And I also went up from my couch, in my living room, in apartment 113, to the mailboxes, which are over by the leasing office, to mailbox number 113 because I am of the apartment and mailbox #113.  Also, it was a Saturday and I wasn’t really doing anything else and whenever I don’t check my mailbox for a couple days it always fills up with junk mail until there’s hardly any room for important bills and stuff.

Arriving at mailbox 113, I discovered that the receptacle was indeed stuffed to the brim with Ralph’s coupons, credit card offers, Trader Joe’s flyers, and various other marketing miscellany.  The time had come to clear it out.  So I wrapped the junk mail together and stuffed a bunch of it in the outgoing mail slot, because there was no room for it in the trash can.  But before junking the junk mail, I was careful to extract the census form of which the Commerce Department had spoken.

And in the same region, later on that day, I was back on my couch keeping watch over the NCAA Tournament games at night.  When suddenly, a commercial from the government appeared before me and the sound of propaganda was all around me, and I was filled with confusion.

And the commercial said unto me, “Be not confused, for behold, I bring you good news of great appropriations which will be for all taxpayers.  For unto you is offered this day, from the city of Washington in the District of Columbia, a government distribution which is more than $400 million.  And this will be the sign unto you, you will find your census form, wrapped in an envelope and lying in your mailbox.”  And suddenly there was on the commercial a multitude of disembodied voices praising the census and saying,

“We can’t move forward, until you mail it back.  We can’t move forward, until you mail it back.”

When the commercial ended and a plug for Two and a Half Men appeared, I said to myself, “let me go over to the table and see this free-money form which the commercial has made known to me.”  And I went with haste and found the form lying on the table next to a box of Berry Berry Kix and beneath a copy of Sports Illustrated’s Swimsu …I mean…March Madness Preview.

I remembered the saying which I had heard concerning this form and was eager to discover the criteria by which the government doled out its blessed funding.  I made known to the form my birth date and skin color and was astonished to see that I was not questioned further.  Is that all that is necessary for the judicious appropriation of public monies?   What of my education?  What of my marketable skills, virtuous lifestyle, or community service experience?

In this manner it was made clear that personal merit is of no concern to the form.  As has been foretold since days long past, one cannot obtain the grace of the government through hard work and personal achievement.  It is only with one’s national descent that the government is concerned.

As the Reverend Jesse Jackson has rightly stated, “the government giveth and the government taketh away.  Blessed be the government and blessed be the Chicano, Filipino, Alaskan Native, Hmong, Laotian, and Pacific Islander with whom the government is well pleased.”

And all who heard of the form were greatly amazed and gave praise to their government for its unmerited favor.

But I treasured up all these things, pondering them in my heart.  (And on my website).

Do you have a communicable disease of public health significance such as tuberculosis (TB)?

Have you ever violated, or engaged in a conspiracy to violate, any law relating to controlled substances?

Are you coming to the United States to engage in prostitution or unlawful commercialized vice or have you been engaged in prostitution or procuring prostitutes within the past 10 years?

Do you seek to engage in espionage, sabotage, export control violations, or any other illegal activity while in the United States?

Do you seek to engage in terrorist activities while in the United States or have you ever engaged in terrorist activities?

Have you ever or do you intend to provide financial assistance or other support to terrorists or terrorist organizations?

Are you a member or representative of a terrorist organization?

Have you ever ordered, incited, committed, assisted, or otherwise participated in genocide?

Have you ever committed, ordered, incited, assisted, or otherwise participated in torture?

Have you committed, ordered, incited, assisted, or otherwise participated in extrajudicial killings, political killings, or other acts of violence?

Someone got paid American tax dollars to sit in an office and come up with these questions. It probably took them six months and cost millions of dollars. And all for what? It screens out the completely moronic people that actually answer in the affirmative.

I suppose if an immigrant gets caught committing a crime mentioned in this questionnaire, they could also get prosecuted for lying to the government, but do you really need another reason besides “started a brothel” to deport someone? “Started a brothel and is such a total liar. We’re going to deport you, let you back in, and then deport you again. Suck it.” How long before you think they start asking multiple choice questions?

