The following is a brief bit of typically thoughtful prose composed in the aftermath of accidental comedy that was my nation's most recent Presidential election. Ah, the Mystery that is Democracy! As giggles subsided into gasps echoing down the bleak halls of recent history, I turned my literary attention to a true crisis in our time.

Yours in Confabulation, S. 2012

Cannabis Deprivation

Today, we have a President who has boldly sort'a proclaimed that he sort'a, kind'a smoked, uh, well, er, pot, actually choom or boo, in a time when our children need to hear this message. The ravages of Cannabis Depravation among our youth, particularly young, white males, is leading to a scourge of bad music and even physical deformities. The Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation has well documented the instances of shrinking Hilarity Glands and overactive production of Seriousity neurotransmitters in the brains of weed starved kids. Another effect of the syndrome is formerly luxurious blond locks of hair turning white and falling out in clumps from the pates of previously handsome fellows in their late teens to early twenties.

In the most severe cases the Mary Jane malnourished are known to spontaneously grow wingtip shoes that cover their webbed feet, sprout uncomfortable worsted wool from their bodies in the form of poorly fitting and itchy suits and their faces blossom with horn-rimmed glasses that encrust their dilated eyes. They can eventually can be found prowling the streets of suburbia for days at a time accosting strangers with pleas that innocent, horrified citizens buy insurance from them. No. No. This is no joking matter. Yes. Yes. As the Revered St. Zimmerman said: "Everybody must get stoned!"

Indeed, it is difficult to overstate the immensity of the tragedy of Cannabis Deprivation Syndrome. Take the impact on just one community, Lavatown, NV. Once a thriving small city of suburban tracts surrounding the principle employer, The Lawrence Stanley Denton LavaLamp Factory, it is now a virtual ghost town. In the interest of full disclosure, The LSD estate endowed the research provided in this monogram through the good works of the Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation, created as some small amends for the tragic proceeds of his cultural and financial empire and personal, willful abandonment of sanity while violating every law of god and man.

In any case, Lavatown, is largely abandoned. The LSD LavaLamp factory is shuttered and decaying, inhabited only by murders of crows and colonies of rabid bats that eat rampant beetles as big as small cars and gnaw on the skulls of hairless rats as large as cats. The streets of the once fair city are empty but for the clumps of white hair blowing like tumble weed in the desert wind. All of the grown ups have moved on, leaving their tidy homes for the safe shelter of dumpsters in Reno. They had no choice, of course. Their children were quite mad, prowling the streets with mom’s Pyrex mixing cups, knocking on doors that would never be answered, pleading “May I have a cup of choom? Will you buy insurance? Please vote for Willard “Mitt” Romney.”

In the early days of this catastrophe, The Centers for Unease Control (CfUC) proposed dumping large quantities of bong water into the local reservoir. The Bong Water Association, a major lobbying group, opposed this action and Congress refused to authorize Federal Agents to seize bongs except in the case of a Member of Congress of the opposing party getting caught actually huffing down a choker of kind bud. Thus, once again, our legislators found themselves in deadlock and reconciled to permit orgies in the offices of Senators with seniority to continue unabated, untaxed, and without interruption. However, it was stipulated that no more than three grams of the finest Peruvian cocaine, six magnums of expensive champagne, and four Thai trannies would be delivered between normal business hours (every ten minutes during two hour breaks between 1:PM and 4:PM). Otherwise, all the coke, hookers and booze was fine. But, no pot! “We have to draw the line somewhere!” proclaimed Senator Comedentures (R-AZ).

So, the CFuC turned to Plan B. Without explicit authorization, out of desperation, the Foggers, helicopter born bombs of a super-double-secret mixture of MDMA, 2Cb, and NO2 were deployed over the entire D. C. area. Alas, the only thing accomplished toward staunching the advance of the plague of Zombie Insurance Kids for Romney was the melting of their already quashed egos. Yes, already lacking any self-esteem or self-regard, the ego loss had no effect. The brave folks who executed this extraordinary and perilous mission did, however, come home to giggle quite a lot and hug everybody.

