Makes No Census
When it comes to the notion of civically representing our downtrodden hordes of people not to mention a bigwig or two, I’m a big-picture kind of guy and sometimes I lose sight of a nit-picking detail here and there that can be important to a successful campaign for higher office—like just when the hell the goddamn 2010 primary election is supposed to be, and what kind of shenanigans I got to pull to get on the official ballot. Yeah, I’m no stranger to the write-in campaign, but between you and me, I found that approach to be strictly for losers. Go figure.
I’m thinking that I ought to go consult with my campaign brain trust so’s to smell if the wind is right for an anti-establishment common man like me with a heavy hankering for heavy-duty social Robin Hood socialism to be placed in a statewide or national position of power to the people.
So I’m headed over by the Uptowner tavern/charm school situated at the Hysteric Corner of Center Street & Humboldt—where today is always at least a day before tomorrow and yesterday may gosh darn well be today.
Come along if you’d like, but you buy the first round. Let’s get going.
Emil: So this Liz Cheney—she’s the daughter of Dick, ain’a?
Little Jimmy Iodine: You got that right. She thinks nobody should get a lawyer at a trial if she or dad Dick have already decided the guy is focking guilty. God bless America.
Herbie: John McCain would’ve put her on the Supreme Court, pronto. We’ve never had a chubby blond-haired Republican gal on the Court before, ain’a? It would’ve been historic.
Ray: Reminds me of a story: Hot-shot lawyer calls the president just before midnight, gets an aide on the phone. Lawyer says he’s got to talk to the president ’cause it’s of the utmost urgency. Aide drags the president out of bed. Lawyer says, “Listen, Mr. President, I just heard that Justice Scalia died and I want to take his place.” President says, “Well sir, that’s more than fine by me if it’s okay with the undertaker.”
Ernie: Any you’s guys get that U.S. Census test yet?
Julius: Oh yeah, and what the fock, they sent me the long form, wouldn’t you know. And here in the papers they had the stories about all the people complaining on the Census, worrying about the privacy and how come the government needs to know this and that, blah-blah-blah, and I thought, “What a bunch of candy-ass crybabies.” Forget about it. I think the government already knows everything on you thanks to George focking Bush, so big focking deal.
Herbie: Oh for christ sakes, the government’s too stupid to know everything.
Ernie: Oh yeah? You ought to see some of the questions that were on the form they sent me: On a scale of one-to-ten, just how big of a jackass did you feel that time in eighth grade when you skipped out of school with a bullshit excuse that said you had to go to your aunt’s funeral, and then to learn that the next day she got run over by a bus on her way to deliver fresh-baked chocolate cookies to the orphanage, you lying sack of crap?
Julius: Hey, I got questions like that on my Census, too. Do you think the well-built gal who lives across the alley from you knows you spy on her with binoculars when she’s in her back yard sunbathing with her top off; not to mention whether or not your wife knows that you secretly subscribe to the Web site www.SoapyCarWashingBimbos.com? Screw it. From now on in, I’m taking my computer into the bathroom and locking the door when I use it.
Little Jimmy: So what happens if you don’t send your census back in?
Emil: Then you’re out of focking luck. Last time, I had the wife fill it out and she sent it in right away. She Xeroxed the entry about 10 times and sent those in too ’cause she figures that’ll only increase our chances of winning.
Ray: What the fock are you talking about—win. Win what?
Emil: I don’t know. They forgot to put a prize sheet in our envelope.
Ernie: That’s because there aren’t any prizes, you focking knobshine.
Emil: You got to be jerking my beefaroni. You fill out that form and there’s no chance to win something like a boat, or furniture or something? What the fock. You know, I thought there was something fishy—no prize sheet. I almost called the bureau for that better business. How come the goddamn government doesn’t do something about this kind of royal screw job?
Herbie: Because that form was from the goddamn government, you sausage head. You don’t win anything from the government just by filling out a form. You got to give money to a politician in his election if you want to get a prize from the goddamn government. What the hell is wrong with you?
Little Jimmy Iodine: Hey, Artie! Over here. Put a load on your keister.
Art: Hey, gents. What do you know, what do you hear.
Ray: Here’s toArtie, for letting us charge these drinks to his campaign finance committee!
Art: Screw taxes. Don’t give that money to the government. Give it to me, instead. I’m a politician.
(Hey, it’s getting late and I know you got to go, but thanks for letting us bend your ear ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)