The olicypay renounces the Bush administration’s unilateral stance of “It’s our thermosphere and we’ll spy if we want to.” Instead, it emphasizes international cooperation, including sharing toothbrushes and laced undergarments. The President is optimistic this will limit the development of space weapons, stimulate bra and panty sales, and create a plethora of really cool video games.

Mentally irritating games like NASA’s recently released “Moonbase Alpha.”  Plot: “Virtual explorers tackle restoring critical systems after British Petroleum cripples a life support system with runny scrambled eggs. Cooperate with fellow astronauts or your meaningless, virtual existence will get sucked into the black hole of deficit spending.”

NASA’s next game really must include the International Space Station (ISS), a cooperation showcase. Constructed entirely of titanium Legos, here’s what Michael Suffredini, the ISS Program Manager says about it: “It’s one of the greatest technological, political, and engineering accomplishments in human history.” But he feels the same way about Tony the Tiger. You just can’t trust a guy who’s always saying, “No, you spell it S-u-f-f-r-e-n-d-i-n-i.”

What do you know about the ISS technological marvel? Give these questions a go:

1.      True or False: The ISS was first designed by crack NASA scientists.

2.      Where do ISS astronauts get water to drink?

3.      What is the purpose of a photovoltaic array?

Times up. Let’s see how you did.

1.      False. Scientists always get the credit but, in this case, President Ronald Reagan drafted the first design. Inspired by the movie “Star Wars” and using GOP-sanctioned crayons, Ronnie (as called by his dogs, Lucky and Rex) designed an “outpost” capable of vaporizing the Death Star. NASA officials struggled to convince the president that opening gun ports to fire would actually suck astronauts into outer space. Obviously, “Star Wars” was doomed to fail.

2.      If you answered “garden hose,” your medication is no longer working. The real answer is repulsive, forcing me to go on record as saying, “It’s not okay to drink your own urine.” What can only be called “ultimate cooperation,” ISS astronauts recycle all water (even sweat) through a complex system that, if I told you how it worked, you’d probably barf. Suffice to say, when they sit down to a meal, the popular beverage is ketchup or a moist towelette.

3.      “Take pictures of electricity” is a reasonably wrong answer, only if you’re currently “doing favors” for organized crime. Let’s dissect the word to find its true meaning. “Pho” is slang for enemy, “to” means more than one, “vol” is a furless, burrowing creature from Uganda and “taic” are extra letters NASA uses to justify expenditures. So, the phrase means a collection (array) of hostile burrowing critters. I suspect someone screwed up by boarding the ISS with a backpack of stowaway voles and now the crew even finds them floating in the hot tub.

Let’s hope this new era of international space cooperation will transcend to earth. It’d be swell to someday see young people from all nations gathering on a hillside, chanting the ISS astronauts’ mantra: “Here I sit, broken hearted, drank some ketchup, then I farted.” I get nauseous just thinking about it.

Note: Under the advice of the Longhorn Bar’s waitress (Yes, I know she’s actually a guy), I’ve added comments so you, the layperson, might fully understand the writer’s hidden meaning.

“Subject: My Dilemma/Help Me Out!!!

I’m sorry (No, make that, “pathetic.”) for this odd request (Odd like a beagle mating a canary.) because it might get to you too urgent and this might sounds weird (As in, my bladder speaks French.) and you wouldn’t believe me (I’m basically a habitual liar.)…..but it’s because of the mess i got myself in right now.I came down to England, United Kingdom (As a giant cockroach.) for a short vacation, but unfortunately (My IQ equals cooked cabbage.) for me,i was robbed at the park near the Hotel i stayed (Grammar was never my strong suit.), worse of it is that bags, cash ,cell phones and other valuable stuffs were stolen off me (My brain’s still missing.) at GUN POINT.It’s such a crazy experience for me (My underwear needed hand scrubbing) and i need your help as my return flight leaves few hours from now, I’ve been to the police (Actually, I just came back from taking a wee-wee.) but the good thing (Beside nobody’s killed me yet.) is that i still have my passport but don’t have enough money to sort out the hotel bills. Please, i need you to loan me some few bucks……. (I hope this sounds like I’m a regular guy instead of the inbred, mold licking, booger picking, sewer dwelling, fowl smelling, brainless, hopeless, toothless, piece of super-moist dung heap I really am.) i will refund it as soon as we get back home tomorrow, i promise (Look for it via the tooth fairy).