On September 12, 2012, Secret President of The World, Cheney V.4x, was informed of the unsanctioned and failed mission that he had sanctioned. He then made the most difficult decision of his life since he had to figure out if he wanted pickle relish on his hot dog, and mustard as well as ketchup. He ordered the “nukeyurl bombin’ of Lamptown.” “Do Belize, too. I’m sick of those whiners and I don’t care if they’re bilingual. I am too. Si, comprendo par lez voose!?!”; he continued. “Oh, do New York City, too! Pronto!!! Enough with that Jew bastard Mayor. Don’t tell Obama that Bloomass and The City are smoke. You don’t have to. Okay! You’ve got your fuckin’ orders.”

Twelve minutes and fourteen seconds after the order went out to Secret Military Command, fourteen million souls were no more casting a shadow upon liberty and All that is Right. Of those relieved of their corporeal baggage were some four-thousand and sixteen zombified Insurance and Romney election workers. A grateful nation bowed its head into a pile of radioactive ashes raining from a dark sky to give thanks to The Secret President and good riddance to Belize, that odious City of New York, its Jew bastard three-term Mayor, and noisy kids who smoked flowers.

Hic Finis Est, © Solomon 5/26/2012

An Election Autopsy…

Willard "Mitt" Romney

Dear Friends,

It’s been a few weeks since the recent Presidential election. Now that we’ve had a chance to observe the aftermath, it is time to perform the autopsy on the Romney/Ryan/Rove campaign. What have we learned?

Well, most obviously, the GOP gets its revenge in losing by eating its own. Sure, they gave old Dick Nixon another shot at the prize, but we saw how that turned out in the blaze of deliberate, plain stupid and public self immolation of his career and reputation. They shan't repeat that sort of error. Yes, no sooner was Mittens sent to rut in humiliating defeat by a skinny black guy with bigs ear and a funny name, a lousy economy limping too slowly into recovery, the longest war in our nation’s history wheezing to an indecisive end at the hands of folks who make bombs out of camel dung and kerosene, Romney started to plead that he was just misunderstood and Obama outbid him for the approval of Americans. Then the PigFest® began.

Swiftly his own people were upon him, gnawing at his skull, shredding his carcass with their angry beaks until his viscera lay in the hot sun hanging over the merciless, dusty Desert of Losers. The flesh between his ribs has become dried jerky and the vultures plucked his pearly whites from slack jaws. His eyeballs and liver, of course, were saved as appetizers for the Big Donors, but more on that in a moment.

As to Ryan? He is finished. This freakish product of a Star Trek transporter accident that melded the corporeal forms of Eddie Munster, Eddie Haskell and the pathological, wounded mind of a child terrified by the knowledge of his own mortality while loathing all of those who represent the prospect of Birth that inevitably begets Death, everyone his senior or possessing a vagina. Paul knows that he is on The List. He’s lying low in his secret bunker. He’s reading comic books with a flash light under the bed covers. He is fervently praying that Mother, the Great Teat of The Grand Old Party, will not crash his own party and grind his flesh to paste under her elephantine hooves for his very poor grades in civics class and A.P. Pandering to numb skulls.

Paul "Puppy" Ryan

Then there is the matter of Karl Rove. I will now join with my good friends on the other side of the aisle and help toss the fat punk's carcass into the frier before throwing the bones boiled and shorn of flesh into the dumpster. The most admirable and reliable behavior amongst these thugs is how they detest the aroma of a loser, the stink of defeat, and will swiftly abandon their own after getting nothing but derision for the three billion spent trying unsuccessfully to buy a nation.

Karl "Porky" Rove

Qui Fueunt Sed Nunc Ad Astra, G.O.P.

SCS

Paul Ryan's Mind…

Dear Friends,

I am not a mental health professional, but I am a writer. Thus I know and can explain the narrative of this sick punk's story clearly. He's a hurt little puppy who has seen all of the older men in his family, including his dad, die in their mid-fifties. He resents his mother who had to adopt the role of authority in his life as he was tutored by priests on the inferiority of women.

