(WASHINGTON).  Seeking to seize the initiative on healthcare reform, Senate Republicans offered up a new plan today, a plan they claim will "radically lower insurance premiums and will usher in a new era of personal responsibility."

Speaking before a small crowd on the steps of the Capitol, Senator Chuck Grassley (R-Iowa) unveiled the new initiative entitled "SGS!" or "Stop Getting Sick!" He was joined by fellow Republicans John Kyl of Arizona and Mike Enzi of Wyoming.

"We all know that healthcare must be fixed," Grassley stated, "but there are many on the other side of the aisle who'd prefer having government bureaucrats running the show. SGS! will put healthcare decisions back again in the hands of healthy, hard working Americans and out of the hands of doctors and hospitals."

"Recent non-partisan studies overwhelmingly conclude that sickness and un-wellness contribute mightily to our healthcare crisis," Grassley continued. "We are asking the American people to reject illness and unhealthiness by taking a pledge to stop getting sick!"

Senator Kyl, standing before a series of charts and diagrams, offered his assessment. "As you can see from Diagram #1, a sick or unwell person is 98% more likely to seek medical attention than a healthy individual. By stopping getting sick, insurance companies will be able to lower their premiums substantially since they know they'll be insuring people who have no intention of coming down with heart attacks or cancer or  rickets. It's time for big government to step aside and let the little guy decide his own fate."

Senator Enzi was even more vocal in his support. " As you can see from this pie chart, a populace that firmly rejects disease and malady is a healthier populace. I, for one, have just taken the SGS! pledge and I've never felt better. "

When questioned by a reporter if this new proposal was really a serious attempt at healthcare reform, Grassley fired back. "Of course it is. You can see how serious we are by the exclamation point we've attached to it!"

"But what if a person who takes the pledge gets into a car accident and breaks his arm, asked another. "Is he covered?"

Enzi eagerly fielded the question. "Accidents do happen. But they are the will of God. Many homeowners are not covered by acts of God, so why should an accident-prone person be?"

Grassley interjected. "There's also a very strong preventative care component to our plan. It begins with our kids. All children under the age of ten will be given mandatory leechings. A well-leeched child is 68% less likely to develop the croup or scurvy or consumption. And we can rid them of bad humours in the blood, including melancholy. And I know the kids will love our new fuzzy mascot "Peppy the Playful Pathogen!"

Senator Kyl giggled. "He's so cute."

Palin Claims Obama Killed Jesus

 

Bradenton, FL

October 10, 2008

 

Your Humble Reporter has seen many things in his day. But nothing compares to what I witnessed earlier today at a rally in this placid West Florida city.

Three thousand enthusiastic people packed The Bradenton Urine Center to hear Governor Sarah Palin of Alaska speak. (Bradenton, FYI, is a major exporter of clean urine and pipe cleaners.) Signs held aloft proclaimed “Media Go Home,” “Sarah for Secretary of Hotness,” and “McCain/Palin: POW and WOW!”

As the crowed anxiously awaited Governor Palin’s arrival, the Manatee High School Marching Band entertained, playing such favorites as “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and “The Theme Song from Flipper.”

A ruddy-faced man, I would guess in his early 40’s, turned to me and said, “I’d do that Palin chick in a heartbeat. What a great ass!”  I smiled back at him, not wanting to dampen his enthusiasm, but knowing full well the same “great ass” comment was often directed at Adlai Stevenson during his two Presidential campaigns. And Grover Cleveland.

The music portion of the festivities ended abruptly and a phalanx of local dignitaries took to the podium, including Edmund Bleef, Vice President of The Bradenton Urine Center.

“Welcome dear friends,” Bleef began. “As you know, urine has been the lifeblood of our fair city since 1936. We put the “Pee” in progress!” A great rush of laugher filled the arena. Your Humble Reporter pretended to chuckle for fear of being singled out as one who doesn’t appreciate a good urine joke.

Bleef continued. “But enough about me. And pee.” More guffaws. “Today, I am delighted to welcome a woman to Bradenton, a woman who comes to us all the way from the great state of Alaska, home to polar bears, Eskimos and Dr. Joel Fleischman.”

