FELLOW CITIZENS OF THE REPUBLIC:
If you don't get the San Jose Mercury News, you missed another great moment in advertising this morning. On the next-to-last page of the sports section was the following full-page ad for Ultra-Clenz (and as Arnold the Gov is my witness, I'm not making up a word of this ad):
CONSTIPATED? BLOATED? IRRITABLE BOWELS?
(Well, who isn't?)
ULTRA-CLENZ: AMAZING NEW HERBAL CLEANSING FORMULA FLUSHES OUT THE HARMFUL, ENERGY-DRAINING FECAL MATTER DECAYING INSIDE YOUR BODY.
(No time to order the product, I'll just have to perform emergency open-bowel surgery with my butter knife. It's either that or walk around all day with "harmful, energy-draining fe...", well, you get the point)
TESTIMONIALS:
"I'M FINALLY REGULAR AGAIN, EVERY SINGLE DAY!"
(Who says nothing ever happens in my life?)
"NO MORE IRRITABLE BOWELS!"
(Now all I have to worry about are Social Security tanking and my kid wrecking the car.)
So it got me to thinking that maybe this medical condition is to blame for the malaise in our country today. (You don't know about the malaise? Didn't you get the memo?) It's like the movies when the aliens invade and they look like us. Once you've seen one, then you begin to see them everywhere. Could we be a nation in the throes of Bowel-Related Distress (BRD)? I decided to find out.
So I immediately turned on Fox (aka American Pravda) and, boy, there are some people in high places with, if not irritable bowels, at least extremely agitated ones. Take Dick Cheney (please). Bowels, hell, the man looks as though his entire repertoire of internal organs, kidneys, liver, heart, lungs, adrenal glands (whatever they are), maybe even a fair amount of connective tissue, are at war with each other. "Irritable" doesn't begin to tell the tale. Seriously, can you imagine this man tucking you in bed at night? Or pushing a three-year-old in a playground swing? (Can you say "liftoff"?) What does he do for fun, bite the heads off live chickens? What you CAN imagine him doing is dipping into the till for himself and his Halliburton friends. Ka-ching, ka-ching. Sounds like a classic case of BRD to me. As a public service to the republic, a risk-free trial of Ultra-Clenz is now on its way to the Veep.
That felt good. That felt GREAT!!! A little giddy with all this new-found power! I CAN CHANGE THE WORLD!!! Who's next? Rumsfeld! Of course. What a stand-up comedian this guy is! Did you see "Fahrenheit 9/11?" The guy had me in stitches, going on and on about our precision, laser-guided, high-tech, can't-miss weapons, comparing them to surgical tools, scalpels. They were howling down at the Veteran's Hall, let me tell you. Scalpels, all right, they were wielding them in Baghdad to whack off all manner of now-unusable body parts of injured civilians, er, I mean, terrorist women and children. (And while we're on the subject, what's with that H in Baghdad? It's BAG-DAD, not BAG-HUH-DAD. Do we really have time for unpronounced letters, what with Bin Laden running around loose, BRD, and everything else that's going on now? Let's invoke the Patriot Act and get rid of that ridiculous H! It's gotta be in there somewhere, I think Michael Moore read that part from the ice cream truck.) I doubt that Iraq will be much of a market for Ultra-Clenz any time soon, all the bombing and shooting loosens up the old bowels just fine. And some of them don't even have bowels anymore to get irritable. But back to Rumsfeld. A little Ultra-Clenz would put a smile back on his face like that fecal-matter grin he had when the war in Iraq was finally declared "over." ( If you're keeping score at home, we won. According to my notes, the war ended over a year ago. Must be comforting to the families of the soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen who are still dying in Iraq.) Call the 800 number, bam! Rumsfeld's been Ultra-Clenzed.
The whole day was like that, watching the news, picking up the phone, cleaning out the, uh, you know, everywhere I could find it. I could go on, but you get the drift. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. I've decided to chuck my job, sell my house, and set off to change the world, one asshole at a time. You'll soon see me coming down your street in my little olive-drab converted ice cream truck, the loudspeaker playing farting sounds, stopping at every street corner to sell Ultra-Clenz to the unpooped masses. Don't thank me, ma'am, just doing my part to make the world safe for number two.
And who knows? If this thing works out, they may laud me for generations to come, build monuments to me, celebrate my exploits with heroic poetry, a latter-day Paul Revere rescuing the nation once again from tyranny:
Listen my children and you shall hear,How one man saved the American rear.
From 9/11 the nation he did rouse
To confront their collective irritable bowels
And away from Bush the country to steer.
(Apologies to Longfellow, who probably had his share of BRD.)
CLUELESS IN BLOGLAND, aka THE ULTRA-CLENZ KID
July 19, 2004
(click below for tee-shirt design)
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