He deeply fears growing old and thus perversely worships his own male body by torturing it to excess. In the disguise of perfecting it, he self-flagellates like the celibate monk that he is not and can never be given his obsession with sex and the unknowable power in a woman's womb that he strives unsuccessfully to control. He is hiding behind the smile of a man terrified of his mortality as he bargains with the very devil of his imagining that he seeks to defeat. He is doomed and lashing out against the unstoppable future. This dude's way in life makes the deal that Faust struck look like a good bet.

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS

Talk nice-like. At least be clever…

Dear Friends,

Willard "Mitt" Romney

A couple of days ago an old friend of mine posted a question on Facebook. It read…

Why in the world would white working class people support Mitt Romney? Besides any echoes of racism I mean.

I replied…

See, what'cha got here is the basic crisis in American public education. About half the folks in this great country presently suffering the Mystery that is Democracy thinking that it is a dandy idea to give a filthy rich criminal all of their money and turn over to him the keys to a nuclear arsenal so he can realize his avowed dream of ushering in a New Kingdom of Zion ruled by a worldwide Mormon theocracy as outlined by the lunatic Joe Smith while camping in upstate NY in the 1860s where an angel named Maroni from a secret planet gave him super-double secret tablets of gold that he could not show to anybody else but had instructions for making magical underpants and how to take a bath before praying and stealing the souls of dead Jews. It all makes total sense in this context.

To this a friend we have in common commented in no uncertain terms…

Romney’s a total fake-poser-moron. A fat-ass phony piece of shit garbage asshole. Thanks for reading. PEACE.

After some thought, I replied again… 

I'm thinking of your last post, my friend, and how we use words. I trade in words. That's my business. I like to toss them like the anvils that fall out of the sky on Wily Coyote or the pianos that tumble from skyscrapers to ring with a crash and a thud unheard in an old Buster Keaton movie as he walks blissfully down the street.

For me, some precision is needed in aiming these weapons of literary destruction and obstruction. Simply name calling and cussing will persuade nobody and reduce we of good heart to the level that thugs like Romney and Gingrich and their ilk live in; a scummy pool of vitriol. When you hurl those words, please gloss them with some wit. Be as bad ass mean as you intend, but keep your wits about you. Drench those words in a syrup so sweet that those that torment us, steal from us, cheat and lie can’t help but be embarrassed by the truer than true reality of your words and the fact that they liked them because they just felt right and true.

Those bastards know what is true; most of them do. They know that their own parents would be ashamed of their foul behavior. So, don’t give those creeps a break. Don’t lose discipline. Work hard with every word you utter and keep it out of the gutter no matter how pissed off you get… even if you are as angry as I am tonight.

When Gandhi, who Winston Churchill termed a little man in diapers, took down the British Lion and unlocked the chains on the territories of the empire, he did it without firing a gun nor throwing a single punch with anything other than well chosen, often clever words delivered with an unfailing smile. He embarrassed the mightiest nation on the planet into just going home to lick their wounds. In the little dust up we got with global commercial enterprises, the same tactics can work if we keep our wits about us and lend our queer shoulders to the wheel.

Thanks to Allen Ginsberg for the purloined line. Words are fun!

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS

Attention: Voters in the United States of America!

Dear Friends,

This man is a dangerous, unprincipled, compulsive liar and a religious fanatic He believes that it is his destiny to usher in a "New Jerusalem on Earth" to create a global theocracy administered by the priests of The Church of Latter Day Saints (Mormons). This mission will be accomplished following an apocalypse in the ancient Holy Land. Thus it was foretold to crazy Joe Smith by an angel named Maroni and supposedly from another planet while the extraterrestrial angel was vacationing in the woods of upstate New York.

Willard "Mitt" Romney

We cannot allow this lunatic have his hands on nuclear weapons. Let me make it really plain: we do not want this bozo to have his finger on the button that will provide him with what he believes are God given tools to invoke Armageddon. If you doubt this, do your own research on The Church o' LDS.

