Senator John Edwards Not the Guy Who Talks to Dead

he country received two unexpected announcements Thursday, when Democrat John Edwards, a freshman Senator from North Carolina, told NBC he would run for president in 2004. Edwards then stunned everyone with the revelation that he was actually not the John Edward from the syndicated Sci-Fi Channel show Crossing Over.

Edward, who claims to be a medium who can talk to dead people, could not be reached for comment. This reporter then asked dead reporter Mordecai "Three Finger" Brown to get a quote from Edward, but Edward did not respond, and only pissed himself.

Meanwhile, Sen. John Edwards was firm in his insistence he was not the John Edward that talks to the dead.

"Of course I don't talk to the dead. I've never even heard of that John Edward. But if he is an American, I will do my best to represent him just as I will represent all other Americans when I am president. I have served North Carolina faithfully during my time in office, and I will serve the country just as well. All I ask is for your vote."

Edwards' political rhetoric continued for at least thirty more minutes, then this reporter left for a sandwich.

Edwards' decision to run for the Democratic nomination for president follows the announcement by former Vice-President Al Gore that he will not run in 2004, citing happiness with his new beard. Edwards enters the race against Jay Leno-lookalike Sen. John Kerry of Massachusetts, as well as potential candidates Sen. Tom "No, Seriously, I'm Running" Daschle and Sen. Dick "Last Name Never Looks Real" Gephardt.

Sen. Edwards told the press Friday his campaign would address key issues and attempt to overcome the Senator's disadvantages. Edwards campaign buttons were passed out with clarifying statements such as, "He's not the one that talks to dead people" and "The Senator, not the medium," as well as image-focused buttons with the Sci-Fi Channel's John Edward's face crossed out and Sen. John Edwards' face circled. Edwards' campaign manager Charles Manson (not the ritual murderer) unveiled a banner at campaign headquarters reading, "John Edwards for President. No, the other John Edwards."

Manson was optimistic about Edwards' chances, yet acknowledged there would be obstacles.

"Is it an uphill battle?" Manson asked, then answered before anyone else could. "Yes. Is it impossible? Not at all. Senator John Edwards is a dedicated and determined man, and he has set his sights on this and will pursue it as far as possible. I can give you my personal guarantee that, when the Senator is done, everyone in America will be convinced he is not the guy from the Crossing Over show. We have a three-pronged attack: Get his face out there, get his position as Senator in the public mind, and stress that he has never and likely never will communicate with the dead. By the time our campaign is over, the other John Edward will be known as 'the other John Edwards.'"

As for the Senators' hopes for winning a presidential race against George W. Bush?

"Oh," replied Manson. "We hadn't really thought that far ahead. Are you sure Bush can run in 2004? Won't his term limits expire by then or anything?"

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Dear commune:

By now you realize that your highly coveted and Pulitzer Prize winning reporter, Truman Prudy, is missing. At least we're pretty sure about the Pulitzer Prize part, someone suggested it might actually be a ribbon from the State Fair, but that someone also happens to be an asshole. Regardless, this is one valuable lump of man. Perhaps you blamed his disappearance on one of his frequent and well-publicized pornography binges, where he has been known to disappear for days on end before washing up on the shores of the Mississippi or another large body of water. We assure you that this is not the case in this instance. The uncomfortable tickle you feel crawling up the back of your throat is the slow dawning of a terrible realization. That's right. Our organization has captured your precious Trudy using a clever false storefront and a large tuna net. Tremble, as is your right in this situation. Kidnapping is the name of this game, and the Pop-O-Matic bubble has been depressed, and then released.

Our ransom demands are simple: publish our enclosed manifestos and give us all of your money. All of it. None of this "one million dollars in unmarked bills" bullshit. We don't know how much money you have, so it would be silly to ask for a million if you really have two million, then we'd be cheated out of half of our rightful ransom. If it turned out that you only have three-quarters of a million, then we'd be put in the awkward position of having to return to you three-quarters of Truman Prudy, and none of us are especially excited about figuring out how to go about that business. And after all, a masked robber on the street doesn't brandish a gun and demand ten dollars of your money. They ask for it all. We'd like to think we're at least as enterprising as your common street hoodlum.

