Elective Decisions

Washington—In what can only be described as “having cajones the size of wrecking balls,” Nancy Pelosi is leading the charge to take up the cost of living raise after the recess.  The move comes in the midst of an economy in crisis, sending a message that even some in the House of Representatives could face a dangerous future.

 

Despite taking their recess on Thursday, October 2, 2008, Congress will continue to stay at the helm to help resolve the financial crisis and its icy grip on America.

 

“We’ve worked very hard for the American people and have given practically everyone across the country a raise as well as some stimulus,” claimed Sen. Harry Reid, D-NV.  Damn it, it’s about time we get some, too.”

 

“This financial crisis is just one example of what we’re willing to do in the U.S. Senate,” quipped Sen. Barack Obama, D-IL.

 

“It’s getting really expensive to eat in our dining facility,” cried Sen. Chris Dodd, D-CT.  “If you bring the whole family, it really adds up.  All we want is a little security.”

 

“Typical Americans can see the price of gas going up.  But most of them have no idea at the cost of jet fuel,” whined Rep. Barney Frank, D-MA.  “Our personal bills have gone up, and we need to offset these costs.”

 

U.S. House Speaker Nancy Pelosi who is spearheading the charge, mentioned, “I have my own Executive Model C-32 that can cost as much as $22,000 an hour to operate.  Despite the high price of chicken feed, that ain’t chicken feed.  It ain’t easy being a Representative.”

 

“We’re here to work for the American people,” exclaimed Rep. Carles Rangel, D-N.Y.  “I can barely afford to pay my income taxes.  It’s tough out there.”

 

“Joe Biden is correct,” laughed Sen. Barack Obama, D-IL.  “Paying more taxes is patriotic, and Congress needs your support.”

 

Chris Davis, a 47-year old divorce attorney in Dallas, Texas, didn’t take the news of the cost of living raise so lightly.  “I think I’ll send Congress a used toilet,” fired Davis.  “Because everything they’re turning out is crap!”

 

With the markets spiraling into oblivion, Nancy Pelosi blaming President Bush for his Wall Street excesses, and the U.S. Congress’ attempt to steal America, it can only mean that they deserve far more than a pay raise.

Great men two hundred years ago brought fourth this Godly nation.

They fought for what is true and right to summon liberation.

A free Market with free speech was the new configuration—

For which patriot fathers died—For Our Unified Nation.

 

But with time came Marx, a man possessed with killing corporation;

And soon Russia fell to riots, birthing collectivization.

Tens of millions died in murders wrought from commie motivation;

And indeed those commies changed the world with their fiat inflation.

 

Proselytizers of this movement then took a brief vacation,

And made their way to the USA advancing socialization.

Now, a young man named Obama speaks and is soon a sensation;

Saying things that give no answers except “Collectivization”.

 

And the acorns of Missouri will arrest you for confessions

Opposing this Obama and his theft of Liberation.

So in the year two-thousand eight, if you find the election

And support Barack Obama you’ll have an Obama Nation.

 

Thus, supporting his repression, you become abomination.

So vote McCain in 2008, if you love this great nation.

And vote for that Obama if you want fiat inflation—

For, the “Change you can believe in” is the Loss of Liberation.

“Anybody here?”  No response.  He scratched a balding pate. “WAITER!”

 

A girl of sixteen with too much makeup applied in too isometric a fashion sauntered up to the podium, apologizing quickly: “Sorry about the wait.  The Rex’s were in the grass-pool again.  They had to remove an outside wall and wheel in a forklift—”

“Fine.  Just get me a table.  Now.”

“How many?”

“How many does it look like?  ME!  C’mon…”

She swallowed and did her best impression of an insincere smile: “Right this way, sir.  My name is Michelle, I’ll be your hostess this evening,” she sat him at a table on one of the restaurant’s many balconies, then took her shirt off and began massaging her upper torso. “Which one would you like me to bring the drink on?”

