Love Children and Girlie Men

Posted on May 19, 2011 by Todd Allen

Marriages are falling apart all across the fruited plain.

The latest break up to be splashed across the tabloids is, of course, the 25-year union of Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver. The Governator reportedly has at least one love child with a maid who worked for the family for twenty years. But as with Tiger Woods, when it rains, it pours, and the mistress/love child 15-minutes-of-fame parade has only just begun. The sculpted action hero has apparently rescued many a maiden in distress, and his fondness for Hummers extends far beyond his famous fleet of SUVs.

Is anyone all that surprised? A Kennedy married a Republican, and while the cosmos didn’t come apart at the seams, the gods were clearly not in their corner. Perhaps it’s harder to leave your politics at the bedroom door than advertised. The story is Maria was finally fed up with the Terminator’s philandering ways. She found out about the long-time affair with a household staff member and the anonymous stepchild, and it was time to bolt. Plausible enough. But Maria is a Kennedy, and I watched the entire miniseries on the Kennedys, so I obviously know something of the Kennedy family. Philandering is as much a part of the Kennedy tradition as summer football on the Cape or reciting the Rosary before dinner or sitting around the holiday table reminiscing about the time crazy, old Uncle Ted had a few too many cocktails and drowned his girlfriend in the Chappaquiddick River.

Obviously, Joe was right when he pulled Jack aside on the day of his wedding to Jackie and told his son to be discreet. “Wives don’t expect fidelity, but they don’t like infidelity thrown in their face.” (That mini-series was a treasure trove of questionable quotes and misinformation.) Back then though, the only one watching was J. Edgar Hoover whenever he could drag his attention away from whatever lithe young man he was bedding at the time. The world is a different place today. Once the tabloids smell blood in the water, stunning new revelations never end. The concept of throwing infidelity in one’s face takes on a whole new meaning, and as Rush Limbaugh pointed out, Maria did the only thing a woman in her position could do, she flew off to tape Oprah.

Still, even with the glare of the public spotlight on them, they’re doing better than the rest of us. Out here in the heartland, people get crazy. In NASCAR country, spreading your seed across the countryside just means one more monthly child-support payment and one less four-wheeler in the barn, and a woman scorned is just as likely to show up at three o’clock in the morning, chase you through the yard, and try to run you over with her car. In the People’s Republic of California, you can get away with keeping a love child in your home, even if you’re the governator. It’s like driving a hybrid or saving baby seals, just the latest thing to do between plastic surgeries. But down south, they take their crazy seriously. Look at Mark Sanford, the infamous former governor of South Carolina. You didn’t see him messing around with any maids or interns. When he wanted a love child, he flew all the way down to Argentina. At the press conference following the revelation of the whole affair, in between fits of tears, Sanford explained, “Growing up in the Bible belt, I guess having a love child in South America made me feel almost like a missionary.”

The love child big leagues are clearly no place for girlie men.

 

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Reflections on the Untimely death of a Crazy Muslim

Posted on May 5, 2011 by Todd Allen

So, we got him. We found out where the head honcho terrorist camel jockey was hiding, sent in the bad lads known as SEAL Team 6, and double-tapped the bastard above his left eye, a method not generally known for resulting in a living, breathing captive scrubbed and ready for the warm tropical breezes of Guantanamo Bay. Osama Bin Laden is dead, finally. The bearded master mind with the divinely-gifted creativity to adapt a Tom Clancy book to real life, hijack some planes, and fly them into buildings is off to meet the big camel jockey in the sky. Allahu akbar, or God bless the Queen, or Fly planes into our buildings and we will hunt your ragged, alcohol-deprived ass down for a decade if that’s what it takes and smoke you in front of your wife in your Jesus beard and robe . . . something like that.

I have to say I found the whole thing a bit anticlimactic. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a big deal and part of me felt if I was the God-fearing, Eagle Scout citizen I should be, I would feel compelled to be out in the streets waving flags, carrying signs accusing Scott Walker of hatin’ on the workin’ man, and screaming for a pension increase. In other words, celebrating Wisconsin style. But I looked outside and the street was quiet. Either the certified public servants’ union didn’t get the memo or they hadn’t had their biweekly hit of powdered union dues and just didn’t have the energy to stand arm-in-arm and fight for the right to party burqa-free.

