Saturday, December 29, 2012

My New Years Prayer

Dear God,
     The world is a big place, and it's filled with billions and billions of people, but You know as well as I do that the world doesn't need most of them. Most of the people in the world are just annoying, and the rest of us would be better off without them.
     I understand that this is the season to be jolly, but how jolly can we be when we have to deal with people who get our goat on a daily basis? So I ask You, dear Lord, to answer my following prayer: please, Please, PLEASE get rid of all the jerks, low-lifes, and mentally unambitious idiots who do nothing more than take up space in this world and use up perfectly good oxygen.
     No more people, Lord, who don't decide what they want at a fast food restaurant until they get to the front of the line. This especially irks me at McDonald's. McDonald's serves hamburgers. And fries. What's so difficult?
     We don't need people like that, Lord.
     Along the same line are the people who don't prepare to pay for their merchandise until after it's been rung up. The cashier--and the rest of us in line behind this bozo--has to wait for them to dig through their wallets or pockets or purses for cash, cards, or coupons. Those people really bug me, Lord.
     And the people who bug me even more, are the ones in line ahead of me at a store and send off the slowest member of their family to go get one more item. Again, the cashier and the rest of the rapidly growing line behind them has to wait for that human tortoise to come back with... the wrong item!
     No more people who drive slow in the passing lane. Where I live, the speed limit is 75 mph on the open freeway between my city and the next one over. Why are they only going 45? (I'm talking about you, New Mexico.)
     We also don't need people who don't know how to merge onto the freeway. Speed up and merge! Or slow down and merge! Just merge!
     And forgive me, Lord, but I hate people who apply their brakes in traffic because they waited until the last minute to merge into the lane next to them. We don't need people like that, Lord.
     And no more people who check their cell phones in the movie theater, or, even worse, actually answers it while the movie's on. In fact, just get rid of all cell phones users who have no common courtesy or appreciation of human interaction. Those people need to go the Hell, Lord.
     And, Lord, how about doing something about those people who who say, "I don't mean any disrespect," just before they say something disrespectful. "I don't mean any disrespect," or "with all due respect," is just another way of saying, "Stand there while I punch you in the face." Let's get rid of those people, Lord.
     And those mostly young people (mostly guys) who drive with all the windows of their car down and blast their music so loud all the surrounding vehicles vibrate from the bass distortion, take those people now, Lord. You don't even have to wait until they get to where they're going to. They deserve to go. I know their eventual punishment will be going deaf at a young age, but I'd rather see them burning in Inconsiderate Hell for all eternity.
     And, Lord, can you  do something about rich celebrities who try to tell us how to live our lives? I don't need millionaires with no real talent telling me that I don't pay my fair share in taxes. Someone who owns an Italian villa and dates a supermodel has no idea what I'm going through. Keep pretending to be someone else, buddy. That's all you're good at.
     And take Sean Penn, Lord, just on general principle. He prefers to get into fights with middle-aged, overweight photographers, instead of someone who actually knows how to defend himself. He doesn't deserve to live.
     Justin Bieber, too. Because I have a pre-teen daughter, I've seen two of his movies, one came out in the theaters and one came out on TV, and in both of them he's slapped an employee of his in the face. The guy's a jerk, Lord. Your giving him an embarrassing sense of fashion isn't enough. You need to do something more.
     By the way, Lord, have you heard the latest Justin Bieber joke?
     Question: Why's Justin Bieber so pale?
     Answer: Because there's no light in the closet.
      And, since I'm talking about worthless celebrities, how about Roman Polanski? I've read the court transcripts about his drugging and rape of a thirteen year-old girl. We really don't need people like him, Lord. Why all of Hollywood worships him as some kind of cinematic God just because he can tell a cameraman which way to point a camera is beyond my comprehension.
     And, Lord, can you do something about Congress?
     They really get my goat.

