New TummyPort Surgery to Revolutionize Not Dieting

dvocates from both sides of the “Yo mama so fat/My mama just fine� debate are in up in arms this week with the announcement of Dr. Irving Kilpatrick’s controversial new TummyPort surgery, the latest medical advance to tout weight loss without the lifestyle-altering albatrosses of proper diet or self control. The revolutionary surgery, honed by Dr. Kilpatrick through years of secret testing on desperate fatties and abdominal injury victims, involves the installation of a small circular port in the patient’s abdomen, giving convenient external access to the weight watcher’s stomach for purposes of food extraction prior to digestion. Marketed as “bulimia without the barfy aftertaste,� the TummyPort technique already has a waiting list several hundred people deep at each of Dr. Kilpatrick’s seven clinics in the Houston metro area.

Decried by some medical professionals as “quackers,� others defend Kilpatrick’s procedure as a natural outgrowth of the popular stomach-stapling surgery, which was performed on a record number of Americans last year despite serious risks to the patient’s health, including hair loss, malnutrition, and instant death after blowing a staple at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Though the TummyPort does carry an increased risk of infection in the weeks immediately following the installation, it is unlikely to be life-threatening and can provide hours of Laundromat-like entertainment for family members mesmerized by the sloshing stomach contents visible behind the tempered glass of the TummyPort’s front hatch.

Speaking with the commune while performing a TummyPort installation on commune lab rat Raoul Dunkin, Dr. Kilpatrick downplayed the controversy following the announcement of his technique’s successful clinical trials.

“Any time science makes a bold leap forward, over the steaming bundle of dogshit that is popular convention, there’s bound to be either a hoopla or a to do, dependant upon the fashions of the day,� Kilpatrick mused, holding one of Dunkin’s unidentified internal organs ponderously in his left hand.

Asked what he thought of charges that the TummyPort was just the latest expensive medical gimmick to prey on consumers more willing to risk their health than to make positive lifestyle changes, Dr. Kilpatrick farted into a jar, sealed the lid and then handed it to this reporter without comment.

While many medical professionals have decried the surgery because of its increased risk of infection or the possibility that the TummyPort’s hatch could be accidentally left open at night, allowing a mouse or something to crawl in there, some doctors have objected to the technique solely on the grounds that it’s really fucking gross. Dr. Holman Dykstra of the Mayo clinic holds just such a view.

“Have you ever been over to someone’s house for dinner, and you’ve just finished enjoying a fine meal, only to have your host excuse themselves to go piss out their pork chops through a rubber attachment hose in the bathroom? It’s unsettling to say the least,� Dykstra intoned, the color suddenly draining from his face.

During a recent promotional tour to raise awareness of his procedure, Kilpatrick battled back at his detractors from the perspective of world hunger, raising the possibility that half-digested foodstuffs removed via the TummyPort could be captured in small jars and marketed as baby food.

“At the very least you could probably use it in your garden or something,� Kilpatrick suggested. “Some kind of fertilizer. I don’t know, I’m not a plant guy, but it seems like it would be good for something.�

As of this writing, commune reporter and resident douchebag Raoul Dunkin is enjoying the versatility provided by his TummyPort, but reports that fellow staffers flipping his hatch open right after lunch has become a minor problem, since he then has to go change his pants and eat lunch again.

ovember's presidential election officially became a four-man race when Sen. John Edwards, of North Carolina, announced Wednesday he had picked Sen. John Kerry to be his presidential running mate, throwing in his own hat for the vice-presidency. Edwards, the dynamic Kennedyesque Congressman who gave Kerry a real challenge in the race for the Democratic nomination, could provide enough boost to take the party into the White House this fall.

"No longer will America be divided under the current administration," Edwards declared, towering over a small podium as his bellows carried across a crowd of supporters. "We will stand united, and the people will have their way when we win back the White House!"

Edwards, the ten-foot tall former trial lawyer, had Kerry announce his decision in an email Tuesday, followed by a longer press conference on Wednesday. Rumors the two had disagreed on many key issues were dispelled when the behemoth senator hoisted Kerry up in his palm and carried him through the crowd on his shoulders.

"Edwards-Kerry in 2004!" they both shouted to the crowd.

Party insiders have speculated Kerry might decline Edwards ticket invitation, opting for a less stunning candidate, like Florida Sen. Bob Graham, Missouri Sen. What's-His-Name, or Joe Piscopo. Rumors had put Kerry at seeking Republican senator John McCain of Arizona for bipartisan ticket, but insiders say Kerry feared an assassination at the hands of Fox News and Clear Channel radio executives.

In the end, the Massachusetts senator accepted the offer to join the Edwards vice presidential ticket, putting to rest fears the junior North Carolina political superstar would overshadow… uhm… oh, shit, I just said it… you know, rhymes with Larry. Kerry! In his acceptance speech Wednesday, Edwards defied Kerry critics who accused the senator of leading an uninspired race and being an undead zombie.