Speaking of which, Michael Moore, looking as athletic as ever in his red sweatshirt and green Michigan State baseball hat, had some twitters to share regarding the operation. “Now that bin Laden’s dead, can we put shampoo in our carry on? Can I keep my shoes on? Can we bring all the troops home?” Now, I know what you’re thinking: Michael Moore is a buffoon. Granted. Though, to be fair, it’s difficult to grasp the full scope of a man when his manifold wisdom is conveyed between bites at the Golden Corral. But I think in his misguided expedition through the fringes of liberal insanity, he may have actually stumbled onto a kernel of truth. 9-11 was a major attack on our nation, but a carry-on bottle of shampoo? Are we really that concerned that Abu is going to take over a flight with a miniature bottle of Pantene Pro-V? As we stand herded in line at the airport like livestock with our shoes in a plastic bin and a crack squad of TSA agents fondling our seven year-old daughters, is that the sweet taste of victory? Or has Osama already won to some degree when citizens of the land of the free and the home of the brave so readily drop their pants and hand over their liberties to jack-booted thugs from a brand new government agency? What did Reagan say? “The nine most terrifying words in the English language are: ‘I’m from the government and I’m here to help.’”

But thank the Good Lord in heaven for the messiah, Barack Hussein Obama. Apparently, he almost single-handedly took Bin Laden out. He gathered the intelligence and formed the team and called in the commanders and gave the order. And really, let’s face it, if it hadn’t been such a long trip and fresh on the heels of his latest bi-weekly vacation, he would have flown in there himself and pulled the trigger. The biggest hurdle to such a personal approach was getting the teleprompter off the chopper in time for the reading of the Miranda rights.

Everything else aside, we nailed public enemy numero uno. And so the head towel of chief terrorist passes on to the next crazy Muslim in line. Maybe, just maybe, the next bearded Arab will pause for a moment’s reflection before he tries to fly another plane into one of our buildings. We will not forget, even if we do willingly remove our pants in line at the airport.

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The Dying Glow of a Shining City on a Hill

Posted on April 26, 2011 by Todd Allen

“IMF Bombshell: Age of America nears end.” This was the major headline reverberating across the country Monday morning. The International Monetary Fund says the U.S. economy will be overtaken by the Chi-Comms in 5 years. 2016: that is the year the United States will hand over the baton of world leadership to a communist nation willing to run its own citizens over with tanks if necessary to extinguish any spark of freedom before it has the chance to catch fire and spread. It would be only fitting if there was an actual ceremony for such an event, and President Barack Hussein Obama could bow gracefully to our new Chinese overlords and present them with the key to the world. Few leaders of formally great nations would be up to such a task, but one senses Obama could find within himself the proper balance of misplaced pride and faux humility demanded on such a momentous occasion, provided he could fit it in between vacations.

I read the headlines yesterday morning not with the smug confidence of an American citizen accustomed to threats and premature epitaphs rooted in fear and jealousy of the greatest nation in the history of world, but with another feeling altogether. A profound sense of loss and quiet dread settled over me because American exceptionalism and optimism are in short supply these days. The winds have blown hard against this great country. The storms of terrorism and war, of runaway spending and unbridled consumption have battered our ship of state. The sails are torn and the rocks of an endless social welfare state and reckless indebtedness threaten to destroy us. The decline of America seems not only eventual and inevitable but near and almost palpable.

