Our very planet depends on them. Yet they remain nature’s most elusive scientific species, inhabiting some of the world’s most delicate and daunting academic environments. But thanks to new breakthroughs in high speed cameras and email files, metascientists are finally beginning to understand their mysterious behaviors and complex social interactions. Tonight on Iowahawk Geographic: step inside the Secret Life of the Climate Researchers.

French Horn Fanfare Theme

Fast-cut montage of walrus mating with polar bear, astronomer peering through telescope into neighbor’s window, cheetahs chasing penguins on the Serengeti, scientists filling out NSF grant proposals

Dah dat dat DAAAH dat, dah daht duh dah dee-dah dee dah-dah!

Narrator

This is the University of East Anglia in the United Kingdom, home of one of the largest nesting populations of climate scientists in Europe.

Gentle ant’s-eye scene of idyllic campus lawn, strewn about with drunken mating undergraduates

Each year it attracts magnificent migratory flocks of graduate students, adjuncts and visiting faculty from across the northern hemisphere.

Shots of jumbo jets landing at Heathrow; herds of climate researchers busily milling at Duty Free shops, retrieving baggage, phoning for prearranged limo service

Within minutes of arriving on campus, the migratory researchers approach the entrance of the Climate Research Unit and perform the secret credential dance, fiercely displaying their prominent curriculum vitae. This signals to the security drone that they can be trusted with the sacred electronic lanyard badge that will grant them entrance to the hive’s inner sanctum.  

During the upcoming research season, this hive alone will produce over 6 million metric tons of grant-sustaining climate data guano, but until recently little was known about the elusive genus of homo scientifica living inside. Where do they come from? What strange force draws them here year after year? In order to unravel the mystery, Iowahawk Geographic documentary filmmaker David Burge undertook a painstaking one-week project to finally capture the climate researchers in their native habitat.

In this exclusive footage, Burge warily approaches the hive’s security drone, disguising himself as smelly graduate student. Burge has theorized that as a member of the lowest stratum in the hive’s social system, the drone likely enjoys partying. He reaches into his backpack and offers the drone a pint of Guinness and a small bag of weed in exchange for the hive’s internal security tapes and email files. Success.

The never-before seen security tapes obtained by Burge provide a rare glimpse into the inner working of the climate research hive and its amazing guano production. In this sequence, we see one group of researchers entering the hive each carrying a datum they have retrieved from a distant climate measuring station. This is the cause of much excitement among their colleagues, who buzz around in a grant-writing frenzy.

Infrared heat map film of highly agitated researchers

But there’s a problem: as the worker researchers attempt to store each raw datum into the neat honeycomb hockey stick structure provided by the hive’s Alpha Grantwriter, they discover that few will fit. The infrared shows them growing cool with fear. This signals the climate researcher’s instinctive behavior to begin viciously beating, rolling and normalizing the data into submission. According to Dr. Nigel V.H. Oldham, professor emeritus at Oxford University’s Centre for Metascience, this violent data dance is what makes climate researchers unique among breeds of scientists.

Professor Nigel V.H. Oldham

Like other species in the order homo scientifica, the climate researcher gathers and organizes data to lure grant money to the hive. In contrast to those other species, however, the climate researcher has evolved a set of complex violent behaviors to insure any data leaving the hive is perfectly adapted to nature’s most lucrative and sweetest grants. It really is a marvel of natural selection, and explains why the climate researcher continues to thrive in any kind of weather condition.

Narrator

Many of those behaviors are on display in the security film, as we see a sexless group of drone graduate students processing a raw datum with saliva, sawdust and Fortran code. After each iteration the time series is presented to the Alpha Grantwriter to see if fits inside his graph. Several graduate drones die of exhaustion, but the data eventually fit the template.

Next the Alpha Grantwriter flies to an international climate research conference with the completed PowerPoint template, where he will share his guano with other Alpha Grantwriters over cocktails in the hotel lounge. This is a process metascientists refer to as “peer review.”

Professor Nigel V.H. Oldham

Among climate researchers, peer review seems to serve three purposes. First, it rewards the hives that have the most successful data torturers. Second it singles out mutant hives for elimination. Third, it allows the Alpha Grantwriters to expense drinks.

Narrator

The Alpha Grantwriter in our hive has been very successful indeed. He has earned three publications, a keynote address, and attracts the attention of a suitor from the symbiotic grant-giving predator genus Lucra Ecologica Hysterica. The suitor’s grant bags are bulging with carbon credits and tax revenues harvested using the hive’s last graphs, and the pair once again engage in their annual cross-pollination ritual. They relax with a cigarette, and return to their respective hives: the Grantwriter with fresh money, the Grantgiver to Washington or Brussels with new carbon tax proposals. The circle of life is completed.

But life is not always so easy inside the hive of the climate researcher. Occasionally the sanctity of the hive is breached by a predator from the species Methodica Skeptica Scientifica, who threatens the hive with demands to see their raw data.

security film of ominous skeptic infiltrating the hive

In this rare footage, the invading skeptic is repelled by a swarm of drones before he can reach the entombed data. He makes another attempt, but the Alpha Grantwriter has called in reinforcements from the grantgiver hive and the New York Times.

Climate Researchers

Hissssss hisssssss hisssssssss

Narrator

The ear-piercing screech of the swarm warns the intruder that they will cut off his peer review unless he retreats.  But the the hungry skeptic is not so easily dissuaded, and returns to the hive with a Freedom of Information Act form demanding a copy of the hive’s raw data.

This sends the climate researcher drones into a wild frenzy as they scramble to find and conceal the scent of the preprocessed data. To bide time the Alpha Grantwriter offers the skeptic a copy of the hockey stick graph. The skeptic threatens a lawsuit with his stinger. Thinking quickly, the Alpha Grantwriter performs an elaborate dance, communicating that the original data has been eaten, possibly by graduate drone. He presents the skeptic with the dead bodies of 10 drones as a peace offering.

Finally stymied in his efforts to reach the data, the skeptic flies away. The hive lives on.

Professor Nigel V.H. Oldham

The climate researcher is in some sense a milestone in evolutionary biology. Ever since Darwin, we have understood that a particular species adapts to its environmental reality. Now for the first time, we are seeing evidence that environmental reality is adapting to a particular species. It’s not really rocket science. Well okay, I suppose it’s really not science at all.

Narrator

Join us next time on Iowahawk Geographic, when we go in search of the outer limits of the economic galaxy with “Stimulus-X: The Black Hole of the Beltway.”

Dear   BARACK OBAMA  :

Congratulations! On behalf of the selection committee, I am pleased to announce that you have been named a 2009 recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize, in recognition of your tireless efforts to   STRENGTHEN INTERNATIONAL DIPLOMACY AND COOPERATION    .

I am also pleased to tell you that as a winner, you have been pre-approved for membership in the Nobel Peace Player’s Club, offering exclusive money-saving benefits available only to laureates like you. Please take a few minutes to look over the enclosed enrollment materials. At only $299.95 per year, I’m sure you’ll agree that membership is a bargain at twice the price! Here are just some of the benefits you’ll receive:

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• Special discount shopping bargains for for you and your family
• Great travel packages to the 2016 Olympics in Rio de Janeiro
• Listing in “Who’s Who of Global Salvation” ($49.95 per copy)
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Plus, you’ll receive the exclusive Nobel Peace Player’s Club GoldCard entitling you to discount air travel and 5-star hotel accommodations from Kyoto to Darfur. But don’t take our word for it! Listen to these testimonials from some of our current members:

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– United Nations Peacekeeping Forces, 1988 Winners

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– Kofi Annan, 2001 Laureate

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“The Player’s Club GoldCard is recognized everywhere — even in hell! I redeemed my Players GoldPoints at Club Satan for an exciting eternity of getting pounded up the ass. Thanks, NobelCo!”
– Yasser Arafat (1994)

“Don’t miss the boat like I did, comrade! I forgot to enroll, and now I’m spending eternity pounding Yasser Arafat up the ass.”
– Le Duc Tho (1973)

So what are you waiting for,    BARACK OBAMA  ? Enroll today and start enjoying the privileges of membership. Enroll today, and we’ll throw in a deluxe leather bound CIA intelligence report worth $1000!

Sincerely,

Ůmläut Ťïldëqvist, Chairman
The Nobel Peace Player’s Club Selection Committee

Good morning! Did you have a restful sleep? Yes, I know it’s 3 AM, I just thought… well, the whole orderly staff thought a little early morning air would do you some good after all that commotion yesterday. I have to say you’re a pretty feisty old gal for 86!

How’s that?

You’re 78?

Still, you should really take better care of yourself. Just look at those bags under your eyes! You’re no spring chicken and all that protesting just causes stress. Here, why don’t we wheel you over to the balcony so you can get some of that fresh healthful air.

Yes, I know it’s cold. But look at the spectacular 14th story view! A clear night sky full of stars, and if you lean over the railing you can see all the way down to the empty parking lot. Just like the Ferris Wheel at the 1892 World’s Fair, back when you were a little girl.

Now if I can just unlatch this… stupid… mmmp… sliding… mmph… door. Crap.

Oops! Sorry Mrs. Petrowski, pardon my French. It’s just that I was looking forward to the two of us having a nice friendly chat out there. Let me see if I call get somebody in maintenance to open it for us.

*szkrittchh*

Hi, this is Barack, the night orderly on 14. Can I get someone up here to open the balcony door in 1417? Patient Laverne Petrowski. P-E-T-R…

huh? but… okay, well then what time does his shift start?

8 am? Oh come on man, do you know how many people are in the parking lot at that time of the… okay, okay. Whatever.

*szkrittchh*

Sorry Mrs. Petrowski. With all these budget cuts and strikes, it looks like we had to cut the third shift maintenance crew. Say, how about we take you for a ride down to the cafeteria? It’s almost empty this time of day, and I bet they have that green jello you love so much. Mmm… num, num, num!

Please, Mrs. Petrowski, put down the phone. The other patients are all asleep. Besides, after that incident yesterday, you know we had to unplug it. You remember how agitated you made everybody with those crazy stories about “death panels” and what not. Remember when I was giving you the sedatives, and I explained that your mind was playing tricks on you? And how those nice men were only End-of-Life Quality Assurance Counselors?

*ding*

Okay! Elevator’s here! Next stop, bottom floor, cafeteria… aaaand… therrrre’s…

*swiiip*

a goddamn elevator car in the shaft.

sigh.

Alright, whatever. Let’s get on.

*swiiip*

Now that we’re in private, can I trust you with something Mrs. Petrowski? We just got a top secret telegraph from the War Department, and it turns out those “death panel” rumors are the work of Nazi saboteurs. And Tojo. Now, I know a patriotic gal like yourself doesn’t want to be an Axis dupe, do you? Of course not. Remember, loose lips sink ships. Think about our brave GIs fighting the Japs and Huns. If you hear Tokyo Rose or those other radio fifth columnists spreading those kind of rumors, you tell me first, okay? I’ll get the word straight to President Roosevelt and General McArthur, so ixnay on the eath-day anels-pay.

*ding*

*swiiip*

Okay, watch that doorway bump.