American Chimpanzee

Monday, December 24, 2012

Toy Stories

Well, I did it. I was able to get my little girl the hottest Christmas toy du jour of the season. The stores were all sold out, it wasn't available online, but I was able to get my hands on one with only less than 12 hours to spare.
     I won't tell you how. All I'll tell you is: who needs two kidneys? Just ask comedian George Lopez's wife, who was generous enough to lovingly give her husband one of hers just before he dumped her. I don't blame George for divorcing her. Who wants to be married to a woman with only one kidney? But I digress...
     No, the toy in question wasn't Sesame Street's new Tickle-My-Tonsils Elmo doll, that would be in poor taste. No, I got the The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo doll, with removable piercings and changeable tattoos. Eyebrows are optional. My little girl is five years-old. She'll love it.
     And now that the hustle and bustle of the holidays are over, and all that's left is pretending to love the gifts you were given, I can sit back, drink a little spiked eggnog, and think back to a simpler time when the toys we played with could kill us.
     It wasn't that the toys we played with were necessarily dangerous. It was that, as boys, any toy we played with could be turned into something dangerous. I don't know why hurting each other was so much fun.
     I'm reminded of the Saturday Night Live skit "Bag-O-Glass" with Dan Ackroyd and Jane Curtain. In it, Dan Ackroyd played a sleazy toy manufacturer who sold such toys as Bag-O-Glass, which was a bag full of broken glass, and a Halloween costume called Johnny Human Torch, which was a bag filled with oily rags and a lighter. Man, what we would have given for a Johnny Human Torch costume back then.
     My favorite of the toys we played with when we were young and innocent were Lawn Darts. Today they're made with Nerf, but back then they were heavy and had a metal spike at the end that could puncture skin and bone (Don't ask. I don't think the statute of limitations is up yet.). We had a lot of fun throwing them at each other, as well as throwing them up high in the air, and then hustling to get out of the way when they fell back to Earth, spike first.
     Speaking of Nerf, it seems a safe enough toy, but if you soak it with water, it makes for a very painful projectile. Nerf was invented so that kids could play safely, but kids were invented to find ways to turn something safe into something dangerous. With Nerf, you could play indoors without breaking anything, but what's the fun of playing indoors if you've eliminated the possibility of breaking something?
     Another fun toy we had was something we called "clackers." I don't know if that was the actual toy name, but that's what we called them. Clackers were two hard glass balls attached to some some strong twine that was attached to a handle, usually made of wood. You would flip the balls up and down so that they would "clack" against each other. That was interesting for about five minutes. Then we'd get bored and start hitting each other with them. They would leave a nasty bruise wherever they made contact. I think we may have even broken a bone or two, but we could never tell our parents, because then they would take them away, and we wouldn't be able to have a contest to see who could be first to clack them together so hard that they would shatter.
     One year, when I was about ten years-old, my grandmother bought me some Hot Wheels tracks to race my Hot Wheels cars on. Only I didn't have any Hot Wheel cars, the track set didn't come with any, and my grandmother didn't have the foresight to buy me any (I still love her, however, God rest her soul). What a boring gift, right? Wrong! I used those plastic tracks to torture my friends and younger brother. It happened like this: I was disappointed when I first unwrapped my present and saw all that was inside were these long plastic tacks. I picked one up, and kind of wobbled it in the air. It made a cool whipping noise. A light bulb went off over my head as my younger brother made the unfortunate decision to walk in front of me just then. I gave him a nice whack against the back of his thighs. He was wearing shorts. Another unfortunate decision on his part. His skin turned red and started to welt almost immediately. He yelled and started crying. I laughed like the little jerk I was. It was a good thing my parents had gone out. They went to take my grandmother home, and left me in charge of my little brother.Unfortunate decisions all around.