But as these doubts and fears echoed in my heart and mind, history asserted itself and I recalled the words of Ronald Reagan three decades earlier. Perhaps because his presidency spanned the formative years of my life from age 5 to 13, Reagan forever defined the presidency for me. Every president since has always seemed somewhat smaller to me, less fitted to the role of leading and inspiring a great nation to follow. And maybe they have been. True greatness is by definition rare, and the able men forced to follow in the footsteps of such a leader often suffer by comparison. Can anyone imagine another president in the last 50 years standing in Eastern Europe and uttering the immortal words, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”

In 1981, on the morning of his first inauguration into the highest office of the land, President Reagan confronted a nation “in decline” facing many of the same challenges we now face again. Watching the video of his speech that cold January morning, I find myself wondering how much different the headlines would feel with a man like Reagan at the helm. I don’t remember, I was just a kid at the time, but it must have been a breath of fresh air for the citizens of this country, on the heels of Vietnam and Watergate and Jimmy Carter’s fireside chats about the advantages of double-digit inflation, to hear their newly elected president encouraging them with these words:

“It is time for us to realize that we are too great a nation to limit ourselves to small dreams. We’re not, as some would have us believe, doomed to an inevitable decline. I do not believe in a fate that will fall on us no matter what we do. I do believe in a fate that will fall on us if we do nothing.

“So with all the creative energy at our command, let us begin an era of national renewal. Let us renew our determination, our courage, and our strength. And let us renew our faith and our hope. We have every right to dream heroic dreams.”

And the people believed him. He called on the country to follow him and to make America a better, safer, more prosperous nation, and they did. We rose out of the economic decline, won the Cold War, and settled into the longest period of sustained economic growth in our nation’s history. Ronald Reagan is gone now, but his legacy lives on. His words still echo in our national soul. Thirty years ago, much of the world believed the age of America was drawing to a close, but Reagan’s faith in this great country and his countrymen was bigger than that. The answer then is the answer today.

“The crisis we are facing today does not require of us the kind of sacrifice that Martin Treptow and so many thousands of others were called upon to make. It does require, however, our best effort, and our willingness to believe in ourselves and to believe in our capacity to perform great deeds; to believe that together with God’s help we can and will resolve the problems which now confront us.

“And after all, why shouldn’t we believe that? We are Americans.”

 

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Helter Skelter, Where’s the Weather?!

Posted on April 19, 2011 by Todd Allen

We now officially have the most coherent defense of the phenomenon formally known as global warming to date. No, Algore didn’t rise from the massage parlors for another impossible-to-watch documentary. As far as we know, the crazed sex poodle is still busy happily pinning unattractive redheads against the doors of his hotel rooms, groping their breasts and buttocks, and demanding they “drink to the death of a planet.” The most thoughtful and well-reasoned articulation of a scientific theory whose singular contribution to society involves the serious discussion of animal farts comes from a most unheralded source: Charles “the Madman” Manson.

From deep within the bowels of California’s Corcoran State Prison, the self-proclaimed leader of the environmentalist “Family” roused himself from a Beatles induced slumber to wax eloquent on the subject of global warming. In an interview with Vanity Fair, Mr. Manson announced, “Everyone’s God and if we don’t wake up to that there’s going to be no weather because our polar ice caps are melting.” Upon which, he reportedly began twitching violently, a cloud appeared in his cell, and he transformed into a large bat for a brief period and darted around the interior of the cell in search of a mosquito, though apart from Manson himself, the cell was apparently bug-free.

Alighting once more, Manson blinked at the interviewer and resumed his normal shape, though it should be noted the difference in appearance was only marginal at best, and for the remainder of the interview the reporter believed he was actually talking to Charlie Sheen. “If we don’t put the green back on the planet and put the trees back that we’ve butchered, if we don’t go to war against the Man . . .” But then he trailed off again, mumbling something about the Republicans grinding old people up into dog food instead of raising the debt ceiling, and then he began to methodically bang his head against the bars of his cell while humming Hey Jude.

The reporter attempted to rouse him from his trance by asking him why he seemed so distraught over the butchering of trees when he was in fact in jail for butchering innocent people, but Charles just kept rhythm and said, “Trees are innocent. People are guilty. People is trying to destroy Mother Earth. And I’m a bad man, I’m mean, I’ll cut your heart out with a hairbrush and feed it to the birds you’re trying to poison with your SUV’s and hairspray!”