I glanced over at the Ass Man. He looked like a kid in a candy store. He was also unconsciously playing with his Zagnuts.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s give a rousing ovation to the next Vice President of these United States, Governor Sarah “The Barracuda” Palin!”

The crowd went joyfully ballistic as the Governor, stepped onstage amidst the blare of the marching band’s quizzical rendition of  “I’m Henry the Eighth I Am.”

Governor Palin waved to the wildly percolating crowd and blew a kiss towards five college-aged men, each sporting on his bare chest a large red lipstick-smudged letter. When standing together, they spelled “APNIL.”

“Spelling doesn’t count, by gosh,” the Governor cooed. “But ya know who does count? You do, doggone it!”

Ass Man hooted and howled and continued to play adroitly with his yarbles as the crowd went crazy.

“My fellow Americans,” Palin continued, “The choice that you make this November is a difficult one. Even more difficult than the one Bristol had to make after God impregnated her with his sweet holy seed. It’s a choice that will affect each and every one of you, be you white or sorta white or kinda white. It’s a choice between good and evil, right and wrong, weak and strong, bang a gong, get it on. John McCain and I are ready to serve. We are itchin’ like a mofo to take on the Washington old boys’ network!”

I burst out laughing, the irony just too damn easy. Ass Man turned to me and glared.

“Barack Hussein Mohammed Kahlil Jabari Hummus Shishkabob Obama,” Palin exhorted, “is paling around with well-known terrorists – men, who if given the chance, would have no qualms about flying passenger jets into our precious national monuments, like the Eiffel Tower and other places. Birds of a feather flock together, my friends. Barack Obama is a terrorist and is hell-bent on destroying everything we love, and that includes Pinkberry.”

Your Humble Reporter looked over to Ass Man. His penis was clearly saluting now. A sliver of bubbling drool dripped menacingly from the corner of his lower lip.

“And… and it has just come to light in a major respected publication that Senator Obama is the man who ordered the death of our Lord and savior Jesus Christ!”

I almost spit out my gums. Not gum. My gums.

“As you know, Jesus was crucified in 1983, the same year dinosaurs became extinct. Many blame the disappearance of the dinosaurs on an asteroid hitting the earth. But that isn’t the case. Dinosaurs are no longer with us because the ‘Raptors received the Rapture shortly after Jesus’s death. And that’s why France is our enemy.”

My head was spinning now. Not figuratively. Literally.

“And speaking of France, do you know that Russia is smaller than Connecticut?”

“I love you Sarah!” a balding man shouted from the front row.

“And I love you too. And Jesus loves you. And Jesus hates Barack Obama because he had him murdered. When Jesus comes back next year in his giant golden blimp pulled by a team of giant sea urchins, he will kill all the terrorists. He will slay the non-believers, be they Jewish, Muslim, or Jewish. He will punish all those who voted for Barack Obama and will wreak havoc on their ankles. Let’s have a Hallelujah!”

The crowd screamed out a holy host of horrific Hallelujahs.

“Okee dokee, gotta go now,” the Governor chirped. “Gotta go breastfeed Trig.”

Sarah Palin took a long look into the crowd, and then suddenly leaped off the stage into the waiting arms of the adoring crowd. The stunned marching band quickly dived into a strange rendition of James Brown’s “Hot Pants.”

The impromptu mosh pit lasted for what seemed an eternity as the Governor was passed from adoring sycophant to the next, her smart slit skirt revealing more leg than I’ve seen from any politician since Donald Rumsfeld.

“I gotsta get me some of that,” Ass Man bellowed as he cut a swath through the ecstatic crowd. “I’m gonna grab that ass!”

A chant of “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!” filled the cavernous hall. The Governor wore an odd, purposeful expression of pure delight. While the crazed gathering passed her from one waiting hand to another, the Governor removed a small knife hidden inside her bra, held it aloft and cried, “This is what we do to terrorists! This I what we do to Obama!”

With no hesitation, Sarah Palin took the knife and jabbed it deeply into her upper right thigh. Blood spurted out like oil in Kurdistan, spattering the faithful, some of whom lapped up the Governor’s blood as if nectar.

The college boys, whose collective chests now read “LAPNI.” smeared their naked abdomens with her hemoglobin and began to dance around like wild banshees at a wild meth-induced banshee rave.