Mrs. Petrowski! Back in the chair, please. Am I going to have to strap you in there again? You know your hip is in no condition to be walking around on your own. Yes, I know. But we both know the committee said a hip replacement was a waste of resources for somebody like you, up in her nineties.

Alright, alright, 78. But the point is, it’s important that the hospital uses its resources wisely to contain unnecessary cost. That way we can make sure we have rooms for everybody, and still pay a living wage to our dedicated staff. Like Frank here.

Hi Frank! How do you like that new floor waxer? Umm… by the way, did you get my note about the new late night elevator procedure thing?

That Frank’s sure a great guy, Mrs. Petrowski. Salt of the earth. Just got elected to the SEIU bargaining committee. Anyway, like I was saying, it’s important for the hospital to keep a lid on costs. Instead of complaining, you should really count your blessings. After all, you’ve got that nice private room up on 14, all to yourself, with a balcony. Even if the door isn’t working. I’m guessing we could fit, oh, I don’t know, at least three or four patients in that room. Easy. I mean, after you’re gone, of course.

Hi Kathy! How’s our favorite cafeteria lady? This is Mrs. Petrowski, the patient I told you about.

Mmhm, yes, that was quite a ruckus she caused yesterday! Say, how about fixing up a plate of your special green jello for Mrs. Petrowski? Yes, the kind with the mandarin oranges and the uh, other stuff.

It’ll be just a minute Mrs. Petrowski, Kathy’s gonna make some up special, just for you. Let’s see… that’s $18.95 with tax. I’ll grab a twenty out of your purse and put the change back in. What say we grab that empty table over there.

I have to say, I really enjoy these health care conversations of ours. The best part of being an orderly is talking to old people like you, up in their 90’s and 100’s.

Right, 78. But let’s face it, Mrs. Petrowski, that puts you right up there at the average American life expectancy. So, hey, I guess you could say you’re already living on borrowed time. There’s just something extremely fascinating and wise and selfless about folks like you, so very close to the sweet release of death. Ah! Here comes Kathy with your jello.

Okay, let’s open wide for the nummy jello! Num num num! Here it comes! Here comes the choo choo train! Choo choo! Now Mrs. Petrowski, if you don’t stop fussing like that the jello train will never get to the station. Now let’s open wide, turn your head this way… no, no, this way, and…

sigh.

Okay, fine, you don’t want your jello. Boy, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were skipping your sedatives.

You’re a Christian, aren’t you, Mrs. Petrowski? Me too. I guess my favorite part of the Bible is where it talks about how we all get our allotted “three score and ten.” Seventy years, right there in the Bible. And you are, now what was it, 83?

Okay, 78. Still, that’s what, eight years over your biblical limit? That’s one amazing overtime run you’re having, I’d say. Almost unnatural. In fact, I was just mentioning you to a bunch of the people on the hospital waiting list the other day, and they were as amazed as me. Still, with all the relentless hip pain and sleepless nights like this, I can only imagine how much you long for the eternal embrace of Jesus. Sure you won’t have a little jello?

Just a bite?

sigh.

Okay, have it your way. Let’s get you back to your room, maybe they’ll have the balcony door fixed later today.

You know, we on the staff are just worried about your state of mind, what with all your outbursts and disinterest in jello. I imagine it must be very lonely for you, with your husband all your friends up there waiting in heaven. God, too. I’d like you to think of the hospital as God’s partner. And here on God’s team we just want you to know you have options. They’re all here in this brochure.

By the way, I noticed from the accounting report that you and your husband saved up quite a little nest egg there. I’m sure it must be a comfort to you that your children and grandchildren will be well cared for, even after the estate taxes. Whenever that day comes, of course.

*ding*

Hey, I just remembered! I think the roof is unlocked. How about we go up there for a look?

Mrs. Petrowski!

You shouldn’t run on your bad hip like that!

Mrs. Petrowski!

————————–

THE UNITED STATES BUREAU OF JOLLITY AND HUMOR ADMINISTRATION
EVERETT DIRKSEN FEDERAL MERRIMENT CENTER
3000 JAMES EARL CARTER PARKWAY SOUTH
WASHINGTON, DC

FORM US/BJHA-1106(d) : AARA Budget Procurement Code LOL-431[ROFL]

APPLICATION FOR HUMOR CONSULTANT / CONTRACTOR

This space for official use

SYNOPSIS:

The purpose of this announcement is to seek qualified private contractors to provide amusement and humor-related services to career employees within a wide range of federal agencies, including but not limited to the Treasury Department, Department of Education, The US Census Bureau, and USDA Mohair Subsidization Board. Winning applicant(s) shall perform presentation program demonstrating mirth as defined herein and in BJHA document (k)670-110, “FY 2009 Federal Levity Handbook.” In particular, guidelines specify services rendered by applicants shall be funny “ha-ha,” not funny “peculiar.” 

STATEMENT OF PURPOSE:

Recent studies have shown that appropriate levels of workplace humor and supervised jokery provides organizational benefits in areas of employee stress reduction, enhancement of communication flow, and greater regulatory throughput metrics (BHJA document C-11-k.101.t). Two year implementation of described program is forecast by analysis staff to reduce federal employee stress and random murder sprees by 14% over FY2009 benchmarks.

ADDENDUM: pursuant to EO guideline [6.09(vt)-5], explanation of solicitation of bids from outside contractor 

Understaffing; current Undersecretary for Mirth Training Affairs on administrative leave until completion of murder spree trial.

DATE(S) OF CONTRACT: 10-01-09 : 09-30-11

SOURCE(S) OF FUNDS: AARA section 351(t), National Humor Recover and Funnybone Stimulus Fund

Read and fill out all sections as completely as possible. Write legibly in black ink or fixed width font not to exceed pica 10 pitch. Mail 3 (three) completed application to the BHJA, attn: Office of Jocularity Assessment.

–

You can read the rest of this post here.

DAVE
Hi everybody, this is Dave Burge — and welcome to [growl voice] D.C. Garage! [/growl voice] Where we hijack classic American muscle and give it a monster makeover with our pro team of Washington gearheads and Beltway power tools! On tonight’s episode of of D.C. Garage: can the team remake this ugly ‘57 Chevy Bel Air into a lean, clean, federal green machine? Grab your torque wrenches and let’s start American choppin’! 

[Crunchy metal music punctuated by power tool noises]

GRUNTING DEATH METAL SINGER
D.C. Garage! D.C. Garage! ARRGHHHRRRRGGGHHBLECCCCHHH

DAVE (whispering)
Van Nuys, California. This is the home of our ‘mark,’ Scott Mumford. In the garage out back: Scott’s Matador Red 1957 Chevy Bel Air 2-door hardtop. Inherited from his grandfather, this tired old Tri-Five has been Scott’s baby for over 25 years. What he doesn’t know is that it’s about to get pimped [growl] D.C. Garage style! [/growl] Watch what happens next from our hidden camera.

SCOTT (sprinting out the back door)
Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?

DAVE (flashing badge)
Officer Burge of the Federal Automotive Task Force. Is this your car, sir?

SCOTT
Yeah, I’ve had it since high school. I can show you the title and registration…

DAVE
No need for that, sir. What sort of engine is in this vehicle?

SCOTT
It’s an original 283, with a numbers-matching Rochester fuelie…

DAVE (writing on clipboard)
Then I’m afraid we have a problem, sir. There is no way on Mother Earth that this vehicle meets EPA emissions standards. It also appears to violate federal safety guidelines and CAFE mileage targets. 

SCOTT
But this was my grandpa’s car! He bought it new!

DAVE
That’s what they all say, sir. Send us his address and we’ll mail him a copy of the citation. In the interest of public safety and economic recovery, I am hereby condemning this vehicle and ordering it turned over to the custody of the United States of America. Back up the tow truck, boys!

TOW TRUCK
BEEK BEEK BEEK

SCOTT
Hey wait! Stop, you bastards!

DAVE
Please step aside, sir. The salvage yard closes at 5 pm. In recognition of your sacrifice, please accept this stimulus coupon good for $750 towards your next purchase of a new General Motors or Chrysler product. 

SCOTT (fading in rear view mirror)
You BLEEPdamned BLEEPing motherBLEEPer! Come back with my BLEEPing car! I’ll rip off your BLEEEEEP BLEEP if BLEEEEEEEEEP BLEEPer and BLEEEEP BLEEPsucker after I BLEEEP to BLEEP your sister in the BLEEPing BLEEP

DAVE
Hee hee! Scott may think his obsolete old bowtie is headed for the crusher, but we’ve got other plans. Next stop, the Burbank Airport — where it’ll be loaded aboard this gigantic transport jet. It’s normally used to haul Al Gore’s PowerPoint equipment, but the former veep has loaned it to us to fly Scott’s ‘57 to [growl] D.C. Garage! [/growl]

GUITAR
CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD Sheewreeeeeyewwwweeeek

[fast motion sequence of plane flying to Dulles Airport, car unloaded, towed to D.C. Garage]

DAVE
Here we are, back in the two-oh-two, and the headquarters of [growl]D.C. Garage[/growl] — the wildest car customizing shop in the still-industrialized world! Let’s meet our crew of builders.

[fast motion camera circles the D.C. Garage team, who pose menacingly in sunglasses while flashing unicorn and rainbow tattoos]

DAVE
In charge of deconstruction: “Bad Boy” Brian Deese. Don’t let the doughy white baby fat and smirking hipster douchebag face fool you, this motorhead maniac studied auto shop and Sylvia Plath at Middlebury College — and was crew chief on the Yale Law School Top Fuel Segway!

On engine and drivetrain: Steve “Street Rat” Rattner. Head of the D.C. Garage speed shop, he learned hardcore hotrodding as a former journalist and billionaire political bagman. Whenever pink slips are on the line, Street Rat pushes the intercom button and tells his chauffeur to put the pedal to the metal — and lay a holeshot on the bondholders!

On interior and sound system: Nancy “Frisco” Pelosi. This big bad grand-mama goes all the way to 11– 11 congressional terms, that is! Frisco has wielded her monkey wrench at the D.C. Garage for over 22 years now, and is a veteran of over 10 facial customizations!

On metalwork, chassis and assembly: “Radical Ron” Gettlefinger. When he’s not on mandatory coffee break, D.C. Garage’s resident UAW rep is always ready with an acetylene torch and a campaign donation. And a baseball bat if there’s scab anywhere nearby! Plus he’s the only member of the team who has actually driven a car.

Fuel systems and paint: Steven “Cha Cha” Chu. D.C. Garage’s mad atom smasher is former Funny Car champ at the Stockholm Nobelnationals. He’s an environmental genius who also serves as sergeant-at-arms of Hell’s Eggheads — Stanford University’s most feared recumbent bicycle gang! 

And leading the crew…

GUITAR
CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD… 

DAVE
…the monster metal ringmaster behind the D.C. Garage circus, the man who has more automotive industry experience than the rest of the team combined — Washington’s Top Economic Eliminator, “Big Daddy” Barack Obama!

GUITAR
CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD Sheewreeeeeyewwww Spieeeewwww winggggginnggg

DAVE
So Big Daddy, are you ready to see the project?

BIG DADDY (hitting fist into palm)
Bring it on, dude!

[garage doors open, '57 Bel Air rolls in]

FRISCO
Ewwwwww! Gross!