Circle some of your favorite activities:
A. Murdering
B. Pillaging
C. Violencing
D. All of the Above

Is there a way to answer any of these questions that won’t get you denied entry, besides “no”? Any ideas? My favorite so far is “just for fun.” Kent likes “not yet.” Post your responses below!

The quality of my life took a significant hit last week when a cruel twist of fate and scheduling required me to visit both of these gulags in one 36-hour period.  It was a harrowing experience I would maybe wish on Michael Moore but probably no one else.  I escaped with none of my dignity and only a shred of my sanity.  On the bright side, I am now in the unique and unenviable position to draw comparisons between these two black holes of bureaucracy.  I do this so that you don’t have to and so that my suffering might not have been in vain. This is my therapy.  This is my penance.  This is my diary screaming out loud (God bless you, Anna Nalick).  Enjoy.

Service:

DMV – inhumane.  Contrary to popular belief, the Department of Motor Vehicles was not created to regulate automobiles.  It was created to prevent automobiles.  The Government realized long ago that cars were bad for the environment and that traffic was bad for the economy and that Kia was bad for everyone.  They created the DMV to make it impossible for people to legally operate motorized vehicles.  To that effect, the DMV has been celebrated as the most effective government program since Hiroshima.  The DMV’s one-two-three punch of bewildering forms, exorbitant fees, and uncomfortable chairs has successfully convinced many Americans to consider tandem bikes, rickshaws, hobo piggy-back rides and all other available alternatives to automobiles.  It is now believed that cars will be abandoned out of frustration before they are able to complete their mission to destroy the earth.

Airport Security – degrading. Since The Government owns most major airlines, their motive with airport security it not to prevent you from flying.  Rather, airport security serves as a reminder from our overlords as to where exactly we, the citizens, stand.  Having already given us so many wonderful gifts (i.e. the 4^th of July, Jackie Kennedy, the Rocky Mountains, etc.) the last thing The Government wants is for us to think we’ve earned it or that we somehow deserve it.  So they’ve created airport security to remind us that in the Great American Hierarchy of Being we rank just above a medium-rare steak and just below a school board member.  If we ask nicely and prostrate ourselves before the highlighter-wielding GED-holder examining our drivers licenses, we might be allowed to board an airplane.  Airport security exists as a reminder that, while the Government can’t keep us from flying, they can make sure we don’t feel good about ourselves or take any enjoyment from the experience.  Cause wouldn’t that be a tragedy?

Staff:

DMV – annoyed and condescending. The first thing to know about DMV workers is that they are better than you.  Like all low-level government employees, DMV workers have an astronomically high IQ.  Most are members of Mensa.  Several are regularly called upon by NASA to consult on lunar explorations.  As a result, they have difficulty abiding the ignorance of the American public.  At any given moment, they have several dozen better things they could be doing and it is only your failure to commit the vehicle registration codes to memory that is keeping them from a life of adventure and fame.  While you waste precious minutes of their life with pithy inquiries about title transfers and organ donations, they cannot help but roll their eyes and think about the heads of state they would be advising were you not standing in front of their stall.  They find it exceedingly frustrating when their name placards and elevated desks fail to convey their monumental intellect.  When this happens, they have no choice but to employ the higher form non-verbal communication techniques (i.e. quizzical looks and heavy sighs) that they learned in their honors courses at the local vocational-technical institute.

Airport Security – annoyed and hostile. Airport security personnel know exactly what you’re up to. If you think you’re going to pull a fast one on them, you’ve got another thing coming and by “thing” I mean wand probing and cavity search.  Sure, you may look like a non-threatening twentysomething in business attire, but your decision to put your shoes directly on the conveyer belt reveals your nefarious motives.  Airport personnel have been trained to ignore thoughts like “maybe it was an honest mistake” and “well, she is only 8 years old.”  They know better.  Years of experience have taught them that the average American 3^rd grader already knows enough about molecular physics to turn a 4.5 oz tube of toothpaste, some Old Spice, a flip-flop, and an iPod battery into a hydrogen bomb.  What’s this?  A jacket in the same bin as a laptop?  Nice try Osama.  Go back around.  And take your pants off while you’re at it.