Your Humble Reporter tried desperately to get to his cell phone camera, but the crush of the crowd made this impossible. Too late anyway. As quickly as the mosh pit had started, so too it ended.

Governor Palin, soaked in her own blood, rolled back onto the podium, rose quickly, waved to the crowd, and then shouted, “Oh gosh, I’m late for Ft. Lauderdale!”  She waved once again, smiled broadly, then disappeared into her entourage of Secret Service agents, local dignitaries, family members, and State Troopers.

And then she was gone.

Your Humbled Reporter trudged out of The Bradenton Urine Center, convinced he would never in a million years see a political spectacle like that again.

November 4th can’t come too soon.

Watching John McCain’s acceptance speech last week, I couldn’t help think of my dad. No, my father never ran for any political office nor did he fly fighter jets in Vietnam. He wasn’t even born in this country. But he loved his adopted country as much as John McCain does. And like McCain, he too was a survivor. No, he wasn’t a POW. Marty Lebovits, my father, was a survivor of Auschwitz.
 
POW or Auschwitz survivor. We’re not talking apples and oranges here. We’re talking the same apple. And the same heroism.
 
Marty was 16 years old when World War II ended. He weighed sixty-five pounds when a U.S. convoy picked him up somewhere in Austria days after his captors fled, days after he had endured a three-hundred mile march through the bitter winter winds of Poland, his only protection a thin cloth coat more suitable for soft summer nights in his native Czechoslovakia.
 
His first and most salient memory after he was rescued was the food. The food! Under the care of American doctors, Marty ate and ate, tasting exotic foods with funny names like “Jell-o” and “Spam.” Yes, Marty was raised as an Orthodox Jew, but after three years of being on the Nazi SlimFast diet, Marty knew God would forgive him the sin of spiced ham. And he continued to eat.
 
And so began his love affair with America.
 
Victims of unimaginable horror try to bury their anger in different ways. My dad buried it so deeply that it came out the other end in China. Yes, he wore the scars of Auschwitz, the ugly tattooed number on his left forearm, the buckshot wounds in his legs from his first attempted escape from Auschwitz, and the emotional scars of losing five brothers and sisters and my grandparents. But he only talked about them when asked. He was an American now. These scars were just impotent reminders. They would not dictate his life.
 
John McCain never buried his anger. He wears his anger on both sleeves, across his brow, and on his pant legs. It is chiseled into his heroic face.  He is defined by this anger. It’s what makes him tick, what makes him get up in the morning. As he admitted in the speech, as a young pilot he “liked to pick fights.” Nothing has changed.
 
As I listened to McCain speak, I thought of another similarity and a compelling disparity between these two men. It involves recklessness.
 
John McCain crashed five fighter jets. Forty years later, he chose Sarah Palin as his running mate.
 
Marty Lebovits was reckless too. He liked to tailgate on the highway at high speeds while my mom screamed at him from the passenger seat, and my sister and I pressed our small hands against the backseat hoping that dad would just slow down.
 
When you beat back death, you crave another chance to beat it back again.

But Marty never wanted to see war again. John McCain is itching for the next battle. He wants to relive Vietnam through Iraq, Iran, and, heaven forbid, Russia. But this time, he intends to win.
 
Like McCain, my father married the most glamorous woman in town and went on to become a man of some accomplishment. John McCain found it in the world of Washington politics. My dad found it as “King Marty,” the king of 8-track players in Tonawanda, New York.
 
These kinds of men come back from war with a strange sense of entitlement, a feeling that they will not be denied the pleasures of life.
 
For my dad, it was food. Grocery shopping was a childhood joy of mine. Every other Sunday morning, my mom would make a small list of items for my dad and me to pick up at Park Edge Supermarket, and every other Sunday morning my dad and I would come home with five brimming bags of groceries. Like a Czech Scarlett O’Hara, Marty Lebovits looked to the skies and cried out “As God is my witness, I will never be hungry again… now pass the whitefish.”
 
John McCain came back from his war, ditched his first wife after she was disfigured in a car accident, and then married the wealthy beer heiress Cindy. He, too, would not be denied. I do not begrudge him this, nor his seven homes and private jet. Five years of torture as a POW entitles him to these creature comforts.
 
It does not entitle him to be President of the United States.
 