I should finally add, I don't personally give a damn what anybody believes. I'm an atheist and all religions seem pretty whacky to me. From animists to onion heads in saffron robes, any stripe of Christian, the several of Islam, folks that pray to elephant headed fat guys, the several flavors of Jews that I grew up with… the entire spectrum. All I'm saying is that it is not a good idea to give a deceitful yokel who is looking forward to the end of The World the means to pull off such a stunt.  

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

SCS 

Cannabis Deprivation

Cannabis Deprivation

Today, we have a President who has boldly sort'a proclaimed that he sort'a, kind'a smoked, uh, well, er, pot, actually choom or boo, in a time when our children need to hear this message. The ravages of Cannabis Depravation among our youth, particularly young men, is leading to a scourge of bad music and even physical deformities. The Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation has well documented the instances of shrinking Hilarity glands and overactive production of Seriousity neurotransmitters in the brains of weed starved kids. Another effect of the syndrome is formerly luxurious blond locks of hair turning white and falling out in clumps from the heads of previously handsome fellows in their late teens to early twenties. The mangey clots of hair roll like silver tumble weeds down the empty streets. 

In the most severe cases the Mary Jane malnourished are known to spontaneously grow wingtip shoes that cover their webbed feet, sprout uncomfortable worsted wool from their bodies in the form of poorly fitting and itchy suits, horn-rimmed glasses that encrust their dilated eyes, and eventually can be found prowling the streets of suburbia for days at a time accosting strangers with pleas that innocent, horrified citizens buy insurance from them. No. No. This is no joking matter. Yes. Yes. As the revered St. Zimmerman said: "Everybody must get stoned!"

Indeed, it is difficult to overstate the immensity of the tragedy of Cannabis Deprivation Syndrome. Take the impact on just one community, Lavatown, NV. Once a thriving small city of suburban tracts surrounding the principle employer, The Lawrence Stanley Denton LavaLamp Factory, it is now a virtual ghost town. In the interest of full disclosure, The LSD estate endowed the research provided in this monogram through the good works of the Lawrence Stanley Denton Foundation, created as some small amends for the tragic proceeds of his cultural and financial empire building and personal, willful abandonment of sanity while violating every law of god and man.

In any case, Lavatown, is largely abandoned. The LSD LavaLamp factory is shuttered and decaying, inhabited only by murders of crows and colonies of rabid bats that eat rampant beetles as big as small cars and gnaw on the skulls of hairless rats as big as cats. The streets of the once fair city are empty but for the clumps of white hair blowing like tumble weed in the desert wind. All of the grown ups have moved on, leaving their tidy homes for the safe shelter of dumpsters in Reno. They had no choice, of course. Their children were quite mad, prowling the streets with mom’s Pyrex mixing cups, knocking on doors that would never be answered, pleading “May I have a cup of choom? Will you buy insurance? Please vote for Willard “Mitt” Romney.”

In the early days of this catastrophe, The Centers for Unease Control (CfUC) proposed dumping large quantities of bong water into the local reservoir. The Bong Water Association, a major lobbying group, opposed this action and Congress refused to authorize Federal Agents seizing bongs except in the case of a Member of Congress of the opposing party getting caught actually huffing down a choker of kind bud. Thus, once again, our legislators found themselves in deadlock and reconciled to permit orgies in the offices of Senators with seniority to continue unabated, untaxed, and without interruption. However, it was stipulated that no more than three grams of the finest Peruvian cocaine, six magnums of expensive champagne, and four Thai trannies would be delivered between normal business hours (every ten minutes during two hour breaks between 1:PM and 4:PM). Otherwise, all the coke, hookers and booze was fine. But, no pot! “We have to draw the line somewhere!” proclaimed Senator Comedentures (R-AZ).