Ruling:

It’s almost a toss-up.  Both receive high marks for their ability to hassle and harass otherwise non-violent citizens.  Both are exemplary in their ability to create and sustain unfathomably long lines.  Both have done a commendable job of identifying and employing the angriest, most impatient people in America.  Both provide the opportunity for you to be yelled at by divorcees.

In the end, I’m going to give the “Take Me Now, Lord” Award to the DMV.  While airport security shares all of the DMV’s unsavory attributes, it does have one positive aspect worth mentioning: most of the people standing in line with you at the airport don’t look like they’re about to stab you.  And really, where’s the fun in that?

So I was at the post office the other day, mailing something to my special lady friend. It’s long distance so you really have to send letters and what not to keep points on the scoreboard, so to speak. I had tried FedEx and UPS, but their prices were astronomical – $60 bucks when USPS was $10 – $20.

There I was, putting some stuff in a box and filling out all the appropriate forms, when some girl came in to ship something. It was only the two of us there at the Post Office, so I could easily hear her conversation with the USPS employee. The girl was trying to pay for her purchase with a credit card that said “See I.D.” where the signature bar is on the back. The USPS employee was not down with that. You see, their policy is that you have to sign your cards. “You can sign your card right now, but we won’t take it if it’s not signed,” the employee told the young lady – the damsel in distress, you might say.

Logic isn't in their policy.

“I work at a bank,” the girl protested. “We tell all of our customers to write ‘See I.D’ on the back of their cards because it’s more secure. Your I.D. has your signature and your picture on it. It helps protect against theft.”

“Hard to argue against that logic,” I affirmed her silently in my mind. This was, after all, the same policy that I myself practiced.

“Our policy says that you have to sign the card,” the employee persisted.

“But you can just see my I.D.” the girl continued in futility.

“Ma’am you can either sign the card now or pay with cash,” repeated the error message, reminiscent of the infuriating experiences we’ve all had with some type of electronics that malfunction despite all forms of reason. The customer yielded, her white flag waving as she handed over the cash for her purchase. Her head hung low as she marched out of the building, defeated.

“Not me,” I thought rebelliously. “You’re gonna see my I.D., and you’re gonna like it.“ I walked over to the counter, my chest inflated with an air of defiance. Having rung up the costs of shipping my blindingly romantic, swoon-inducing package, the employee asked for my payment. I offered up a credit card that pleaded for the merchant to ask for my I.D.

“We don’t take cards that aren’t signed,” the employee spouted like a recording as she pointed to the little sign with their policy printed on it, the section regarding I.D. highlighted.

“My Father works at a bank. Putting ‘See I.D.’ is more secure,” I said. True story, my Dad really does work for a bank.

“Do you want to talk to the post master?” the employee said, appealing to their ultimate authority. “Finally” I thought, “I can speak to someone with a mind.”

I was wrong.

A bald man in his 50′s or 60′s puttered out from “the back room” where the dark alchemies of postal service are performed and came up to the counter to speak with me. “Is there a problem?” he said.

“Yes. I am trying to pay with my credit card. It is unsigned, but it says ‘See I.D.’ on it. This is actually more secure than signing it, because if someone steals my credit card then they would need my I.D. as well. Then, were they daring enough to offer up both the purloined card and the I.D., you’d be able to quickly tell that you were observing a fraud because their face would not be my face.” Triumph filled the air, echoing off of the walls with my flawless words. My tone was clear and stern, but peaceful. I did not yell or scream like an undersexed suburban mother, protesting the end of a sale at Kohl’s. No, I just presented truth calmly and succinctly. I had changed the world in a small way, for the better.

“Our policy says that the card has to be signed or we can’t accept it,” the man said nasally, extinguishing the fireworks of victory.

“But didn’t you hear what I just said? That’s not secure.”

“Well if they steal your wallet they would have your I.D. anyway,” he said, making that face that people sometimes make when they feel threatened, as if they are clenching their ass cheeks in anticipation of a punch to the face.

“Right, they would. But they wouldn’t have stolen my face too, would they? Unless we’re dealing with an Eddie Gein character, in which case I would suppose credit card theft is the least of our worries.”

“It’s our policy. Our national policy.”