More twitching and another bat spell followed by a brief stint as a rat before he was finally able to regain Charlie Sheen’s form. During this interlude, the interviewer had time to formulate another question befitting the seriousness of the moment. “Mr. Manson, do you know how much the earth’s temperature has risen in the twenty years you’ve been incarcerated for wanton arboreal butchering?” The shiny black eyes stared vacantly from the other side of the bars. “I’m a bad man . . . the devil, maybe. I live in Hell, and it’s damn warm in these parts.”And then he was back in bat form attempting to communicate in a series of squeaks and clicks unintelligible to anyone except fellow environmentalists, but seen throughout the Movement as one more unmistakable proof that the internal combustion is the root of all evil.

Later, once more back in Charlie Sheen form, Manson took up his head-butting where he had left off, but against a wall this time. When the interviewer tried to thank Mr. Manson for taking time out of his busy penitentiary schedule to address the growing problem of climate change, the killer responded in the only way a man of his considerable reputation could. He began to sing. “Remember to let her under your skin, then you begin . . . to make it better, better, better, BETTER!” But the last note was too high and the bat was back, for good this time. One more sad testament to a life finally ruined by atmospheric decay and George W. Bush’s relentless pursuit of oil.

 

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The Speaker and Mrs. Jones

Posted on April 15, 2011 by Todd Allen

An interview between Speaker of the House, John Boehner, and a reporter for a small Ohio newspaper.

“Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule for an interview with small paper like The Pheasant Run Register, Mr. Speaker.”

They were seated in a booth at Sheri’s, a quintessential small-town diner off Highway 127. The seats were red vinyl, and the man across the Formica table top looked strangely comfortable in the cheeky environment. He was taller than he looked on television, leaner, and his eyes were bright and sharp. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you. People just like you are the backbone of this great country. Please believe me when I tell you it’s an honor to represent you in our nation’s government.”

The reporter was a bit taken back by this warm greeting. “Well, those are very kind words, Mr. Speaker. You’ve just come off your first budget battle with the president and the Democrats. You avoided a government shutdown, but are you satisfied with the agreement?”

The Speaker put his elbows on the table, leaned in and smiled. “I feel like we did the best we could given the situation. It’s not a perfect budget, but we got more cuts than we originally asked for, so I think by any definition it must be considered a success.”

Mrs. Jones looked down at her notes. “The national debt is over 14 trillion dollars. You were able to negotiate cuts totaling 38 billion dollars. That’s less than a quarter of a percent of the total debt. In fact, as a country we borrow slightly more than 38 billion dollars every ten days just to finance our spending.” At this point the reporter looked up. “How long can we keep this up, Mr. Speaker?”

The Speaker was still smiling, but his eyes had gone misty. “You know, Mrs. Jones, I think about this every day. This is the greatest nation on the face of the earth, and I want to make sure everyone has access to the American dream.”

The reporter seemed genuinely confused. “But aren’t we mortgaging our children’s and our grandchildren’s future by spending more and more of the money they will someday earn? Isn’t the American dream already dead for them? Didn’t the citizens elect you to put a stop to all this recklessness?”

The Speaker’s smile finally faded, and he looked genuinely surprised. “Mrs. Jones, did you know I cried on election night? I shed real tears. My emotions overcame me when I realized the trust placed in me by the American people.”

“I understand that, Mr. Speaker. We’re all very touched by your emotions, but even the $38 billion in cuts you agreed to are mostly the result of government accounting gimmicks. The real number looks to be closer to $350 million, which is roughly equivalent to what the U.S. borrows every two hours. It was hardly worth the time to type up the bill!” The reporter was clearly flummoxed.

The Speaker leaned in again, closer this time, and touched Mrs. Jones’ hand. His eyes had gone from misty to hard. Against the red vinyl of the seats, his tanned skin looked almost orange. The palms of his hands felt warm, almost hot. He lowered his voice. “Mrs. Jones, you’ve done a lot of research, but those are just numbers. They don’t mean anything. We only control one half of one third of the government. We have to pick our battles wisely. The real fight is coming, over the 2012 budget. Then we will stand our ground and wage our war against big government.”

“Just numbers?” the reporter asked, clarifying.

