My My My My My Michelle

Michelle Bachmann has announced that she is serving her last term in congress. She will not seek re-election in 2014. I can only assume it’s because her mother race of aliens will be entering earth’s atmosphere to pick Michelle up and take her back home for debriefing: Her job here as an extraterrestrial spy will be done. It’s time to use the information Michelle has gathered.

The people of Minnesota should be relieved that the hallucinogenic drugs that have laced their drinking water the last 8 years tricking them to continue to vote for Michelle will now be weaned out of the state’s water supply. Also, I believe the Amazing Kreskin will be appearing on local television to do a mass hypnosis event to help bring the populace back to normalcy.

Fellow Republicans should also be relieved that they won’t have to answer questions any longer like “What’s wrong with Michelle Bachmann?”, “What the hell is wrong with Michelle Bachmann?” and “Holy God, what in the shitting hell is wrong with Michelle Bachmann?”

Democrats I’m sure are a little concerned. When questioned about Minnesota politics they will now need more substantive answers than making a cuckoo sound and twirling a finger at the side of their heads.

As for me, I have made fun of Michelle in this blog repeatedly because she is a lunatic. I think I once called her “bat-shit crazy” but even that doesn’t do her psychosis justice. I’ll never forget the day she mixed up the actor John Wayne with serial killer John Wayne Gacey. How I laughed that day: Such a sweet, fulfilling memory. I remember my introduction to Michelle was an interview with Chris Matthews where she tried to channel Joe McCarthy and call for an investigation into congress for representatives that hated America. When the media contacted McCarthy’s ghost he just sighed and lit up a Kent. No, Michelle was no Joe McCarthy.

Michelle is more of a paranoid schizophrenic. When she walks down the street conspiracies, hulking and sweating liberalism, jump out at her from every doorway. She tries to fight them off with her crazy eyes and rambling speeches blaming Democrats for everything from swine flu to teenagers wanting to volunteer. But no matter how fast she runs the mass, always leaning to the left, catches Michelle in its globular arms, bleating in her ear “Obamacare! Obamacare! Obamacare!”

I’m going to miss Michelle.

On the Run

Shhh. Don’t tell anyone I’m here. I’m hiding out from the IRS. About a year ago I joined a group called Big Dave’s Tea Parties for Manly Men and now the IRS has targeted us. Doesn’t make sense though, we only have $8.19 in our checking account. The last fund raiser was a disaster. I told Dave if you’re going to sell chicken on the side of the road it has to be cooked. He was just tossing roasters at passing cars hoping someone would stop.

The whole point of the group was for men who like to watch football but also like to drink Earl Grey tea. Now that the IRS is leaning on any group with “tea party” in their name, we’re being audited. We haven’t exactly kept “books” of our financial activity either. Dirty Sam is the club treasurer and he has already admitted to embezzling $22 and all the Twizzlers. On top of that he only kept track of about half of our expenditures and those he wrote down inside his shoe on his Dr. Scholl’s odor-eating footpad.

We were visited the other day by Special Agent William Allamericanboy. I’ve never seen a haircut so precise. He grilled us for 3 hours with questions about our activities. The first strike against us came when we offered him a cup of tea. We only drink Earl Grey but the agent was a chamomile man.

We’re on the run now. Agent Allamericanboy is leading a search party from inside a hermetically sealed Chevy Tahoe so he doesn’t sweat. They’ve already caught Dirty Sam. He was trying to get to his brother’s place in the Jersey swamps but couldn’t read the directions he had written down on his toenails. Bear Bob and Earl the Republican hopped a freight train. They made it as far as the Maryland line before being found in a box car filled with mannequins. Earl gave up quietly but Bear Bob insisted he was legally married to “Barb”, one of the mannequins, and they were on their honeymoon.

I’m not going to say where I’m at because there’s a bounty on my head. I want to trust you but I know the lure of generic grocery store coupons is too strong.

Lunch is On Me

There’s a market near where I work that’s open 2 days a week and I sometimes go there to get lunch. One of the stands sells a wonderful burrito but it can be a chore to buy from them because all of the employees are high. Just placing an order becomes a Cheech and Chong skit.

“I’d like the bar-b-cue chicken burrito.”

“We’re out of chicken, dude.”

“How can you be out of chicken two hours from closing?”

“Idunnow.”

“This is the second time you’ve been out of chicken in the past two weeks.”

“Yeah?”

“At the start of the day why don’t you order more chicken?”

“We’re out of chicken, man.”

“I get that, but why do you keep running out?”

“Out of what?”

“Chicken.”

“We’re out of chicken, man.”

If you stay sane long enough to order your food then you get the joy of watching a carnival sideshow freak make your food. There’s Metalhead with flathead screws through his lips and screen door handles dangling from his ears. Maybe you’ll get the Hepatitis Chef. He’s getting another tattoo as he cooks your food, this one on the only piece of unadorned skin he has, between his toes. My last trip I was lucky enough to get Grizzly Adams, a trucker hat sitting precariously atop a mound of unkempt hair that crept into a copious beard growing like kudzu vine. And he’s working without a net. That’s right, nine and half quintillion hairs that could fall into your food and no hairnet! At one point I saw him pull a spatula from behind his ear and rake his beard to get the black beans for my burrito. I didn’t see where the guacamole came from and I don’t want to know.

When the burrito was finished it was passed off to Slacker Dude #365 who shoved it into a bag and sleepily called out my name while simultaneously selling a tab of acid to a lawyer who wanted to know when his nachos would be ready.

The burrito was good as always and I survived although I did hack up a hairball during a meeting later in the afternoon.