     "You'd better not tell mom and dad I hit you with my Hot Wheels track," I threatened him. "You'll get grandma in trouble 'cause she gave them to me.
     My kid brother swore he wouldn't tell. He was half my age. He trusted me.
     As a kid, everything we got our hands on was either destroyed, or used as a Weapon of Mass Destruction against each other. Those green plastic Army men? We would douse them in lighter fluid and light them on fire. That was the one good thing about my dad's nasty smoking habit, we had access to plenty of lighter fluid.and matches.
    If we got our sweaty little hands on a magnifying glass we'd use it to burn leaves, ants, and other insects. Soon, we found that the funniest thing to burn was each other. Our moms could never understand why we'd come home with little black holes in our clothes.
     When there was a shortage of toys, we found interesting uses for tacks, rubber bands, stickers from crab grass, snow balls, rocks, and snow balls with rocks hidden inside. Those old wooden tops became something all of the neighborhood kids wanted (well, the boys of the neighborhood, that is). I know our parents would never have bought us one if they knew all we wanted them for was to terrorize our pets and puncture each other's feet. Sometimes we'd puncture each other's feet by surprise, sometimes on a dare, and sometimes as a test you'd have to go through to join the club. What club? Whatever club one of wanted to start, just so we could bully our friends into standing still while we tried to get the little metal spike on the bottom of the top to land just right.
     The reason I know that our parents--or, at least, my parents--wouldn't buy us a particular toy if they knew what our plans were for it is because I remember once getting a Wood Burning Set as a birthday gift from an aunt or uncle who undoubtedly wanted to stick it to my parents for one reason or another. It was basically a little soldering iron that was supposed to be used to burn letters or designs in wood or leather. My eyes lit up at the possibility of what I could carve my initials in. My toys. My furniture. My dog.
     A hand came down on my shoulder. I looked. It was my dad. He must have seen the evil gleam in my eyes. It was a bit disappointing that I never saw that Wood Burning Set ever again, but I really couldn't blame him. When I got a chemistry set for  Christmas one year, the first thing I tried to do was make explosives. However, I never seemed to get the formula just right.
     Besides the explosives, another thing I tried to make was a time machine. I took the wire metal rack from my mom's oven, wrapped it in tin foil, attached an electrical cord to it, and, in theory at least, once someone "went through" the rack, they would appear on the other side in a different time and/or dimension.
     As luck would have it, I couldn't talk any of my friends into giving it a whirl. Not even any of their younger, stupider brothers or sisters. I was disappointed at the time, but not so disappointed that I considered traveling through time myself. Worse case scenario: death by electrocution. Best case scenario: actual time travel... but with no way to return. Either way, I guess I would have had to mark the results down in the "lose" column.
     One of our greatest disappointments as kids was that we weren't allowed to buy, use, or be anywhere near fireworks. This was because one of our older brothers (Um... not mine. By the way, does anyone know when the statutes of limitations is up on that kind of thing? Just asking.) had purposely distracted a friend of his who was about to throw a lit cherry bomb. I don't know about his parents, but us kids thought the friend looked pretty cool with only three fingers on one hand. After some time had passed, the poor guy began to think so, too, and really grew to like his new nickname: Freddy Three-Fingers. His name wasn't really Freddy, but he didn't mind. He thought it was really tough and mafia-sounding.
     Every stick in our hands became a gun or rifle in our imaginations. We made rubber-band guns with the wooden clothes-pins our mothers would hang our clothes with on the backyard clotheslines. We had all heard of potato guns, but neither I nor any of my friends knew how to make one. Maybe if we had an Irish kid on the block.
     In a related story, I've heard how dope-smokers can make a bong out of an apple. Besides the waste of a perfectly good apple, I just don't see the point. These dopers could grow up to be engineers or inventors, but, chances are, they'll just continue being dopers. To tell the truth, I don't think anybody really knows how to make a bong out of an apple.
     Well... maybe Cheech & Chong.