“Understood, and I’ll pay with cash. But maybe you could use your Postmaster powers – great as I assume they are – to affect a positive change in the system?”

“I have. This is our policy.” He said, still standing with a slight lean backwards, ready to flee.

“Okay then.” I said. I left the Post Office, my faith in humanity and customer service shat upon once again by reality.

I then began thinking, as thinkers like myself tend to do. What if this were health care? While I agree that the American health care system works just as well as punching yourself in the face does for relieving headaches, do I want to have this experience every time I need to get some kind of medical work taken care of? The talk of death panels is sensationalistic crap, the talk of communism/fascism is bloated rhetoric, but I can’t ignore the experience I just had with a business that is operated by the government. It is so mired down in bureaucracy that the idea of “customer service” is as present as the days when MTV actually had music on it. It’s a vague memory and a happy one, but the present is such a stark contrast that the pictures in the photo album are faded beyond recognition. These Post Office employees literally have no motivation or incentive for being flexible for a customer. What the hell do they care? There’s still going to be a Post Office tomorrow whether I continue to patronize their establishment or not. They have their mouths firmly attached to the government’s bountiful teat, why on Earth would they choose to “go the extra mile” to have “service with a smile”? The customer may always be right, but they don’t give a damn about what’s right. If “right” isn’t in their policies, then “right” means nothing to them.

Are my fears well founded? Or am I just being a pessimist? I ask you the question that Third Eye Blind once asked all of us: How’s it gonna be?

Fellow Patricians,

Tip #1: Titanium cufflinks and Egyptian silk boxers are life’s little necessities, to be sure. But be smart about it! Buy used! I’m almost embarrassed to tell you how cheaply I scored an ivory tooth brush at Saddam Hussein’s estate sale!

Tip #2: Your summer home in the Hamptons? Burn it. Burn it down. You’ll collect enough insurance money to fill your hot tub with Dom Perignon and cavier (which, I’ve found, can be extremely hard on the filters).

Tip #3: Insider trading. Need I say more? If you haven’t started yet, I don’t know what you were doing in the 90′s.

Tip #4: When you’re snorting blow on your G5 private jet, try doing it on the bathroom’s marble countertops instead of the gold seatbelts. This doesn’t save you any money, but I find it much more effective.

Tip #5: Your daughter’s horse? (1) Insure it; (2) Tell your daughter it’s been feeling sick; (3) Store it in the Hampton garage before you follow Tip #2.

Advice #6: Your side-girlfriend’s hush money is ballooning faster than Oprah during the holidays. Instead of mailing her monthly stipend in unmarked Euro, give her coupons. Ladies love this! Think about it: women love to shop, they love to save $$$, and they’ll love when you affirm them in the form of a coupon for Aldi hot dogs. It’s like a roundtrip ticket for her shopping train of savings.

Tip #7: Speaking of side payments, be wary of the payroll. I was getting nickeled and dimed with payments for a gardener, an accountant, the side girlfriend demanding hush money, the dog’s yoga instructor, the dog’s side girlfriend demanding hush money. That stuff adds up. Solution: combine them into one role. Put your dog’s yoga instructor to work as a gardening accountant that you date on the side. It’s unfortunate if the instructor is a guy, but this is a recession. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Tip #8: Have that gardening yoga accountant fill the pool with Dasani instead of Evian. This not only saves money, but I find the Lemon-Cucumber flavor to be very refreshing for morning swims.

Tip #9: Your illegitimate child with the cocktail waitress in Montreal? That’s called a “dependent”, and that’s a tax write-off, my friend!!

Tip #10: Does your yacht in the Riviera really need a helipad? Don’t be silly: of course it does! But why not turn that pleasure into profit? Think of the profitable possibilities: an offshore casino! A dinner cruise ship! A brothel! An offshore brothel that serves dinner while you gamble!!! Are you writing this down… it’s gold.

Well, the G5 is warmed up. I’m off to Antigua. Following Tip #3. Adieu.

Another effortless bit of brilliance by Tory Schalkle: friend, father, haberdasher, idiot savant.