CHA CHA
Ai-yi-yi!

BAD BOY
Helloooo-oo-oo, car fashion police! Clean up on aisle 1957! Yoo hoo, Ron, come and look at this thing!

RADICAL RON
Screw you fatboy, I’m on break.

DAVE
Looks like the team has its work cut out! We’ll be back to begin the build after these messages.

****************

COMMERCIAL BREAK 1

[Barren windswept ice tundra, dramatic music]

ANNOUNCER
Tonight on the Discovery Channel: they have the most dangerous job in the world.

TRUCK DRIVER (yelling at passenger, furiously pushing calculator buttons)
Get me the form 1162 depreciation schedule… now!

ANNOUNCER
Every day they risk their lives, their rigs, and substantial late filing penalties.

TRUCK DRIVER
Look out! It’s a pack of man-eating auditors!

[semi swerves, skids, jackknifes into ditch]

ANNOUNCER
Ice Road Taxpayers, the new white knuckle reality series from Discovery. Where the only sure thing is death… and taxes.

****************

GUITAR
CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD… 

DAVE
It’s Day 2 of the build at [growl]D.C. Garage![/growl] BBDO is busy with his crayolas at the drafting board, putting the finishing touches on the concept drawing. Let’s take a peek. Wow, Big Daddy, this restyle is terrific!

BIG DADDY
Thanks.

DAVE
I especially like the smiling sunshine face. And that little house with the curly smoke from the chimney. But what can you tell us about the car?

BIG DADDY
Scott is gonna be stoked when he sees the complete makeover we’re giving his old junker. As you can read here on the build specs, I have demanded that it will get 80 miles per gallon with zero emissions, and  survive a 300 mile per hour head on collision with an Amtrak locomotive. It will also fly, and create and/or save 20 million jobs. And restore America’s standing in the world.

DAVE
80 miles per gallon?

BIG DADDY
Oops, my mistake. A quick zero, and… voila! 800 miles per gallon.

DAVE
Sounds great, but doesn’t that violate the laws of physics?

BIG DADDY
I vetoed that law. Look, I’m not a detail man, I’m leaving that up to the shop crew to figure out.

DAVE
You’re the boss, Big Daddy! Let’s go down on the shop floor and see how the build team is making it happen. Bad Boy Brian Deese — let’s see you get to work and deconstruct this baby!

BAD BOY

As Derrida noted in “Allegories of Tedium: Reading Cadillac,” the essentialist paradigm of postwar modernist automotive design syntactics created partially situated identities out of actual or potential highway and um, car hop drive-in social realities in terms of canonical forms of these tailfin thingies, um, and tires, thus contextualizing the Marxian phenomenology of intersubjective, um, narrative spaces her on the headlights… and um, which requires, in a sense, the renaturalization of the cognitive strategies for resolving the dialectics of the metaphorical phallic forms of these, um, hood ornaments…

DAVE
No, I mean literally take the car apart.

BAD BOY
I was, before you interrupted me.

DAVE
I mean literally with WD-40 and wrenches. Not French psycholinguistic theory.

BAD BOY
Wrenches?

DAVE
They’re the thingies for twisting the bolt doodads. Radical Ron can explain. You can find them over in that Snap-On tool box.

BAD BOY
Snap-On tools? Oooohh, sounds transgressive!

DAVE
If you run into a tough spot, you can use this torch.

ACETYLENE TORCH
Thuh pwup fwisssssssss

BAD BOY
Shrieeeeeeeek!

RADICAL RON
Holy crap! For a fat Ivy League college pussy who runs like a girl, that guy moves pretty fast.

DAVE
Doesn’t look like he’s coming back, Ron. How about filling in for him?

RADICAL RON
BLEEEP that BLEEEP! That BLEEP ain’t in the union contract. I’m going on strike.

GUITAR
CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD…

DAVE
After a shaky Day 2, the team is finally making progress on Day 3. Let’s check in with Street Rat and see how the mill is coming along! Interesting motor, Rat — what is it?

STREET RAT
Well Dave, it took a little wheeling-dealing, bribery and threats, but I managed to line up this sweet Fiat 400cc crate motor. Now Scott will never have to worry about a speeding ticket!

DAVE
Now that’s what I call creative engineering! Let’s get it mounted in the engine bay.

STREET RAT
I’m right on it. Now where did I put my nail gun? Hey, there it is…

NAIL GUN
Pa CHUNKKA Pa CHUNKKA Pa CHUNKKA

STREET RAT
*thud*

DAVE
Ouch! Right in the combover! While Street Rat collects his new free medical benefits, let’s check in with Frisco Pelosi to get an update on upholstery and stereo. Hey Frisco, what kind of seat material is that?

FRISCO
It’s NOS virgin horsehair, just like the kind used inside 14th century monk shirts. Now whenever Scott tries to drive, he’ll be getting a constant boil-causing reminder of the hellish CO2 damage he is inflicting on planet Earth.

DAVE
What about the sound system?

FRISCO
The original AM radio left Scott in danger of exposure to Rush Limbaugh, so I safety wired it with a custom 400 watt FM system that brings in both stations — NPR and Pacifica! Now to test if it’s grounded…

WIRING
KSZZXZHSHNITTTZZZ

FRISCO
ow.

WIRING
ZHSHNITTTZZKRRZNITZZ ZZZKRITZZ ZNITZ    ZPIZT

FRISCO
Medic.
 
DAVE
You know, smoldering Botox doesn’t smell nearly as bad as I expected. While the EMTs peel Frisco off the front seat, let’s see what else is cooking in paint and fuel with Cha Cha Chu. I see you’re going with an all-white theme, Cha Cha. How come?

CHA CHA
Simple physics. White reflects the sun’s rays back into deep space, which means this hideous car has drowned its last polar bear. Plus I had Home Depot coupons for paint rollers and Sherwin Williams interior white latex!

DAVE
What about fuel?

CHA CHA
Look in the trunk. You’ll see that I’ve replace the original inefficient gasoline system with the renewable fuel of the future – hydrogen!

BAD BOY
Helloooo-oo everybody! I’m back, and I’m not ascared any more! Look, I figured out how to use the torch! 

CHA CHA
Noooo!

1957 CHEVY
BLAAAAFLOOOOMMMShhhh

1957 CHEVY PARTS
Klangk plink blangk shwizzz-shwizzz-schwizz schwschwschwschw bloink

SIRENS
Bloo bloo bloo bloo hawwwwwnk bloo bloo bloo…

DAVE
Whoa! This will take some sorting out. Will the team get released from the hospital in time to meet the midnight deadline? Find out when [growl]D.C. Garage[/growl] returns!

****************

COMMERCIAL SPOT 2

[grainy black-and-white stock footage of desperate breadlines, swelling Aaron Copeland music]

ANNOUNCER
1932. In the wake of economic depression, a nation lies in tatters. Amid the ruins, one man emerges with a dream to harness the power of government and youthful idealism to give the country new hope — and get industry back on its feet. Tonight on the History Channel, join us as we examine the economic miracle of Benito Mussolini and the Italian New Deal.

Only on the History Channel. Where the past just won’t stay dead.

****************

GUITAR
CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD…

DAVE
Welcome back to [growl]D.C. Garage![/growl We've finally let the cat out of the bag and let our "mark," Scott Mumford, in on the secret. Sorry to keep stringing you along there, buddy.

SCOTT (relieved)
Man, you guys really had me going there for a while!

DAVE (putting arm around Scott)
Well I'm sure all will be forgiven after you see your new ultimate whip! As you can see by the plaster casts and skin graft bandages on the build crew, the team really gave it their all. So let's turn it over to Big Daddy for the big unveiling!

BIG DADDY (whipping back tarp on the car)
One federally customized '57 Bel Air, coming right up. Ta-da! 

GUITAR
CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD CRUNCH CRUNCH THUD...

[fast motion camera circles burnt, mangled shell of '57 Chevy]

BIG DADDY (looking at stunned Scott)
I think he’s speechless!

SCOTT (sobbing)
You maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell! 

BIG DADDY
Now, not so fast, Scott! look there on the front seat. I think you’ll find a one year free rider pass on the new Van Nuys light rail system, slated for completion in 2016. Courtesy of my new emergency transportation stimulus program!

DAVE
Here’s your bill, Scott. Do you have anything more you’d like to say?

SCOTT
Just gimme my gun, I’m going to kill myself.

DAVE
Sorry Scott, we confiscated that too. Tune in next week as we remake this classic 1970 Hemi ‘Cuda into a public bus shelter… right here on [growl]D.C. Garage![/growl]

GRUNTING DEATH METAL SINGER
D.C. Garage! D.C. Garage! ARRGHHHRRRRGGGHHBLECCCCHHH

thlthlthlthlthlthlthlthlthlthlthlthl

ROLL TITLES

“It Could Happen Here!”

A PRESENTATION OF THE DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY

JANET NAPOLITANO, DIRECTOR

IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE U.S. DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION
THE U.S. DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
AND THE HOUSE ANTI-TAX ACTIVITIES COMMITTEE

AN IOWAHAWK EDUCATIONAL FILMS PRODUCTION

SCROLL

march music

The story you are about to see is true. Or, at least, could be true. At this very moment dangerous subversive extremist elements are infiltrating our communities and schools, bent on destroying our American Way of Life. These are the shadowy forces of International Constitutionalism. Agents from the Department of Homeland Security are on the trail of these nefarious Red State saboteurs, but it will take a vigilant public – including ordinary high school students like you – to help bring them to justice before it’s too late. Only with your help can we preserve the American Way!

– Janet A. Napolitano

NARRATOR

This is Pinewood Lane, in Anytown, USA. A street probably a lot like yours. Happy citizens enjoying the bounty of living in this great land of ours. At 1102 we find the Baxters — Mom and Pop, teen twins Bobby and Debbie, little Susie and Grandpa. A typical family who knows what it means to be an American. Why, here comes Gus the Mailman! I wonder what he’s got in his mailbag for the Baxters?

How about that — it’s a mortgage bailout for Pop, an NEA grant for Mom’s transgressive performance art collective, and guaranteed student loan applications for the twins. They’re off to State U next fall to study Lacanian Semiotics, you know. And for Gramps, a letter from Medicare — they’ve finally approved that gender reassignment surgery he’s always wanted.

Yes sir, that’s a mighty fine benefits package the Baxters harvested today, all courtesy of the United States of America in Washington DC. Hey, wait Gus! Before you head off to your next stop, Pop has something for you, too. It’s his annual tax contribution ready for delivery. Patriotic Pop is mailing it early this year because he knows the wise folks in Washington will put that money to work for all of us through the collective magic of economic stimulus. No wonder Pop sealed it with a kiss!

That’s the beauty of our American Free Prize System – regular folks bundling our money together for our leaders, who return it a thousandfold in free prizes for all. How does it work? All we really need to know is that it’s the best system in the world. A lot of us take it for granted – but there are some who want to take it away.

hoodlum peers behind a tree at the Baxters; sneers, combs greasy mop with a switchblade comb

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

fade out

NARRATOR

It’s first period American History at Anytown Chomsky High. Hey, it looks like there’s a new face in class — could it be the mysterious young stranger from Pinewood Lane?