Thanks.”

First, you might wonder why your friend is functioning with the English skills of a tube of toothpaste. Secondly, why did the Beatles break up? Lastly, if your friend were a giant insect, wouldn’t he tell you?

Where do these emails come from? Got a second — I’ll tell you. Last week my wife’s email account was hacked. It’s a rather eerie sensation similar to a stranger watching you take a shower when you accidentally drop the soap. Being fairly secretive, clean individual, my wife was obviously freaked out.

I suspect the cretin, who just happens to be from Nigeria (Motto: We breed Internet tapeworms.), stole her password used the complex method of squatting on a dirt-floor, and typing “a” then “aa” then “ab” then “ba” until finding the correct combination. This would take months but, besides watching his maggot farm, the guy obviously had time to kill.

After accessing her account, here’s what he did:

1. Changed the password and security question’s answer — effectively blocking valid access to the account.

2. Forwarded incoming email to his account: saramary25@yahoo.com

3. Sent out bogus My Dilemma messages to all her contacts.

4. Sat back, waited, and, if a sucker (“Bonehead” has a nicer ring.) replied, emailed instructions on how to wire transfer money.

Now, saramary25 will starve to death and rats consume his skuzzy, repulsive body because he never receives a reply. You wish! Don’t look for justice in this world – there is none (If Nancy Pelosi’s facial expressions are any indicator.). But don’t worry; the bar of soap is back on the rack, my wife’s email account is secure, and, after I apply the ointment, sitting isn’t as painful.

Now, what have you learned from this? Very good! DON’T REPLY TO EMAILS WRITTEN BY A GRAMMAR-CHALLANGED COCKROACH WANTING MONEY!!! Oh, be sure to change your password frequently and never use the single letter “a.”

I saw a picture of Gary on the Internet. His clever disguise made him look like a masculine Sarah Palin or, without the glasses, maybe a hockey puck – but no matter. Not since the days of Rambo, does it get much better than this. Unfortunately, during Gary’s most recent covert operation, he was detained after trying to cross into Afghanistan carrying a pistol, sword, night-vision gear, and hashish (His medical marijuana ran out.).

Gary raises the standards for all Americans. Oh, weak-kneed liberals will scoff at his heroism but not Gary’s brother Scott, who claims Gary isn’t crazy, he’s just determined to find the man America’s military has failed to capture. “Is it out the norm? Yes it is. But, is it crazy? No,” claimed Scott, chugging a warm beer, wearing a bathrobe and untied, muddy camouflage boots.

So what if Gary has a lengthy criminal record, including burglary, larceny and domestic violence conviction? Don’t kick someone when he’s down. Are we not all human? If you prick us, do we not bleed?

It’s time the U.S. Special Operations Command got this party rolling. They need to recruit the hordes of militia-oriented individuals who dream of someday being like Gary. Honestly, one ad like this and eager commandos will be beating the door with the butt of an M16:

Hey You! If you’re religiously polishing semiautomatic weapons, firing rounds of high-caliper munitions in your basement, smuggling concealed weapons into PTA meetings, and crave foreign women, then you have what we want! For a limited time, we’re looking for renegades to kill a despicable terrorist. Operate with full autonomy (We never heard of you!). Free stuff sack when you sign up. Criminal record? No problem! Just call 1-888-kil-laden for details.

While the pentagon folks couldn’t blatantly deploy these special Rambo forces, they could sweeten the deal with special offers like:

Frequent flyer savings with 10% off your first flight to Pakistan’s Jinnah International Airport (Motto: If we can’t find your luggage, the curried yak is on us) plus 30% off each additional flight. Free complementary beer or whiskey shots – oh, what the heck — both.

Need ammo, tactical boot knife, or a UH-1N Twin Huey helicopter? They’re yours at discount online pricing. All orders over $1,500 ship for free to our craftily hidden (We often can’t find it.), air-conditioned Kohat facility. We also carry Islamic fundamentalist disguise kits featuring a “Suicide Bomber” outfit with authentic dynamite and our ever popular “Kill the Infidels!” T-shirt is a real hit with the women.