CHAIRMAN: It’s an honor to be sitting here in front of such an accomplished Chef. Furthermore, it’s quite humbling to be the new Chairman of this Ways and Menus Committee. Now, I’ll turn things over to the distinguished Senator from California for questioning.

SENATOR: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I think I speak for the entire Congress in saying that as the newly appointed Chairman, we know you’ll wield your meat tenderizer-shaped gavel in a fair, judicious and delicious manner.

CHAIRMAN: Thank you, Senator.

SENATOR: Chef, thank you for being here. And for supplying each of us with these fluffy, one-whole egg/two-egg-white omelets. I’d like the record to show that I cannot tell the difference between a traditional three-whole-egg omelet and this healthier version.

CHAIRMAN: Duly noted. Let the record show that the Senator from California is a fan of the Chef’s omelets. Now if you’re done, can we move on?

SENATOR: Of course. Chef, your qualifications are impressive, especially your schooling and apprenticeship at a Michelin three-star restaurant in Lyon. But you were recently head chef at Tres Tehran: An Iranian Bistro, Enoteca & Waterslide Park. I hate their appetizer selection.

CHEF: I’m sorry to hear that. But let me say it’s an honor to be considered for this position, and I thank each of you for taking the time to be here today. By the way, a little secret to those omelets? Dash of Tabasco as I whisk them.

AUDIENCE: Ooooh!

CHAIRMAN (banging meat tenderizer-shaped gavel): Order! Order! Our take-out order is here. Who got the Honey-Roasted Turkey Sub?

SENATOR: Vinegar, no oil, and hot peppers on the side?

CHAIRMAN: Looks like they put the peppers right on it.

SENATOR: Damn it!

CHAIRMAN: Just pick some of them off.

SENATOR: Fine, but when you say, “peppers on the side” — ah, what’s the use?

CHAIRMAN: Senator, anymore questions? I’m getting hungry.

SENATOR: Chef, were you ever involved in the Hawaiian Pizza trend?

CHEF (clears throat): Yes, uh, I was.

AUDIENCE: Gasp!

CHEF: It was the 80s, I was young and we were all doing silly stuff. So I threw some pineapple and ham on a pizza. Other chefs were doing much worse things. Like cocaine.

SENATOR: With all due respect, “other chefs” aren’t going to cook for the first family and heads of State.

CHEF: I understand that, Senator.

SENATOR: I don’t think you do!

CHAIRMAN (banging meat tenderizer-shaped gavel): Senator, calm down! This isn’t some Law & Order trial, which I DVR’d and we can watch in my office during recess while eating.

SENATOR: Apologies, Chef. Can you please talk about your 1995 arrest at LAX airport?

CHEF: I don’t see how that’s relevant.

CHAIRMAN: Answer the question.

CHEF: I was returning from a fund-raising dinner for a charity that makes it possible for today’s youth to appreciate different salts. We expose the underserved –

CHAIRMAN: If you ask me, whenever I’m in a restaurant I’m underserved. Ha! Just kidding. Today’s servers are doing a great job. God Bless America’s servers.

CHEF: The charity introduces people to grey salt, Hawaiian red salt, Fleur de Sel, which is hand-harvested off the shores of Brittany using –

SENATOR: You’re avoiding the question. What did you have on your person when you tried to board that plane?
CHEF: A blowtorch.

AUDIENCE: Gasp!

CHEF: A small crème brulee blowtorch to ensure the sugary coating of the dessert we served was dark and hard enough so that you could hear the crack of the spoon as it penetrated the surface.

CHAIRMAN: Mmm. My word, I could go for a proper crème brulee. Smooth, creamy interior juxtaposed with that crackly exterior –

SENATOR: Mr. Chairman, please. Chef, have you ever eaten foie gras, the fattened liver of a goose or duck — fattened by a brutal force-feeding process called gavage? Remember, you’re under oath.

CHEF: I chewed but never swallowed.

SENATOR: I find that hard to believe.

CHAIRMAN: So do I. Foie gras is so dang good. How could you not swallow?

CHEF: It’s fattening. I just wanted the taste and then I’d spit it out.

SENATOR: Great, we have a White House Chef with an eating disorder. Moving on, it’s admirable that you’re active in the Slow Food Movement.

