uture Bob here, reporting for the commune from the year 2015 with news that the tenth annual Straight Day parade has officially come to a bitter end, thanks to the disappointing discovery that there are only twelve straight people left in the country, and only four of them could get enough time off to come march in downtown Amarillo. This is a sad day indeed for heterosexual America and Texas in particular.

Once prided as the last bastion of straight America, the state has in recent years been overrun by the homosexual agenda and according to all reports has been gayed up something awful. Beginning with the legalization of homosexual marriage in 2007 and then the inevitable subsequent banning of hetero marriage in 2009, it's been a short, quick drop into gayness for even the once-butchest member of the U.S. statehood boy's club.

As many not locked in the past already know, in 2005 the Straight Day parade debuted opposite the long-since quaint Gay Day parade of San Francisco, which for years had provided over-the-top gayness for stereotype fans everywhere. The Straight Day parade sought to match Gay Day note for offensive note, glorifying horrifically heterosexual behavior in floats depicting nuclear families eating TV dinners and housewives submitting dutifully to stultifying missionary-position sexual intercourse.

Local groups, ranging from the barely-hetero Shriners to Elk's Lodge members bedecked in polyester suits only a straight man could love, were the parade's mainstays, clear symbols of tasteless masculinity for an increasingly confused world. Beer bellies waving in the breeze, Texans proved their heterosexuality by offering a vision so distasteful no one could possibly find it alluring, least of all gay men. However, even the ungayest state's hold on hetero chic began to wane in the following years, as gay male America co-opted the cowboy esthetic and lesbians took over what little fashion real-estate straight men had left for themselves. Rebellious Texans reacted by wearing the ugliest, most tasteless clothes they could find, even moreso than usual, in an effort to forestall the coming big gay tsunami. But before long even this futile resistance was absorbed by the growing appreciation of kitsch and intentionally horrible 1970's haircuts in the gay community, and straight men were left without a "look" to rally around.

The sadly under-attended 10th Straight Day Parade was declared an official fiasco when it was revealed that most of the participants were gay Texans helping out their few remaining straight neighbors, lending a hand with the floats, marching and baked goods. According to many, the final nail in the hetero coffin was the parade-stopping production of "Deep in the Heart of Texas" performed to lively choreography and featuring impeccable sequined cowboy costumes, a beautiful swirling cornucopia of toned abs and tasteful reverie that all but announced that there were no straight people left in Texas. At that point, the Texas Hetero Men's Recorder Choir bringing up the rear of the parade threw down their instruments in disgust and started making out with each other.

"Well, I done holded out as long as I could," sighed resigned 85-year-old Elmer Viddle of Knothole, Texas, leaving an Amarillo newsstand clutching copies of The Advocate and Hunk Sweat under his withered arm. "Guess it's time for Elmer to climb up on that ol' gay bus."

In response to the parade's results, Congress has begun to discuss plans to have America's twelve remaining straight citizens moved to a secluded island in the South Pacific, where they can play and frolic in the sun as God intended. Scientists would also study the expatriated straights in an effort to understand what makes them not so gay. Many Senators also believe that any hetero-relocation legislation would also include forward-thinking provisions for the future day when the entire country eventually becomes Latino as well.

ice-President Dick Cheney unveiled a new "sassitude" last week, starting with Tuesday's off-color suggestion Sen. Patrick Leahy have sex with himself, and concluding with a spicier, not-ready-for-primetime Cheney fielding questions Friday from the White House press corps.

The VP surprised a number of political experts and average Americans alike by revealing a saltier disposition never before seen exhibited publicly by White House personnel. However, according to administration insiders, who crammed our doorways to volunteer information, Cheney has been quite the prick for years behind closed doors, so it was bound to come out sooner or later.

Things began innocently enough Tuesday morning, when on the Senate floor Cheney told Sen. Patrick Leahy to "fuck off," although some within hearing range claim the vice-president had been misheard, and he had actually said "fuck you." A senatorial class picture was being taken when the Democrat from Vermont fired a few barbs about Cheney's friends at the oil corporation Halliburton and allegations of abuse of power, and the vice-president responded with quite the filthy mouth, though some suggested Cheney's uncharacteristic response owed less to Leahy's comments and more to Sen. Mitch McConnell making bunny ears behind his head.

Plans had been made for Cheney to offer an explanation and possible apology for the remarks, when overnight White House polling showed drastic jumps in the VP's approval rating among males under 30, particularly African-Americans, a group Republicans have long struggled to reach. The vice-president responded via phone on CNN's Larry King Live.