The other night, I imagined my dad sitting next to me watching John McCain speak, their stories so different, but equally compelling and heart wrenching. He would’ve been confused why a man running for President could be so open about his torture. He wouldn’t understand how a man could speak so freely about the intimate details of his captivity.
 
Marty Lebovits never played the role of victim. Minutes away from the gas chamber, he buried himself underneath a pile of clothes, underneath hundreds of filthy drab shirts and pants and socks and shoes discarded by men on their way to a certain death. And Marty hid. Hours later, a forklift lifted him onto a truck, the truck drove away from the camp, and his first escape from Auschwitz began.
 
Marty Lebovits would never understand why Senator John McCain would want to play the part of victim, to use his horrible Vietnam history as a way to raise sympathy and garner votes. He would never comprehend why a true American hero would sell his victimization like a discount Motorola 8-track player.
 
Marty Lebovits, a hero in his own right, would never vote for John McCain.

Watching John McCain’s acceptance speech last week, I couldn’t help think of my dad. No, my father never ran for any political office nor did he fly fighter jets in Vietnam. He wasn’t even born in this country. But he loved his adopted country as much as John McCain does. And like McCain, he too was a survivor. No, he wasn’t a POW. Marty Lebovits, my father, was a survivor of Auschwitz.
 
POW or Auschwitz survivor. We’re not talking apples and oranges here. We’re talking the same apple. And the same heroism.
 
Marty was 16 years old when World War II ended. He weighed sixty-five pounds when a U.S. convoy picked him up somewhere in Austria days after his captors fled, days after he had endured a three-hundred mile march through the bitter winter winds of Poland, his only protection a thin cloth coat more suitable for soft summer nights in his native Czechoslovakia.
 
His first and most salient memory after he was rescued was the food. The food! Under the care of American doctors, Marty ate and ate, tasting exotic foods with funny names like “Jell-o” and “Spam.” Yes, Marty was raised as an Orthodox Jew, but after three years of being on the Nazi SlimFast diet, Marty knew God would forgive him the sin of spiced ham. And he continued to eat.
 
And so began his love affair with America.
 
Victims of unimaginable horror try to bury their anger in different ways. My dad buried it so deeply that it came out the other end in China. Yes, he wore the scars of Auschwitz, the ugly tattooed number on his left forearm, the buckshot wounds in his legs from his first attempted escape from Auschwitz, and the emotional scars of losing five brothers and sisters and my grandparents. But he only talked about them when asked. He was an American now. These scars were just impotent reminders. They would not dictate his life.
 
John McCain never buried his anger. He wears his anger on both sleeves, across his brow, and on his pant legs. It is chiseled into his heroic face.  He is defined by this anger. It’s what makes him tick, what makes him get up in the morning. As he admitted in the speech, as a young pilot he “liked to pick fights.” Nothing has changed.
 
As I listened to McCain speak, I thought of another similarity and a compelling disparity between these two men. It involves recklessness.
 
John McCain crashed five fighter jets. Forty years later, he chose Sarah Palin as his running mate.
 
Marty Lebovits was reckless too. He liked to tailgate on the highway at high speeds while my mom screamed at him from the passenger seat, and my sister and I pressed our small hands against the backseat hoping that dad would just slow down.
 
When you beat back death, you crave another chance to beat it back again.

But Marty never wanted to see war again. John McCain is itching for the next battle. He wants to relive Vietnam through Iraq, Iran, and, heaven forbid, Russia. But this time, he intends to win.
 
Like McCain, my father married the most glamorous woman in town and went on to become a man of some accomplishment. John McCain found it in the world of Washington politics. My dad found it as “King Marty,” the king of 8-track players in Tonawanda, New York.
 
These kinds of men come back from war with a strange sense of entitlement, a feeling that they will not be denied the pleasures of life.
 
For my dad, it was food. Grocery shopping was a childhood joy of mine. Every other Sunday morning, my mom would make a small list of items for my dad and me to pick up at Park Edge Supermarket, and every other Sunday morning my dad and I would come home with five brimming bags of groceries. Like a Czech Scarlett O’Hara, Marty Lebovits looked to the skies and cried out “As God is my witness, I will never be hungry again… now pass the whitefish.”
 