So, the CFuC turned to Plan B. Without explicit authorization, out of desperation, the Foggers, helicopter born bombs of a super-double-secret mixture of MDMA, 2Cb, and NO2 were deployed over the entire area. Alas, the only thing accomplished toward staunching the advance of the plague of Zombie Insurance Kids for Romney was the melting of their already quashed egos. Yes, already lacking any self-esteem or self-regard, the ego loss had no effect. The brave folks who executed this extraordinary and perilous mission did, however, come home to giggle quite a lot and hug everybody.

On September 12, 2012, Secret President of The World, Cheney V.4x, was informed of the unsanctioned and failed mission that he had sanctioned. He then made the most difficult decision of his life since he had to figure out if he wanted pickle relish on his hot dog, and mustard as well as ketchup. He ordered the “nukeyurl bombin’ of Lamptown.” “Do Belize, too. I’m sick of those whiners and I don’t care if they’re bilingual. I am too. Si, comprendo par lez voose!?!”; he continued. “And, do New York City, too! Pronto!!! Enough with that Bloomass Jew bastard. Don’t tell Obama that Bloomass and The City are smoke. You don’t have to. Okay! You’ve got your fuckin’ orders.”

Twelve minutes and fourteen seconds after the order went out to Secret Military Command, fourteen million souls were no more casting a shadow upon liberty and All that is Right. Of those relieved of their corporeal baggage were some four-thousand and sixteen zombified insurance and Romney election workers. A grateful nation bowed its head into a pile of radioactive ashes raining from a dark sky to give thanks to The Secret President and good riddance to Belize, that odious City of New York, its Jew bastard three-term Mayor, and noisy kids who smoked flowers.

Hic Finis Est,

S

© Solomon 5/26/2012

Mitt.V.2x and His Rise and Demise…

Dear Friends,

As we left Mitt V.2x, he was ready to join the campaign in the guise of Mitt V.1. Nobody should be the wiser, or so it is supposed. There were, admittedly, some kinks to work out, but things seemed to be sailing smoothly until a stop at A.B. Won Pat International Airport, Island of Guam for a little meet and greet with the local League of Women Voters prior to the upcoming Republican primary, now an apparent cinch. Little Ricky was out of the race and likely headed toward an anguished end after thorough debriefing on that cannibalism incident. Word has it that “Uncle Dick” himself, fresh from his deal with getting a working heart from that kid dead in the mysterious car wreck mix-up, was going to personally supervise. Anyhow, Newt is the only remaining trouble spot, though surprises can always pop up on the trail to The White House. Options have to remain open. ~ Ed. Note.

Mitt.V.2x is now on wheels and ready to roll. He is poised at the edge of the runway after being debarked from his private jet, having been borne prostrate and in servo-lock mode by his manservants before greeting the press waiting on the tarmac. Once made erect and placed on his robo-motorized skateboard, he was activated with an injection by Doctor Wellbody: 120mg of WhooHooYeah® (Adrenochrome HCL), a fine product from the good folks at Phiztter Pharm® (a wholly owned subsidiary of Bain Capital, Inc®). Administered directly to the base of his skull and into the brain stem of the marginally mutant replicate human, the effect was immediate and electrifying.

Apparently extensive company funded and FDA approved field tests of the medication on cloned human beings of perhaps inbred genetic inheritance from generations of polygamous sires of a common and deeply weird great-great-great grandfather had not been conducted. Who knew that the fervently enthusiastic banjo playing genes of old Parley P. Pratt would suddenly engage and their impulses emerge with such gusto as the inanimate Mitt clone sprang to life with the giddy zest of a good ol’ time picker. Mitt seized the plinky-plink meskeeter-box from a young Biff Puddfusser. There Biff was, the son of steely eyed Rear Admiral Puddfusser (thrice decorated former quartermaster of the USS Brigham Young) in shock in the front row of the Yellow Hollow Pacific High School Blue Grass band as the stately handsome and likely Republican candidate for President of these United states come over on a CREDO Model 7 Board® to swipe his instrument in a swoop with a whoosh.

