Accessories include a tanning bed, a pink and green plaid golf outfit and whiskey glasses with "FUCK THE POOR, AND FUCK YOU TOO" written into the bottom. There's a whole set of golf clubs, made by Beretta, and a golf cart made by Hummer with an Ayn Rand hood ornament and "KOCHONUTS" emblazoned on the back.
The golf clubs double as assault weapons which fire out the shaft. There's NEWT THE NEWT, a used car sales doll selling only cars known to have failed and presumed to fail again. Accessories are a bunch of different cars, including the Chevron IMPALER, the Christer IMPERIUM and Ford FUCKUS. There are many more.
There's a reproduction of the car lot itself on a board in miniature: "SUPPLY SIDE AUTO SALES, a division of RISING TIDE ENTERPRISES." Their motto: "IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT." Also: "NO TREAD ON ME." If they're closed there will be a sign on the door: "Out squandering other people's hard-earned money." The salesmen are taught that anyone who buys a car there gets what they deserve.
And MITCH THE BITCH, a doll in drag with glasses. There are attributes of a frog. Mitch is into submission. At an existential level. The MITCH doll comes posed bent over on its knees with its skirt hiked and ass in the air. Corporate Contributors love this one and have it in their offices.
Reminding them that Mitch will always do what they want. To cover the enticing parts for everyday use, since the doll is a bit NSFW, you can attach little placards to the doll's ass, with ready-made sayings. Like: TAX THIS, ASSHOLE. I DARE YOU; TAX THIS ASSHOLE. I DARE YOU.
The Michele Bachmann doll is called MY LITTLE CHICKADEE and is styled on Mae West. And a chicken. She looks great with that tuft of feathers on her ass. Really sets it off. Her cohort, the Mike Huckabee doll, is styled on W. C. Fields and is named HUCKSTER.
Huck for short. His totem animal is the turtle. Huck is a card sharp and preacher. Chickie is an entertainer. Really she's just entertaining. They hang out at Oinker John's tavern, THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, where all the drinks are free. You get paid to drink, in fact, pro rata.
Huck and Chickie are at the bar all the time.They make their living there one way or another. And the living is easy, the economics of the place being based on the plantation model.
There's a yearly festival, called HUCKABALOO, which is all garage bands and go-go dancing, in celebration of another year's successful existence at the expense of others. The dancers are called THE KOCHETTES and they excel at the WATUSI.
An economy should work like poker, kind of. Mostly skill and determination with an irreducible element of chance. On average you'll do as well as you should. But not at the tables in Boehner's bar. Not the way they play it. Huck believes in predestination. He is predestined to win and you to lose.
So it doesn't matter how this is accomplished. It is God's will. So it's no problem if you cheat or lie or steal. Or kill someone, if it comes to that, in the furtherance of His will. As discerned by you. Meaning Huck. Or Rush or someone from HATE RADIO, their reliable source on matters divine. You have a prequalification letter for heaven, see.
Too cool. The prequal came from Jesus or Jerry (Falwell) or Jimmy (Swaggert) or maybe that other Jerry (Springer). No matter. All reliable sources. Once you have accepted Jesus into your heart you are transformed. Into the best fucking card player on the planet, in Huck's case, since he can cheat with impunity.
It would be hard to come up with something better if you just made shit up, and it comes from God. A plunderer's dream-come-true, this ethos. So Huck always wins. Now TFG is the only bar in town. The only Republican bar, I mean. It's a virtual seat of government. Autonomous as hell.
Republicans, between you and me, actually despise competition. It's just too much trouble. Why go through the headache when you've got the prequal and all. And money. Fucking pots of it. So you love privilege. The leg-up. The easy-in. The legacy. The monopoly.
Now the Democrat (sic) bars are a shambles. You have to pay to drink, my God. And the stuff's taxed. That's the kind of crap competition gives you. Fair play. Rules. Accountability. Uncertain outcomes. And other inhibitions to the unbridled accumulation of capital. Screw that.
At Oinker's there are dart boards with really phallic-looking darts. Some of them have balls, even. Hell, they're dildos. Pointy dildos. You can imagine what the boards look like. Not always what you would think, though, since PUNKY SKUNK, Ricky Santorum, is in charge. He has quite the imagination on sexual matters. The darts look great but are horrible as projectiles.
In the basement there's a rifle range with live targets brought over from Guantanamo. The shooters are not allowed to fire at the face, out of compassion. Many of the members are bad shots, though--so few have been in the military--so, well, stuff happens. It doesn't help that they're usually high on something. JOLLY OLLIE "OTTER" NORTH presides.