Need to leave in a hurry? Get an express passport by just entering LADENHUNTER in your applications “Promo” section and we’ll get it to you the next day – use whatever name you want, even “Stan McChrystal.”

Free lodging located in the heart of gorgeous Islamabad, the American Embassy offers a breathtaking night’s lodging with complementary continental breakfast. Come as you are, we have extra Band-Aids and triple antibiotic. Political asylum available upon request — just holler, “I’m hunting for Bin!” as you sprint toward the guarded gate.

Gary’s real intent is as clear as a toddler’s who just sat down on the potty chair. Once Gary finishes his U.S. speaking tour and TV appearances, let’s ship him and all the other certifiable loonies we can round up over to capture Bin Laden – and, well — if Sarah wants to go, I say let her.

T F 1. The Feds current tax dollar squandering is an example of a ‘black hole’.

T F 2. The Milky Way is owned by Iowan dairy farmers.

T F 3. Libras will discover a ‘special’ someone today by facing the North Star and kissing a red-haired troll.

There, that wasn’t so bad. You have a good mind, just quit watching the dang TV.

It’s too early to tell if the Hayabusa spacecraft container recently retrieved in the Australian Outback was able to capture a sample from the Itokawa (pronounced: ?–took–?–w?) asteroid. But the prospects have scientists practically leaking through their Depends.

What was supposed to happen was the Hayabusa would approach the asteroid and flash a universal friendship display consisting of a Dick Cheney in drag hologram. If all went well, the ship would land and shoot a bullet into the unsuspecting asteroid hoping to lodge dust or maybe lady bugs into a container through a long tube.

An analysis of telemetry (meaning: “don’t play with BB guns”) data suggests this mechanism may have been broken at a staff party. Yet, giddy scientists say the impact of the tube’s landing would have forced material into the collection chamber in much the same way particles are lodged in the nostrils of a two-year-old who just did a face plant in a chocolate cake.

Dr Michael Zolensky from NASA said, “It may have worked, it may not; we just don’t know. But even if it didn’t work, the spacecraft landed for half an hour on the surface, and during that landing - it was a hard landing - it should have collected a sample even without firing anything. So, we’re pretty confident there’ll be something inside the spacecraft.” And you were worrying NASA wasn’t spending it’s $18.7 billon 2010 budget carefully.

It could be weeks before scientists can establish a presence of any dust in the capsule. To which I say, “Get a clue!” My wife could tell you in seconds if any dust was tracked in.

If dust is confirmed, it would be the first time rock fragments have been stolen off an asteroid and only the fourth extraterrestrial sample brought to our planet. The Roswell aliens forgot to wipe their sneakers, ET’s ship was dirtier than a Blue Tic Hound hunting possum in a Mississippi swamp, and, finally, there were those filthy U.S. moon rocks that created a pet rock craze where cretins one sock shy of a pair actually bought a rock in a box.

The Japanese space agency (motto: “First sushi in space”) said the project’s aim was to better understand the solar system and, hopefully, why North Koreans are such pinheads. Earth rocks can’t explain the universe because they’re just cheap, stupid rocks. Go outside and pick some up. See what I mean? On the other hand, asteroid rocks cost more than you’ll make in a lifetime and contain virgin materials. Virgin rocks apparently get scientist pretty excited. Perverts!

But the Japanese have really botched this one up. After carefully studying photos of Itokawa, even a novice like myself can clearly see it’s actually a Russet potato. So, our silly Asian friends sent a spacecraft zillions of miles to shoot an un-scrubbed spud. I bet they’re going to feel pretty foolish. Maybe, in a show of international goodwill, we could give them a couple of moon rocks. They’re still virgins unless those twisted NASA scientists have gotten a hold of them.

There have always been terrible calls in baseball. I’m sure you can think of a few. I know I can’t. Some say the call was the sorriest in baseball history, others a “teachable moment,” while Al Gore claims it, “was caused by global warming.” But really, let’s stop this sensationalistic finger pointing and get on with life. I’m sure Galarraga has pulled out a clean pair of socks and moved on. So what if, since 1880, there have only been 20 perfect major league games? Injustices happen daily — as clearly evident by Sarah Palin freely roaming the streets.