The balding man did a double-take; then: “Put your shirt on and get me a waiter, I’m not thirsty.”

“But I’m supposed to—”

“NOW!”

She blushed and grabbed at the shirt.  Another patron across the balcony held up a finger: “Uh, hostess!”

“Just a minute!”  She ran to the table.

The man who’d called her sat with a young lady dressed in the kind of finery that pissed off revolutionaries in countries with names that rhymed with “ussia”.  “Yes, the left breast,” he said. “Oh, no—my wife, not me.”

Michelle turned to the wife and began to bat herself around like a very excited cat.  There was little eroticism in the act.

Back to the bald man with the constipated expression to complement his reflective noggin:  He put two feet up on the table and whipped out a phone that had a tiny 3-D dancer pirouetting around the outside as a “sleep” animation.  When he opened the phone, she winked at him, did a little shimmy, then sucked back into the holoprojector on the side.  Satic effervesced over the tiny viewscreen.  Baldy waited until a man that could have been his twin appeared: “Okay, I’m in, I have a table.  When do you want me to do the implant?”

The other man had to spit a wad of chewing tobacco into a cup, wiping his mouth as he answered: “When the dancing boys get on stage, there’ll be ten minutes until the animatronic T-Rex’s come out and do the can-can.  Now when that happens, the chandelier projectors go through their bicentennial act, and you’ll be damned for service because all the staff—sans the cooks, of course—come down to sprinkle glitter and fake blood and all that on the patrons.  I want you to sneak into the kitchen, go past the walk-in freezer on your left, there’ll be a small passageway, take a right, go to freezer number seventeen and do what I told you with the vial.  Then stay there until I call you.”

“Okay.”

“Repeat it back to me, Caid.”

“Uh…wait for the fruits to Fosse, ten minutes till the reptiles impersonate some Frenchies, then when the holo-show goes, so do I…how long till it starts, y’think?”

“How should I know?  You’re in the damned restaurant!”

“Yeah, but you used to manage the kitchen—”

“The Kitchen, Caid, not the floor.  That’s a different department.  That’s how I know the cooks’ll be out smoking instead of getting ahead.  And that’s why I’m telling you the timing on this is very important—”

“Look, couldn’t I just sit at the bar; then go back there?”

“No, no no no no.  The drunks don’t pay attention to the show, neither do the bar-staff; they’d see you.”

“But—”

“But me no buts!  And while you’re waiting, I’d recommend the dog.  They got a shipment of Pomeranians last week, and they fatten ‘em up down in Cuba, these days.”

“Thanks, boss.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Sit on a pickle and rotate,” the imaged disappeared.

“May the Country Stand Strong—” Caid returned; but his superior at the interior had already disappeared; and now Caid felt slightly inferior—which just goes to show that alliteration can and will go too far.

A waiter showed up a second later wearing a cape and a wig, and smoking from a pipe while itching him/herself incessantly: “Whatcha’ want, I’m Franky.”

“You’re my waiter?”

“You’re my customer?  C’mon, asshole, I ain’t got all day.”

“Get me the…Pomeranian?”

“Rare?  Medium?”  The He/She thing had a notebook.

“Both.  And skip the salad, bring me a beer.”

“You can’t have a beer, you told Michelle no and made her put her shirt back on—”

Caid grabbed the…person…by the shirt/blouse: “You get me a damned beer, kid.  And keep the weed out of it, I need to be awake by the end of the meal.”

The waiter gulped: “Okay.  You want the deser—”

“No!  I don’t want the damned desert, get it off the ticket.”

“Sure about that, Mac?  The desert is totally complimentary.  I’ll even keep the cigar-butts out, if you like—”

“Thank you, but I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Oh, there’s no dairy in the sorbet.  It’s a kind of low-fat tangy-twist; and there’s a bonus:  It’s made from the agricultural surplus of the collective-farms, so you know the quality is better than anything else you’ll find at the StateMart—”

“Kid, listen: I work for the government.  I do not—read my lips—I do not want the desert, okay?”

