This sounds like fun. I might give it a try. I will certainly enjoy reading all the entries. I wonder how the DUmmies will respond to the contest? Maybe their responses will make for a good future edition of the FUnnies.
I still remember the day very clearly, which is remarkable for me. I could no longer resist the magnetic force of self-destruction, and propelled my soulless carcass toward my favorite taproom just as morning rush hour in the city was abating.
As my lonely feet trod the pavement of my Boston neighborhood, I reflected upon my own celebrity. This did not take long, as I am a fairly minor player in the scope of things. Still, I had a flock to guide, to cast pearls amongst, to chide drunkenly when they ignored my teachings. It is not a coincidence that I live where I live. In the fight against a new tyrant, a new King George, the need for a Patrick Henry-Paine-Betsy-Ross-Otis-Hancock is more critical than ever.
As this mental masturbation bathed and nourished my id, my friend Jimmy happened to walk by. Salt-of-the-Earth, blue collar, disabled, courageous. That’s Jimmy. I was glad to bring some sunshine into his ordinarily milquetoast, non-revolutionary existence.
“Headed out for a beer?” Jimmy snickered.
“Heh….how did you know?” I responded teasingly.
“Let me join you.”
We finally made our way to my favorite establishment, the Herman Hesse Taphouse. I made it a point a long time ago to eschew any so-called “bar” that didn’t devote some sacred energy towards attracting literati such as myself. I took my normal, well-worn stool and nodded to the bartender. He placed my sweet medication before me.
“Drink up, Shakespeare,” the bartender scoffed, his eyes rolling. He’s always so funny like that.
I took a sip to cease the tremens, and then directed my attention towards the television. His Divine Excellency George W. Bush was shown speaking about some subject that I probably know more about than he does.
The ascendancy of this new diabolical empire, the dark heart of which unceasingly pumps the cold plasma of neoconservative fascist corporatism, has already peaked. The American people have heard the reveille of true patriots, such as truthout.org, and their stirrings have agitated the rotten foundations built by our serfmasters of filthy lucre, cast from the dust and shards of the dreams stamped out by the gold-plated jackboots of a fanatical minority.
But what of the irreparable damage that has been caused in the mere six-and-a-half years since the greatest deception ever wrought upon the Republic? What about the example cast in the tears of thousands of orphan children taken by the hubris of our appointed leaders.
A tear jettisoned itself into my beer, much like the great suicidal plunge the American dream has taken for so many.
“Room for one more?” a voice behind me melodically inquired.
It was Cindy Sheehan.
“Always for a friend,” I responded.
And we cried together.