There's a venue for the dog fights, also downstairs. Lindsey "CRACKER" Graham runs it. He looks and behaves more or less like DONALD DUCK. Throws great tantrums when things don't go his way. Dog fights are an honored tradition where Cracker comes from. And the official sport of the tavern.
Though they have plans for a race track down the road, with demolition derbies using Newt's cars. Newt will then resell them as "distressed," for more money because of the provenance. It is expected that working class Republicans will grab them up because of the cachet, using them as yard art if they're no longer driveable.
There's drug dealing and prostitution upstairs, both technically illegal, but the demand is high. That prequal is just so handy. No need to worry if you sin your head off. Lobbyists rent rooms for extended periods, and are at home there to the extent that they can't be distinguished from the drug dealers and sex workers.
Some of the rooms are named in honor of notables. The POW-WOW ROOM for Jack "WOLFBOY" Abramoff, for example, in recognition of his outstanding work screwing Native Americans. The rooms can be rented on any terms, by the minute or indefinitely.
Huck checks everyone at the door. Members, the insiders, Republicans, in other words, have membership cards with religious imagery. Huck questions even the regulars on their required conversion experience to make sure they are true to the Lord. It's unclear whether this refers to a church experience or some kind of pledge they take at GROVER'S PLACE, another Republican hangout, a kind of frat house.
Their hands are stamped "SAVED" and Huck says "Welcome to the New Jerusalem" as each member enters, a little ritual they all love. Many nights Oinker John himself is behind the bar, gavel at the ready. Occasionally Oinker crashes it down on someone's hand, smashing a joint or two, just for fun.
The drinks have great names...
The house band, ANIMOSITY, is fronted by Ann Coulter. She's unbelievably terrible. She tries to channel Janis Joplin. It just doesn't work but nobody is willing to tell her. Her bandmates have industrial ear plugs. They wear matching brown shirts, a kind of uniform. James O'Keefe is on drums. Not that he has rhythm. My God, the screeching: "Down on me, oh, down on me..."
PALEFACES also plays there regularly, as does THE K STREET CONCUBINES... THE WRECKING CREW... DUE PROCESS... DUCK AND COVER... DICK'S DYNASTY... THE INBREDS...
The whole music scene at the bar owes a huge debt to Lee "POSTAL BLOWFISH" Atwater, who pioneered the thing, to say nothing of his efforts to destroy the U.S. political system. His techniques there are still state-of-the-art. What a loss, when he passed.
Late at night, when everyone's all sodden and sentimental-feeling, they sing the classic: "HE AIN'T HEAVY, HE'S MY BROKER." The tears flow. Oinker himself leads the singing, weeping profusely. They also love to groove out on "GRAZING IN THE GRASS," a la THE FRIENDS OF DISTINCTION.
I think it's because so many Republicans are born kind of out-to-pasture, that they love this song. They get fat grazing that Halliburton grass, or whatever, and then declare themselves to be hard-working, self-made types, models of independence and productivity.
Meanwhile they fence hell out of the pasture. It's not a matter of opportunity for them but of appetite. How much can you eat. How hungry are you. And they're very sensitive about all that privilege. Very protective. Understandably.
There's a game called WHACK-A-DOLE in an area of the bar reserved for reviling Republicans who have lost elections. In keeping with doctrine they are assumed to be out of favor with God, or Grover or somebody, for having lost. They used the real Bob Dole before he died.
And a life-size Sarah Palin machine doll-like contraption. You put money in somewhere and crank her arm and she says the most inane, amusing things. She makes non-sequiters look like profundities and sequiters and shit. She's dressed in a skimpy outfit. You want to reach out and.... Holy Mother of Jesus, it really IS Sarah Palin.
OINKER JOHN has passed a bill having the whole place declared a sovereign entity, the block they own, so there's no end to the interesting stuff going on. Like Vatican City. There's sub-basement after sub-basement, increasing in secrecy and security as you move downwards.
There's a museum with artefacts of all the great victories and other cool stuff. I mean, they have Grover's actual bath-tub. There are ceremonies there whenever someone is honored for adding hugely to the budget deficit. Red liquid is poured into the tub. There's a rickety toy boat, called THE SHIP OF STATE, bobbing in the red liquid. They seem terrified by it and scream insults.
Hard to understand. It's the boat we all came in on. Ensured all the opportunities and such. What's left of them. Some poor guy, an aged, soon-to-retire moderate Republican, starting screaming something about OEDIPUS upon entering the area. He was shot on the spot. He died mumbling about authority issues and wanting to destroy the fathers. No, sorry, Founding Fathers. That was it.