“Even though we’ll have to throw it out, and waste a citizen’s quota?  You know someone else might like—”

Caid took the table’s water and threw it in the kid’s face: “I say no, I mean it!  Now buzz off!”

The server buzzed.

Now all Caid had to do was—

“Your beer, sir,” Michelle had her shirt off again and was shimmying.

“Didn’t I tell you not to do that?”

“Sorry, force of habit.”

“It’s okay.”

She had a hand to her mouth, “Ahem…”

“I’m not giving you a tip!”

“Hmph!”  She bumped his table as she turned and he had to catch his drink.

Caid sipped the beverage with an expression akin to an octopus in an Asian country; which is to say fairly irate, but with a smattering of fear that some huge hand might pinch him with chopsticks and eat him whole.  Crazier things had happened in Applebees.

But time seemed to have failed the test on longevity, and in moments the dancing-boys were cavorting queerly across the stage while everybody clapped and the old ladies did cocaine off the hostess’s chests.  Then ten animatronic dinosaurs pranced across the stage; though one slipped and fell into a green pool with a splash, and suddenly the waiters and hostesses were everywhere; adjusting their costumes as they sprinted to the scene and cursing under their breath.  The history projection was going to start early, Caid could tell.

He drained his beer and ran down the steps, around a podium, through an aisle, past the restrooms, and toward a pair of double doors that were as clear of traffic as the boss had promised.  He pushed through with a cautious look over his shoulder, took a left past the first freezer, then found his way into number seventeen.  From his breast pocket he removed a vial of nanoprojectors and an alkaline facilitator which he put the vial into, shaking it until the LED turned green and indicated a full charge.

He sprinkled the projectors into the sorbet, then waited.

Music was loud on the stage; he could hear the animated explosions of the Arab ‘shrooms, and then some overly orchestrated love tune that described the relationship of the First Man and the Afghan.  Caid rolled his eyes and then a cigarette, smoking quietly, the phone in his hands.  When it finally did start to vibrate, he jumped and dropped the nic-stick, then answered hurriedly: “H-hello?”

“You’re fuzzy, Caid.”

“So’re you.”

“Probably not the best reception in a freezer, eh?”

“Yeah…”

“I won’t ask you if you got the stuff mixed in, because you did.  Now I’ve got my eye on the back door; gimme a minute and I’ll let you out…comfortable?”

“Not really.  It’s freezing in here.”

“It is a freezer.”

“You’ve got a real sense of the iron—”

“Shut up or I’ll make ‘em take your tax-break.”

“Nothing so drastic as that, now!  I’m sorry.  I got kids to feed, y’know.  And I never volunteered for field duty—”

“No bureaucrat ever does… Okay, run out the door now, and take an immediate left!”

Caid got up and ran to the door—

“Ditch the phone!  Ditch the phone!”

He threw it at an ice-encrusted wall, then opened the door and ran to the left.  There was a double-door with an emergency crashbar and warning ‘grams that blinked in Caid’s contacts and told him not to enter.  He ignored them and crashed through.

Five armed police officers shot him dead in an instant.

 

***

 

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the figure onstage—he was a graying man in his mid-fifties with a goofy kind of laugh and a Texan accent.  “Biforcate yourselves for this momentous intrusion.  I giveth you: Desert!”

The restaurant clapped the vaudeville Bush as he goose-stepped off, then “oohed!” and “ahhed!” as the cigar-sorbet came out with chocolate tobacco butts sprinkled all over the multicolored scoops that seemed to float in the State-Sanctioned Ever-Cold glass.

“It’s especially good tonight, don’t you think?”  Said the man who’d sat near Caid on the balcony.

“Yes,” she replied. “A lot better than our hostess—y’know, in MY day, they’d be begging for a happy ending.  I’ll bet she doesn’t give two in a year.”

“You were very good—mmm!  What is that, do you taste it?”

“Yeah…kind of nutty.  You think they actually have frozen butts in here?”