The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog

Friday, December 21, 2012

A Very Scarface Christmas

It's A Wonderful Life

Somewhere... in the cosmos...

"You sent for me, sir?
"Yes, Clarence. A man down on Earth needs our help."
"Spendid! Maybe then, sir, maybe then I'll get my wings?"

The notorious drug lord, Scarface, lay dying. Shot in the back by the hitman sent by his enemies. In the distance he could see the mountain of cocaine piled on his desk. It looked comical to him now.
     His vision slowly began to fade as his life poured out of him in a red, warm liquid. Fading... fading... and then miraculously clear!
     "Hi, I'm Clarence," a jovial voice said, as a white-haired old coot slid into view above him.
Scarface's eyes blinked. He felt his chest. There were no wounds, no blood, but... but that was impossible. His mind felt sharp, crystal clear. Sobriety, he laughed at the irony, felt better than any drug.
     The old man helped him up.
     "Who are you?" Scarface asked, suspiciously.
     "I'm Clarence, your guardian angel."
     "My guardian angel? Well, why didn't you help me?"
     "You never gave me a chance."
     Scarface thought. He guessed it was true enough. He never gave anybody a chance to help him. In Scarface's bitter life experience, the only one you could count on for help was yourself.
     "Why are you here?" he said, finally.
     "You have a second chance, my son. A second chance at life. Come with me."
     Clarence walked toward the huge front doors of Scarface's mansion. Scarface followed, looking around. The army of men sent to kill him--the ones still alive, that is--stood motionless, frozen in time. Somehow it all seemed perfectly reasonable.
     They walked like phantasms through time and space, passing images of men. Men with their wives. Men with their families. Happy men. Living good, decent lives.
     Scarface spat in disgust.
     "Who're these babosos?"  he asked.
     "We're traveling into a world where you were never born," the angel told him. "Since you were never there to corrupt them, these men--your soldados--were able to lead normal lives. To find love. To have children."
     Scarface spat again.
     "Pendejos," he said. Idiots.
     More images floated by. His wife, Elvira, married to someone else, and playfully chasing after the children that he was never able to give her.
     His best friend, Manny, and his sister, Gina, her belly full with life. Scarface felt a hot anger rise inside of him. He couldn't help it. It was his nature. He could see wedding rings on their fingers, but it didn't matter. He wanted to kill them. Kill them both.
     Manny lovingly held Gina's round belly in both of his hands.
     "What do we call him?" he asked his wife.
     "I don't know, but I've always liked the name Antonio," she answered.
     "Yes... Tony. Somehow that seems right."
     Scarface felt a pain in the heart he never knew he had. His vision blurred, but this time with tears.
     "We're here," the angel told him, stopping suddenly.
     "Of course we're here," Scarface said, harshly. Scarface always had to be the one who knew everything. "Where else would we be?"
     He looked around. He didn't recognize...
     "We're in Cuba," Clarence told him. "The Cuba where you never existed."
     "I don't understand," Scarface said, shaking his head in confusion and disbelief. "Everything's so clean and prosperous. Everybody's... happy."
     "That's because you were never born. Remember that boy you killed because you wanted his churro?"
     "I was hungry," Scarface sheepishly explained.
     "He was born to overthrow Fidel Castro and free your country from its chains. He was supposed to lead your people to democracy, prosperity, and liberty. When you killed him, you killed that reality.
     "I didn't..." Scarface tried to say. "I never..."
     And then he stopped. He blinked his eyes rapidly. That looked... just... like...
     It was his parents. They looked older than he remembered, but it was them. They had five young children with them. Three girls and two boys. The brothers and sisters he never had, because, in a violent burst of anger, he killed them both. All because he had mistakenly thought they had stolen his drug stash when he was 16.
     "Since you were never born," Clarence explained, "your parents had the family they always wanted. And in this new Cuba, they were able to live long, happy lives."
     "All this..." Scarface said. "All because I was never born?"
     The angel nodded with sad, sad eyes.
     "Have you learned anything, my son?"
     "And what is that?"
     Scarface was quiet for a long, long time. And then...
     "Chente was right," Scarface finally said. " 'Don't get high on your own supply!' "
     Suddenly they were back at the mansion.
     "Say hello to my leetle friend!" Scarface yelled, holding the world's biggest gun in his hands. It was half machine gun and half bazooka. With the bazooka half he...
     BOOM! The door to Scarface's bedroom exploded outward into a thousand pieces. Dead men on the other side flying backward. Scarface walked to his balcony and began shooting at the army of killers beneath him. He was so intoxicated with the battle that he never noticed the Cuban hitman in the dark sunglasses silently walking up behind him.
     BAM! The hitman shot him in the back.
     Scarface broke through the balcony and fell into the fountain below him. The hitman and Clarence both walked to the edge of the balcony and looked down at once great drug lord.
     "Shoot him again," the angel said.