MS. ANDERSON

All right, students, calm down. We have a new boy joining in class. John? John Smith, stand up and say hello to your new classmates.

JOHNNY

Hey Toots, I go by “Johnny,” see?

class laughs, Bobby and Debbie Baxter exchange concerned looks

MS. ANDERSON

That will be quite enough, students! And I suggest you watch that sassy mouth of yours, Mr. Smith. Now everyone open your textbook to page 23, “Iraq: America’s Imperialist Hegemony Chickens Come Home to Roost.”

NARRATOR

Bobby and Debbie notice that there’s something just quite not right about Johnny. The air of contempt. The pasty complexion. The way he slouches and fidgets in his desk when when the teacher explains America’s legacy of genocidal racism.

MS. ANDERSON

Now who can tell me how capitalist phallocracy gave rise to Military-Industrial Complex? Mr. Smith?

Johnny snaps his fingers rhythmically, unaware he is being called on

Mr. Smith… is that a transistor radio earphone?

JOHNNY

Oh yeah… hey, teach, like, it’s cool, I’m listening to NPR. Terri Gross is talking about gay marriage chapels in Vermont.

Ms. Anderson walks over and grabs the radio out of his motorcycle jacket

MS. ANDERSON

Just as I thought… AM talk radio! Young man, report to re-education hall this minute for fairness cleansing!

Johnny swaggers out of the class, combing his hair; Bobby and Debbie Baxter exchange concerned looks; fade out

NARRATOR

During lunchtime in the school cafeteria, Bobby and Debbie see the new student Johnny sitting alone. They want to be friendly, and have been trained to be on the alert for potential Columbine-style loners and outcasts. So they decide to strike up a conversation with him — but they’re in for a big surprise.

BOBBY

Mind if we sit down?

JOHNNY

Go ahead, it’s a free country.

BOBBY

Haha, good one! You’re quite the cut-up, Johnny. By the way, I’m Bobby Baxter. I’m a senior and president of the Future Tax Collectors of America.

JOHNNY

Reet poteet, Daddy-o. Hubba hubba, who’s the tomato?

Johnny ogles Debbie hungrily

DEBBIE

I’m Debbie Baxter, Bobby’s twin sister. I’m varsity captain of the Eco Spirit-ettes. Go Polar Bears! Where did you say you came from, Johnny?

JOHNNY

Tex… heh, I mean, San Francisco. Yeah, that’s it – San Francisco.

BOBBY

Look, Johnny… we saw what happened in History this morning. Maybe you got off to a rough start, but you’ve still got a chance to fit in. Why don’t you join one of the after-school clubs? There’s the Diversity Club, the Peace-a-longs, The Diversitarians, Feces Art Society, The Multidiversies…

DEBBIE

…don’t forget the Multiculturalettes!

BOBBY 

And how, sis! What do you say, Johnny? It’ll be swell! And all our clubs have full federal funding. If you wash that greasy kid stuff out of your hair, I think you might even be FTCA material!

JOHNNY

No dice, Daddy-o! Taxes are for squares.

Bobby and Debbie look at each other quizzically

DEBBIE AND BOBBY 

“Squares”?

JOHNNY

Yeah – L-7s. Cubes. Melvins. Nosebleeds.

DEBBIE

Bobby… I think he means he doesn’t like them!

BOBBY 

Johnny! Keep it down! Do you want the Hate Speech monitors to hear you? That kind of language could be interpreted by as illegally offensive! They could send you off to Juvie for that!

JOHNNY

Ha! There ain’t no such thing as illegal speech.

BOBBY

What!? Says who?

JOHNNY

Sez dis.

Johnny whips out a laminated card from his dungaree pocket, close up of the Constitution

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

NARRATOR

And so it begins. What Debbie and Bobby don’t know is that “John Smith” is actually Johnny “Snake” Republico, secret agitator for the forces of International Constitutionalism — the insidious extreme rightwing ideology that seeks to bring America to its knees by enslaving our helpless unsuspecting government, and stop it from giving you all the things that you want. It spreads like a cancer, slowly driving victims into violent, racist, anti-tax madness. It takes a strong will to resist the Consties’ hypnotic sales pitch — are Debbie and Bobby up to it? 

DEBBIE

“In Congrefs”… what is this thing?

JOHNNY

Get hip to the glissando, kitten! Feast you baby blues on the Constitutionalist Manifesto. Dig this… I got the right to say what I want, pray how I want, assemble with anybody I want, nice and peaceable-like. It’s all right there in Amendment numero uno!

BOBBY 

Whoa, hold on there. Ms. Anderson says that kinda stuff is only for the Guantanamo prisoners!

JOHNNY

Just read it, Daddy-o. It’ll flip your lid and make you blast off to crazyville!

fade out; fade into split screen of Bobby and Debbie in their respective beds, reading the Constitutionalist Manifesto with flashlights

NARRATOR

Against their better judgment, and the warnings of their teachers, Bobby and Debbie Baxter decide to experiment with Constitutionalism. ‘Just a little before bed, to help me relax,’ they say. Soon their curiosity grows stronger. Mom and Pop start noticing changes.

MOM

Lights out, Debbie! Remember you have that big Patriarchy midterm tomorrow.

DEBBIE

Yes Mother. Oh, and and Mother… can I borrow Grampa’s makeup tomorrow? Johnny is taking me to the Spring Mandatory Sensitivity Grievance Hop tomorrow night.

MOM

Johnny Smith? That strange greasy rude boy your brother has been hanging around lately? Oh, Debbie, I’m just not sure…

DEBBIE

Please mother? Shulamith Firestone is leading one of the workshops. I think putting on a little makeup  will help raise Johnny’s conscious about lookism. Aren’t we supposed to mobilize the lumpenproles?

MOM

Well… alright. I don’t suppose Grandpa will mind if you borrow a little of his rouge and mascara. But stay out of his gown closet, young lady! G’night.

In the living room

MOM

George, I’m worried about the kids. Ever since they started hanging around that Smith boy, they’ve been acting strangely. Do you think we ought to report it to the authorities?

Pop looks up from his copy of In These Times

POP

Now that you mention it, Bobby has been out-of-sorts lately. I got a note from the school mental health nurse the other day, said Bobby got all het up about “quartering soldiers,” or some nonsense. Kids today, I guess. I wouldn’t get worked up though, I guess it’s probably just one of those teenage phases.

MOM

I suppose so. Honestly, sometimes I wish I had aborted them when I had the chance.

NARRATOR

Instead of trusting their own instincts, Mom and Pop let the incidents pass, neglecting their duty to alert trained federal security authorities in the deluded hope that the problem would go away on its own. Every time Bobby and Debbie met Johnny after school “at the malt shop” things turned worse — much worse. Debbie dropped out of Multiculturalettes and the Eco-Peps. Bobby’s grades in Community Journalism and Queer Theory plummeted. Then one night Johnny dropped by the Baxters’ to pick up the twins for some sort of “party”…

POP

Hi there, you must be Johnny. Say, that’s quite an automobile you got out there. What is it?

JOHNNY

It’s a ‘49 Merc. I mean… Prius.

POP

It sure is big. Are you sure it meets mandatory federal safety and fuel standards?

JOHNNY

Uh, sure, Daddy-o. It’s like, uh, solar-powered.

POP

Well, I’ll be! Sure makes a lot of noise for a solar. I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have a single bumper sticker on it.

JOHNNY

Oh, yeah. well, ya see, um, I just put on a new paint job. Lacq… I mean, sure, some kinda super ecology saver paint. All copacetic with Big Mama Planet, and like that.  

POP

Phew! That’s a relief. For a minute there I thought you might be one of those no-bumpersticker extremists. I don’t want you young folks to get pulled over on suspicion of anything. Here, take one of my Nader 04’s. Say, is that snake tattoo on your arm? “Don’t Tread On Me”… what does that mean?

JOHNNY

What is this, Daddy-o — some kind of interrogation? I”m pleading the 5th!

BOBBY

Reet poteet, Jackson! Slip me some skin!

Bobby and Johnny go through elaborate handshake

Hurry up, sis, It’s time to agitate the gravel!

POP

Robert Baxter! Since when did you start talking like that? And why are you wearing a tricorn hat?

BOBBY

Unlax, Daddy-o! I know my rights!

DEBBIE

Hey, Tiger.

Debbie is at the top of the staircase, chewing gum in capri pants and tight American flag sweater. Johnny lets out a long wolf whistle.

MOM

Deborah! For Gaia’s sake, stop objectifying yourself! Just what kind of party is this?

JOHNNY

The wildest, baby. The wildest!

DEBBIE AND BOBBY

Ha ha ha!

Debbie, Bobby and Johnny race out to Johnny’s Merc and peel out

POP

Lucille… what is this thing that dropped out of Johnny’s coat?

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

MOM

Great Earth Mother… it’s a teabag! Look away, George!

Pop shrieks, begins sobbing uncontrollably on Mom’s shoulder; fade out

NARRATOR

After an emergency call to the Department of Homeland Security, two of the bureau’s top agents arrive on the scene to help the Baxters stop the madness from ending in tragedy.

AGENT JONES

It’s a good thing you called us when you did, Ms. Baxter. We ran the description you gave us through the DHS Univac, and we positively ID’d the suspect as Johnny “Snake” Republico, notorious ant-tax rebel.

GRANDPA

Can I offer you officers some free trade espresso? It’s fresh!

AGENT JONES

No thank you ma’am. Gee, that’s a pretty dress you have on there.

GRANDPA (flustered)

oh you sweet thing!

AGENT JONES

As I was saying, we’ve had Republico on our watch list for some time. He’s no teenager — he’s a babyfaced adult and a card-carrying Constie. In fact, he spent a 3-year stretch in the Marines.

POP

Marines!?

shreiks, sobs 

AGENT OLSEN

I’m sorry you had to hear that sir, but I’m afraid your children are in great danger. Republico matches every profile we have for a dangerous sleeper terrorist – pallid complexion, male, military veteran, weirdly unenthusiastic about paying taxes. It all adds up to one simmering, boiling cauldron of racist, misogynist, anti-government, anti-tax terrorism waiting to explode. In fact, we believe he may even have a gun.

POP

gun!?

shreiks, sobs

AGENT OLSEN

Yes sir. Owning guns is part of the Consties’ sick and perverted Manifesto. In fact, the Marines make their recruits swear an oath to it. If I were a betting man I’d say Republico has kidnapped your children and taken them to some sort of illegal Tea Party gathering where they’re about to be brainwashed — without the proper Department of Education permits!

MOM

Are you sure?

AGENT JONES

Ma’am, Agent Olsen is the top expert analyst on the DHS rightwing monitoring task force. Olsen, show her your Georgetown PoliSci diploma.

MOM

I’m sorry, I didn’t know. What gets in these people’s heads — don’t they know that our very lives depend on government? Our mortgages, our jobs, our food, Garrison Keillor – without taxes, how do these Consties think we can pay dedicated public servants like you?

AGENT JONES

It’s a mystery Ma’am.

Gus the kindly mailman bursts through the door

GUS THE MAILMAN

Agents! Come quick! there’s some sort of ruckus down at the docks!

agents put on fedoras and bolt to the door; fade out

NARRATOR

Meanwhile, at the docks, Bobby and Debbie Baxter are going through Stage 2 of the Consties’ evil indoctrination program — a so-called “Tea Party” led by Constie propagandist saboteur and rightwing hate DJ Smash Taxbill.