The Speaker smiled again. His teeth looked much bigger this close. “Just numbers, Mrs. Jones. Nothing for a girl like you to be worrying her pretty head about. What matters is equal access to the American dream. And pie! Have you had their pie here? It’s amazing, Mrs. Jones, simply amazing.” He looked across the restaurant and motioned for a waitress.

The reporter pulled her hand away and sighed. She closed her notebook. Just 14 trillion little, ole numbers.

When he looked back, the Speaker’s eyes had gone misty again. “This was a pleasure, Mrs. Jones. I hope we can count on your vote next time around. When I think about this country . . . did I mention I cried on election night?”

 

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“Dumb and Dumber” Presidential Comedy Tour

Posted on April 10, 2011 by Todd Allen

If you’re concerned about the rising cost of gasoline, already four dollars a gallon two months ahead of the traditional Memorial Day/summer bump, the leader of the free world has a message for you: Maybe you should think about a trade in. A trade in. That’s the presidential professor’s answer to surging oil prices and the utter lack of a rational, forward-thinking domestic oil policy. With the real unemployment rate pushing 17%, wages falling, home equity basically non-existent, and the economy sputtering along on the bottom of the growth curve, President Obama thinks it’s time for you to go shopping for a shiny new $40,000 hybrid. After all, the government owns a car company now, so ask not what you’re country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.

Taking a well-deserved break from a relentless vacation schedule, the president stopped off at the town of Fairless Hills on the Pennsylvania leg of his national “Ride Your Bike to Work, Even in the Snow” comedy tour. After a fifteen-minutes of “Stupid Vice-President Tricks” where Regular Joe Biden entertained the crowd by juggling magic eight-balls (a thinly veiled reference to the administration’s approach to foreign policy) and seeing how much of the 1,000 plus pages of the Senate’s health care bill he could stuff down his pants (more than most men his height, it should be noted), Obama took the stage wearing his trademark gray suit and big, floppy ears and launched into his “Smartest Man in the Room” routine punctuated by drawn out uh’s and condescending glares.

Finally, he opened the show up to questions from the audience. One of the subjects in the fourth row raised his hand and, referring to the recent spike in gas prices, asked the president if there was a chance of the price being lowered again. After another prolonged “uh,” Obama responded. “I know some of you out here in the back hills of Pennsylvania are still married to your SUVs and driving around your 1967 cargo trucks, but if you’re getting 8 miles a gallon, you might want to think about a trade in,” he said with a big, toothy grin. The joke went on. “I’m sure my good buddies I handed GM over to at the UAW would give you a great deal right now on one of those glorified plug-in lawn mowers they’re building called the Volt.” At which point, the glorified professor and all the other government employees in the room broke out in full-bellied laughter.

The questioner and the rest of the average citizens in the room who drive to work every day trying to make ends meet for their struggling families glanced at each other uneasily, fairly certain the joke was on them. The man they had elected, the candidate who had once magically levitated over Greek columns in front of an arena packed with adoring followers, was laughing at them, as if the idea of rising gas prices cutting into their already dwindling paychecks was the funniest thing he’d heard in a month of Sundays.

And he wasn’t finished.

“And if you don’t like the idea of a pedal car that tops out at 23 miles per hour, Regular Joe has another idea for you.” At which point the vice-president rode onto the stage dressed as clown on a Shriners’ mini-bike honking a bicycle horn and looping figure-eight’s around the Comedian-in-Chief. “You can strap your lunch bucket on the back,” Obama bellowed over the drone of the motorbike’s tiny engine. The unionized public employees’ laughter turned into a roar. Regular Joe came around for another loop. Obama waved. “Thanks for the laughs, folks. I enjoyed myself, I really did. I’m off to my motorcade, and just for the record, I don’t care how expensive gas gets, I’m travelling in style . . . and you’re paying for it. Thanks again, and don’t forget, the weather’s warming up so ride your bike to work. And . . . uh . . . maybe build a windmill in the backyard because expensive gas is here to stay. Those Saudi yachts aren’t getting any cheaper. Good night, folks.”