The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog

Friday, December 14, 2012

A Kwazily Kwanzaa Kwistmas

As an urban militant straight outta Compton--and who also just happens to be gay--I've gotta shout out loud how incredibly racist I find the white songwriting community to be for ignoring the black holiday of Kwanzaa. This ancient tradition, which dates back to pre-Tupac times, is due reparations for this blatant disrespect. Reparations, that is, in the form of holiday Kwanzaa songs. You can keep your forty acres and a mule, you racist muthafathas.
     Kwanzaa, or "Kill Whitey," is from the African language of... um, from the original... ah, who am I kidding? "Kwanzaa" is a made-up word that's meant to be African-sounding. I think we succeeded.
     The above paragraph reminds me of the movie Skin Games, starring James Garner and Louis Gossett Jr. It takes place pre-Civil War, and Gossett, who plays a free black man, is sold over and over again as a slave in a money-making scam. Toward the end of the movie, he makes up African-sounding words to communicate with a group of new slaves just brought over from the dark continent. But I digress...
     Kwanzaa is constantly ignored or overlooked. For example, I saw the Michael Buble Christmas special the other night, and that racist honky didn't sing one Kanzaa song. Charlie Brown? Racist! Rudolph? Racist! The Great Pumpkin? Delicious!
     When I spoke with my old friend, Al Sharpton, about these deserved reparations, he enthusiastically agreed with me, and told me to "call back when there's a profit to be made. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go comb my hair."
     Jesse Jackson was more pragmatic, and saw this Kwanzaa discrimination as a way to "stick it to those Jews well into the future. For my children, but not for my children's children, because I don't think children should be having unprotected sex."
     "What about your illegitimate children?" I asked him.
     "They're the government's responsibility. I didn't fight for civil rights in the 60's so I'd have to take care of my kids in my 70's. By the way, have I ever told you how Dr. Martin Luther King died in my arms?"
     "Uh, gotta go!" I hung up. He's tried to tell me that story only every time I've ever talked to him. A story, I might add, that's completely untrue. I happen to know that while Dr. King was busy being assassinated (and dying in MY arms, I might add) by Mark David Chapman--in an attempt to impress Jodie Foster--the good reverend was busy seeing Miss Rudolph--a juju woman--and trying to persuade her to help a friend of his who had been cursed with tiny feet.
     So, apparently, I was on my own. I went to N' Da Hood Records and spoke with the owner, Mr. Morty Lansky.
     "Get out of my office!" he suggested helpfully.
     Next, I went to Dissin' Dat Publishing, but the president, Mr. Bernie Siegel, was busy taking credit for songs other people had written.
     Last on my list was CEO Abe Rothstein at Whut'Chu Talkin' 'Bout, Willis? Productions. His secretary led me to his door.
     "Go right in," she flirted.
     I stepped through the door... and found myself back outside in the alley behind the building. There was an old wino relieving himself behind a dumpster. At least, that's what I hope he was doing.
     "Can I help you?" he asked me.
     Can he help me? Can he help me?
     Well, why not? I told him my whole story. He listened respectfully, occasionally taking a swig from a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill he had hidden in a brown paper bag. When I was done talking, he stayed quiet for a few moments. Finally, he said:
     "Why don't you write one of your own?"
     "What?" I asked him.
     "Why don't you just write one of your own?"
     That caught me by surprise. I wasn't used to the concept of doing things for myself. Doing things for myself is the government's responsibility. The wino continued:
     "If you're waiting for some cracker to write a Kwanzaa song for you, you're gonna be waiting a long time."
     He made sense. I thanked him and left. He continued talking, for some reason. I don't know to who, as there was no one else there.
     "If I'm hungry, I eat," he said to someone I couldn't see. "I don't wait for some peckerwood to serve me no Grey Poupon."
     And so, my brothers and sisters, I offer you the first Kwanzaa song.
     Please, don't let it be the last.