SMASH

Welcome hepcat daddy-os and teen comrades! The hour of our ascendancy is here! Tonight we will poison the entire waterfront with our teabags, and bring the entire government of Anytown to a halt — and without filling out an environmental impact statement! Minorities and women will be hardest hit! Bwahahaha! Today Anytown, tomorrow Berkeley! Now, look closely into the spinning spiral… feel the soothing rights…

BOBBY, DEBBIE, JOHNNY (mesmerized)

All Hail Madison and Jefferson!

screaming sirens, screeching tires

SMASH

Cheese it! It’s the feds!

pandemonium as DHS agents burst onto the scene, guns blazing

AGENT OLSEN

Stop! In the name of the Fairness Doctrine!

Olsen unload seventeen rounds into Taxbill’s gut; he clutches his chest and drops lifeless over a crate of Celestial Seasonings

BOBBY

Nooooo! Not Snake!

Just as Jones is about to fire at Republico, Bobby Baxter jumps in front of the bullet and drops to the floor

JOHNNY

Speak to me Daddy-o!

BOBBY

Live… free… or… die….

Bobby drops dead.

JOHNNY

You’ll never take me without a warrant, coppers!

Johnny scales the nearby Anytown watertower

Top of the World, Ma!

DEBBIE

Johnny, give yourself up, baby! We can fight this in court, just like it says in the Manifesto!

JOHNNY

Yeah, yeah, that’s the ticket! The Manifesto will protect me!

Johnny pulls the laminated Constitutionalist Manifesto from his cuff and brandishes it at the agents

Come and get me, you filthy coppers!

AGENT OLSEN

Open fire!

A hail of bullets slice through Johnny’s Manifesto, and he tumbles 100 feet to his death. Olsen and Jones stand over his lifeless body.

AGENT OLSEN

Ironic, isn’t it?

AGENT JONES

How’s that?

AGENT OLSEN

Seems Johnny and his pals ended up just like their heros – dead white males.

AGENT JONES

It’s even more ironic that he fell from a government water tower, on to this goverment sidewalk.

AGENT OLSEN

If you ask me, ‘Twas beauty that killed the grease. Speaking of which, book Debbie Baxter — on aggravated political deliquency!

Debbie is frog-marched to a waiting DHS paddywagon

MOM

Well, young lady, what do you have to say for yourself?

DEBBIE

Hah hah hah! Guess what? I’m pregnant with Johhny’s child!

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

POP

Sweet holy Gaia! Do you realize what this means, Lucille?

MOM

Debbie’s first abortion! Oh honey, we’re so happy for you!

DEBBIE

Abortion? I’m going through the birth! And then I’m giving it away… to a pentacostal preacher in Oklahoma! 

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

Pop shrieks, faints

MOM

Not if I can help it!

Mom grabs Olsen’s revolver

Time for a certain late term medical procedure, you ungrateful brat! Taste my right to choose!

Mom fires 11 shots; Debbie drops to the floor, dead

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

AGENT JONES

Good aborting there, Ms. Olsen!

GRANDPA

Anyone for expresso? I made it fresh! Did I miss something?

BAXTERS, AGENTS

Oh, Gramps, you scalawag!

everyone laughs happily; fade out to swelling music

JANET NAPOLITANO

Hello, I’m Homeland Security Director Janet Napolitano. Although this particular story ended happily, who knows what could have happened to the US Treasury had the Baxters not alerted the authorities? That’s why it’s important for students like you to remain ever-vigilant for the warning signs of International Constitutionalism, and know how to respond. Do any of your classmates nod off in class during various Cultural Awareness Weeks? Does the soda jerk at the local malt shop complain about his FICA withholding? Have you heard rumors of unsanctioned, not-for-credit protest marches?

If so, you may be face to face with a Constie. Don’t panic, and remember the 4 steps: (1) Stop, Drop and Roll. (2) Duck and Cover. (3) Cover your ears, and scream “Teabaggers! Teabaggers!” (4) Call your local Department of Homeland Security office to clear the area. Practice with your friends and teachers, and pay attention during the weekly school drills. It’s up to all of us to stop the Consties, because the next victim could be you… or you… or YOU.

THE END

FILM PROJECTOR

thlthlthlthlthlthlthlthlthlthlthlthl fwipfwipfwipfwip fwipfwip fwip  fwip… fwip….     fwip

The show’s unique combination of serious social commentary, folk music and violent desert dirtbike action sparked a brief but intense popularity among young viewers, spawning the memorable catch phrase “you heap big dead, paleface” — uttered by Chutch whenever a villain questioned his Native American bona fides.

“Chutch” rose to #16 in the Nielsens in its debut year, a level of popularity it never repeated. Ratings continued to slip through 1974, hobbled by weak scripts and the increasingly bizarre behavior of Bronston, a gifted method actor whose obsession with his role as a mystical revolutionary pseudo-Indian led to an unfortunate and debilitating peyote habit. The series was finally replaced in 1975 by the gritty police drama “Torino Squad” starring Lash LaDouche.

Plagued by typecasting and peyote flashbacks, Jan-Peter Bronston never again found steady work in Hollywood; today he operates a roadside bleached cow skull shop from his trailer home outside Hemet, California. He occasionally travels to fan fairs in the far East, where the program remains a staple of North Korean daytime TV. Although he blames “Chutch” in part for his six failed marriages and numerous unsuccessful stays in rehab, he says he wouldn’t have traded the experience.

“For a short time, I was the voice of an entire generation,” he says philosophically. “And when we were cancelled, I got to keep the dirtbike.”

EPISODE 106: BURY MY HEART AT WOUNDED EGO

OPENING TITLE SEQUENCE

Mystic flute and chime music; soft focus lens shot of a young Chutch standing in candlelit sweat lodge of his Tribal Master, Marcuse

MARCUSE: Are you ready for your final test, Angry Turtleneck?

YOUNG CHUTCH: I am ready, master.

MARCUSE: Then try to snatch the grant proposal from my hand.

Chutch deftly grabs the binder from the wizened master.

MARCUSE: With this ankh medallion I now grant you the ultimate power, Angry Turtleneck — a Master’s degree from Sangamon State University. I pray you will use it wisely.

Cue action music by Quincy Taylor Horns; split screen montage of Chutch driving Jeep, kung fu fighting, grading quizzes, playing acoustic guitar for mountain lion.

ANNCR: Chutch… in color, man!

ACT ONE – RAP SESSION ON THE CAMPUS QUAD

CHUTCH: … and that’s why the Japanese needed to make that statement — they were speaking out against The Man’s imperial colonization of the indigenous Hawaiians.

FEMALE STUDENT #1: Groovy! You really know how to stick it to The Man, Professor Churchill!

CHUTCH: “Professor Churchill” is what The Man wants you to call me, little one. In my classroom, my name is Chutch. Why do you laugh?

FEMALE STUDENT #2: Because, well… we’re not in a classroom! We’re outdoors!

CHUTCH: Haven’t you been listening? “Classrooms” are only cells in the big global prison run by The Man. The Man didn’t build “buildings” to keep rain out, The Man built them to keep you in. See? That’s why I’m holding today’s rap lab outside, in the natural harmony of nature. It is the classroom of my people, the Arapazowee people. My desk is this grass, my chalkboard is this stick, my filmstrip is that sky.

MALE STUDENT #3: Far out, Profes… I mean, Chutch. Do all the other Arapazowees have red hair like you?

ZAPATA: Rowwwr!

CHUTCH: Easy, Zapata, the boy is young and ignorant. Billy, the path to wisdom means learning, but also unlearning. You must unlearn the Indian stereotypes fed to you by The Man. Not all Indians live in teepees, and do rain-dances, or have brown eyes. Among my people, the Arapazowees, there were redhairs, and blackhairs, and blondhairs with pattern baldness, even the Freckled Ones. We lived in peace and harmony with the elk — before The Man came and killed all the Arapazowee except me.

BILLY: I… I didn’t know…

CHUTCH: You couldn’t have known, Billy. The Man covered up the massacre in the media, and that’s when I swore my revenge. Think of it this way — if I’m not an Indian, why am I wearing this Indian hat and fringed buckskin jacket?

FEMALE #1: I think Billy has watched too many episodes of Johnny Nuance!

BILLY: Hey!

Everyone laughs, as the class is approached by Dean White.

DEAN WHITE: Chutch! I’ve been looking for you all over campus… teaching outside? This is outrageous!

CHUTCH: Mellow out, Dean. Real learning means getting out of that artificial plastic kaleidescope circus tent war machine you call “education.” It means sitting cross-legged out here, soaking in the sunshine of truth.

DEAN WHITE: Perhaps the students love your highly unconventional methods, but they leave me exasperated!

CHUTCH: I thought you wanted to talk to me about something.

DEAN WHITE: Indeed I do! You’ve really done it now, Chutch. The alumni are in an uproar, the Board of Regents is grumbling, and the state legislature wants your hide! I tried to talk them out of it, but after you exposed the Eisenhower-Hitler connection, they swore they were coming to take your Arapazowee sacred Talisman of Tenure!

CHUTCH: So The Man wants a little showdown, eh? Let this be the Arapazowee’s last stand.

BILLY: Chutch, over there — here they come!

Sudden sound of motorcycle engines; biker gang appears on quad, astride filthy choppers. They roar across the green, up a ramp, and vault in midair over the heads of Chutch and his students. Freeze Frame.

COMMERCIAL SPOT #1A

Singers
Go! Go! GO! With the Now Generation!
Pants! Pants! Pants! For a New Celebration!

ANNCR: New Montgomery Grants action flares! The now-scene pants with the Sta-Prest comfort that will blow your mind…

Echo-y sound EFX with pulsating lights and fuzz guitar; grainy color animation of hot air balloons and 1890 marching bands over M.C. Escher background

ANNCR (contd): Bold stripes and fringed patchwork paisleys that put The Man on notice – you are a new generation and you demand a new pair of slacks!

bellbottom rainbow arcs over polluted city — vacuuming a stream of hardhats, army generals, and cigar-chomping industrialist into its legs

VOICEOVER: Montgomery Grants Action Flares — now only $8.95 through Sunday. See the Youngwear Department of your local Montgomery Grants.

COMMERCIAL SPOT #1B

GROWLING SINGER: Chutch Power!

ANNCR: Now Action Chutch has twice the power… and twice the accessories!

BOYS: Right ON! [power salute]

ANNCR: Custom Bultaco dirtbike! Turtleneck! Life-like college grant proposals! Zapata with real growl action!

ZAPATA: Rorrrrwwrrr!

BOYS (look at each other and soul-shake) Radical!

ANNCR: And the ultimate in Chutch Power — the official Chutch Boulder University Native Studies Department, with Dome of Tenure!

BOY #1: You can’t up my teaching load, I’m going on sabbatical!

BOY #2: Grrr!

ZAPATA: Rowwwrrr!

GROWLING SINGER: Chutch Power!

ANNCR: Chutch and Comrades action sets, by Plastico. Wherever fine toys are sold.