 

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A Beautiful Glenn

Posted on April 7, 2011 by Todd Allen

“I didn’t sleep at all last night. I was up all night, trying to work things out in my head.” Uh . . . yeah. We noticed. And so begins another ride down the rabbit hole that has become Glenn Beck’s mind. The world is coming to an end. That much is clear. It’s all the details, the why’s and how’s and who’s, that are keeping Glenn up at night. We need to buy gold, store water, compulsively collect J.D. Salinger books and otherwise prepare for the coming apocalypse. The sky has already begun its tumble. Barack Obama and George Soros and Dr. Evil have formed an international consortium behind the escalating riots in the Middle East and the suspicious disappearance of fundamentalist Christian tracts from truck stop bathrooms all across the fruited plain. You know the ones, little comic books showing the unsuspecting minions, freshly dead, lined up in an intergalactic theater while one by one every sordid thought and bad deed is flashed across a cosmic screen for the universe to see. Then the next frame shows the poor, screaming souls being roasted naked like a wiener over a camp fire to the knowing smiles of the redeemed.

And this is all in the first hour of his radio show. The real performance starts later, on TV, when he straddles a chalk board filled with obscure equations, peers intently into the camera and begs news babe Megyn Kelly to powder herself down with chalk and join him for a “walk on the wild side” in the few hours left before an asteroid collides with the earth and finishes the job candidate Obama started of raising the sea levels once and for all.

But alas, ratings are down for Reverend Beck and his nightly TV tent meeting. People are apparently tiring of the daily, on-air AA meeting. “Hello, my name is Glenn and I’m an alcoholic. AND Saddam Hussein isn’t really dead. Those little ninjas who hauled his mangy ass up outta that hole he was living in did the photo op then transported him directly to an underwater city jointly operated by the American Civil Liberties Union, the Muslim Brotherhood, Stephen King and an undisclosed federation of space aliens.” It’s at this point he lowers his voice to almost a whisper and one can almost see tin foil hats all across the country leaning in closer to their televisions. “And he’s helping them . . . right now . . . devising a plan to spread Obamacare across the entire universe. And that, my friends, will finally and utterly destroy this country. Are you willing to pay for a Martian’s colonoscopy? Do Martians even have colons?!”

And so it goes. But Fox News has finally had its fill of old school chalk boards and wandering rants about Republicans and anonymous Jews and secret handshakes. They are parting ways with Mr. Beck. Conservative is one thing; mentally unstable quite another. The network that turned third-rate karaoke into a cash cow of entertainment revenue isn’t willing to make the same gamble with psychotic paranoia. It’s too bad. Glenn Beck is obviously talented, and even now, he has flashes of comedic brilliance, but too often he comes off like a bad combination of Jerry Falwell and Mel Gibson with a nasty hangover. It’s too easy to imagine him cloistered in his basement scribbling indecipherable hieroglyphics on the wall, trying to make sense of the voices in his head.

And what if he’s right? Unfortunately, only George Soros and the little ninjas will ever know for sure.

 

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The Mustache that Sparked a Crusade

Posted on April 5, 2011 by Todd Allen

For the fifth straight day, thousands rioted in the streets of Afghanistan over a Florida pastor’s decision to burn a copy of the Koran he picked up on Amazon.com for forty cents. In another telling example of the pressing need for Hooked on Phonics in the Muslim world, news agencies across the globe are left to wrestle with which of the 128 alternate spellings of Koran should be used in their reporting on the ensuing bedlam. Quran, Qur’an, Kuran, Qur’~an, al-Qur’an, Cor!%an – the options are endless. Any combination of k, q, u, r, a or n seems to be acceptable as long you have some hyphens, apostrophes and emoticons thrown in for good measure. It seems the only Islamic name with a universally accepted spelling is Barrak Hussein Obama, but he refuses to weigh in on the issue, content to refer to it as “the Muslim Book of Rhymes.”