John McCain came back from his war, ditched his first wife after she was disfigured in a car accident, and then married the wealthy beer heiress Cindy. He, too, would not be denied. I do not begrudge him this, nor his seven homes and private jet. Five years of torture as a POW entitles him to these creature comforts.
 
It does not entitle him to be President of the United States.
 
The other night, I imagined my dad sitting next to me watching John McCain speak, their stories so different, but equally compelling and heart wrenching. He would’ve been confused why a man running for President could be so open about his torture. He wouldn’t understand how a man could speak so freely about the intimate details of his captivity.
 
Marty Lebovits never played the role of victim. Minutes away from the gas chamber, he buried himself underneath a pile of clothes, underneath hundreds of filthy drab shirts and pants and socks and shoes discarded by men on their way to a certain death. And Marty hid. Hours later, a forklift lifted him onto a truck, the truck drove away from the camp, and his first escape from Auschwitz began.
 
Marty Lebovits would never understand why Senator John McCain would want to play the part of victim, to use his horrible Vietnam history as a way to raise sympathy and garner votes. He would never comprehend why a true American hero would sell his victimization like a discount Motorola 8-track player.
 
Marty Lebovits, a hero in his own right, would never vote for John McCain.

In political campaigns, truth will out. It’s painfully obvious that Barack Obama is a Muslim. It’s not just his middle name that’s a giveaway. It’s also the fact he insists on facing Mecca five times a day. I’ve seen the videos. He might as well just scream out “Allah Akhbar!” at every rally. After all, when has The New Yorker ever been wrong? Lost in all of this, however, is perhaps an even more troubling story, a story the mainstream media is reluctant to report. We all know about John McCain’s capture and subsequent torture at the hands of the North Vietnamese. His heroism is well documented. What is not known however is that while imprisoned, McCain was given a small gift: a microchip implanted in his left temporal lobe.  Encoded in this chip are instructions from his Vietnamese masters. It is only a matter of time before McCain acts on these orders. While visiting Hanoi last week for Zagat’s Guide to Puppy Restaurants, I was fortunate enough to meet Xio Lin Cho, a former NVA soldier and one of McCain’s interrogators at The Hanoi Hilton. Over a traditional lunch of cha gio, bánh chưng, and broiled Shar-Pei, the old lieutenant explained how McCain’s brain had been hotwired. “It was a very simple procedure,” Xio recalled. “Virtually painless. Mr. McCain was conscious throughout and even joked that he wanted another chip implanted is his penis, which he called “his other little brain.” I asked him what sort of commands had been programmed and how the American public would know when Senator McCain was prepared to act. Would there be any warning signs? Xio smiled, a piece of puppy dangling from a molar. “You have already seen the signs.Mr. McCain was instructed to marry a blonde heiress with strong beer connections. He briefly dated the St. Pauli Girl and the Coors Swedish Bikini Team before he settled on his current wife Cindy.” He leaned in, a smile breaking every so slightly. “When you say ‘Bud’…” Xio chuckled and used his small hands to imitate some sort of explosion. “Do you want another sign?” Xio asked. I nodded emphatically.  “When Mr. McCain speaks of ‘Czechoslovakia,’ it is not by accident. Back in 1969, there was a Czechoslovakia, and Mr. McCain still believes this is so. The word ‘Czechoslovakia’ is the first indicator that his final orders have been initiated. I was stunned, so stunned that not even the delicious lightly seared Shar-Pei could hold my attention. I begged him for more information. Xio lowered his eyes. “On Inauguration Day 2009, John McCain will walk up to the podium to take the oath of office. At the exact moment he says “So help me God,” something will happen that will make your 9/11 seem like a firecracker.” “What? What?” I implored. “I have said too much already.” Xio turned to the waitress and asked for a doggy bag, not fully getting the irony. “But what if Obama wins? Then we’ll be okay, right?” Xio stood up and bowed. “That cannot happen. Mr. McCain will make sure it will not happen.” And with that, the frail Xio walked away, leaving me alone with a thousand questions and the reasonable lunch bill. The waitress leaned over. “Comrade Xio always speaks the truth, but he left out one important thing.” It was days later before I found out what she meant, in a fax sent to my hotel.  The cunning Xio indeed had left out one thing. It is not my intent to scare or tease my readers. Suffice it to say, John Muhammed McCain is a Shi'ite.