By THE DIS-ASSOCIATED PRESS

Singing little known jingoistic jingles to the flummoxed floater inside his head, his two surveilling eyes still more terrible than a bleeding pullet, Widdledub released the convoluted plans for his high-status Ambiguous Law Library which would be headed by Jonny Yoooo with crude overseas funding located sho-nuff off-shore somewhere in the a.m. going south. 

Despite lingering concerns and opposition from southern method-actors, Blunderdick half-heartedly mentioned to Widdledub that minor republican hummingbirds like Yooo, addicted to the red sticky of downwardly spiraling empirical realities always get access to the hegemonic legal juice and can still utter flutteringly laudable lies whether re-employed as counsel or wingnutted for political profit into creamy base-butter.

Widdledub slowly climbed the 22 key steps to his new ambiguous law office as deficits of doom squelched his languorous feelings like positron props holding up the democratic future. Grabbing Siddamn's unloaded 9.11 mil. Grok Huss-Pistol from his office trophy drawer and making a gurgling sound, Widdle wobbled for a spider-hole moment. A frantic call had just come in from Blunderdick's snide-kick, Diz Blamey (not the Lizbian one).  She screeched that somewhere over the rainbow in New York City in the duo-pluvial northeastern summer; Widdledub's 9.11 bullyhorn had been designated as misplaced malice aforethought!

Media memories had never spoken so intensely to Blamey's amorphous eyes without recalling the high notes that Daddydick had reached in the good old once-upon-a-time days before big-eyed blog surveillance had broadcast Blunder's blunders.  But now, even in the absurd suburbs and urburbs across ill-ogical Amerika, ice cream wagons driven by out-of-work lefties preprogrammed to restore organic cows wheeled through her thoughts, pressing her senses toward taste-buds of tubbiness and concealed curios and digitized alibi-sexual melodies repeating without mercy, evoking dreamy days that never were, but evolving solely for this simul-contrast demo-counter to Sunday talk shows.

Under Blunderdick's outstanding anti-Constitutional orders, Dizzie's bubbles of facial anxiety nearly burst when the uptight Lamebridge police department skipped through Widdle's (so far) closed Gates and surrounded the mystery woman, Gallery Flame, who had shown up unexpectedly like an outed CIA agent in an open dart gallery, concealing Widdledub and Blunderdick's unredeemed trophy tickets for the Guantanamo Bay Closing Ceremonies. Without standing conviction, Ms. Gallery noted as an aside to Diz that a post-post-press conference strategy had yet to be instigated by the gate-keeping community concerning the content of the 9.11 Lamebridge police tapes, and who called whom a what, by any other name.

Widdle reconfiddled his pistol while twittering for dollars in reckless rhythms. (Undisclosed in olfactory fictions with pre-existing renditions, Blunderdick had once again "accidentally" stolen Widdledub's bullyhorn without asking and was thundering his own anomalous repartee into the late Liddynight air).

Dubbuns holstered his gun and tweeted his grand opening statement to the press. By now the total media circus was in town setting up for the surreptitious spectacle of Widdledub dressed distinctly in a black judge's costume with an oversized white cowboy hat floating overhead; a rhinestone Happy Trails belt wrapped snugly around his embroidered demeanor. He smiled for the cameras like a lunitary ex-ecutive and continued writing scary decisions with disappearing ink, mimicking those enacted while in office. But instead of receiving the giddy glare of anticipated pre-publicity, all spotlights suddenly whirled toward the lonely figure of the new Whitehouse Precedent.

O-BALM-AH Reveals "Social" is a Pre-Existing Condition of Humanity

Mercifully slowing down the merry-go-round of transparent Health "care" lobbyistical bummers, Precedent O-Balm-Ah simultaneously achieved vibrational epiphanies in the heads of nihilistic reporters and the beds of corrupt members of Congress concerning their imminent vacations. But chiefly aiming his wizened words to the synthetically-profitable middle masses and to the many dis/under/insured debt-laden and disabled-by-disasters "our country isn't us anymore" citizens, he announced a pronouncement affirming the pre-existing socialized nature of illness (which is no longer covered by privatized health insurance.)

Suppressing his familial health insurance history like a cancer victim on pain-killers, O-Balm-Ah calmly un-elevened the abstract health of the nation, while also disarming Widdledub of his nine-o'clock Grok with a donation of bifurcated cowboy boots and a fresh copy of his Hawaiian birth certificate.

Notwithstanding a few New Guernsey organ re-locators, the citizen's representatives had pro-formally dressed up for the public's last option, but there was not a single payer at the revolving door, other than Denny Kucinich, Anthony Weiner and 76% of the American public.

Precedent O-Balm-Ah then declared that the Constitution was still in effect, in effect, though sorely affected by perverse capitalization, consensual stupidity, and herewith unreformed profiteering of the Common Good.

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