What I want to obtain from my doctor is a written medical opinion which stipulates I have been diagnosed with Tourette’s Syndrome.
Therefore, under the American Disability Act, I simply can’t help myself — for cursing.
Grandmothers too slowly crossing a busy intersection, or, more particularly, politicians caught dead ahead in my headlights when they are leisurely crossing Pennsylvania Avenue.
In other words I can’t be held legally accountable — when I have outbursts. Especially ones so wretched and so vile, that it would yield respectful, appreciative tears from some over-tattooed, nose-pierced cracker who is the pride and joy of seven generations of incest.
Anyone could be victimized by my spitting and spewing without me getting penalized, arrested, charged, sued or even divorced…again. Particularly when my wicked vituperations are aimed at those overpaid, over-pensioned, overly-free-coifed, over- wined-and-dined and over-living-far-too-well-on-the-public-dole…
You know, those folks we naively assume we actually elected in the first place, to represent the country’s best interests – even if she and all her Hollywood friends are underaged, but she’s definitely got our best interests.
I want to be declared under the ADA that just like our bloody politicians: It’s not my fault, senator, that’s just the way things are. The devil made me do it. It says so right here on my doctor’s excuse. I can’t bloody help myself. Just like the scorpion said, after he stung the turtle who was ferrying him across river. When the turtle begged to know: Why? Now we’re both going to die. The scorpion simply replied : Hey, buddy, I couldn’t help myself.
At the same time, I want my doctor to write me a prescription for medical marijuana because I am suffering with a terribly painful fatal disease. What those overdressed potentates in Washington are doing is definitely going to be the death of a lot of us. And I consider death to be pretty fatal – especially since I don’t want to be there when it happens.
So, I wanna get stoned. Wasted. And not be anywhere at all. Except in bed with my neighbor’s tattooed wife. And, what the heck, my neighbor too — as long as he wears his diamond-studded collar and patent leather leash.
It’s not the dying that scares me throughout my big intestine. Dying is easy. It’s the living with these bozos in Washington that is beginning to scare me closer to death – to the point where I’ve been searching through the Bible for loopholes.
The Republicans want to kill abortion, healthcare, Medicare, Medicaid, education and just about anything that any two-toothed mullah or defrocked priest with his pants unzipped figures is an unnecessary liberty for women.
And the Democrats, G-d save their pathetic souls, are about as disorganized, spastic and tongue-swallowing as an epileptic in the throes of a Grand Mal seizure.
Yet, despite what grand party your congressman kneels in fealty before, the fact is — as me dear old bourbon-sipping pappy used to issue between omnipotent puffs on his omniscient corn cob pipe: He still ain’t nothing but a politician. He is simply unenlightened and crooked. In fact, so crooked, if he swallowed a nail, he’d crap out a corkscrew.
Hmmm. It’s amazing how much smarter my father keeps getting. Even when he’s dead. No doubt killed by an impaired politician.
Furthermore, I am going to check to see if I need a permit to carry a Starter Pistol. You know, those harmless little noise makers utilized mostly to signal the launch of a running event. Something our boys and girls in Washington only know about when they are running for office. But, obviously, not when they supposed to be actually running the office.
So imagine me with my doctor’s Tourette’s excuse, high on medically prescribed marijuana and wielding a non-gun-permitted weapon that even Helen Keller could see is a harmless popcorn pistol.
Spewing. Cursing. Stoned. Firing away. Demanding that those SOB’s start running the government the way our seventh grade Weekly Readers said it was damn well supposed to be pristinely operated.
Perhaps one or two of our meeker senators or congressmen, shocked at my language, or by the sight of a gun that reminds them of themselves — shooting blanks — will grab at his sagging chest and keel over. But that would mostly come as a downright shock to the rest of us: You mean he had a heart?
Furthermore, it has long been alleged that a hallowed statesman ain’t nothing but a dead politician. And, I don’t think anyone’s going to argue this point with me, what we need is more statesmen.
I hope I am being poignant and pungent here. The shortest distance between two people—or even the 535 in Congress – is communication. But do we hear them seeking the shortest distance between talking points?
Hell, I’d swear my latest-ex must be coaching them – that is, if she can talk, yet, without her teeth. These guys – especially cry-me-a-river-Boehner — are too busy getting a tan from the limelight. The TV lights. And under the moonlight where they’re picking up the attaché cases stuffed with cash.
It’s not funny watching our congress act like a bunch of orangutans swinging from the jungle gym. But these things don’t just happen. The descent into hell is in tiny steps. And all the evil needs to succeed is for good men to do nothing.
And we the people of several good men ain’t doing nothing.
Oh, we can pray and hope for the best. But a man who lives on a diet of hope soon dies of starvation.
We need to get back to thinking and acting — not staring at infomercials. Yet, don’t go off ‘thinking’, as Homer Simpson told Marge: “The reason we have elected officials is so we don’t have to think.”
Politicians have been promising everything to get elected, but now they aren’t able to deliver hardly anything. We all have to suck in our beer bellies.
The real trouble is we’re not making any noise. Those bastards get entrenched in Washington and they start viewing their jobs, money, bribes and re-elections as entitlements.
I don’t trust any political leadership from long before Reagan smiled, twinkled and tripled our national debt while promoting trickle-down economics. Those guys in Washington are getting paid double-time to at least show up to their offices and put in a union shift.
It ain’t happening.
So, perhaps we-duh-people ought to get our doctor’s excuses and prescriptions, grab our Minutemen (Starter Pistol) muskets – and a machete for back up – and pay our men and women on Capitol Hill a visit. If they don’t have the solutions, maybe they ought to listen to some better ideas.
Even if we are too stoned to talk, our Tourettes should get their attention. And our pistol, though full of blanks, will at least get things started.
And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony.