office on my hands and knees waving a white flag any time soon, communers. Sure, I could use some medical attention for a gangrenous paper cut on my ankle, and using the windowsill for a toilet got old about 30 hours ago, but they can have this office when they pry my stiff, emaciated corpse out from behind the file cabinet, where I've built a makeshift fort in case the outer wall is breached.

It all started last week, when I found the office staff gathered around a television set playing grainy home-video footage of a mysterious figure striding across a street in some unnamed US city. Nobody wanted to say anything while I was in the room, but it was obvious everyone knew what this was.

Red Bagel. Alive.

It was then that I began to feel my igloo of lies collapsing in around me. Sure, I'll admit it, I'd been telling the staff Bagel died within a month of his disappearance, in a gas station bathroom during a botched abortion attempt. It was the only way I could demand the respect and obedience of the staff, get them to stop calling me "dickface" and end the childish outbursts of "You're not my real editor! I'll stay up as late as I want!" all the time. And now my roosters had come home to roost. Proof of Bagel's survival, writ large on the small screen.

Leave it to the commune staff to get all up in my head with mind games, like pretending there hasn't been a coup at all. That the coffee has always been this bad and that the staff was just watching Signs last week, the creature seen waltzing across the street on TV just some bugged-out space alien from the film. Nice try, commune staff. But anyone who's sat a mile in Red Bagel's office chair knows that he would never risk techno-viral infection by setting foot on a Hollywood movie set. Hurley: 1, Coupers: 0.

Besides, I've seen the effigy of my likeness they had strung up in the office last week, and I don't buy the claims that it was just a piñata. I know a piñata when I see one, and that thing was clearly a jackass, an obvious reference to the staff's term of endearment for me, Acting-Editor Ramrod Hurley.

So let's drop the charade and bring the noise, commune staff. I'm stocked to weather this storm. And I'll be here waiting to accept your unconditional surrender once you realize the hopelessness of your situation, on one condition: That you bring pizza, beer and toilet paper with you. And don't forget the TP.

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