sing state of the art poll-tracking technology, the commune has been able to predict this year’s presidential election winner two days early with a probably 98.77439% accuracy, and the result may shock or disinterest you. That’s right; Al Gore will be our nation’s 44th president.

Though Gore has not been a frontrunner in most of the supposedly-reputable national polls heading into the election’s final week, a highly scientific sampling of unregistered voters within a two-block radius of the commune offices has confirmed the reports of future correspondent Future Bob, who recently contacted the commune from the year 2006 with the news that Gore is president and that pop music had gotten really, really shitty. Also: buy stock in flavored condoms now.

Though it is unclear as of yet whether the Gore win will be the result of an unexpected groundswell of support in the election’s final days, or the emergence of thousands of 2000 absentee ballots from Post Office limbo hell, one thing is unmistakably clear. More on that later.

Perhaps even more surprising than the Gore win was the news that both presidential incumbent George W. Bush and Democratic challenger John Kerry finished well out of the money in the general election, trailing such surprise write-in candidates as The Rebel Billionaire, J.R. Ewing, and “that black guy from 24.� Also receiving strong shows of support were Candidate Zero from the NetZero Internet Service commercials, baseball commissioner Bud Selig, and the soothing, dignified voice of actor James Earl Jones.

Though the point may be moot due to the tenth-place showing of Jones’ voice, it is unclear whether the entire personage of James Earl Jones would have been inaugurated had the actor’s voice won, or if Jones would have had to stay out of sight while his voice was electronically matched, Wizard of Oz-style, to a projected image of either Darth Vader, the dad lion from The Lion King, or some kind of CGI morph of the two.

The revolutionary new poll, devised by the commune’s in-house expert expert Griswald Dreck using the latest Polish technology, also revealed some surprising news about America’s political affiliations. Long-though to be a nation composed almost equally of Democrats and Republicans, this latest poll shows a surprising 74% of citizens who list their party as “Yes!� Another 10% belong to the hard-line “Fuck Yeah!� Party, with a small but vocal minority standing behind their “Not Since We Had Kids� Party affiliation. Also of concern to the current establishment are the upstart “Where?� and “Can I Bring My Brother Dave?� Parties, which appeared to grow in size exponentially between our 10am and 4pm polls.

The demographic splits were even more surprising, with over 80% of likely white trash voters believing that gun control means using both hands. And in a minor note, a surprising 82% of Americans believe Gore is our current president, and are happy enough with the job he’s done to vote for a second term.

In other political news, 65% of likely voters expressed their strong opinion that commune reporter Lil Duncan belongs in the “Hot� category, while teen correspondent Boner Cunningham led the “Not� voting with a skyscraping 92%. Though disheartened by the news, Cunningham informed the commune that he hopes to do better in the upcoming 2008 election, by which time he expects his mustache to have fully grown in.

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!�

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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