esponding to years of baseless accusations that the GOP panders to the rich and disgustingly privileged, Republican leaders organized the first-ever “Poor People Rock!� festival this week to celebrate the decrepit and ramp up GOP support in the final week leading up to November’s crucial elections.

The inaugural festival was a star-studded day-long event which featured such poor people favorites as country superstar Toby Keith, Hip-Hop malcontents Deaf Niggaz, get-quick-rich guru Denny Cochran, radio shock jock Gray Baytor, and the hippie-bashing conceptual comedy troupe The Haight Mongers. Several of the country’s leading wealthy Republicans also spoke at the event, where festival-goers were let in free of charge after signing a waiver agreeing to be tested en mass for the effects of a new military-grade neurotoxin.

“I don’t know where this idea started that Republicans hate the poor, but it’s utter hogwash,� led off the event’s Master of Ceremonies, industrialist H.P. Cravenborg. “After all, who gave all you people jobs? Speaking of which; you, in the third row! I though you called in sick today? Get back to work!�

The day’s full slate of entertainers thrilled the crowd with bright, shiny visions of the good life surely waiting right around the corner for anyone willing to get off his lazy ass and stop being so poor. The massive throngs of stone-broke revelers went apeshit when speaker Denny Cochran informed them that they, too, could one day be one of the wealthy elite, with former neighbors and friends working in their factories for cutthroat wages. Similar messages were echoed by several of the day’s speakers.

“It’s time to stop blaming the Republicans for all your problems, poor America, and get yourself a slice of that big-old pie!� shouted former liberal activist Ron Somkins, who because a Republican activist after robust sales of his third book, “Fuck the System,� brought the author unexpected riches. Somkins’ latest book, “Re-evaluating the System,� is due in bookstores this winter.

Old money Republican speakers, perhaps less comfortable with the thought of the greasy poor clogging up the shower drains of their pristine social clubs, instead juiced the crowd with paeans to the many advantages to destitute living.

“You guys really don’t know how lucky you’ve got it,� Cravenborg moaned to the crowd while getting a continual back massage from a large Austrian man. “All this money’s more trouble than it’s worth, I tell you. Better to—ooh that feels good! Better to live the simple life, like you good people!�

After the event, envious members of the elite went out of their way to share their fondness for America’s 36 million poor and the refreshingly simple lives they lead.

“Me, personally, I love the indigent,� gushed a gracious Rupert Murdoch, media titan. “Hell, I’d be poor myself if I weren’t so goddamned wealthy.�

“Poor is definitely the way to go,� raved fashion mogul Chinsay Weintraub. “Poor is so in this year. It’s the new black.�

“I’ve always liked poor people, I think they’re quaint,� chimed in portly financier Gordon Stacks, smoking a cigar wrapped in $100 bills.

When asked how the day’s festivities might affect his voting preference in Tuesday’s presidential election, local fry cook and father of four Dan Henkle echoed the sentiments of the assembled wretched masses.

“Hey, fuck poor people!�

any independent probes have begun to look into the practices of national network affiliates owned by Sinclair Broadcasting Group after the company pledged to air the anti-John Kerry film Stolen Honor on all its networks. Some research has uncovered a history of support for the GOP, a concentrated agenda against the Democratic party, and also revealed proposed plans to air more films and programs designed to denigrate presidential candidate John Kerry and give George W. Bush the advantage in their political match-up.

Sinclair, who also earned Democrats' ire for refusing to air Nightline's reading a list of dead U.S. soldiers in April, is treating the Kerry-bashing film as news content. It compares the nationwide free airtime for Republican views to the limited-release theatrical film Fahrenheit 9/11, basically meaning fuck balanced political programming. On the heels of the film's airing, in the remaining time before Americans go to the polls Nov. 2, the company is planning other right-wing spin programs on Kerry.

John Kerry: Warlock?, an independently-produced film by the religious group Swift Christians for Truth, postulates that the Massachusetts senator may have been fathered by a goat and possesses mystical powers that allow him to alter the presence of nuclear materials, even erase them from existence. Though mostly assembled from stock footage of the candidate and interviews with unaccredited "experts," the film does contain a segment purported to show a young Kerry in a pointy hat turning a horse into a unicorn. Others, however, say the blurry footage was recently staged, and that's clearly Scott Baio playing the lead role.

Another film, Sandbagger: John Kerry's Real War Record, alleges the senator actually started the first Gulf War when, at a cocktail party in 1990, Kerry suggested to Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein he should take back Kuwait as part of Iraq. Democratic opposition to the film claims it's incredibly false, that Kerry was only joking with the guy, and the man reputed to be Saddam Hussein had actually attended the costume party as Super Mario.