CHEF: A philosophy dear to my heart.

SENATOR: And your heart might be in trouble given your potentially clogged arteries.

CHEF: Senator?

SENATOR: Cut the tenderloin chef, you know what I’m getting at. Explain these photos that recently surfaced on the Internet. They show you at a McDonald’s drive-thru at 11 p.m. ordering heavily from the Dollar Menu. Three Double Cheeseburgers, Chef? Really?

AUDIENCE: Gasp!

CHAIRMAN (banging meat tenderizer-shaped gavel): Mmm. Double Cheeseburgers. We’ll pick this up after recess. Let’s eat!

Frank Ferri is a copywriter who thinks he’s funny.  His work has previously appeared in McSweeney’s, Yankee Pot Roast, and The Big Jewel.  You can visit him at frankferri.com.

PROS: Brings with him a huge NFL fan following, which could spark an interest in Constitutional law among sports fans. Bonus, he is an actual lawyer.

CONS: Prone to throwing yellow flags at attorneys-and anyone really-throughout court proceedings. His form-fitting robes and needlessly wordy opinions will grate on the rest of the court.

BONO

PROS: Still miffed at being passed over for Pope in 2005, he will bring intensity to the Court that’s been missing. Mononym would save taxpayer money on engraved desk and door plates.

CONS: Have you ever seen him without his sunglasses?  It’s terrifying.

GEORGE CLOONEY

PROS: Can charm the pants off both the National Right to Life Committee and NARAL. Some fine Scotch over an intimate meal and this modern-day Rat-Packer will have Nino Scalia and Ruth Bader Ginsberg
agreeing on everything from Gun Control to Gay Marriage.

CONS: Frequently causes other attorneys to swoon causing major delays in the docket.  Also, his Michael Clayton connections raise some concerns about an anti-corporate bias.

KELLY RIPA

PROS: So annoyingly chipper, the blatherskite will unite the competing counsels by giving them a common enemy: Kelly Ripa.

CONS: Extra seat on panel needed for Regis. Gelman to produce gavel-to-gavel coverage.

TOMMY LEE JONES

PROS: College roommate of Al Gore. Has to count for something, right?

CONS: Writes scathing dissents whenever ruling doesn’t include Court-mandated follow-up to U.S. Marshals.

ALEC BALDWIN

PROS: Solid host of Saturday Night Live. Wrote a somewhat law-related book on the plight of the divorced father.

CONS: Opinions consist solely of recommending the death penalty for his ex-wife, no matter what the case on hand is.

And if that wasn’t enough, here is a bonus bit from Frank regarding the upcoming Digital Television conversion:

OTHER THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW IF YOU’RE STILL USING RABBIT EARS TO WATCH TELEVISION.

– Modern dentistry has eliminated the need for wooden teeth.
– The printing press has made reading available to the masses.
– Indoor plumbing means you don’t have to leave the house to relieve yourself.
– The telephone allows us to speak to anyone by merely entering a numeric code.
– The Internet…I can’t even explain it. It will blow your mind.

Frank Ferri is a copywriter who thinks he’s funny.  His work has previously appeared in McSweeney’s, Yankee Pot Roast, and The Big Jewel.  You can visit him at frankferri.com.

Hey, baby.  Wassup with you?  I know it might be weird hearing from me like this, but I’ve been thinking about you for a while now.  And…I want you back.

I know, I know, you said you “wanted to take a break” and that “some space would be nice,” but ever since that bitter day in 1776, I haven’t been the same.  It’s like you took a part of me with you.  They say that no man is an island, but baby, I feel like one without you.

Your broad stripes and bright stars have never looked better, even through our perilous fight.  Your amber waves of grain are so…grainy.  And don’t even get me started about your purple mountain majesties.  My tears are gallantly streaming down my face just thinking about it.

What if I finally learn how to cook?  Does that do anything for ya?  I know how much you love foo-never mind.  But hey, I could do other things… Like call football and soccer by their proper names.  Eh?

I know you pride yourself on being all independent and whatever.  But come on, baby.  We speak the same language.  There aren’t a lot of other countries I feel like I can really talk to, ya know?  Australia sometimes.  But we’re just friends.  I swear.