“No.  Applebees doesn’t have that kind of cuisine.  At least I don’t think.  When I was working on the set of The Scientologist American they didn’t have that kind of thing; no sponsored food-chain would have it.”

“Well.  Maybe somebody missed a shipment.”

Her husband picked his teeth, looking at something in the sorbet. “I suppose it’s possible…”  His eyes were faraway. “I suppose it’s possible…I suppose it’s possible…I suppose it’s possible…”

“Honey?”

His face began to register a kind of dread: “I suppose it’s possible…I suppose it’s possible…” He grabbed at his throat, and his eyes began to glaze over, and he began to choke, and she could see static dancing in his mouth.

“What’s the matter! … What’s the matter! … What’s the matter! … What’s the matter!”

Then she felt it in her own esophagus; she felt the nanites diverting blood from one passageway to another, and suddenly she felt incredibly pleasant, and then the ice-cream didn’t matter, and neither did the poor stripper/hostess, or anything else as the image slowly coalesced above her head.

When two hundred other patrons suddenly dropped dead, the serving staff was only slightly surprised to see a little man in a faded grey uniform projected from the open mouths of the deceased.  He smiled and held his hands out, and his voice echoed across the balconies.  There was a full-sized projection of him coming from an extraordinarily obese Italian at the Reserved Tier in the middle of the restaurant. 

The volume on his animation was the loudest: “Good evening.  Please, turn on the security transmitters; you need to catch all of this.  First, it must be understood that we at the Academy are very sorry about the sudden downsizing, but we had no choice as housing quotas have gone up in the north sector.  This was a government-sanctioned elimination; every man woman and child in this restaurant is a registered re-appropriations evader, and insists on hoarding space in the south.  Now far be it from us to intrude; but economically, it is penultimate for everyone in this fine country to enjoy the freedoms that our forefathers guaranteed.  These elites are enemies to that cause, and have fought time and again to segregate the country, the economy, your healthcare, and your ability to live freely and with absolutely equal opportunity.  Their elimination is merely necessary.  So laud those who have died in the name of freedom!” 

The figure pumped its fist into the sky, and the March of Freedom with the Barack overture filled the room as the Collective Republic of America symbol bounced off the walls.

Michelle picked up a body and began to drag it toward the kitchen.  The caped waiter was beside her.  She said: “They could’ve at least sent a new signal this week.”

He/She nodded. “I get tired of the overture myself.  Hey, are you going to the beach after work?”

“Not with you, Frankie.”

“It’s Franky with a ‘y’, today.”

“My apologies—you should stick with the ‘ie’.”

“But y’know, I just hate the maxi-pads so much.”

Michelle laughed, “Yeah.  But they tip you better.”

 

Kevin Bennett is a strict conservative, and a firm believer in all
things Christian.  Recently graduating with his BA in theatre from a
liberal university, he is no stranger to the enemies rhetoric.  He is
known to be thrown with refutable force from classrooms preaching
unabashedly ignorant liberal policies.  Usually he picks himself up
and goes in for another licking.  As you can imagine, Mr. Bennett
isn’t the best at social relations.  When he’s not picking fights with
Obama-zombies and collective-brained socialists, he enjoys writing
music and fiction.  Sometimes he’ll watch Arrested Development with a
beer or two.  Or three.

You can contact Kevin Bennett by email at clarkstaplesbennett@gmail.com

Alberta, Canada—With the U.S. Economy in utter free fall, Canada has decided to take the U.S. Democratic Party’s advice and stop all drilling for oil.  Despite America importing 20% of its oil from its northern neighbor, Canada has decided to turn off the tap and ship the oil in on massive tankers from foreign countries.

 

As Russia has threatened to put a stranglehold on Europe, Canada will now put a crimp in America’s lifestyle for the sake of Mother Earth and its environment.  The move is likely to send American markets into a deep depression.