Another congressman jumped into the tub in an excess of enthusiasm as he was honored for a trifecta. That's a simultaneous lowering of taxes on the rich, raising of spending on defense and reduction in social welfare benefits. The fool, screaming his head off, was consumed by the liquid which is of course corrosive as hell.
The HALL OF FAME honors those who have given to the cause to the greatest degree...
There's a place where the BB's themselves are birthed. WHORELY TIT hangs out there, the birther queen, to keep up her skills in determining authenticity on that whole front. Makes sure the BABIES are natural-born. Wait, oh my God, Oinker made it, the bar and its complex, an autonomous state. They're not citizens, the BOEHNER BABIES. But WHORELY declares them natural-born anyway.
Baptizes them Americans. It's so great being able to just make stuff up. Also she's a dentist. Birther dentist. She helps out in the torture, ahem, "enhanced interrogation," room next to the firing range, where they take a last crack at those Muslims before they become targets.
In another room there's a Tea Party which never ends, hosted by Ted TEDDY BEAR Cruz. His side-kick is BUZZ THE BUZZARD, Rand Paul. BUZZ lives for the day when TEDDY becomes road-kill. They're all in top hats. Or bowlers. Not exactly Fred Astaire, for sure. Incongruous. Not on BUZZ, actually. He looks good in his. Kind of dapper.
For a vulture. TEDDY is clueless about everything but he's all preachy and vigorous in his opinions, and extremely intolerant of disagreement. He does indignation very well. That's his strength. Behind his back they all call him Oddjob. It's said he fantasizes about decapitating someone with his hat. Practices with it.
Makes you wonder maybe who's Goldfinger in the Republican scheme. They do seem to be on a world domination kick. Anyway, BUZZ is scary. Cold and calculating. Patient. And always hungry. Thankful for that firing range and the dog fights.
He's superior, too. Has an attitude. Very aware we're all one click away from meat-hood. One NRA kind of click. They installed a big tree branch in the room and he sits on that, observing everything.The Tea Party room is poorly staged.
They were terrified they'd accidently hire a gay guy to design and build the sets. The budget was immense. Something went awry anyway. They wanted Revolutionary Boston and got ALICE IN WONDERLAND. Vibrant 60's colors. They don't walk around the room, they dance. Glide. Very gay, actually.
They didn't even notice the problem with the theme. All bat-shit crazy. The tea is tainted with mercury and other bad stuff. From the plumbing.They made a point of hiring only subs with FUCK THE EPA bumper stickers. So the plumber used some old stock with lead and mercury in it for the pipes and fixtures.
Same with the teakettle and utensils. It's a mighty toxic tea party. BUZZ doesn't eat or drink there. He only does carrion. Evidently they're like the original assassins. Stoned shock troops. Brain impaired. Under the influence. Or those guys in Somalia. Ripped on something. Drones. Kamikazes. Cruz missiles.
Super destructive. The Tea Party people are purists. Puritans. They will not enter any of the venues where the sordid stuff, as they see it, goes down. They think they're better than everybody else. Wins a lot of friends, as you can imagine, but people don't fuck with them. Because you want them on your side.
Money is printed on one floor in anticipation of the day when the real federal government collapses utterly. Republicans will then formally take over, though it won't look much different from the way it does now, since the Democrats are already completely powerless.
How is it they don't see this, the Democrats, and carry on as though they matter? This puzzles even Republicans, but it works out great since they can continue to blame the Democrats for everything.
There's a bank, of course, adjacent to the money printing apparatus, which only launders money for the rich and engages in tax avoidance, the BANK OF CREDIT AND CONVERGENCE, run by Paul CROC-A-DOC Ryan. He's a croc. He also oversees the money factory. Ayn Rand is pictured on the bills. All of them. In different poses. She's a fixation of his.
To say the books are unbalanced assumes a standard not even known to exist at this bank. Money, called MANNA here, or MAMA, or MAMMORY maybe, I could never make it out, seems to appear out of nowhere. And I mean the real stuff, greenbacks, not their crap, called GALTS.
BCC is a subsidiary of SATYRICORP, a picaresque entity, meaning a shell of seemingly loosely connected parts. In reality the evanescence masks an unbelievable level of cohesion and directedness. It's a monster modelled on the Cali cartel.
Everything on paper is in story form, so the deniability is huge. They call the articles of incorporation "fables," and the written records "parables" or "vignettes," so everything can be construed on the fly, to their liking.