You were always there for me when I was in trouble — World War I, World War II, Spice World.  Why do you act like you care, and then once I’m okay again, you pretend like nothing happened?  It’s like our Special Relationship lately… doesn’t seem that special to you at all.

I know you’re in a tough spot financially.  Honestly, I am too.  We can help each other out.  Don’t you forget, I made you who you are today.  I know, I know, I was cocky when you left.  I was all, “The sun never sets on my empire, baby.”  But it’s been dark without you.

Please, please come back to me.  I was a fool.  I want to regain your trust.  No more taxation without representation.

I’m sorry.

ILY,

England.

P.S. If you don’t come back to me, at least give me my Ricky Gervais and David Beckham back.  You can keep James Blunt, Hugh Grant, Simon Cowell, Coldplay, the Osbournes, Rick Astley, and Amy Winehouse.

Submitted by Stephen Joseph Hoey and reprinted with permission from The OTR Publishing Conglomerate.  A man of many talents, Stephen considers his opposable thumbs to be his greatest asset.

Mr. Powell shipped off for the Middle East in the spring of 2004 with the full endorsement of Executive Pastor Joe Munson, who used personal charisma and a recent viewing of Mel Gibson’s The  Passion to whip reluctant elders and parishioners into a proselytizing frenzy.

Longtime usher, Henry Theeson recalls the experience, “I was asleep for most of it, but I remember Pastor Munson blathering excitedly about journeying into spiritual deserts and storming the strongholds of Satan or some such nonsense. I thought he was talking about Nevada.”

Public opinion has turned sharply in the intervening years as Mr. Powell’s supposedly brief campaign has deteriorated into an interminable quagmire of language barriers and religious intolerance.

“I feel lied to,” says one elder who initially supported Mr. Powell’s campaign. “He told us he was going to liberate the nation’s backward people from the institutions of spiritual oppression, and then raise up local pastors who would plant churches and continue the work that he had begun. Well, it’s been five years and several hundred dollars of my hard-earned bingo money, and it seems like there are more Muslims over there now than when he started.”

Powell’s cause has also been hampered by his ties with the increasingly unpopular Reverend Munson. Since taking the pulpit, Munson has seen the church’s staff shrink by 40% and the once respected Sunday School program sink to Mennonite levels of ineffectiveness. His impassioned pleas to “stay the course” go unheeded as his mental competency is called into question with greater frequency.

Both Executive Pastor Munson and Mr. Powell came under fire in 2006 when Powell appeared at Westside’s annual mission conference wearing traditional Iraqi garb and dropping the occasional Kurdish colloquialism. It was then that some in the congregation began demanding a timetable for Powell’s return to the states, claiming that his mission had clearly become an “occupation” with no end in sight.

Public support for the mission spiked last summer during the youth group’s short-term mission trip to Iraq. The controversial trip supplied a much-needed infusion of manpower and morale into the region, and was hailed by many as the most successful ten-day period of Powell’s mission.  Most, however, view the youth group’s efforts to repair an orphanage and perform puppet shows as an isolated blip in an increasingly desperate and unwinnable situation.

While no dates have been set for Powell’s return, several congregants have said they will discontinue their monthly support at the end of the year in the hopes that the missionary will abandon his fruitless campaign and “get a real job.”

After an election season promising “change” and lots of it, many Americans were disappointed to hear the news that yet another old white man will be the country’s Vice President while yet another black man will be moving into government housing. Noted historian and political scientist Wolf Blitzer lamented yet another election lacking historical significance of any kind. “It’s just so hard to get ahead in this country,” said progressive lobbyist Gloria Meshbesher-Spence-Rosenberg.

According to reports, not much is known about the African-American in question, except that he had spent the previous eighteen to twenty months living in a bus. The black man was likely offered the job out of pity in a noble attempt to get him to stop asking passing strangers for “change.” He will take residence in his new “house” as soon as the mob of repugnant squatters are shooed away. Like most government housing these days, the white-washed shanty is surrounded by urban squalor, is extremely old, and has often been used as a rendezvous point for solicited sex.

Submitted by a faithful reader and loyal friend who – for political and professional reasons – wishes to remain anonymous.