Umpires are a tough and courageous lot; willingly chewing and spitting with zeal because they know the MLB rules state, “No umpire may be replaced during a game unless he is injured or becomes ill.” So, no matter how blurry their vision is from carousing the night before at Debbie’s Bar and Live Bull Wrestling Emporium, they have job security. It really doesn’t make any difference anyway. When big plays happen, most spectators are either picking up their spilled warm beer, swatting flies off their hotdog, or wiggling in restroom lines that stretch to the parking lot.

MLB base umpires have more pent up boredom than any other major sport (with the exception of lawn dart referees). The stress must be terrible — watching inning after inning of players adjusting their caps, mitts, sunglasses, and personal protection devices (a.k.a. something you’d mix hot chocolate in even though you won’t want to in one of these). It’s all a part of a game that’s more boring than watching C-Span’s live coverage of the national gerbil farmer debate.

You really can’t blame Joyce. He was stuck at first base enduring a game of excruciating tedium when all of a sudden a once-in-a-lifetime play appears. Even a seasoned professional would get so excited he’d forget a first base runner isn’t necessarily safe because he’s still wearing a batting helmet. Up until the play, Detroit fans were eating this kind of history making fun up but Joyce, and any other human with a functioning heart, was bored to death.

All in all, it turned out to be a very endearing “teachable moment.” We learned Galarraga could take what life had to dish out without whining and racing around the bases naked. Joyce also came through as a frail human with a heartfelt apology and teary-eyed moment that gave meaning to the old adage, “4 out of 3 people have trouble with fractions.”

As for bad calls, maybe using instant replays is the best solution. But I’m still proposing the “Cumulative Point Rule.” Here’s how it works: if, by the fifth inning, a total of 25 points have not been scored, each base umpire gets a card table full of chilled beer and salted peanuts. This would keep them busy, plus lead to a festive atmosphere where, say, after a double play, everyone in the infield would compete in a game requiring four shot glasses, beer, and a quarter. Variations can be expected, depending on league standings and the number of umpires still standing.

By definition, a boomerang is a bent wooden projectile that, when thrown properly, returns. Concerned parents are now asking the question, “If a boomerang kid returns, what the heck did I do wrong? Do I need to flick my wrist more?” Noted sociologists, eking out drab lives studying pie charts, look at this question and surmise, “Hey, my desk is on fire!” They’re experts on social behavior so very little surprises them.

When my three sons lived at home, they’d eat everything is sight, accidentally wipe the computer’s hard drive, come in at ridiculous hours, crash cars, and use too many Q-tips. Then, one day, they were gone. I was overcome with this kind of spooky, “I’m sitting in wet underwear” feeling. My wife and I would try to carry on a normal, intelligent conversation across the dining room table:

Wife: Don’t lay your bread on the placemat.

Me: I heard the Nuclear Regulatory Commission is considering power plants for Montana.

Wife: Do you really think that I don’t see you licking the spoon and putting it back in the strawberry jam jar?

Me: I’m getting rather concerned about how oil futures will affect our stock portfolio.

Wife: Somebody missed the toilet again. Was that you?!

Me: I saw the cat in there earlier today. Any more cole slaw?

It was great having the boys at home because, and this happened quite often, I could easily blame them for almost anything. Milk jug left on counter – boys. Microscopic dirt particle on the rug – boys. Plugged toilet – boys. Global economic recession – boys. Life was grand. All the boy-created problems were as drops of rain in the ocean because they made up for it by being perfect scapegoats.

Kids make a great ‘pass-the-buck’ solution as clearly demonstrated in countries where multiple generations commonly live together — for example, New Jersey. But it isn’t all fun and games. Order must be kept or anarchy (a term born out of Little League Baseball) will run rampant. During their first tour of duty at home, boomerangers knew the rules all too well. This often led to a rebellious attitude where uneaten tuna casserole was eventually located under a pile of dirty socks. On second thought, it might have been lasagna, but you get my point.

As boomerangers enter their second tour of duty at home, having experienced the ‘promised land’ of adult freedom, house rules and KP detail once again stalk them. This situation can easily lead to “tough love” where parents have to tell their grown son, “We need to talk to you about something we found in your pant’s pocket.”