ACT TWO – THE CHOPPER GANG

Return to Freeze Frame. Airborn choppers land on quad, causing students form protective circle of solidarity around Chutch.

CHUTCH: Stand aside, little ones. This is my battle.

LENNY THE BIKER: You made a whole bunch of the wrong enemies, Injun man! Now hand over that talisman, and nobody gets hurt!

CHUTCH: I could no more give you my talisman of tenure than I could give you my state merit raise, or the very sun itself. Now go. We are humble scholars, we mean you no harm.

LENNY THE BIKER: Heh heh. Suit yourself, Chief. Let’s get ‘em boys!

Choppers pop their clutches, careening toward Chutch and his class. Two choppers dig a circular dirt donut around Chutch while others snatch helpless students.

LENNY THE BIKER: Okay, Injun, we’re gonna have a little fun while you stand there and watch. But if you step out of that circle, we’re gonna kill you. 

Students scream as bikers beat students with hobnailed issues of National Review and Reader’s Digest.

LENNY THE BIKER: What are you laughing at, Injun?

CHUTCH (giggling): While you weren’t looking, I stepped out of the circle three times!

LENNY THE BIKER: All right, playtime is over. Boys, get out the Nixon campaign buttons.

CHUTCH: No! Leave the students alone! I’ll do what you say. You may take… you may take the Talisman of Tenure.

LENNY THE BIKER: Now you’re thinking straight, Chief. Let’s have a look at… wait a minute! You ain’t no Injun! Haw haw! Lookee here boys! Old Pro-fesser Crazy Horse here has got hisself a headful of red roots under his war bonnet!

Gang begins laughing as Chutch goes through slow burn. Misty lens flashback to sweat lodge.

YOUNG CHUTCH: How will I know I am a true Arapazowee warrior, Master?

MARCUSE: This I will tell you — when The Man comes to question his tenure, the warrior of the true path will make himself known by his actions. And filing a formal grievance with the Faculty Diversity Committee.

Flash forward to present. Chutch reaches boiling point, clenches fists.

CHUTCH: You heap big dead, paleface!

Chutch leaps through air in fierce flying kick. Freeze frame.

COMMERCIAL SPOT #2

Aerial helicopter shot of all new 1973 DMC Groovie winding through mountain roads.

ANNCR: Jan-Peter Bronston.

Jan-Peter: The wind in my hair. It means a lot to me. That’s why when DMC asked to do the Chutch Edition of the all-new 1973 Groovie, I insisted on high performance T-Top styling, bold mountain lion decals, and rich buckskin vinyl interior.

Windshield shot of Jan-Peter taking Chutch Edition DMC Groovie through mountain switchback. Scene changes to dragstrip, as Jan-Peter dons asbestos firesuit and helmet.

Jan-Peter(contd): Performance and style is what the ‘73 Groovie is all about. From the Groovie Hatchlin Squareback all the way to the high output Groovie Hugger GSXTSi — with its racing-inspired side scoops, green stripe polyglas radials, slotted mag-style hubcaps, and 105 cast iron ponies of double barrel carbureted Slant 5 power*. 

*Not available in California, Kentucky or Vermont

Jan-Peter(contd): And if luxury comfort is your bag, check out the ‘73 Groovie Civilienne Pescadero, with its exclusive quintaphonic 11-track sound system and a distinct opera-hole vinyl roof inspired by the great roadcars of east-central Europe.

Jan-Peter exits Groovie at exclusive Hollywood discotheque, handing keys to beaming valet.

Jan-Peter(contd): Thanks to DMC’s settlement with the UAW and new federal loan package, the ‘73 Groovie is available today. Visit your local DMC dealer for a test viewing, and tell ‘em Jan-Peter Bronston sent you. Maybe you’re ready to finally let the whole world know: you’re a Groovie man.

Pan Helicopter shot of Jan-Peter and Groovie on top of isolated rock outcropping; fade

ACT THREE – TAKING OUT THE TRASH

Unfreeze frame; Chutch flies through air in slo-mo, his mocassins of fury taking out two bikers; he takes out a third with a vicious kung-fu chop.

CHUTCH: Hai-Chomsky!

Momentarily dazed, the bikers get to their feet, swinging chains.

LENNY THE BIKER: Eat our shackles of oppression, intellectual!

ZAPATA: Rowwwwwrrrr!

BIKER: Let’s split, man! That dude’s packing endangered wildlife!

Bikers scramble for their choppers, as students pummel them with protest signs reading “FAR OUT” and “GROOVY.” Frightened, Lenny runs across the quad, but is taken down by a leaping Zapata.

ZAPATA: Rowwwwwrrrr!

CHUTCH: Good job, faithful cougar friend. (to Lenny) Now I think its time for you to tell me who sent you for the talisman, you stinking tool of the bourgeois!

LENNY THE BIKER: Aiiee! Anything, just get that wild animal off me! It was the Technocrats of Empire, over at the Boulder Savings & Loan! They were the ones! Because of your speaking Truth to Power, they couldn’t get a zoning permit to build that new ski development over the sacred Arapazowee burial ground! I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it!

CHUTCH: All right, Zapata. Let him up.

DEAN WHITE: Well, I guess that mystery is solved. Let’s all get back to class now, before anyone rocks the boat further.

CHUTCH: I’m afraid it’s not that easy, Dean. Quick, Zapata! To the Bultaco!

Chutch and Zapata leap aboard Chutch’s gleaming, fringe-festooned dirtbike and tear across campus, leaping over ivied hedges.

DEAN WHITE: Where is that brilliant fool going now?

BILLY: I’d say there’s some injustice to be undone, Dean.

Scene shifts to the boardroom of the Boulder Savings & Loan.

BALD WHITE MAN #1: Cigars and brandy, gentlemen? With our meddlesome tenured activist friend safely out of the way, I would like to offer a toast to [reveals master plan blueprints] Sacred Mountain Ski Resort! To oppression!

BALD WHITE MEN: Huzzah!

BALD WHITE MAN #1: Yes… magnificent… an exclusive paradise for the Bourgeois! And no Indians, not even pretend ones!

BALD WHITE MAN #2: Except for the ones buried there!

BALD WHITE MEN: Haw haw!

BALD WHITE MAN #1: Wait a minute… does someone hear an airplane?

Cockpit of Cessna.

CHUTCH: Okay, Zapata, this is it… put on this chute pack.

ZAPATA: Rowr?

CHUTCH: Don’t worry, faithful friend. Today, the chickens come home to roost for the Little Eichmanns at Boulder Savings & Loan. Geronimo!

Chutch, Zapata and dirtbike leap to safety, as Cessna explodes into fireball into Savings & Loan. Fade out. Fade in to campfire scene, as Chutch strums his acoustic guitar soulfully for a tired Zapata.

SONG: “Colorado Kung-Fu Justice Man”
Words & Music by Tommy Terry and Danny Boycey
Performed by Jan-Peter Bronston
From the ABC-Polyglam LP, “Arapazowee Nation” 

In the aspen covered Rockies there’s a legend often told
Of a tenured native shaman with a cougar, grey and gold
He had two fists of fury and a Master of Arts Degree
From accredited Sangamon State University

CHORUS
He was a Colorado kung fu justice man,
Fighting fascist critics across the campus land.
Office hours: Monday Wednesday Friday 9 to 10
Colo-RADO (kung fu)
Colo-RADO (kung fu)

With red hair in his hat and Arapazowee soul
Speaking truth to power was his only goal
Writing grants and lectures, a simple mountain life
A Bultaco for his horse and a cougar for his wife

FADE OUT
ROLL CREDITS

Yet we would like to offer a small correction. The above view utterly disregards the recent progress made in our culture, most recently allowing the Western civilization to catch up with the more advanced tribes of the multicultural community. Obsessive revisionism and self-loathing, sacrificing the individual to the collective, consolidation of power in the hands of a strong central government, and the cult of a godlike leader have rightfully made us an equal member among the wonderfully diverse Third World countries. Miracles abound. One of them is the spontaneous supplanting of the misleading ex-proverbs of the shameful past, with correct neo-proverbs that properly reflect the current truth in accordance with the regularly updated political context.

If a culture is to be measured by the quality of its proverbs, then, paremiologically speaking, we should soon be able to judge a book by its cover, make the most noise, burn the bridges, part with our money, and by the year 2012 become the pride and joy of the whole wide Third World!

Below are a few collectively gathered neo-proverbs from our permanently revised collection at The People’s Cube:

* * *

No matter how much you cheat the government in taxes, you’ll never get close to being even. Trust me.
(Tim Geithner, Treasury Secretary’s proverb)

Good intentions make the most noise.
(Proverb of Obama’s Economic Recovery Team)

All good things are either illegal, immoral, or lead to obesity.
(Kennedy family proverb)

Surely you can fool all the people all the time.
(Proverb of the mainstream media)

To err is human, and we use this faculty frequently and with much pleasure.
(Proverb of the US Congress)

All work and no pay makes Jack an exemplary citizen.
(Proverb of Obama’s Economic Recovery Team)

If toast falling off the table always lands butter-side down, it is safe to presume that toast buttered on both sides will stop and hover in midair.
(Proverb of Obama’s Economic Recovery Team)

All that glitters must be taxed.
(Proverb of the Ways and Means Committee)

Every time the government tries to organize the economy, the only thing that stays organized is crime.
(Proverb of the Chicago Mafia)

The people are not only our most precious recourse, but also a means of enrichment.
(Proverb of the US Congress)

Too many cooks don’t pay enough taxes.
(Proverb of the Ways and Means Committee)

Every man has a right to the left.
(ACLU proverb)

Every rake deserves a chance to be stepped on repeatedly.
(Proverb of Obama’s Economic Recovery Team)

For a lie to become believable it must be published in The New York Times.
(Proverb of Democrat strategists)

Teach someone how to fish, and you lose a Democrat voter.
(Proverb of the Teachers’ Union)

You will be driving your old car for a longer period of time if you don’t buy a new one.
(Proverb of Obama’s Economic Recovery Team)

No matter how much whiskey you stock up in your desk, you always wind up sending an aide for more.
(Ted Kennedy’s proverb)

Attractive women are distractive.
(Bill Clinton’s proverb)

Man can stare infinitely and without motion at three things: burning flame, flowing water, and another man working.
(Proverb of the Department of Labor)

No matter how hard you negotiate your labor contract, there will always be an asshole who works even less and gets paid even more.
(Proverb of unionized workforce)

Child-proof electrical outlets are there to make sure that only the most gifted children get electrocuted to death.
(Proverb of Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA))

Safety violations may result not only in a person’s death, but also in a person’s birth.
(Proverb of Planned Parenthood organization)

If a man wants to have a life, medicine is powerless.
(Kennedy family proverb)

If your wife isn’t talking to you in the morning, last night’s party must have been a success!
(Clinton family proverb)

Why is it that when you converse with God, it’s called prayer, but when God converses with you, it’s called schizophrenia?
(Rev. Jeremiah Wright’s proverb)

A woman wants a lot of different things from one and the same man, while a man wants one and the same thing from a lot of different women.
(Clinton family proverb)

Having a tough day? Try changing your gender.
(Janet Reno’s proverb)

Never spend your own money when you can spend the government’s. Charity begins with a lawsuit.
(Proverb of community organizers)