 

According to Prime Minister Stephen Harper, the unexpected development is necessary for future wildlife development.  He has revealed the new Candadian motto:  “A greener Canada is a better Canada.”

 

“I’ve come to realize,” stated Prime Minister Harper, “that Barack Obama is right.  We can’t drill our way into prosperity.  Besides, we love caribou too—especially with potatoes, and those little tiny onions.”

 

“After this brilliant move,” quipped Sen. Nancy Pelosi, D-CA, “maybe Senator McCain will shut his fat mouth about drilling offshore, because it isn’t going to happen while I’m in office.”

 

The final straw that forced Canada’s decision was finding that oil sands extraction created three times more greenhouse gas emissions than oil shale development.  The technology forced thousands of gallons of water that became toxic ponds, instantly killing many species of birds that landed on the ponds.

 

“This is a brave new step in the right direction,” noted Sen. Barack Obama, D-IL.  “I only wish that the ignorant Republicans in the U.S. Congress could understand.”

 

 

“After all the oil rigs come down, hunting season will be twelve months a year,” asserted Jean Bastárd, a 37-year old Apple Computers salesman.  “I’ve always wanted to bag a caribou or polar bear.  My gun applications are in, and I’m loading up on ammunition!”

 

As the U.S. economy teeters on the brink of collapse, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac will now pale in comparison to the stoppage of Canada’s oil drilling, proving once again that the U.S. Democratic Party’s ignorance doesn’t just end at America’s northern border.

Palm Beach, FL—In what could only be described as career ending, Sen. Barack Obama, D-IL, has struck a deliberate blow for justice by claiming that Rush Limbaugh “hates Mexicans.”

 

After a campaign rally in Elko, Nevada, Obama called Limbaugh out by getting in his face with the “Dos Caras” ads. 

 

“They want us to forget the insults we’ve put up with, the intolerance,” the announcer says in one of the ads as a picture of Limbaugh appears onscreen and the talk show host is quoted saying, “Mexicans are stupid and unqualified” and “Shut your mouth or get out.”

 

The ads forced Limbaugh to scramble to try to prove the allegations false, writing an outrageous piece that appeared in the Wall Street Journal Online, titled, “Obama Is Stroking Racial Antagonism.”

 

“The ad is meant to remind Latinos that while John McCain has one message for them in Spanish, the reality is that he caved to right wing extremists, like Rush Limbaugh and others, on the issue of immigration,” said Obama national co-chair and former Clinton Administration Transportation and Energy Secretary, Federico Peña.  “I’m glad Obama is taking a hard stance on this extreme whacko.  It’s about time someone knocked him off his ‘Golden EIB Microphone.’”

 

Shortly after a rally in Coral Gables, Florida, Obama slapped Limbaugh right back.  “The ads were the truth,” claimed Obama.  “Limbaugh hates Mexicans, and everyone knows it.  He likely hates blacks, Jews, Arabs and women as well.  This pathetic showing is only his reckless attempt to keep me out of the White House.  But it won’t happen.”

 

Obama also noted that anyone with Rush Limbaugh’s flair for parody could easily produce the kind of evidence he needed in an attempt to get himself off the hook.

 

“As far as I’m concerned,” quipped Sen. Joseph Biden, D-DE.  “Limbaugh and McCain are one in the same.  They’ll both take us back to the days of segregation and back alley abortions.”

 

“If you’re a black, Mexican, Jew, Arab, or woman,” Obama added, “and you want to sit down at a lunch counter again, you’ll keep John McCain and his advisor—Rush Limbaugh—out of the White House.”

 

The battle for the White House is heating up, and neither Sen. Barack Obama, D-IL, nor Sen. John McCain, R-AZ, are pulling any punches.  One must now wonder if John McCain can weather the Mexican storm with Rush Limbaugh in his corner.

 

One thing is evidently clear to Rush Limbaugh: Barack Obama appears to be drowning, and is desperately grabbing for a life jacket.  Will it make the difference?

 

Time will most certainly tell. 