I would never attempt enforcing rules on my adult sons. They now offer me advice as if I were a confused alien from the planet Poopoophead. “Dad, don’t order the double cheeseburger. Your belly’s already hanging over you belt!” is the kind of tip they often fling at me.

Hopefully the billions of taxpayer stimulus bucks the Feds are squandering on the economy with return us to prosperous times. Boomerang kids can then find employment and leave home again. After all, everyone yearns for the sweet joy of freedom, escaping the scapegoat’s life…. “No dear. Those aren’t my dirty socks on the dining room table again. Didn’t one of the boys visit last week?”

If the law holds, by midsummer Arizona will be deporting illegal immigrants like cockroaches off of a July 4th warm tuna salad sandwich. State officials can then check the immigration status of any person they damn well please (based upon “gut hunches”). This will create congestion but it can’t be helped:

Official: You! Let’s see some identification.

Diamondbacks fan: Charlie, it’s me, Norm. Our daughters play together.

Official: Don’t pull that Norm trick on me. Where’s your birth certificate?

Diamondbacks fan: I don’t carry a birth certificate to a baseball game. Look, you’re really causing the line to backup.

Official: No ID huh? Step out of the line. Hey Sid, we have a live one here.

The legal challenges facing this daring law are as numerous as head lice on a third grader. Nicely dressed lawyers will bill countless hours digging deep into the depths of justice, reading formal menus, eating grease-laden lunches, and scratching balding heads. The stress will be horrendous, sitting in stuffy meetings while the lunch’s oyster gumbo swirls down the digestive tract heading to what leading beauticians call a gastro-intestinal disaster. We laypeople simply call it — gas.

Gas of this magnitude was highly sought after when I was in junior high. My buds and I would gather around our lockers, playing harmless pranks (most involving underwear or spit) till class started. On really good days, a guy would hold out his finger, gyrating with “I need to pee” excitement and say, “Hey, pull my finger!” Then the whole group, crazed with anticipation, waited until the finger got pulled, releasing a percussive explosion pent up, based on the smell, since the 4^th grade.

Girls absolutely never played this trick and, quite honestly, none of us guys had the guts to ask a female to yank a finger. I’m suspecting this level of humor is gender specific, like an Olympic torch passing from one generation to the next. My three sons were very adept at gaseous humor, bursting into a chorus of laughter if someone cut loose with a foghorn, something died blast. It really makes a father proud.

What’s concerning me is the next generation – my sons’ sons. Case in point, I was sitting in my office the other day while my four-year old grandson, Noah, struck up a conversation with my officemate. Then, from out of the blue and without any hint of embarrassment, he says, “Excuse me, I passed gas.” Nice sentiment, but my instinctive thought was, “When this kid hits school the guys are going to lambaste him.”

You just can’t voluntarily draw attention to passing gas. Can you? I didn’t think so. Nobody does. I’m sure Noah is following the advice of his mild-mannered mother who ought to be training him to use more socially accepted techniques like: sit-shift butt cheek lift, cough – release combo, drop the book squat, and the time-honored silent bomb, accusing-finger distraction.

As lawyers’ pressure builds with the new Arizona law, they might even try the immensely legal, “thunderclap release followed by ‘Did you say something? cross-examination.” One thing’s for sure, Arizona isn’t the only state dealing with illegal immigrants – Montana has its fair share of Canadians. So if immigration starts to cause you gas, try what my son will eventually train Noah to use, “Hey, pull my finger.”

Guys like lots of women around. It’s in their owner’s manual right after “Do not leave unit unattended near open beer container.” Plus, the average human male is recklessly proficient at siring offspring. Take one guy and, say, seven or eight wives — in no time you could form a Pee Wee bowling league.

Women, on the other hand, have more common sense. They know one man is typically more trouble than he’s worth.

Yet, people keep doing it. Here a just a few of the problems polygamy is riddled with:

* Delivery room. What with coaching breathing, video taping, or avoiding fainting a husbands job is never done. What would a polygamist do if, say, three wives went into labor simultaneously? A guy would fold under the pressure. I barely survived the gruesome ordeal with our first son – most of the time my head was between my knees.