Alas, the journalistic integrity of your organization hangs in the balance. Everything that the commune stands for teeters perilously over the breech! Waver not in your steadfast dedication to what is right and good. Pay up. A nation of Truman Prudy fans are depending on you.

The Northwestern Omaha Book Club for Guys
Omaha, NE


Dear Northwestern Omaha Book Club for Guys:

After asking around the commune offices for at least an hour, we have come to the conclusion that there is a 60% chance that Truman Prudy is a commune employee of some sort. Personally, we've never heard of him or his State Fair ribbon, though it does sound impressive. Upon relaying your requests to commune editor Red Bagel, we were instructed to get the commune water cannon out of deep storage. However, we're pretty sure it's all the way in the back behind some heavy shit that hasn't been moved since forever, so we are eager to reach an alternative solution to this dilemma.

In accordance with your demands, we are willing to offer up two cans of creamed sprouts and these free promotional tickets to an upcoming screening of Little Goomba, which Roland McShyster has been using to wedge into the back door so that it doesn't lock behind him when he goes out on smoke breaks. We know you asked for all our money, but trust us when we say this is by far the better deal.

the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the Hammond Island barge fire, we just said it sounded like a good idea and provided the blueprints.

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Jesus. It's as cold as Hillary Clinton's snatch out there. I know this happens every year, but Good God. Does it really? Like this?

Knock on wood and hopefully I'm not screwing myself here, but is constipation really the big national problem these TV commercials make it out to be? Who are these poor suckers who are getting so desperately plugged up on a regular basis? Granted, you go to the average steak house and the amount of fried batter on the appetizer platter alone is enough to mortar over the San Andreas Fault, but does anyone actually eat all of that crap? You'd think that a couple of heart attacks at the table while eating would be enough to convince the average person to ask for a doggie bag and maybe finish the meal tomorrow at the hospital, but I guess not.

Maybe I'm more of a rarity than I like to think, but I have to admit that just like that Drew Barrymore movie, I've Never Been Constipated. Sure, I've had a few slow days at the lumber mill, as they say, but nothing a Burrito Supreme couldn't fix. And I'm not kidding, that Taco Bell "meat" will clean you out like a fire sale. If you need any kind of medication beyond that, I swear, you must have a prairie dog gummed up in the works down there or something.

Now okay, I have to admit, this isn't all entirely true. I did get constipated once. One time, back in the fifth grade. It was some kind of craft project day at school like we used to have back then. I guess that meant the teacher had a hangover or just that the new issue of Guns & Ammo had come in. Whatever it was, we were spending the day gluing these Styrofoam cups together, and glue-sticking glitter flakes and candies and whatever junk we found on the floor to them to make these bullshit pretend Faberge eggs. You know, the kind of thing a hung over gun freak would think was educational.

Anyway, I had just finished gluing one of these lame things together when Mikey Davidson turns to me, I remember it like it was yesterday, and he says "Hey, did you guys know that if you eat Styrofoam you'll get constipated?" Now, in retrospect, I really have to wonder where in the hell he got that information from or why he brought it up in the first place, but in my eleven-year-old mind all I heard was some paunchy little blowhard talking out of his ass to try to impress everybody, and I wasn't going to stand for it. I called his bluff, and just to prove he was an asshole I ate a whole Styrofoam cup right there, on the spot.

The guys all thought this was great, either that or I scared them and they bluffed it until I was gone, whatever. The important part was that I'd shown up Mikey, and he'd think twice the next time he got the urge to try and bullshit his way into momentary popularity.

As a small sidenote to this story, I was horribly constipated for about a week after that. So a word to the wise: don't eat any Styrofoam unless you want to burst a blood vessel in your eye trying to get your conga line moving. Christ.

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