The tellers at this particular branch are all buxom women in great revealing outfits, out of respect for women generally and their wonderful tits. The bank functions like a huge beneficent tit, in fact, since you can take money out without putting any in.
This is the TAO OF REPUBLICANISM, the revered PATH or WAY, which is simply honoring the most primitive and honest and honorable of human desires, to be suckled forever. God created the human race this way, in His image, so it must be respected or bad shit will surely happen.
I wonder if God...? The tit must be, well, indescribable. The symbol for the TAO is a solid circle with a pinkish, smaller round area in the middle. Looks like a Lichtenstein. Or a Wesselmann. Republican men can be treated for sexual problems at a clinic.
Very, very secret, as you can imagine. An unmarked door. A woman answers in non-clinical looking garb with deep decolletage. You say the pass phrase: "My sword is blunted." The attendent asks, "who are you?" To which you must answer, "Oh, a Lucky Man," to be admitted.
Wet nurses are on hand and used if the treatment, erotic-shock, fails, which it always does. This is overseen by MARKY MARCUS, Michele's real-life husband, who has a special interest or expertise in the treatment of sexual problems. With a success rate of zero, across the board.
Which is never a problem for Republicans. You should see the HALL OF FAME. Bremers and Bushes, one after another. A HALL OF FAILURE, really. It reassures them of their potency, that they don't have to be good at anything and can still have lives of ever-increasing power and position.
They can be incompetent and arbitrary, and fail and still get promoted, no matter how badly they fuck up. To heaven, ultimately. My God, that prequal. What a powerful thing it is. Real time absolution for everything. And real time reassurance of your rightness.
No matter what you do. Anyway, the patients at the sex clinic, having failed at STIMULUS or STIMULATION, as it is called, are well suckled and turned loose. Ready to screw up some more. Anything but grow up. That they will never do.
Rush, Karl, Mitch, Newt, most of the pasty people, the fat, white, Republican Ascended Masters (RAM's) have been through the clinic. This is why they are so against any kind of stimulus, I suppose. They assume other people are as inert as they are, and as dependent.
They can return to the clinic and suckle as necessary to keep their strength up. ORAL SUPPORT, this is called. Many levels down is the Operations and Control Center, code-named Strange-Love. The staff is never allowed to leave the Center, let alone the building, for security reasons.
At the very lowest level is the power source, the Nuclear Power-Tit. There's a large octagonal room with a geodesic ceiling. An absolutely enormous, perfectly symmetrical tit sits flat in the middle of the room with a tubular structure arising out of the center.
I had wondered what the tube was, having seen it projecting through the upper floors, and was always told, evasively, "the utility core." I thought it was a silo for an ICBM, an Intra-Continental Ballistic Missile, knowing how Republicans are about security.
A guy named WOODIE is chief engineer, Eric Cantor. He mistook the tube, a cooling tower, for a tree and kept pecking at it, as woodpeckers will do. The tit emits a distinctive hum.
Nuclear waste is flushed down the toilets, on the advice of their technical staff, after consultation with the private corporations supplying the fuel. Their greatest fear is that the toilets will back up.
And the crap the lobbyists, sex-workers and drug dealers put down the toilets, you just can't imagine. It's difficult when, for all their lives, Republicans have been taught to take all the good stuff and dump shit wherever you can, to get them to behave in this one instance. But it was the bankers.
The bankers did them in. The cash coming in was just inconceivable, more than they could launder in a lifetime, so they began to flush the smaller bills down the toilet. Twenties and under. The lowest of the low were forced to do this, the people making hourly wage, for whom the Republicans' contempt is vast.
Maybe it was sabotage, those folks with nothing flushing all that cash. We'll never know. But you need reliable people in lowly jobs, to be sure, and the Republicans don't get this. You get reliable people by paying them well and treating them decently.
Anyway, the toilets did back up and some sadist, by remote control or automation, locked the place down. They were all trapped in a sea of sludge, radioactive as hell, and died swimming in shit and money. Only one person is thought to have gotten out.
A mysterious character called THE WICHITA LINEMAN, whose job it was to maintain an enormous cable or conduit running West out of the building and labelled "Wichita." There seems to have been an escape plan for him alone, or he may have executed the lockdown and then fled.
All those colorful characters, the BOEHNER BABIES, lost forever. An ignoble end. It makes me so sad, in spite of their corruption. They were so much fun in an end-times, Sodom and Gomorrah kind of way. They really were only doing what we all would do, given the chance, living like the most unbelievable pigs ever.
That's the assumption. Wouldn't you?
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