* Parental responsibilities. Frolicking under the sheets (if you catch my drift), a typical guy is incapable of foreseeing poopy diapers, orthodontics, head lice, butt-numbing Little League games, and the late night “You threw up on the bed, AGAIN!” If one kid got the stomach flu all 28 would. I’ve witness the ol’ “barf-o-rama” and it’s not a pretty picture.

* Pecking order fiasco. A polygamist’s wives must hate each other’s guts. Imagine five wives going out, squished around a mirror in an SUV-sized bathroom clawing for the hair drier and curling iron while the guy is outside sprucing up the mini van. Can you spell d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r? Hi jinx would start with cat urine in the cologne and likely culminate with a bitch-slapping free-for-all (pardon my vulgarity).

* Little piggy syndrome. I’m in trouble 24/7 for bringing microscopic dirt into the house. Women sense dirt like a bloodhound sniffing out a feral gerbil. I’m walking down the hall when a mysterious voice asks, “Is that dirt on the bottom of those shoes?” Well, how should I know? My point is, with multiple wives, there’d be half a dozen voices demanding in unison, “Did you miss the toilet again?!”

* Groveling. During my 30+ years of marriage, I’ve done a lot of heartfelt groveling. Sincere apologies for events I can’t remember. If I might stereotype, most women (including my wife) remember events … well … forever. We’ll be enjoying a movie and out-of-the-blue she’ll lament that one evening, during the Carter Administration, I neglected to affirm her worth as a mother. I always lower my head and nod affirmatively.

Multiple wives = multiple brains = multiple memories. Can you envision the countless blunders a guy would get reprimanded for, over and over again? Hey, a husband’s life is demanding enough having to remember where the silverware goes.

* Don’t fix it. During our entire matrimonial bliss, I’ve courageously tried to fix my wife’s problems when all she wanted was for me to listen. Guys like to fix things: flat tires, sputtering lawnmowers, backyard fences, lukewarm beer. With multiple wives a guy would be swamped listening to problems each day — time more effectively used cleaning fishing gear or filling the cooler with ice.

Jumping into a polygamous relationship scares the tapeworm out of me. Maybe young bucks would be tempted from the procreation standpoint. They can have it. I’m here to tell you that one wife is all this seasoned husband can handle. “Yes dear, that’s my dirty underwear on the dining room table.”

We’re turning into jellyfish do-gooders — obsessed with forgiveness. It’s undermining the very reason to watch a Western movie — turning us into pardoning wimps. Come on! Remember the self-gratifying feeling of seeking revenge, wanting to see the looser who violated us squirm, crossing the street to avoid someone, or playing a prank involving plastic wrap and a toilet? A festering grudge can give meaning to an otherwise worthless day.

Our legal system will become a crybaby session if we don’t get a handle on this ‘forgiving everyone’ epidemic. You’d get courtroom dramas like:

Prosecutor: Mrs. Feeble, please point to the man who plowed into your SUV because he claims it looked like an alien spacecraft.

Mrs. Feeble (in tears): I can’t. I’ve forgiven him. He’s such a lonely man and, after they used the ‘jaws of life’ to free Harold, you can hardly tell the transmission is now in the passenger’s seat.

Look at the tons of books, nonprofit foundations, grocery baggers, and religious groups that tout the amazing cleansing power of forgiveness – releasing us from ‘extra baggage’ that supposedly robs us of life’s energy. Obviously, they never met the slimy used car salesman who sold me my first pickup – that subsequently burned a quart of oil every 100 miles. “It’s just been washed and includes a free tree-shaped air freshener” was the cunning sales pitch he pulled on me.

Then, there are medical studies citing forgiveness as a preventative measure for everything from heart attacks to athlete’s foot. In on study, researchers put a bunch of human-like rats in a movie theater. Then they got one rat to pass gas by attaching electrodes to highly sensitive body parts.

Of course, when exposed to the rank fumes emanating from the “control” rat’s anus (Norwegian for ‘rear end’), the ‘rat cohort’ (scientific for ‘group of rats’) got really ticked off. Blood pressures went off the charts with some rats seeking refuge beneath the concession counter. Oh, those rats really wanted revenge

Then, the scientists had the flatulating rat apologize (same electrodes – higher voltage) and, in what stunned the scientific community, the grudge-harboring rats forgave him as the all engaged in festive chest bumps (which is pretty tough for a rat). Blood pressures dropped, cute little paws stopped itching, and everyone left the theater in a convivial mood.