     The Kwanzaa Song
I'm killin' me a white man fo' Christmas!
There ain't nuthin' no one can do!
I'm killin' me a white man fo' Christmas!
And next I'm gonna kill me a Jew!
Happy Kwanzaa, Everybody!
The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog

Friday, December 7, 2012

The Problem With Rudolph

I got home from work the other night and saw my little girl watching the holiday classic Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
     I grimaced.
     I'm not saying that particular Christmas special is bad (which it is), I'm just saying the only thing worse was listening to Miley Cyrus sing Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit. And the only thing worse than that is watching her dance to it. Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself on YouTube. Anyway...
     I sat down and watched it with her. Why? Because that's what Dads who love their little girls do. As my mind wandered and my eyes glazed over, once again I was reminded of that time, not so long ago, I met a brave little pig.
     I drove down to a farm in the lower valley of El Paso, because I had heard farmers tended to have attractive daughters with liberal ideas about hospitality, but, instead of a daughter, this farmer had a pig. The pig was missing three of its legs, one of its two eyes, both ears, its tail, and part of its snout.
     "What happened to your pig, Farmer Brown?" I asked the old coot.
     "Well," Farmer Brown says to me, "one night the pig wakes me and the missus up, 'cause there was a gas leak (and I'm not talkin' 'bout my missus). We barely got out of the house when all that gas exploded, creatin' a fire. 'Oh my god! The baby!' I yelled, and the pig runs into the burning house and saves the baby. From all the excitement, my missus falls to the ground. Heart attack! I don't know what to do... but the pig does.He jumps up high and lands square on her chest. Her poor ol' ticker starts right back up again, good as new. That little pig saved all our lives that night."
     "And his injuries were caused by the explosion and the fire?" I asked.
     "Nah, that weren't it," Farmer Brown explained. "You see, with a pig that brave... you don't want to eat him all at once."
     I think about that pig every time I hear the Christmas song Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Oh, sure, the song starts out happily enough. There's Rudolph. He has a shiny nose. Big deal, right? It's not like he wants to serve in the military.
     Well, it is a big deal, and not just to the Tea Party. Apparently, it's a big deal to all the other reindeers. They laugh at poor Rudolph. They call him names. They shun him. And all Rudolph wants most in the world is to be accepted by his peers and to play their stupid little reindeer games with them.
     That, and gay marriage.
     And what about the adult reindeers? The ones who should know better? Did they step in and stop the bullying, or stand up against late-term abortions? No, they didn't. They weren't part of the solution, they were part of the problem. I'm pretty sure they voted for Obama.
     Even Santa Claus, who, as the fat cat in charge of the whole North Pole operations, decided to ignore the problem. If he didn't acknowledge the bullying by the reindeers--both old and young--then it didn't exist. Like God.
     Finally, a greater power interceded. No, I'm not talking about Donald Trump. I'm talking about a blizzard so huge Kim Kardashian would barely be able to hide it behind her, ahem, talent. Christmas, it would seem, might have to be cancelled. Santa, in probably the first kind words he ever spoke to Rudolph, finally acknowledges his "special" reindeer, and asks him to guide his sleigh that night for what is essentially a suicide mission.
     Like a Japanese pilot from World War II, Rudolph agrees, and Christmas is saved. Santa collects his bonus, and Rudolph, well, then and only then do all the reindeers love him. You know what I think about that?
     Too little, too late.
     In the first place, Santa lives in the north Pole. He's been doing this Christmas thing for centuries. You would think he'd have a plan B for what happens when the snow starts to fall. Secondly, well, there is no secondly. I just wanted to use the phrase "in the first place" to make my point seem more important than it was.
     If I were Rudolph, and Santa Claus came groveling up to me after years of neglect and abuse--POW!--right in the kisser. I would have punched him like the punching-bag he's shaped like. You can take your sleigh and your toys and all your non-glowing-nosed reindeers, fat man, and stick them where the skin turns pink!
     The song is bad enough. Watching the TV claymation version of it is even worse. An elf is brow-beaten just because his true calling is dentistry? Those elves would rather walk around with rotten teeth and bad breath? And Santa apparently values production on the toy assembly-line over the health and welfare of his loyal workers? Where are the Teamsters when you need them? Plus, I was always bothered by the Misfit Toys. An island filled with irregular, but otherwise perfectly fine toys. Santa couldn't have given them out in the minority neighborhoods? He preferred for them to fend for themselves, and, ultimately, go to waste? I don't need to tell you who Santa voted for?.
     No, I've never cared for the song Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and I care for the TV special even less. My little girl loves it, though.
     Go figure.