Next thing you know, Mitt.V.2x is wranglin’ with those silvery strings, liquid notes are a’flying as a crazy drizzle of mercury from some heavenly cloud wreathed like it was smiled upon by god’aw’mighty. And, he’s a’yoddlin’ like what’all!!! “Yo-dee-lae-hee-hoo-hee-ha-ha-ha!!!” It was grand, alright!

Then the drug wore off. Mitt.V.2x got stiff as a board, turned all greenish, the Nutty Putty plugs in his head popped out of his fevered skull. His brain was boilin’. The straw cowboy hat flew off his skull like a skillet top on firecracker. The speech program chip melted back to its “normal” or default state and Wiilard, er, Mitt.V.2x could only be heard to gasp and murmur as he drooled to repeat again and again, “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” Next, the projectile vomiting and profound flatulence started. Must have been those Micronesian spicy wild boar hot dogs with Cycad relish that set off his ill-trained sphincters and tender digestive glands.

The entire crowd, the ROTC cadets, Reserve troops and their officers of the Joint Force Headquarters-Guam at Fort Juan Muna, that little band, all their teachers from Freaklin HS, even the cops and Secret Service guys run for cover. But, the candidate is frozen stiff as a toad under a rock in February up in Wasilla, AK, near where you can see Siberia (that’s in Russia, y’know) on a clear day.

Next, a fearsome gust of ocean wind came up. It was all downhill from here for Mitt V.2x… indeed it is! His undead frame slowly animates under the meteorological pressure of tropical breezes and slowly, then more swiftly, he rolls and accelerates on his rubber wheels along the sloping grade of the runway toward a providently placed gap in the fence. Disaster is averted as the fake Mitt skid-addles just so fine into the marshy rift between old and indigenous farmer Hector Hoothefukahwey’s place and the airport runway strip. Fortunately for the phony Romney, Hoothefukahwey was nearby, slopping his hogs, as he heard a “splursh” sound, some subsequent gurgling and ran to investigate what all was going on at the edge of his small farm.

He discovers a man lashed to a skateboard, dressed in a nice pair of overalls but with holes in his head. The apparent corpse is as firm and upright as a plank of Ifil, the official state tree of Guam. The tall and handsome greenish creature startled Mr. Hoothefukahwey in saying: “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.”

Of course, Hoothefukahwey understands that he is presented with perhaps both an opportunity and a burden, here. He opts for the former. “Can ya slop the hogs?” The reply, “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” The wise farmer takes that for a yes. This specimen is fit to slop the hogs alright and likely will work for vittles and a stay in the barn. Hoothefukahwey has such accommodations in the stall next to the old barrel where Bossie’s noggin is cornin’ to make the head cheese. Hoothefukahwey’s a generous man so he fixes a fresh pile of straw a’top the manure and sets up the “presidential candidate” on his skateboard for a night’s rest before turning in himself. He carelessly leaves the wick on the kerosene lamp on the sill still lit before heading in to get some few hours of dreamless slumber ‘till the sun comes up.

Hoothefukahwey awakes before dawn to a horrible fire in and out and around the barn. Pigs are running every which way. His prize and only goat, Eulie, is perched with all fours atop the slender fence post by the corner of the barn as flames lick her ankles and she bleats terribly. Through the smoggy, cindered smoke of the dung fed pyre, Hoothefukahwey can see the silhouette of a large man erect and with an odd emerald glistening goop slathering from his ears, bubbling, frothing and seemingly with a life or energy of its own. This figure is apparently immune to the scorching flames engulfing his limbs. The strange man again slowly murmurs the phrase “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me…” over and over as the conflagration consumes his fancy-pants overalls and his skin peels away from the undying body in rags of flesh burning in its own fat.

As the sun finally rises over farmer Hoothefukahwey’s small slice of island paradise, now a smoldering wreck reeking of pork renderings and sizzled excrement, his hovel a pile of ashes, his livestock barbecue, the corpse of the stranger that came to him with so much promise of low-cost labor still looming upon his skateboard, standing tall, quietly, gently, reasonably pleading “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.”