Thus far, 24 people have died as a result of all the hubbub. The incident went so far as to merit a stern warning from David Petraeus, the four-star general in charge of American forces in Afghanistan known primarily for his association with something called “the surge,” a term coined by John McCain and originally used by the senator to describe his feelings during his first meeting with Sarah Palin. Finally close to achieving his goal of once more making the country safe for Islamic jihadists to attend to their daily prayers and get their heroin businesses up and running again, General Petraeus was less than enthused that some Christian wacko in Florida was going to rouse the natives from their opiate-induced haze and force them to start killing Westerners again. Petraeus took to the airwaves to lecture American citizens on the dangers inherent in treating our engagement in Afghanistan like a “real honest-to-goodness war where we kill people and break things.” As the general pointed out, we’ve spent a lot of the Chinese hard-earned money over there getting a guy with a fetish for bad hats and bath robes elected president. Are we really willing to throw it all away for something as trifling as a little free speech?

But being a glutton for attention of any sort, Pastor Jones stood up to the critics and pressed on with his plan. Drawing inspiration from the Braveheart poster on his office wall and the Wyatt Earp mustache disfiguring his face, Pastor Jones ignored the death threats and took to the pulpit to put the Kho’ra’hn on trial, complete with a prosecutor, defense lawyer, witnesses and a jury of white people who apparently hadn’t been out of their homes for at least fifteen years. In the end, the Muslim book of faith was found guilty of being anti-American, though in all fairness it was composed over a thousand years before our country was founded, so it never had a fair shake from the beginning. The final nail in the coffin was the belief, held by Islamic scholars, that the Qu-ran’s poetic form is unique to angels and cannot be written by humans. As Pastor Jones deftly pointed out to raucous cheers, “Obviously they’ve never heard of Dr. Seuss!”

The whole escapade got out of hand when Senator Lindsey Graham tried to force his way onto the stage screaming, “Don’t you people know it’s distasteful to burn the Mexican flag?! Distasteful and wrong! Like Kirstie Alley on Dancing with the Stars!” But the ushers finally subdued him long enough for the book to be burned. When it was all over, Mr. Graham just shook his head in disbelief mumbling, “The illegal alien vote is as good as gone.”

In spite of the hate mail and the death threats, Pastor Jones has no intention of stopping now. More trials await. Mohammed, Buddha, and “that freaky god from India with all the arms” will all take their turn on the stand and have their American patriotism put to the test. And no doubt, more innocent people will die at the hands of enraged Afghan shepherds who would much rather be idly whiling away the hours in a peaceful poppy field. But Pastor Jones clearly sees the hand of the Lord in something that started out as a simple spelling snafu. After all, he originally thought he had ordered a book about the Kardashians, but then the box came and the old man with the mustache opened up his divine destiny. 

 

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The Martian-American War Against Fat Kids

Posted on April 1, 2011 by Todd Allen

Every American first lady has to have a cause. Who can forget Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” campaign against illegal drugs? Laura Bush had worked as a librarian in a past life while W. spent his days at the bar trying to get drunk enough to finally drive home for the evening, so naturally reading was her gig, in addition to urging families everywhere to dig through their attics and find those four overdue library books from 1979. Hillary Clinton had a cause especially close to her heart though it was never given an official title. Something along the lines of the “Keep Your Whore Daughters at Home and Away from the White House” tour. For his part, Bill never understood what all the fuss was about and was typically seen shaking his head and mumbling, “No way that was sex. You can’t even get pregnant from a cigar!”

Carrying on this great tradition, Michelle Obama rolled out a campaign against childhood obesity with the slogan “Let’s Move . . . While You Still Can.” So far, the response from the nation’s children has been underwhelming. It’s rumored a few kids looked up from their ipods when the announcement came on the TV, but only to check out the little, round, fat kids hovering around Mrs. Obama’s legs to see if anyone from their school had been lured onto the stage by the giant tub of Ho-Ho’s behind her. It was all fine until Matt Laurer was caught with his mike on muttering under his breath, “Good god, get these kids some bigger t-shirts. Why don’t we just put Al Roker in a thong?!”

