Political Humor

End of Life Counselors – Something wicked this way comes.

G Man: “Good evening. Are you Mr. Les James?”

Les: “That’s not my real name, but yes, do write under that nom de plume. Pardon my French. Why?”

G Man: “Great. My name is Rolands. I’m from the Government. I’m here to help.”

Les: “No, that’s way too easy. Let’s see. Ah, here’s a pithy comeback. I thought you were the UPS guy delivering a package, what with the Brown Shirt and all.”

G Man: “Yes, sir. Humor. Now, Mr. James, currently residing at the East Lake Garden Retirement Community, at15367 Hummingbird Place, St. Lewis, Missouri… to help with our questionnaire, is your Social Security number, 238-34-7327?

Les: “No, I’m afraid it’s not. Also, you’re currently breathing Oregon air. By the way, this porch you’re standing on is attached to a single family dwelling. Not, as you may have noticed, a retirement community.”

G Man: “I see. Let me make a note of that.”

Les: “Good. I’m glad we’ve got that cleared-up. I’ll bet you got a few more of those tough questions, don’t you?”

G Man: “Born June 20th, 1925, in Los Angeles, California.”

Les: “Was that a question or a statement? But oh so close that time. Your information would be 100% dead-on, if you don’t mind adding over thirty years to my life and being born on the wrong coast. Still, a good try. Johnny, do we have a consultation prize? What? A new car?”

G Man: “Humm, I see. I’ll just jot all that down.”

Les: “You do that, Sparky.”

G Man: “Three kids. Wife died in 1960 in a tragic train accident. You’ve been on a respirator and in a wheelchair since your massive coronary nine years ago. Numerous hospital stays. Other operations. A long list of medications. You have diabetes, glaucoma, high blood pressure and herpes.

Les: “Please, Mister Government Man, don’t tell my wife -who by the way, is sitting in that chair over there- about the other two kids or the herpes, okay? The shock of finding out she’s been tragically dead since before she was born, is going to be tough enough on her.”

G Man: “I’ll just…”

Les: “Yeah, I know, write it down.”

G Man: “Yes, sir.”

This Political Satire is being brought to you by, The Many Mornings After Pill. When you’ve come to recognize that your mother should have prevented you -70 or 60 or even 50 years ago. An Earth Friendly product from Obama’s friends at Big Pharma. We now return to our irregularly scheduled program.

Les: “Just what are you scribbling with that crayon anyway?”

G Man: “A few notes about your mental state, that’s all.”

Les: “My mental state? You’re the one who seems to be in a bit of a conundrum about who you’re talking to and what part of the country you’re in.”

G Man: “No sir, I don’t.”

Les: “You don’t what?”

G Man: “Have any confusion at all. I’m from the Government. We’re never wrong.”

Les: “This is the place where I’m suppose to laugh. But instead, I think I’ll play along, he said to himself. Alright Zippy, how do you explain talking to a guy who’s real name isn’t Les James, is much younger than the geezer you’re looking for, not in a wheelchair or using a respirator, who’s wife is very much alive, and who is residing in the Pacific North West, not the Mid-West?”

G Man: “Delusions, sir.”

Les: “Finally. At least you got that right. You are rather delusional.”

G Man: “Not me, sir. You. You obviously are suffering from a break with reality.

Les: “I’m suffering from a break? And what is this reality of which you speak? I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of any such beast in this administration. Bad boy. You’ve been skipping your meds again, haven’t you?”

G Man: “Fine, sir. Now, since your hospital bills exceed any future offset in meaningful productivity, you had been re-classified as High Maintenance. But with this sudden shift in mental awareness manifesting itself, I have no choice but to re-direct your Obam-I-Care and Social Security benefits back to the General Fund.

Les: “So Scooter, let me see if I got this right. In your fantasy world, your stopping my health care and cutting off my only source of income. In other words, poor, old Les James is soon to be in the past tense. I should be pissed.”

G Man: “A momentary mild display of negative emotions is expected, followed by brief time of reflection, and then positive feels about your role in the national welfare.”

Les: “A three step program? Wow, the process of finding out you were terminal and coming to grips with it, use to have four. So Les is supposed to begin harp lessons. Stay permanently down for the count. Bite the Big One. Dirt nap. Learn to hold his breath, forever… Am I hitting this coffin nail squarely on the head? Listen here Bonzo, I think it’s about time for you to leave, before we have a three-legged race to the hospital, to get my foot de-wedged from your ass. Assuming you have insurance.”

G Man: “Right. We don’t use those terms, Mr James. We’re very politically correct about our choice of words. We’d rather say, that in your advanced years, you don’t want to be a burden on your three kids or society at large. It’s time you realized you need to stop using more than your share of finite resources, and for the good of the planet, take The Pill.”

Les: “Yes, my three, sweet kids, and all those grandkids and great grandkids… You’re a real loon, you know that? Now get off my property before I exercise by rights under the Second Amendment.

G Man: “Now Mr. James, swallow The Pill and everything will be just fine. It’s your duty to country, sir.”