The Aw, Nuts! Humor Blog

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Congressional Orientation

When President Obama calls, I jump.
     It's the least I can do for the man who once saved my life in 'Nam.
     And that's how I found myself conducting the orientation for the incoming freshman class of legislators. I met with them on the Sunday after the election, and quickly began my spiel.
     "This is the Capital Hill cafeteria, but you won't be eating here. What you'll do is go to any four- or five-star restaurant where lobbyists will be eagerly waiting to buy you lunch, and the best part is you get the tip.
     "Once you take office you'll be assigned a personal receptionist. She'll make sure that your constituents will in no way be able to get in contact with you.
     "On a similar note, you will be assigned a stretch limousine. The windows will be tinted extra dark, so you can conduct the people's business in private with enthusiastic interns. You'll also be assigned a chauffeur in the ethnicity of your choice."
     We made our way over to the White House, and walked toward the Oval Office.
     "What's behind that door?" a newbie asked. I believe he was Beto O'Rourke from El Paso.
     "That's where we keep the aliens from Roswell," I answered, and then diverted his attention. "You're name's 'Beto,' isn't it? What kind of a name is 'Beto' for an Irishman?"
     "That's my given name," he answered.
     "Well, give it back," I told him.
     I pointed out what looked like a small fountain, only it was filled with cash, instead of water.
     "Here's a bowl we keep filled with hundred dollar bills. Help yourselves. It's free for everybody... except the taxpayers. President Obama first got the idea when he read 'Stranger in a Strange Land' in college. And, speaking of President Obama, he just got back from a round of golf, and is excited to meet with each and every one of you, so let's split up into two groups. Democrats to my left. Republicans to my right. Okay, you Democrats can go right in. As for you Republicans, well, it seems the President has just left on another vacation and can't meet with you after all. You'll be meeting with Joe Biden. No? Well, then, follow me."
     We left the White House, and made our way down the street.
     "This is the Capital Hill Post Office. This is where you'll cash any personal checks. If you don't have the necessary funds in your account, the American tax-payer will be more than happy to cover it for you. Just ask Ron Coleman."
     I pointed to the former Congressman. He was waiting impatiently in line to cash another check. He's been out of office for years, but he's never left. I always see him cashing checks.
     From there we made our way to the Capital Hill gym.
     "This gym comes with a personal trainer," I told my group.
     "Is he any good?" O'Rourke spoke up again. Man, that guy asks a lot of questions.
     "We don't know," I answered honestly. "No one in Congress has ever used him. Everyone prefers the massage therapists. They're personally trained by Al Gore, for those of you with a sore gluteus maximus."
     I pointed directly across the street.
     "That's the International Bank of China," I told them. "You'll go there for loans."
     "Where do we go for escorts?"
     "You'll go to the Russian Embassy for that."
     I stopped.
     "Well," I started again, winding down, "that concludes your orientation. Any questions?"
     They hemmed and hawed, but finally one of them spoke up.
     "Where was that bowl of money again?"

American Chimpanzee