Voter Turnout in Senate Hits All-Time Low

tories of voter apathy in this off-year election have more merit following Monday's vote in the Senate for an $87.5 billion budget for Iraq reconstruction. The spending package passed with a 5-1 ratio, but only received an estimated 6 votes among the Senators in attendance.

Using the cop-out, or "strategy" known as a voice vote, the Senate skipped the usual procedure of recording who votes for what in the record so as not to embarrass apathetic Senators and possibly damage their chances for re-election or campaign contributions.
Using the voice vote, a verbal "yea" or "nay" or "no fuckin' way nay," Senators kept their names off an official record as being for the Iraq war or against it, so in due time when the majority of the populace reaches consensus on the wisdom of the war they can finally tell us how they really felt.

Some theorize the miniscule number of Senators voting had more to due with disillusionment and disappointment in Congressional legislation, rather than a despicable show of cowardice and political tightrope-walking. For the Senators, the "seniors" of the D.C. school, they've been around the block and seen how the game is played, and their cynicism is manifesting itself in voter apathy.

"It doesn't really matter anyway," said 39-year-old Hunter Whepley (D-SC), "no one ever listens to me. It's not like one vote in the Senate ever made a difference anyway."

The words express what many feel is an unwritten truth in the Senate: Voting is for nerds. Actually, it is a written truth, if you check out the men's room in the Capitol building. But instead of being the attitude of underachieving legislators or a handful of stoner congressmen, many point to the voting record as proof the Senate no longer thinks voting is cool.

"I'm not saying anything against voting," said Montana Republican Rooton Hardsandal, "but when was the last time anybody even passed any good laws or anything? You can't change nothing. The president just does what he wants. The states all do what they want, you can't make a difference. And those assholes in the Congress, they'll vote for anything you put in front of them. Gaylords."

Pennsylvania Senator Eli Keith expressed the lack of power many Senators feel.

"Sure, you can 'yea' or 'nay' a bill until the cows come home, but you know it's got to get approval from the House, and then the dorkwad president has to agree to it. And by that time, like, a hundred riders have been attached to it making it so it's illegal to smoke frogs or something, whatever some jerks in the back think is funny. Then, if you actually do show up, and nobody does, all the other Senators hear about it and get on your jock about it. I don't really care what everyone else thinks, but I don't want to be the only guy voting besides Robert Byrd. That old fossil votes for everything. I guess when you actually get Medicare you give a shit whether it passes or not."

Some peppy strategists on other congressional committees have proposed ideas to win bored Senators back to voting, including a Senatorial "Rock the Vote" special on C-Span, with guests like Nelly and Coldplay, or luncheons with motivational speakers like Tony Robbins to espouse the virtues of showing up to vote. The problem, according to Senators who wished to remain anonymous, is all those ideas are super-lame, and organized by king dinks of Dinktopia, doing more against voting than for it.

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OH MY GOD SNOW

Can you believe those cheap ass pants-handlers at the commune? I just found out they're paying us the same this year, despite the double-barreled workload increase that comes with the switch to the weekly schedule. That is the Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger of bullshit. If I'm going to be doing twice the work this year, I demand at least an increase in the number of surplus novelty calendars we get to take home every month. Like the saying goes, "Time is calendars," and you know I deserve to be compensated for mine.

And then to add insoles to injury, I accidentally emailed that last paragraph to Randy "Machoman" Savage yesterday, while writing one my weekly emails about how he sold out when he stopped doing Shakespeare and joined the WWF (sue me, panda-fuckers). Goddamned Windows is all I can say about that. If you're gonna put the "send email" button right next to the "kill" button on Minesweeper, shit like this is just going to keep on happening to good people. And I was pissed about that times two, since not only did I send Machoman the beginning of my new column, which was likely going to sell for hundreds on eBay within the hour, that also blew a golden opportunity to break my Minesweeper record for blowing that little guy's ass up in under a second.

Weirdest thing of all, though, was that Machoman actually wrote me back. For the first time as far as I can tell, unless his previous messages got smurfed by my spam filter. Whatever happened, this one got to me and really put my colon in a twist. That meat mountain actually had the balls to suggest I've got an easy job, then he pressed his luck all the way by asking what in the hell I do the rest of the time if I've only got one column to write a week. What do I do? Shit man, what don't I do?

Who do you think writes Quentin Tarantino all those letters about how he never puts backwards-talking midgets in his movies any more? That's right, Roland McShyster. But who do you think mails that shit? Bludney Pludd, usually. Stay with me here. Who do you think covers the stairwell in grease-coated marbles before all this happens? Omar "Don't Tell Me You Didn't Know It Was Greased Marble Day" Bricks, that's who. Didn't think about that when you were so busy laughing at Bludney Pludd's hilariously broken body, did you? Somebody's got to put in the work behind the scenes to make this world go around, man.

Damn, that Machoman chaps my ass. Leave it to an ex-Shakespearean actor to underestimate how much this extra column cuts into my prank-calling time. I had to abandon an elaborate plan to sell Rok Finger the deed to a Nigerian gold mine just to give me the time to procrastinate about writing this column. And it just doesn't sit right with me, the idea of Finger spending his commune paycheck on bread and electricity instead of the commune in-office scam of the week, or Griswald Dreck's 1-900 answer line. Fucking Machoman.

It's time Omar Bricks proved to the world that he earns his paycheck, times two. I don't care if it takes a fake beard, fake tits, or imitation Alaskan king crab, Omar Bricks is going to find a way to get paid like he was two people, while maintaining the workload of a small child. This victory shall be my crowning achievement, making up the bulk of the text in my eventual obituary, and helping to pay for the ski jump I've been wanting to put in my back yard. Even better, the effort will likely kill the rest of the down time until they finish building my neighbor's new house and I can get all up in that biatch. Bricks out.

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"Old men have their fishing stories, and Sampson L. Hartwig is no exception. The best fishing story is when I was nigh 25, I went fishing with my college buddy Meadows.

Meadows was an expert fisherman, raised in a fisherman family. His father was a fisherman, his father's father was a fisherman, his father's father's father sold lingerie in Times Square, but the father of that father's father's father was a fisherman as well, so on.

I had all the lures money could buy, and some I could only trade sexual favors for. Meadows had only a pack of gum. He chewed a piece, shaped the A.B.C. gum into a somewhat fish-like shape, and wrapped the silver wrapper around it. It looked sort of like a fish, I was even tempted to bite it myself. Meadows put it on a hook and tossed it into the water.

'That's all the bait you're using?' I asked him. He smiled slyly, tilted his hat down over his eyes, and nodded. I began using my high-tech lures, one after the other, and all through the day Meadows only used the gum-and-wrapper lures he made himself.

Well, by the time the day was over it was quite a surprise. I had a cooler full of 33 fish, all various sizes large and small, while Meadows' cooler was full of empty beer cans and vomit. I later found out Meadows was considered quite the loser by his family of fishermen."

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