If those studies taught us anything, it’s, “Don’t let scientists attach electrodes to sensitive parts of your body in a movie theater.” Quite frankly, there’s no way to establish a correlation between test rats and humans – more specifically, the low-life who stole my credit card number, then charged $2,300 at Bath and Beyond.

Even Hollywood knows the beauty of a good grudge. A classic example is in “It’s a Wonderful Life” (staring Jimmy Stewart) when, after ripping off the Savings and Loan, Mr. Potter says, “And Happy New Year — in jail! Go on home – they’re waiting for you!” Didn’t that just gall you? You wanted the jolly Bedford Falls citizens to drag ol’ Potter out onto the snowy boulevard and beat the tar out of him. Admit it! If they made the sequel “Potter Gets Pummeled” you’d be the first in line – right behind me.

If this country morphs into sniveling humanitarians, we’ll be sitting ducks, willingly forgiving our Uncle Selway for making us sit through a bogus presentation about how to double our income selling eco-friendly products. I mean it! So, the first thing I’m going to do is make a list of the cretins who’ve ticked me off. Right after I convince my wife to remove these electrodes.

And it came to pass, a multitude of hearty local citizens were blessed with temporary Bureau work. Alas, though many sought the steady income, the Bureau only shined favorably upon those with truly desirable traits including:

- Practicing the “safe sex”

- Buying joyously the durable consumer goods

- Coveting not thy neighbor’s ox or ass

- Honoring thy major steroid-free sports figures, and

- Passing the consecrated FBI security background check.

Woe fell upon the sinners whose personal identifiers matched criminals in the sacred FBI database. While they repented, put on sackcloth and anointed their heads with ashes, the Bureau hired them not, proclaiming, “Be ye afraid! Only worthy neophytes worketh for the Bureau.”

Behold, upon the first day of training, those chosen disciples of clean background laid prostate and submitted to fingerprinting. And the Bureau prophets spake unto them saying, “Thee shall find happiness enjoying flexible hours, earning goodly weekly pay, touching doorknobs harboring unknown staph microbes, and being servants of the holy demographic data quest.”

A mighty spirit fell upon the disciples as they descended like locus to speak the words of the well-endowed prophets unto the masses. For they faithfully approached RAP music gyrating houses unaware drooling, VW Microbus-sized canines were waiting to smite any man or woman who knocketh upon the door.

The multitudes cried out that these loyal children of the Bureau be rewarded tenfold, safely delivered out of the yards resembling Woodstock’s final days. May the IRS look favorably upon their children’s children, asking not, “Why hast thou filed this deduction?”

And census forms scattered like seeds across the nation posing agonizing questions like, “How many people were living, partying, or smoking the medical marijuana at this location on the Day of Atonement?” and “Is this a house, apartment, mobile home, grain elevator, or remodeled refrigerator carton?” Yet doubters were many, asking with ‘lotto-wining’ zeal across the kitchen tables, “The Feds are wasting my tax money on this damn thing?”

But the chosen ones rebuked them saying, “Oh ye of “potty” mouth and little trust! Believe in the federal government with the faith of a child. That thou might revere the omnipotent bureaucracy, remember April 15, when the pagan sacrificial ritual of monetary good works comes due, according to thy income level and cleverly filed withholdings.”

Behold, the Bureau’s faithful efforts shall bring forth a count of everyone except the fallen, anti-government radicals who pointed loaded, high caliber rifles out their windows and commanded, “Don’t you come any closer you #%*&&# revenuer!” Verily, these demonic infidels will be smote with seven plagues including plugged toilets that overfloweth.

And in the final moments of the 2010 Census, a prayer was lifted unto the heavens, “May the newly found demographics give light to the federal government, who has sat in darkness; congregating in dim offices, wondering at all they’ve heard.” For unto them is gathered data, that their steps be guided toward equable government representation. Yea, tho they walk in the valley of wasteful government spending, may they fear no lobbyist; their text messaging will comfort them till Fannie Mae runneth in the black or the End-of-Days, whichever cometh first.