Republicans like to say that “government” is a dirty word. Closer examination, however, reveals that it’s just not the word, but the whole freaking enterprise that’s obscene.
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in our capitol Washington, D.C. that we lay our scene), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty lamps that struggled against the darkness.
It was on that night that legislators surreptitiously crept through the back doors of the Capitol, far from the public eye to engage in — what else? — an orgy of government spending.
In ill-lit corners of the hallowed chamber, legal suits came undone and beltway manners, loosened as members shed their reservations, openly exposed themselves for who they truly were. Acts of naked aggression were commonplace. People of both parties were jumping all over one another. It was not a pretty sight.
For Democrats, the situation was all too inviting — treasury teats, firm, inviting, perky, pebbled, and plentiful, revealed themselves, all ripe for the taking. And take to them they did, passionately sucking on the pulsating orbs of Mother Liberty, whilst encouraging their mooching minions to join in. Tea Party Republicans protested, “Unhand them, Sir!”
A lone Democrat from the Longhorn State stood firm. Slowly but ever-so-methodically he began making his case, only to find the entrance to the silken love-cave, which held the treasured cache, blocked. He would not take no for an answer. Republicans voted “no, no,” but there was yes, yes in their eyes — those languid pools of deep blue splendor in which lovers find hints of encouragement. Our fair warrior pressed our fair nation on, stimulating her economy in slow but firm strokes.
A Republican maiden interjected, protesting his advance, invoking instead the guiding hand of the invisible marketplace. Indignantly, she grabbed his entitlement, flinging it furiously it to the floor. What do you take me for,” she cried out with indignation. “What kind of a girl do you think I am? “
“That is how ordinary people make ends meet,” the Democrat countered, “And you, my dear, are not above it.”
Elsewhere a throbbing (as well as pulsating and quivering) Republican member pressed his case against the nubile young Democrat. “No cover-ups here,” he screamed, ripping her dainty bodice from her trembling body. His hands moved downward, running through her briefs, in a blind search for the nub of the matter.
“Stop right there, you…you… dishonorable member!” she cried out.
“Assume the position,” he demanded, not missing a beat.
“Never,” said she. Their eyes locked. Slowly he advanced on his trembling prey. His lips pursed in anticipation as drops of warm moisture coalesced in the corners of his mouth.
Her torn outer garment at her feet, she stood before him, as her maker had created her. His eyes darted downward, finally alighting upon her surplus. The view was riveting. The gap between empty promises and limited finances stared out — moist and warm, yawning and inviting—beckoning him onward. “‘Tis a void crying to be filled,” he shrieked, “And I am the man to fill it… I will. I will. I can. I can.”
“Abort this mission, now!”” she screamed, her eyes locked on his heat seeking missile, preparing to launch. You are in direct violation of the penal code. Have you no sense of decency, sir?”
Alas, there was no stopping him. Intoxicated by a firm mandate from the previous election, he hammered his point home.
Politics indeed makes for strange bedfellows. In the farthest recesses of the chamber, a tiny minority were busily engaged in a caucus — surreptitiously engaging in unnatural acts which could only be described as “compromising,” reaching across the aisle, taking positions unknown to polite society.
“I’ve never done it this way before,” protested one reluctant participant, his voice trembling with fear and anticipation. “It’s a bipartisan position with which I am not at all comfortable.”
“One has to be flexible in such matters,” his counterpart argued. “There are times when you have to put country ahead of politics, moments when you have to bend over backward to accomplish something.”
“This is simply too weird,” protested another. “The state of the union is a state of traditional values and uni-sexuality — not behavior becoming of animals. And when push turns to shove, we must stand up for those beliefs.”
Amidst it all, there suddenly arose a tsunami of delight, a tidal wave of conciliation, which suddenly swept over all — followed by a giant cosmic sneeze. Seismic tremors shook the capitol to its very foundation; pyrotechnics exploded in midair, painting the evening sky with arrays of streaming, streaking color. Taste buds cracked and popped, filling the air with the fresh scent of French toast and chocolate. It was the moment of reconciliation: the Second Coming.
As fast as it had happened, it was over. Cigarettes lit up the chamber like fireflies at dusk, celebrating their coming out, and slowly, ever so slowly, the evening wound down — a pall of silence fell over the chamber, punctuated only by hushed whimpers and sighs.
The Speaker strode to the podium. It was time to formally bring the session to a close. ‘Twas a solemn moment, calling for great oratory. “This is a time when each of us should reflect upon his God-sworn duty, why we have been called to these hallowed halls. Look deep inside yourselves, not elsewhere, for the answer. Ask not what you can do to your secretaries and your interns, but what you can do to the country.”
A chorus of silent acquiescence nodded in assent. The gavel came down; its dull thud echoing through the chamber.
“This orgy is hereby adjourned.” He declared.
And thus conclude the sexual congress.
Back to the streets, poorly lit by the scanty street lights, its members repaired, once more struggling against the elements — the violent gusts of wind, the rain pelting in their face.
And that’s the way it is.
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