Les: “My duty? Dag nab it. Billie Jane, git me ol’ Betsy and set loose them hounds! I’m fixin’ to shoot me a Revenuer.”

G Man: “Chen, Ketridge, in here, now. We’ve got another live one. It’s going to take all three of us to shove The Pill down his throat. That’s the fourth one just this morning. Damn conservatives. I never have this kind of problem with the Far Left.

Intro to a lengthy post

In a fatty of a RL Inquirer exclusive, today we’ll explore the no stems, no seeds side of American politics. Our team of crack undercover, investigative reporters have left no stone gathering moss in pursuit of a good story, and lacking that… the truth.

We dressed like housewives. We dressed like students. Sometimes in suit and a tie. Oops, sorry, that was for the Town Hall meetings. Which reminds me. Chris C, my wife wants her skirt and blouse back. Oh, and she told me to tell you that you’ve got nice legs.

Ramble on

So, let’s get on with this fine piece of journalism.

It’s rather apparent to me that our high government officials are smoking something. How else can you explain the utter stupidity we’re getting for leadership? You know what I think they’re passing around in the Congressional Cloakroom and Oval Office? Funny Money, and it’s the best funny money that, ah, money can buy.

I’m not aiming this accusation only at the Democrats. Oh, no. At the very least, you Republicans are guilty of hanging around and getting a contact buzz. Though I suspect many of you have been taking a few hits too.

Congress has been flyin’ high, and not on a new fleet of Gulfstream G5s. Here’s an idea, why not pass a Bill stating that they can do that whenever they like? I’ve got a list of cliffs and tall building where they could practice. Sorry. Zoning out in a pleasant daydream again.

Get on with it, already

Why’s this happening? Simple. In an age of Roll You’re Own pork barrel projects and Johnny Can’t Read representation, it makes perfect sense to believe you can do almost anything you want as a member of Congress. Who’s going to stop ‘em? A bunch of angry, Un-American, political terrorist? Perish the thought.

What does all of this have to do with Funny Money? Not a thing.(Enter an awkward transitional sentence and segue back to our topic de jour… or not.)

When you think about it, it all makes sense. Joint sessions of Congress gain a whole new meaning. These guys have been burning cash like a frat party goes through Pabst Blue Ribbon. Congress has got the munchies, big time. The only thing that seems to help fill that hunger, is more spending.

Except the country’s flat ass broke. There’s no way they can afford this fine smoke, can they? No, but your grandchildren can. With prices falling in the housing market, unemployment nearing double digits, and the value of the U.S. dollar hovering around that of Zimbabwe’s, you wouldn’t think the Greenback was worth the paper it was printed on. And up until Obama took office, you’d have been right.

A bit of back story

Secretly over the last six months, almost all of the U.S. folding currency has been removed from circulation and replaced. But instead of the U.S. Mint handling the manufacture of the new dollars, Obama’s Currency Czar, Michael Phelps, has set up a clandestine printing operation in Eugene, Oregon.

Former 1970′s employees of the Zig-Zag rolling paper company have been assembled in Eugene to work at a shut down lumber mill, that houses this secret plant. The mill was closed some years ago because a single breading pair of spotted owls was seen vacationing in a nearby old-growth forest. Since burned-out hippies are a common sight in this town and these laid-back workers haven’t attracted any unwanted attention.

The high cotton content of the old bucks has been replaced a high hemp content in the new. Strong, durable, much “greener” than the traditional blue jeans material -and usually associated with man purses- hemp in and of itself is not much good for finding humor Pauly Shore movies. Lacking all but tract amounts of THC, the new currency is given its punch through dye made from the leaves of pot plants. The actual extraction method is closely guarded and known only to a few Rastafarian craftsmen.

This program goes back many years, and was the brain child of Bill “I never inhaled” Clinton. He began the program by working with groups on both sides of the border. Upstanding Mexican citizens have been moving the product into the country for years. It’s been processed and stored in various locations across the country, awaiting the day production could begin.

Don’t think Bush wasn’t in on it too. Why do you think he never closed the border and had such a difficult time pronouncing nuclear? Didn’t that lame smile ever make you wonder?

Back to the Future

If you’ve been asking yourself, ‘where all the money’s going?’ It’s going up in smoke. The EPA has estimated that all that cash burning will raise the global temperature .0002 degrees centigrade, over the next year. This will cause the polar ice caps to melt an addition 50%. And that will be enough to flood New Orleans, The Hampton, and polish off the Galapagos Islands. Easter Island will barely be able to keeps its heads above water. But do these 60′s dope smokers care? No. They only care about where their next stash of cash will come from.

Living high on the hog, instead of lighting their Havanas with hundred dollar bills, now Congress is puffing on C notes. (This is in no way a homo joke about Larry Craig or Barney Frank.) Although a problem has arisen with our new legal tender. The North Koreans have been counterfeiting our currency. Apparently they’ve been using toilet paper as a base material -causing a shortage in their own country. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, not all of the TP is virginal.

Next time you see your representative looking like they’ve just smoked some good shit, you’ll know why.

[ed: that was a long frikkin' way to go for a sorry punchline]