“By the gods Puntan and Fu’una, by all the gods of The Chamorro!”, weeps poor farmer Hector Hoothefukahwey, “Take this beast from my life! He has laid waste to all that I have owned, taken my livelihood, my pigs, my only goat, and my home. And, he won’t shut the fuck up!!!”

The Mitt.V.2x continues to intone “I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me. I am Mitt Romney. Please vote for me.” Hoothefukahwey can only weep.

Hic Finis Est,

S

The Continuing Crisis in America Politics…

Dear Friends,

It was with sadness that today the Republican National Committee announced an unprecedented shake up in the race toward the nomination of their Presidential candidate. This comes with the demise of the leader of the PAC and the astonishing disappearance of one fellow contender and the apparently self-inflicted seclusion of another.

The body of former Governor Mitt Romney was discovered in a trench roadside of Interstate Highway 580, just outside of Reno, Nevada nearby the popular Mustang Ranch & Bordello. His 2011 Chevy Suburban was upended and aflame, and the corpse was found some few yards away from the wreck. Nevada State Troopers reporting to the scene discovered the candidate apparently deceased, and his abdomen torn open. Subsequent examination by the Coroner’s Office revealed that his liver had gone missing. However, his hair was perfect.

At the time of the tragic wreck, neighbors in a trailer park adjacent to the scene of the suspicious incident made several and repeated calls to 911 reporting the sound of a collision and reported seeing a Cadillac Escalade or similar vehicle piloted by an unknown driver fleeing the scene. It appeared to have contained, in addition to the male driver, as many as a dozen occupants including a woman and perhaps ten or more children. The vehicle bore no license plates but did sport a Santorum for President in 2012 bumper sticker.

Meanwhile, a Mrs. Petunia Philomathia of Lot 114 Dusty Meadows Park independently made several calls pleading for help from the Washoe County Regional Animal Control Unit. She reported seeing a very large, black, bat-like creature with a human-like head crested in white as it was hovering over the horizon at what would have been the scene of the fatality involving candidate Romney. In her account, the flying beast was carrying in its jaws what appeared to be the entrails of prey. Following repeatedly being told by authorities to sleep it off, the calls ended with one final sobbing plea. We have sought Mrs. Philomathia out for comment, but found her trailer home abandoned. Police are now investigating her disappearance.

Today, we learn that Romney is dead, large pieces of his viscera gone missing, Rick Santorum and his family of twelve have disappeared, although they have been reportedly spotted by security cameras at the Laogog International Airport Ice Cream Bar. Newt Gingrich is refusing to take calls from the press. He is said by his aides to be recuperating from an intestinal disorder arising from the over-consumption of fatty organ meats, but is expected back on the campaign trail on Halloween Night for a vampire-theme gala fundraiser.

So, where does this leave the Republican Party? Ron Paul is sidelined with loose dentures, Irritable Bowel Syndrome and latent, blithering craziness. Donald Trump threatens to throw his hat into the ring, but is said to be demanding a better hair cut, all the atom bombs up front, and seventy-six virgins, all blonde, upon sealing the deal. The Republicans are having a tough time finding even one virgin in the party above majority age. The Donald has responded that he is willing to accept anything they got in terms of virgins. Thus negotiations continue in the face of a possible brokered convention. The front runner, according to Carl Rove, is an unnamed, corpulent, misogynist, homophobic racist with an expected lifespan of about three months after a supposed election before he succumbs to exploding heart disease or a near fatal stroke that sends him into dementia and possibly launching nukes at Grand Luxembourg.

In a related story, Rush Limbaugh is now facing arrest in Papua, New Guinea, having been apprehended for the abduction of a fourteen year old transexual and subsequent hostage taking at the famed House of Fun By The Beach. He is said to be barricaded with the boy, or girl, whatever, inside his bungalow and heavily armed, massively stoned on Oxycodone®, and threatening to fire his sponsors if they don’t agree with him about every rancid, nutty thought that crosses his fevered mind. Local police continue to negotiate with him, offering more and stronger drugs if he’ll just get off the radio and shut up.

We will bring you further developments as the come in.

Res Ipsa Loquitor,

S