Let bygones be hammered into everyone’s brain using news media, television, and Hollywood.
(Proverb of Democrat strategists)

Government helps those who refuse to help themselves.
(Proverb of community organizers)

If necessity is the mother of invention, government mandate is the fairy godmother.
(Proverb of carbon emission regulators)

A bad workman blames corporate greed and lack of government oversight.
(Proverb of the Financial Services Committee)

All that glitters must be equally redistributed to each according to his need.
(Proverb of community organizers)

Having naughty children in the back seat can result in an accident; having a naughty accident in the back seat can result in children, followed by a story in The National Enquirer.
(John Edwards’ proverb)

Never pick on a Democrat candidate’s family; attack something he cares about instead.
(Proverb of Republican strategists)

If you can’t lick them, tax them.
(Proverb of the Ways and Means Committee)

He who pays the piper must also cover his health insurance and retirement benefits.
(Proverb of Obama’s Economic Recovery Team)

The most beautiful thing about the environment is that you can turn it into an election issue.
(Proverb of Democrat strategists)

Be careful what you legislate; it may do exactly what Rush Limbaugh said it would.
(Proverb of Rush Limbaugh’s listeners)

Never argue with a loaded Kennedy.
(Proverb of Republican strategists)

If wishes were horses there’s be no need in fossil fuels
(Proverb of oil executives)

Give your opponents one hundred dollars worth of steak, and you shall receive one trillion dollars worth of pork.
(Proverb of the US Congress)

The difference between a kleptomaniac and a Congressman is mostly one of semantics.
(Proverb of the US Congress)

Don’t tax you, don’t tax me, tax that fellow who didn’t vote for you and me.
(Found buried in a federal “stimulus” bill)

All it takes to prove that I am the smartest guy in any room is for the rest of the people in that room to believe me when I say it.
(Joe Biden’s proverb)

Multiculturalism is when people of all races, colors, and creeds join hands in a common effort to blame the Jews.
(Proverb of Columbia University professors)

Ok, so we’re late to the party.  What are you going to do, set up a perimeter?  This is the show I love, then love to hate, then actually hate, then come back to to see how much Kiefer’s drinking has wrinkled his face, because I also like to drink.  Every year, it seems that Jack Bauer, the most bad-ass little man since Wolverine had his chest waxed and grew 8 inches into Hugh Grant, makes choices that put those he loves just slightly ahead of national security. Everyone else who does this pays for it dearly, often with the perp walk….but not Jack…  SO FAR this season, Jack was compelled to come back from lovely Africa to face a Senate hearing about his…methods of interrogation.  CTU is no more (which is good, as it was the single most penetrable security organization in the United States), but when the FBI comes calling for Jack’s help, it isn’t long before the old gang gets back together.

First we find Tony Almeda, whom we like to call Schlumpy, for his round-shouldered sensitivity.  He’s rockin’ a goatee, still has amazing hair, and is apparently one of the bad guys…EXCEPT HE ISN’T ANYMORE!  Schlumpy is back with the angels, in the form of modern dance versions of Old Man Buchanan and The Scowl (Chloe).  The three of them are trying to save the world from super-secret evil that has infiltrated the U.S. Government, all paid for with African diamonds, which really helps in a recession.  It’s a hard job for 3 people…but now they have a 4th, and his name, is Jack Bauer.

Oh, and there’s another very thin love interest for Jack.  And the president is a woman.  And her husband is kind of pathetic.  And their son was killed for looking into the conspiracy.  And his (former) fiancee is HOT and technically available.  And the whole show centers around the most handsome African actor in the history of the world (we need a name for him) trying to get back his country from evil rebels…and a singular device.  This device glows in a lovely blue, and can apparently do magic and is essentially more powerful than the entire United Stated military.

Sweet.  Let’s roll people…live blogging – keep refreshing the page and jump in the comments and make fun!

******

Quick update before we start – The hot fiancee is very dead, and currently NOT available.

9:09pm - The First Gentleman laid down the law, and now he just needs to lay down a little while.

9:12pm – Two Senegalese leaders trying to out-presence each other…very nice.

9:13pm - When did Tony shave?

9:15pm – Chloe has really nice hair this year, but has Old Man Buchanan even noticed?

9:17pm - Get ready for the Ohio Simpleton Players…

9:18pm – Garafalo certainly picked up some techspertise at Air America.

9:23pm – Ok, first political potshot…Madame Presiden’ts White House sems to be reacting more quickly than a certain perfect person’s is to the Kentucky ice storm…

9:24pm - Hey, TONY’S GOATEE IS BACK!

9:25pm – Oh yeah, Captain Ohio is going down with the ship.

9:28pm - Is it possible, does Garofalo scowl more than Chloe?

9:29pm – Oooh, some African militant is scared of Jack Bauer…

9:30pm - CIP, CIP, CIP!

9:32pm – Promos for American Idol during 24 are the most I ever see of that supposed cultural juggernaut.

9:35pm – I’m not a doctor, but bleeding out of the ears looks bad.

9:36pm – The CIP guy has not fallen into Stockholm Syndrome just yet.

9:37pm – Oops, poor CIP guy.

9:39pm – Crazy director guy from Entourage is the best actor at the FBI.

9:40pm – He. Had. A. Name! and it was John Bruhner.

9:48pm – Hey, Madame President seems a little compromised right now…bring back Powers Booth!

9:49pm - ALL female presidents have their husbands kidnapped, doesn’t everybody know that?

9:56pm – Perfect, let’s get Ethan in on this.

9:58pm - Oh, F#%k you, Jack. Schlumpy does not need to turn himself in. You weren’t going to until your hand was forced. Wait, is Jack kind of like an Obama appointee?

10:02pm – I’m going to go ahead and call that a lame episode. Maybe it was because I had to peck at these keys, but mostly, i think it was really lame.

10:04pm – Best part of the episode was the preview of next week. “You can trust me.” Good luck with that.

10:08pm – Well, that wraps up the first week of this experiment… easier than actually writing a thoughtful post, but I was hamstrung by the need to hold back my wit, lest I outshine and upset Iowahawk, who some people think is very funny. See you in the comments.

(with Apologies to Homer)

Book the First: A question for the Muse

Speak to me, O Muse, of this resourceful man
who strides so boldly upon the golden shrine of Potomac,
Between Ionic plywood columns, to the kleig light altar.
Fair Obamacles, favored of the gods, ascends to Olympus
Amidst lusty tributes and the strumming lyres of Media;
Their mounted skyboxes echo with the singing of his name
While Olbermos and Mattheus in their greasy togas wrassle
For first honor of basking in their hero’s reflected glory.
Who is this man, so bronzed in countenance,
So skilled of TelePrompter, clean and articulate
whose ears like a stately urn’s protrude?
So now, daughter of Zeus, tell us his story.
And just the Cliff Notes if you don’t mind,
We don’t have all day.

Said the Muse:

I will tell the story of Obamacles through my scribe Iowahawk.
But this poem is copyrighted, so reproduce at your peril.

Book the Second: Obamacles Meets the Oracle of Doritos

From the land of Kenya beyond Nile, came Obamacles the Elder
To the grad school at Oahu, where Ann of Kansas bore him a son.
It would prove to be a hassle, thus he left his baby’s mama,
who then won favor with Soertoro, who brought them to his far-off island nest.
Young Obamacles was growing, and they shipped him back to Gramma,
And the prep school on Oahu. There he trained and studied boldly,
Drinking beer and smoking weed: Maui Wowie, paca lolo, sensimilla,
blunts and chiva, Thai and chronic, just enough to hone his mellow,
in the back of Kyle’s TransAm, a line or two of coke on weekends.

In his mellow young Obamacles beheld a vision in the salty snacks at Safeway;
There the Oracle of Doritos bade him:

“Travel the seas to the East, fair Obamacles, for this is where your fortune lies.
But beware, that way bodes peril if thou are not pure of image and smooth of delivery.
Seek first the masters of Occidental College, who will train you in the philosophers of Po-Mo.”

Replied young Obamacles,

“Accidental college heh heh heh heh Accidental moxidental taxidental heh heh,”

And Kyle is like,

“Dude you’re totally talking to the Doritos. That is totally bonus.”

Book the Third: Obamacles dazzles the masters at the Agora

After Obamacles had completed the perilous sea voyage to LAX and retrieved his bag from the carousel,
He entered the agora of Occidental, where wily Obamacles dazzled the masters with recitations:
Fanon, Menchu, Zinn and Chomsky, Saul Alinsky, Eldridge Cleaver, Kurtis Blow.
After two years his masters said,

“fair Obamacles, we can teach you no more, for your bullshit has surpassed even ours.
Hie thee now to the Isle of Manhattus, where in the agora at Columbius
you may study a bullshit so deep and complex and angry it is beyond our philosophies.”

Yet bold Obamacles was equal to the challenge. “Give us your thesis,” said the masters at Columbius,
and Obamacles conjured a mighty paper on Soviet disarmament, double-spaced and expertly margined.
Its beauty was such that the masters wept, and laid a baccalaureate wreath upon him;
But the masters ordered the beautiful thesis destroyed that so no mortal would again read it.

Then one day at the Duane Reade on West 123rd, the Oracle of Doritos appeared to him again:

“You have passed your first test, brave Obamacles, but the peril is yet beginning.
For now you must travel west to Chicago, the dreaded Isle of Monsters;
And become yourself a community organizer.”

To which Obamacles replied, “I really should cut down on the ganja.”

Book the Fourth: Obamacles meets the Jeremiad of Chicago

When Obamacles reached the shores of Chicago, he saw no monsters;
Yet its bone-strewn sands announced a land of many unseen dangers.
And though he be clever, Obamacles did not understand his task,
set before him by the Oracle; perhaps it was a riddle?
“Community organizer?” he wondered, “What the fuck is that?”
And yet he pushed from house to house, offering to organize the people,
But lo, the Southside people shunned him, slamming doors and mocking sad Obamacles.

“O people of Chicago, why do you shun me so?” he lamented.
“I have a bachelor’s degree and I am here to organize you.”
And then Obamacles heard from behind a voice of such fury and anger
that he was frozen in fear for the very first time.
It was the Jeremiad, the fire-breathing Monster of the Pulpit, who roared:

“You stupid ass foo, it because you white!”

Now, it was known to Obamacles that the Jeremiad had forbade white men from the Southside.
What Obamacles did not know is that the Jeremiad also decided who was a white man.
Although his own hue was darker still than the Jeremiad, he was too clever to argue with the Monster;
Instead he said:

“You are right, fearsome Jeremiad; I am sadly white. And only your magic, my lord,
can relieve me of my accursed paleness. Cure me, that I may join with the sun people.”

The Jeremiad was astonished by the boldness of Obamacles and his clever flattery. He said:

“You have much bravery for a white man, Obamacles. But to become an authentic brother,
you must prove your worthiness in the torments of the pews.”

Hour after hour, Sunday after Sunday, year after year, Obamacles stood before Jeremiad
And the other monsters of the pulpit, Phlegeron and Mekus, withstanding their bellows of fire,
Never blinking or flinching, and seldom falling asleep.
the Jeremiad was pleased and and absolved Obamacles of his whiteness,
and allowing him to finally organize the community.
Which turned out to be a system for getting money for the Jeremiad.