"I've known this man for at least a few weeks. I think we've met before that, but I'm not that sure," said Edwards, gesturing to a man sitting two seats down from Kerry, before being corrected by an assistant. "This one, this one's John Kerry, and he's going to be our next president. He's got years of experience in Congress, and an outstanding record of service for our country. And I'm sure he's done other stuff. And I'll be happy to make him my partner as I pursue the vice-presidency!"

Concluded the Herculean young senator: "Change is coming, Washington, and that change will be called… aw, shit. I just said it! I just said it…"

The Bush campaign shook off any worries about the threat of an Edwards-Kerry ticket.

"People respond to the vice-president," said campaign spokesperson Wanda Waywitten. "Some people say he's a mean son of a bitch, a cruel, cruel little man, but I don't believe it. People only call him Dick because it's his name, despite what all those rumors suggest. He's not scared of death, his tiny heart has stopped so many times, so he's certainly not scared of a ten-foot Democrat. Is it really true he carved Mount Rushmore?"

Edwards has inspired many hopes Democrats in search of fiery, presidential leaders. Though his political career has lasted only a short duration, Edwards previously spent years as a trial lawyer, and his life inspired the John Grisham novel The Rainmaker. Before passing the bar, some say Edwards stomped through North America and created the Great Lakes, once brewed the world's best beer, and invented the first radio. Legend also has it he designed all the album covers for Yes and lassoed the moon, all before his 25th birthday.

Let the word come down from the Mountaintops, which is Red Bagel's nickname for the commune offices: Clarissa Coleman needs work. Sure, anyone who knows me knows I want work, but now I need work. My legal troubles are finished now, you may have seen the segment on Court TV or read about the out-of-court settlement in the paper, or The Guinness Book of World Records, the page on outrageous payoffs. Damn Jerry Nascar, that's all I'm saying. As for you-know-who, the nice lady who filed the lawsuit, I'm not legally allowed to mention her name ever again. So let's pretend I'm referring to someone else whenever I use the word Skankabitch.

Getting back to work, which is what I'm here for, let's just say the settlement is bad enough, but I've got legal fees by the buttload. Before all this, work was just some way to have fun and a shortcut to fame. Now it's do-or-die. I'm not having luck finding too many high-profile film and television roles to pay the bills—of course, that was the story before Skankabitch sued. So now I have to shorten the list of stuff I won't do even more. It's a talent clearance sale—every one must go.

It's a great sale for producers of weird shows. C.S.I., you listening? I'll even play a dead body. Bullets fly through my head, shatter brain and bone and crap—it looks like it hurts, but I'll try anything once. Any shows where I have to wear a prosthetic piece or a mask or anything, I'll do it. Put me in a gorilla suit, who cares? I don't even need any speaking lines. I'm eager to work. None of it can be any more humiliating than playing the ukelele with Taco on Conan O'Brien.

I turned down a reality series last year, before this bullshit came along. If you're one of those producers of Help! I'm a Celebrity, Don't Give Me a Sexually-Transmitted Disease I'm ready to talk contract terms now. Maybe you'll get on the air this year if you get bigger star power than Willie Tyler and Lester. So put me on the show. I'll call house meetings and everything, pretend like my feelings are hurt and stuff. I watch all those freak shows.

Not everybody's a producer, I know. Some people aren't involved with the wonderland that is television, not officially, but that shouldn't stop you. You want to make a funny home video? Have your kid swing a croquet hammer, hit me in the nuts—I don't have nuts, of course, but for a good-size paycheck I'll act like I have nuts. Rig a house to fall in, I'll make it look like it all happened by accident, I'll even make the funny noise so the video people don't have to do that. Or we'll sing some duet like Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond, I'll make them really believe you don't bring me flowers no more. Hell, I'm not picky. Don't send the video in, let's just make it for your own entertainment, you and your friends. We'll recreate all your favorite episodes of Who's Your Daddy?.

It's not limited to shows either. I can do the stage. We'll put on a burlesque act, like they used to do in France when it was classy and cool, or like they do now in Alabama. I do tame shit, too. I'll sing the Fabulous Thunderbirds at your daughter's Bat Mitzvah. I can do birthday parties, private Labor Day telethons, whatever your big deal is. Have a friend who's in the hospital and think it would be funny for a celebrity to visit them? Let's do it. Let's make it happen.

What I'm trying to say is, I need money, and I'm not picky. Just in case I didn't make it obvious. And just to save anybody else the troubles I've gone through, don't ever hire Jerry Nascar as an attorney. He knows dick about the law, like the judge says, and his "Thirty Minutes or it's Not Free" offer is trickier than it sounds.

I have to go over to Nascar's office right now. I'm doing a commercial for him to help pay off the legal bills.

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