But the Michelle’s fat camps didn’t go completely unnoticed. South of the border, in Venezuela, where the average daily diet consists of two corn tortillas and some government hot sauce, Hugo Chavez took up the rallying cry. Four hours and twenty-six minutes into an eight hour speech where he had already dropped the bombshell that capitalism may have destroyed life on Mars, Hugo proclaimed, “We’re leaving malnutrition behind. It no longer exists in the country since I nationalized all the farm markets and roadside vegetable stands last month. But be careful with obesity.” To which a thousand of the forced onlookers’ stomachs growled in applause and anticipation of their evening tortilla. A few minutes later, forty people fainted, but in the state-run media this was written off to an overzealous exercise routine in the fight against middle-aged Latino weight gain rather than the 200-calorie diet they had been subsisting on since Hugo’s election in 1998.

Mr. Chavez’s remarks were particularly poignant in light of a month-long hunger strike by a group of university students protesting Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker’s plan to burn down under-performing schools in South America and force the displaced Venezuelan teachers to work in privately-owned roadside vegetable stands outside Oshkosh. Some of the students even went so far as to partially sew their lips together, an unusual tactic President Hugo nevertheless encouraged as “the best proof yet our Venezuelan students are taking the fight against the freshman fifteen seriously for a change.”

Even governor Scott Walker applauded the effort, reportedly saying, “Maybe Michael Moore could take some protesting lessons from those crazy Mexicans down there. El Loco could live for a year off the calories he has stored.” To which, Michael Moore responded, “Scott Walker is just trying to distract the country from his scandalous record of busting unions and destroying jobs on Venus and Jupiter.”

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An American Werewolf’s Guide to Climatology

Posted on March 30, 2011 by Todd Allen

Still reeling from reports that the government of Portugal had all but collapsed in the wake of lawmakers’ refusal to pass austerity measures and at the very least pretend they cared about remaining part of the family of quasi-solvent sovereign nations, the European Union decided to tackle the serious issues it had been putting off since the release of An Inconvenient Truth. Apparently convinced the euro will be worthless by mid-summer and nearly all member nations bankrupt by Christmas, EU leaders have decided to issue ridiculous edicts until the end. This week, they decided to ban cars from all European cities by 2050 to reduce carbon dioxide emissions. The fact that this date is four decades in the future and the likelihood of the EU lasting another four months could be considered seriously in doubt did nothing to quell the excitement among members of the commission. After the vote, they headed straight to the pubs to hoist some pilsners and reminisce about the good old days when Hitler was Blitzkrieging Poland and the old country still mattered to the rest of the world.

In their unbridled zeal at still being able to cast votes on things for a few more months, the EU decided to send Al Gore a certified copy of the ballot total and a commemorative beer stein, since the whole concept of global warming was created for the express purpose of giving the former vice-president something to talk about other than the hanging chads that cheated him out of his only chance at oval office rub downs by well-fed interns. The scientists who came up with the idea never expected people would actually believe that a can of hairspray could produce a warp in the time-space continuum, but then L. Ron Hubbard never meant for anyone to take his science fiction seriously either, but that didn’t stop Tom Cruise from jumping up and down on Oprah’s couch yelling incoherently about thetans and electropsychometers and Australian country-music singers who steal white people’s wives and refuse to wear cowboy hats.

To be fair, I think we all misunderestimated Tipper’s old man. Who among us would have thought the man

who once claimed to be both the inventor of the internet and the original inspiration behind Gandalf in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings would have the foresight to take a poll showing the earth’s temperature had increased seven-tenths of one percent over the last one thousand years (with a margin of error of plus or minus four percent) and turn it into a multi-billion dollar cottage industry? Or that the engulfing wave of hysteria would lead otherwise rational people to buy plug-in cars that travel all of two-and-a-half miles between charges and come stock with built-in driver’s-side pedals? We even got new swirly florescent light bulbs out of the deal that finally work their way up to full brightness by the time you’re out of the shower and heading off to work.

At least no one can say Al hasn’t enjoyed his new-found prosperity. After growing a beard and finally turning into a werewolf, he headed straight down to the local massage parlor where he stripped down, pinned a young Asian girl in a corner, and began furiously humping her leg, all the while lecturing her on the environmental perils of toilet paper and cow flatulence. But then, we all have to do our part to save the planet.

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