With the campaign of wKen going underground, there has been a power vaccuum for opposition to the current Administration’s 2004 re-election (or first-time election, depending on your pov).
Over at Michele’s place, they’ve formed a new party, the Slutpublicans, with the apparent goals of getting someone to sleep with the vice-president and ridding the world of Carrot Top. Meanwhile, a splinter group, the Slutertarians, have taken hold of Venomous Kate’s site. Apparently, they just want to oppose the “elitist” Slutpublicans.
I know that I tread upon dangerous ground when mentioning politics. It doesn’t matter what I say, I’m either too liberal, selling out to conservatives, or being wishy-washy. Thus, I fall back on my tried-and-true position statement: BITE ME!
And, yet, I yearn to be part of something bigger than myself (no, not Tanya Harding’s ass). I want to make a difference in the halls of government. One that doesn’t involve scrubbing graffiti off the walls. I want to be a great President like my idols: Millard Fillmore (who booked acts like the Grateful Dead with that preacher fella, Bill Graham) and Grover Cleveland Alexander (who later pitched for St. Louis when he was a washed up drunk).
So, what do I do? Continue to rail against an unjust God that wKen and Suzie were taken away? NO! The past is gone. It went by like dusk to dawn. Isn’t that the way everybody’s got the dues in life to pay? Dream on!
Do I take up with one of the Slut parties, like some cheap blogwhore? Offer my services to the highest bidder? Sure, I might wind up with some cushy job like Secretary of the Department of Future Red Sox Championships in Michele’s cabinet, but I haven’t even heard Kate’s counter-offer. Then they start fighting over me… I SAID then they start FIGHTING OVER ME… Is this thing on? Hello?
Anyway, I think it’s better if I just form my own party. Hmmm…. let’s see. What sounds funny at 2am? Slutocrats? Slutialists? The People’s Republic of Seabrook? Ah, we’ll think of something.
I know what you’re saying. You’re saying, “Solly, old chum, pass me the remote and shut the hell up. American Idol is on.” But I’m not listening. I’m keeping the remote. I’m changing the channel. We’re going to watch something different, America. It’s time for some tough love. We’re going to sit in front of the boob tube until we’re boobed out! That’s right. Our first act will be a mandatory Anna Nicole Smith marathon for every American. After that, NOTHING will seem so bad. America will be happy again. Or else.
Who’s with me?