Less likely to air, but still listed among recent Sinclair acquisitions, John Kerry: What a Pussy, seems little more than a suckerpunch film made to ridicule the man on a personal level. In addition to showing still pictures of Kerry next to flesh-torn zombies and cartoon dog Droopy, the film accuses Kerry of catching crabs in Vietnam and makes quite rude insinuations about his mother.

Other viewers of Sinclair networks say it isn't the first time the company has taken a side in political races. Certain anonymous Sinclair viewers, like Martha Philips of North Ridge, Virginia, say the sound cut out frequently during two of the three debates, all while Kerry was speaking, while another viewer insists a picture of Jesus was superimposed behind the president during the first debate.

"I also swear," says Margolis, Washington viewer Richard Higgs, "that the movie I watched last week originally starred John Wayne. But that guy who I saw in the movie then looked a hell of a lot like George Bush."

Sinclair has already made good on some of its other proposed anti-Kerry imagery, showing an embarrassing television appearance by the senator last Saturday culled from a 1980 episode of Dance Fever.

Did I mention I had to break down and get a job? Yeah, turns out the New Mexican tit isn't as milky as I had assumed and they actually expect me to drag my own load here. What a bummer. But the upshot is that I'm not entirely sure what it is I do at my new job. Hard to get too stressed out when you have no idea what's going on.

I'm working for a company that makes the nameplates that go on a certain brand of walkers for the elderly. I couldn't make that up. I'm in the office, but downstairs there's a warehouse full of boxes of little metal tags that say "GERIATRIX" on them. I wandered down there once when I was trying to find the can and it was like remembering a Twilight Zone episode where you can't quite remember what the twist was. But I did survive my brief foray across the white-collar/blue-collar divide, possibly because my fuchsia shirt denoted me as a neutral party.

I definitely started here on the right week, since yesterday I just got paid to attend the company picnic. The pic-a-nic (I've been possessed by the spirit of Yogi Bear lately) was a raging blast, before it was over the lawn was soaked with keg beer and vomit. Frumpy CEOs and buttoned-down executive-types got naked and rode the mechanical bull, which turned out to actually be the third-shift supervisor from shipping. There was a contest to see who could hit a marshmallow the furthest with a golf club, and traffic was stopped on I-25 due to an unusually heavy marshmallow coating in the right three lanes. I ate three chicken sandwiches and an orange dreamsicle, then spent the rest of the afternoon practicing stomach-stretching yoga postures to keep food from squirting out when I opened my mouth to speak. Viva la picnic!

My access card stopped working today. I feared for a second that Big Brother may have made me an unperson for my transgressions against the greater good, but it turns out there's just a server down. This seems to only effect me, so it makes me feel pretty cool to think that I have my own server. I wonder if it could bring me a club soda? *ding ding* Stewardess!

So far I've gotten in twice with other people, and once I snuck to the back door and did the secret knock and some Hispanic guy let me in. Next time, I'm going over the wall with both guns blazing. Either that or I'll just hang around by the door until someone with a working card decides to go in. Still undecided on that one.

So between the pic-a-nic thing and the access card thing, so far I've managed to go three days without learning what my actual job is here. I'm hoping to make it a month, but hey, you know I like to dream big. And in two hours I have my half-hour nap, which should seem like a thick, juicy, two-pound steak to an underfed Ethiopian boy. Come to think of it though, I could also go for a thick, juicy, two-pound steak, which would seem like a long nap to someone who stayed up too late bowling last night.

Tonight it's me and the bed 'til the cows come home. Then, it's me, the bed, and the cows. The possibilities are needless. I mean Endless. Yeah. But seriously, the thing that gets me through the day is remembering that no matter how long the day is, I know that it will end with me naked in bed, with about a half-dozen codfish. Wait a minute.

Though Mr. Timeclock tells me that I have an extra 15 minutes from Monday (though I think this is bullshit and I have at least an extra hour, but it's not been good to argue with Mr. Timeclock since his wife left him, he can be a little rough around the edges), so I should be able to cut out of here like a pair of retarded left-handed scissors at 5:15, for an arrival time at Umbrage International Apartment of 5:35pm. And you can be sure my tray tables will be in their upright and locked position (any idea how to get the tray tables DOWN in my car?) and I most certainly won't be locked in the lavatory, smoking a blunt and leafing through a porno magazine, with my socks hung over the smoke detector, muffling its cries for help.

God, I hope that clock isn't fast. And I hope a guy in a big fiberglass Droopy Dog suit gets elected president and his inaugural speech consists of grabbing the microphone in both oversized paws and shouting "LET'S GET LOOOOOADED!!"

We've all got to hope.

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