One day at the Co-op in Hyde Park the Oracle appeared again to Obamacles from an end-aisle display:

“You have done well, young wayfarer, but further torments lurk in thy destiny.
Prepare at Kaplan for thy LSATs, for the abyss of uselessness at Harvard Law awaits.
And then must you return to Chicago to conquer the legion of monsters.”

Book the Fifth: Obamacles and Victimia

Having withstood the scorching blasts of the monster Jeremiad at Chicago,
Harvard Law proved no challenge for our hero; he was named beloved of the faculty,
For at the Isle of Harvard they eat that “community organizer” shit right up.
He returned to the Isle of Chicago with his magic Harvard talisman,
Small of heft but able to open any door.

Here he met Victimia, a long and lanky beauty, whose siren songs of woe bewitched;
They were wed in the screaming gardens of Jeremiad.
“O Victimia,” he sang, “if I could but bottle thy sob stories, the world would be ours.”
“Yes, Obamacles beloved,” replied she, “but first let me help you conquer Chicago.”

The monsters of Chicago were helpless against the duet’s laments and dirges;
Like a moth to a flame they proved irresistible, and the strange mutant beasts
of this Isle of the Damned soon were transfixed by their enchantments:

Ayres, the decrepit conjurer of fireballs;
his wife Doron, worshipper of murderers;
Rezko, Philistine Lord of the Pits of Slumos;
Giannoulis, Bagman of the Mafios;
Blago, Governor of the Underworld of Illinus,
And all of the monsters of the Pulpit from Jeremiad to Pherekon.

Obamacles had conquered all of the Chicagomon, even Daleos the little retard king,
Without once unsheathing his sword; such was his charm.
The monsters realized Obamacles was the perfect front man for federal funding scams,
And thus showered our hero with tributes and contributions,
Elevating him to Vicelord of the Chicagomon.

Thus exalted did Obamacles train his gaze on the mounts of Tribune and Suntimus,
and WGN and WLS and NBC 5, whose anchors splooged in simultaneous ecstasy
At his gleaming incisors and crossover appeal. Together they swore
their undying liege and to crush all obstacles in his path.
By acclamation he was sent as Chicago’s emissary to Senatus.

Book the Sixth: The Rage of Hildusa

In Senatus, Obamacles laid beside the reflecting pool while a coterie of Media fed him grapes.
Again the Oracle appeared to him, this time in the form of a bowl of arugula; it said,

“You have done well, hale Obamacles, but your torments are not yet complete.
The toughest test of all awaits, and may the gods have mercy on your soul.”

“Do your worst, arugula,” he laughed, “for I am Obamacles,
Lord of Illinus, who single handedly conquered the LSATs
and disarmed the Chicagomon. What task would you possibly fear me with?”

“You are to led the Demos back to the White Temple, by vanquishing Hildusa.”

At the sound of Hildusa’s name even brave Obamacles was driven to wet his toga,
For Hildusa, cuckolder of Bubba, was the mightiest of all the gorgons.
From her head grew a writhing nest of asps, and the mere sight of her cankles
Would turn a man to stone. Some said she came from Lesbos
But others said her only pleasure was torment and sucking the marrow from her victim’s bones.
Around her at all times was a phalanx guard of mincing eunuchs,
led by Ickis, Wolfsonis, Blumenthalis and Pennis. At her side, an angry force
of menopausal PUMAs ready to strike on her command — for the children.

But Obamacles was only momentarily dissuaded from his task,
for he knew the people of Demos longed to return to the White Temple,
where they had been banished by the idiot emperor Chimpos II.
Although the Demos knew that Chimpos was the stupidest person in the world,
and they were the smartest, they had somehow been unable to defeat him.
Obamacles seized his opportunity. On the Isle of Demos, and said:

“Citizens of Demos, I am Obamacles of Illinus. I will lead you
from the wilderness back to the White Temple.”

Dispite his gleaming smile the agora laughed at the stranger’s folly.
“Fool, our leader is Hildusa,” they mocked. “What chance stands a handsome
newcomer like you against the mightiest of the gorgons?”

“For one, I will conjure our Spartans back from Babylonia,” said Obamacles.
“Hilldusa voted with Chimpos. I say it is time to begin the war to end this war.”

The words of Obamacles created a murmur in the agora, for on Demos the people
wished the Spartans home from war, to face trial for war crimes or be caged as madmen
Like in the many tragedies at the Demos Odeon Octoplex.

“We are with you, Obamacles,” came the shout of a man, who was turned to marble
and struck by lightning before his words could be completed. Obamacles had stoked
the terrible rath of the gorgon Hildusa, and the battle was joined.

Book the Seventh: The Battle for Demos

All the torments suffered by Obamacles had steeled him for this epic test.
The cliffs of Demos resounded with the approaching screeches of Hildusa
And her army of soul-eating Morpheons, spinning and faxing and conjuring position papers.
But Obamacles was unmoved, and with his right hand summoned
the Subterranean Creepos of the Nutroots to do his bidding,
Kos and Ariana and Demos Underground.
Hildusa was enraged for she thought them allies, and shot them the stink-eye.
“Destroy Obamacles!” she bellowed at her Eunuchs,
But they were retards and got busted for DUI on the chariot ride over.
Then Obamacles shot the arrow of Iowa across abyss of Dukakis,
striking Hildusa true in her cankles, no more to freeze men to stone,
And all of Demos roared approval.

“Citizens of Demos,” screamed the hobbled gorgon, “fair Obamacles is not what he appears!
Look, behind him! A phalanx of Chicagomon, the demons from the pits of Illinus!”

When the Demos people saw the Chicagomon they shrugged,
but Obamacles was taking no chances for the general battle;
He had no more further use for the Chicagomon and thus he summoned
Underbus, the destroyer of memes. One by one he disposed them,
The Jeremiad and Phlegeron and Ayres, all sacrificed to Underbus.
When Hildusa saw this her eyes boiled with rage,
and she summoned her Amazon Pumas
But they were too fat and old and employed
to battle the snarky college assholes in official Obamacles tunics.

At last Hildusa summoned Bubba, who in principle was her husband.
Though the mightiest god of Demos, he trembled before her gaze;
For once she saved his sacred bacon, but yet had him castrated and banished.
“Destroy! Destroy! Destoy!” she bellowed, handing Bubba sharpened talking points,
But Obamacles would not yield, and from beneath his tunic
withdrew his razor-sharpened race card, filleting Bubba into tiny pieces.

The crowd at Demos was breathless, hardly believing their eyes.
And then winged Media lifted Obamacles across the abyss to where Hildusa
lay supine and helpless, and, grabbing her by the asps,
took one more mighty swing with his race card,
and held her severed head before the cheering crowd.

All of Demos sang in praise, even the severed head of Hildusa
as he paraded it around the stage at Invescos
and banked it off the glass for three points.
But yet, as he exited the stage amid the cries of the rapture,
The Doritos called once more from the Table of Catering:

“Beware, fair Hero, for one last task awaits thee.”

Book the Eighth: The Contest of November

“Who dares challenge me now?” asked Obamacles. “For I am Obacles,
vanquisher of Hildusa, of whom all of Demos sing;
Make him the mightiest, so that I might find him worthy.”

“Your foe will be the grizzled warrior Crustius,” said the Doritos,
As Obamacles laughed in disbelief; for though brave Crustius
had once proved great valor in the tragic war of Namos,
He had grown old and addled sailing the Sea of Maverikus.
In years a full score he sailed, seeking the fabled Microphone of Media,
Only to crash on its shoals, lured to doom by the flattery of the Sirens.

“Be not hasty in thy hubris, Obamacles,” warned the Doritos.
“Although he is old and stranded and beset by mutineers,
grizzled Crustius is far craftier than in your imaginings.”

True to the prophesy of the Doritos, wily Crustius had a secret trick up his toga.
From his rock-strewn shipwreck he summoned Palina, huntress of Wasilla,
Whose fertile loins had many odd-named children bore,
Bristol and Trig, Dakota and Algebra, Calculus and Physed,
And yet she retained the visage and figure of a goddess.

Palina emerged from the sea, springing fully formed from a clamshell,
Brandishing the spear that had slain a thousand antlered beasts.
Once mutinous, the Crustonauts were instantly heartened,
For now they and sensed a chance at victory.

Although his pollsters warned of danger, Obamacles was stalwart
For he knew just how he got here. “Attack,” he beckoned very calmly,
And from across the land of Soros, a thousand score of demons answered;
HuffPo nutjobs, New York Kronos, the shrieking hags of talk TV,
Couric, Fey, Oprah, Behar, the hermaphrodites of NBC.

Palina was undaunted by the minions and thus she battled gamely on.
But at last she was attacked by Crustius himself;
For so addled and contrary was the wizened sailor
That he had forgotten which side he was on.
Vanquished Palina returned to Wasilla to fight another day,
While Crustius sails again, forever seeking the elusive Sirens of Media.

Book the Ninth: Obamacles Ascends to Olympus

Now behold him, brave Obamacles,
Who strides triumphant down Pennsylvania Avenue,
With Victimia at his side in a gown of golden brocade,
Hewn from the finest hotel draperies.
Behold his ascent to the marble dais to swear his oath,
Which Justice Roberts flubs; so dazzled is he
by our hero’s pure magnificence.

And behold the crowd whose number has grown to a million,
Mocking limping Chimpos as he flees to Brazos exile,
Tossing their sandals at his edifice, only to stop to hail the conquering hero.

“All hail Obamacles!” they cry, “Master of Bullshit,
Vicelord of the Chicagomon, Slayer of Hildusa,
Vanquisher of Palina. You are our new and shiny hope,
a true god amongst mortals.”

And yet once more the Oracle appears to Obamacles,
At the Inauguration Bacchanal, brought to you by Doritos.

“What now?” said Obamacles, irked at Oracle’s salty impertinence
and the interruption of his famous pop ‘n’ lock. “For I have conquered
all, and there is no challenger left in all the Beltway.”

The Oracle spoke out from the depths of the guacamole:

“I bid thee welcome to the White House
where your true test now begins:

Markets deaf to happy buzzwords
Blind to Shepard Fairey’s art,
Heeding laws of economics,
Not the wishful laws of man;

A world of of evil filled with monsters,
who are unmoved by flowery talk,
Invulnerable to race cards
or leftwing blogger insults,
Who Hope for Change in megatons.

Do not despair! For look before you,
The noble army who brought you here:
Thespians and hiphop moguls,
Graphic artists, hipster twats,
The academic scribes of Athens,
basic cable sycophants.

These are the arrows in your quiver,
for the coming epic tests;
Use them well, but first remember:
They’re waiting on those magic tricks.

Good luck with that, well-spoken hero,
I think I’ll grab a snack and watch.”

Obamacles look out onto his drooling throngs, and wept;
for then he realized then may be things even gods can’t do.

Is this man hewn from Olympus,
Sent by Zeus to save our souls?
Or a plastic dashboard Jesus
In a car he can’t control?

Will this Adonis save the planet?
Or is he fleecing golden sheep?
Ask another Muse tomorrow,
Hell if I know, it’s all Greek to me.

Burma Shave