"Balls to an apology, fuckface. I wouldn't piss a sorry on your freckled white ass. Leahy's a peckerhead and it's about time I laid down the law, put the smackdown him, bitch. 'Cause I'm for real." To which Larry King responded, "Is this Howard Stern screwing with me again?"

The Larry King interview caused some uproar among the FCC and some have speculated it may alienate some right-wing organizations, but Gallup polls reveal an even more distinct increase among young voters, including undecideds, so White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan said Cheney would keep that shit up.

"Mr. Cheney is keepin' it real, folks," McClellan said Thursday. "If you don't like the heat, stay the fuck out the kitchen. It's the Veep's world, yo, you just visiting."

Friday, Cheney poured on more foul-mouth rancor, sporting sunglasses and wearing untied Nike sneakers. He welcomed questions from the press corps and gave reporters unwanted nicknames, including "Dicknose" and "Faghag." This particular reporter unfairly earned the moniker "Gramma Titties."

"I know you all think I'm fucking with you, but I'm for real," said Cheney, pausing to inexplicably perform "the Worm" for reporters. "It's a dangerous world, motherfuckers, and it's about time we stop pussying up the language and say fuck when we mean fuck. And don't even think about getting in my face, I don't give a shit if you're a Democrat or Republican or one of them Green Party queens—you act the bitch, I'll treat you like a bitch. Bitch."

Cheney then leapt from the stage and slapped White House reporter Helen Thomas with a harsh backhand, sending the correspondent—whom he had nicknamed "Grape Ape"—wheeling to the back wall.

Please, George, watch that disgusting mouth of yours. Nobody cares if it's the truth, they don't want to hear it anyway. The truth is not always beautiful, George, and in this case, it's positively sickening.

Do you really think anybody wants to hear about your medical history, your sexual proclivities, or a combination of either? No, George. Giving you the simplest, quickest answer: No, they don't. That sound you hear isn't the whisper of a freshly-created buzz, or catty town gossip. It's dry-heaving, and you've caused it, George.

Let's assume for one second you even had a reasonable excuse to mention you've recently begun taking that Cialis drug—and that's a big enough if, George. Bypassing that, was the look of disgust some clear signal you should proceed with the story, adding even more detail and description when possible? I think not. Did the way my face flushed red and the gasp that came out of my mouth, did these things beg for elaboration on your fascinating story about the dick pills? Because I personally fail to see the encouragement.

I was watching the crowd reaction, perhaps better than you were, and I didn't see anyone asking to hear about your erectile dysfunction, either with words, facial expressions, or body language. It's possible, I suppose, given that my eyesight is not what it used to be, some schmuck far in the back of the crowded room wore a T-shirt asking for you to tell us more about your floppy phallus, but we've had discussions before about you following the advice of a T-shirt before, so that certainly can't be it.

Maybe you assumed, incorrectly, people would be fascinated with the articulate description of your medical exam. Nope, George, a resounding nope. The image forced upon our minds of a doctor with his hands squeezing your furry scrotum is only slightly more appetizing that the unwelcome imagined sight of you with your pants around your ankles, your withered drumstick cranking up for action.

And if it needs saying, thank you so much for dragging me into your embarrassing reality. The fact we showed up together to the soiree, even forgetting our marriage of seemingly endless years, automatically leads people to assume you would be using that deadly medicated erection on yours truly. Did I warrant your hate so much as to make people think we have sex together? Not even on our best day together, George, not with a belly full of booze and a borrowed dick. But I hardly had time to explain that, did I? Agnes was too busy asking us to leave for me to assure her you and I have never even been naked in the same room together. And if only I could have gone a few more years, I'm sure death would have claimed me and I would have avoided the ugly prospect of having to imagine you unclothed. I want to check with your mother, bless her piteous soul, and make sure you actually were born naked. Even God would not be so cruel as to do that to a woman—perhaps you emerged from the woman with a seersucker suit made of placenta. It's the one thought that gives me hope for a heaven.

Everyone at the party lived in a happier world before you arrived. The mere notion that something resembling a penis lives in your pants is more than anyone should have to live with. I can never go back to the childlike innocence I once held, and even saying the word "erection" should bring me post-traumatic flashbacks for the rest of my life. A life, by the by, which will be dedicated to making you one hundred percent miserable from now on, of course. The game starts here, you dangling dandy.

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