Pawtucket, RI—In what could only be described as the largest phenomenon since the Barack Obama campaign, Hasbro, Inc. has announced a new game to be carried under the Milton Bradley line.  The game is called “Lipstick On A Pig.”

 

The object of the game is simple.  Navigate successfully through a campaign for President of the United States, and place the lipstick on the Republican pig in the center of the game board.  It’s fun and easy to play.  Simply spin the wheel in the center and move your Hybrid vehicle the required number of spaces.  Much like the game of Life though, there are many pitfalls to keep you out of the Oval Office along the way.

 

Some of the obstacles include:

 

1.    Your interview with Katie Couric went badly, go back five spaces.

2.     You had a gaff and stated there were 57 states in America, go back six spaces.

3.     Hope and Change are not issues, go back eight spaces.

4.     At a political rally, you accidentally asked a man in a wheelchair to stand up, go back ten spaces.

5.    Ann Coulter wrote another scathing article about you, go back twelve spaces.

6.     Rush Limbaugh linked you to a fundraising scandal involving business kickbacks, go back fifteen spaces.

7.     You’ve lost much of your coherent thought to reach any part of the electorate, lose six turns.

8.     Former President Bill Clinton campaigns for you, lose eight turns.

9.     You picked a bumbling idiot for Vice President, and liberal women are outraged at you, lose ten turns.

10.  You were shot at a gas station in Selma, Alabama, while filling up your hybrid.  You failed to heal the racial divide, go back to the start and lose five turns.

 

“Lipstick On A Pig” is expected to hit stores on December 1, 2008, in time for Christmas.  According to Al Verrecchia, Chairman of the Board at Hasbro, Inc., this game is going to be “hours of family fun.”

 

“Next to sliced bread, this is undoubtedly the finest piece of work from our research and development department,” noted Al Verrecchia.  “I’ve got nothing but good feedback from Americans that came in during our testing phase of this game.”

 

 

 

 

“This is one of the greatest games I’ve ever played,” claimed Chris Davis, a 24-year old AP reporter that was present during testing.  “There’s no way a black man could ever be President of the United States.  This country is far too racially divided, but in ‘Lipstick On A Pig,’ it’s not only possible, it happens.”

 

The game comes with 6 plastic Toyota Priuses, 6 black plastic ‘people’ pegs, mountains, a bridge to nowhere, spinning wheel, stacks and stacks of play money, bank loans, a deck of 36 cards, and more fun than any family could possibly be allowed to have.

 

Real change can happen.  A nation can heal.  Do you have what it takes to put “Lipstick On A Pig?”  If so, then you can be President of the United States of America.

A man begins dying at birth, and one wrong decision can hurl him into eternity.  Most people, living in denial of Death’s courtship, avoid risky decisions—until late in life—they become aware of his presence.

In utter contempt, they scorn themselves for neither having the courage, nor ability to live the fullest of lives, leaving only an empty shell at Death’s embrace. 

Eventually, Nicholas Dempsey would be able to recognize the moment of his death—the decision that sent him racing to eternity.  His decision came on April 15, 2009. 

Until then, he had rarely thought of death.  He had lived his life, executing his service to his country faithfully, without regard for Death’s icy grip. 

He was a born optimist—a patriot in the simplest of terms—and pursued that life upon his graduation from high school.  His decision was simple.  Serving his country meant more than any eventual outcome of that service.  In his line of thinking, the ends justified the means. 

He was obsessed with America, and all that it had to offer.  He never questioned its loyalty, nor did he ponder the possible sacrifice to his mortality.  He remained a steadfast, loyal servant to a young country. 

The call came on his cell phone the day he dropped his tax return in the post office.  His accountant had toiled all day on his return, trying to maximize his deductions. 

There was a stench in the post office—a pungent odor—the smell of too many people, pushing and shoving their way to the front of the line.  It smelled as though Death was in the air.  It was the wrong place to be at the wrong time, and Nick understood it.