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So, I decided I would listen as well, and this is what I heard:
“I want to have the respect of a congressman. Well, more respect than that, really.
“I want to talk like a congressman. But without being two faced.
“However I can be of use,” he continued, “I’ll bust my little buns for this country! I’ll work my pecks and abs so hard for you people, I might just burst outta my blouse!
“The next President will have to put a stop to our little fatties gorging themselves sick on junk foods! He’s got to get their little fannies off the sofas and make them do some exercise! That’s where I come in!
“I’m gonna shove this Congress in the right direction the way I shove food away from a fat lady’s face! I’m gonna force this government’s hand the way I force a big fat fatty’s hand away from the donuts! I’m gonna twist up this big country of ours the way I twist the wrist of an obese man with a candy bar!”
There were loud cheers and applause from the crowd, except for the really fat people.
Being somewhat overweight myself, I felt a bit depressed about my size, and decided to make the pain go away with a nice Hershey’s Bar I just happened to have in my pocket.
When a reporter somewhere near the front of the stage asked Mr. Simmons if he would really consider running for Congress, he responded as such:
“If my country wants me, and I mean really wants me, the way I wake up everyday and want to stuff my face until I need hospitalization, but don’t, because I worked so very, very hard to become so very, very thin and gorgeous, then I will work just as hard for this country!”
Someone then asked Mr. Simmons what he intends to do immediately following this stage address to prepare himself for the possibility of a Congressional position.
Then Mr. Simmons took several bows to a standing ovation and skipped, danced, and leapt off the stage, exiting left.
All in all, considering the fat cats in power, this Bastard reporter believes Richard Simmons to be an excellent candidate to shore up Congress.
This Bastard reporter went to check out the latest in spa pampering: John Ho’s Tiny Carp Pedicure.
These tiny warm water toothless fish from Turkey have been a huge success in the spa industry.
Said John Ho, “I wiwy woff dees feesh!”
And after he stated this, I found someone who could actually speak fluent English.
Said his Americanized employee, “The people come from all over to have their feet pampered by the fish. They absolutely love it! I get told all the time how wonderful they feel afterward. And how much it tickles!”
When I asked about the future of the Tiny Carp Pedicure, she gave this statement:
“Such as,” I prompted.
“Well,” she continued, “we had several test subjects get into the pool with the Tiny Carp. Most were women. A few men. Gay or sexually confused I’m sure.”
I asked what made her think that the men must be gay or sexually confused.
“Are you serious? Think about it. What straight guy is going to get a pedicure…in a pool with other guys…naked…with a bunch of tiny fish nibbling them?”
“Well, when you have men and women of different ages and different backgrounds, their bodies are all different as well. Some tight in some spots, some loose in spots.”
I told her I didn’t quite follow her, and would she just get to the goddamn point.
She gave me vicious look and hatefully blurted out, “The goddamn fish made their way up the old lady’s saggy pussies and the gay men’s loose assholes! Is that what you wanted to fucking know? Now get out of here you jackass!”
“Oh, shit! Thank you!,” I said, and made my way quickly out the door.
He told me that his mother had gotten wind of the new Tiny Carp Pedicure Salon and that she intended to open her own version as soon as she was financially able.
When I asked what her version of the pedicure would entail, he responded with this:
When I asked him, “What the hell?” He explained it as such:
“Well, her idea is to have several playpen areas with about 20 puppies in each. People will get naked and lay on a mat in the center of the pen and let the puppies lick and nibble their bodies. Oh, and she said that if they have an orgasm, that’s ok, too!
I thanked him for the info, hung up, went into the pub, and drank myself into a stupor.
In this Bastard reporter’s opinion, there are too many sick fucks and not enough good fucks on this planet.
This Bastard reporter traveled to Austin, Texas, to get the scoop on the new wind power project to bring much needed electricity to sprawling urban areas.
“Ya know, folks think ‘bout the Dallas Cowboys and the Texas Longhorns and all the ‘Big Oil’ in these here Southern parts, but, in ‘round 10 ‘er so years, they’ll be stewin’ on the new ‘lectricity this here plan is gonna have for them. That orta put a bee in their bonnets!”
Not speaking ‘Texan’ myself, I simply tried to follow every other word and piece together a reasonable understanding of what he was saying.
I also wrote down the exact words used in this conversation to let you try as well.
When I asked him what the plan is for this new concept for creating electricity, he gave me this answer:
“Well, ya see young man, we’s gonna take all them Congress folks, Demicrats an Publicans alike, long with all the other big wigs and the no count Presydent hisself, and put ‘em all on top those two hills.
Get the Demicrats and whatnots on one hilltop and the Publicans and their whatnots on the othern. Then, we gets them to start bickerin’ back an forth at ones nother ’ bout gay marriage or sums such, and they’ll power them big windmills out there.
Ain’t nothin’ more powerful than the wind comin’ out the mouth of the evil bunch from Worshington! Ain’t no winds blow any harder than what they’s a spewin’!”
When I asked what all this means for the sprawling urban public, he smiled, spit out some of his chewing tobacco, lifted his cowboy hat, scratched his scalp, and turned to look off into the distance for a short while, as he said, “Well….”
After nearly 10 minutes, when he finally turned back to face me, he completed his thought as such:
“I guess it means they’ll be a drawin’ ‘bout somewhere ‘round 18,000 of them there megeewatts. That’s a gonna light up 4 million ‘er so homes ‘round here, ya know? I think that’s a good thang, don’t you? Perty fancy ‘rithmetic, though. Perty fancy.”
“Shore is,” said Drew Thornley, a policy analyst for the organization, as he sat down next to Mr. Woodson.
“But, ya know what?,” Mr. Thornley continued, “The wind don’t blow an the sun don’t shine all the time! We’s gonna hafta still make use of natral reserces. We can’t has perfek weather all the time. Even in Texas!”
“But we sure got the purtiest bluebonnets ya ever did see,” added Mr. Woodson.
I thanked them both, borrowed a handkerchief from Mr. Woodson to wipe his tobacco spit off my shoe, and made my way to the airport.
All in all, this Bastard reporter is truly amazed that inbred southerners can be creative while mentally incompetent at the same time.