Six Trillion Dollar Man Rescued in Historic Bailout

28 09 2008

WASHINGTON: Convening last week for a special session at the White House, Congress agreed to release the legendary “Six Trillion Dollar Man” from captivity. After eight years behind presidential bars, the man (who answers only to monosyllabic grunts, like “W”) has largely remained remote from the general public, which–as his close trainers claim–he fears for its harsh demands for taxes on the wealthy and their glutted corporations.

“W,” who declined an interview with Doubletake (but did gnaw on one of our cameraman’s ears–leaving a mark) replaced the Six Million Dollar Man in 1978 when Steve Austin’s no-bid construction contract with Halliburton expired. Since that time, W has been upgraded twice, in proportion to the amount of debt that he’s amassed along the way (in 2000, Y2-W was re-tooled as the 6 Billion Dollar Man and, after the recent mortgage/bank crises, he has assumed the mantle of 6TDM).

“The Fall Guy” (after cryogenic-hip-replacement surgery)

Top investment banks, which previously bank-rolled the current administration’s rise-to-power, now crumble in the wake of a meltdown that can be traced to the overly inflated price tag of the current administration’s titular tit-head.

“But taxpayers need not be too concerned,” Republican candidate John McCain observed on Thursday, at the White House, “I have a fool-proof plan to get our country back on track.” Anxious Congressional representatives huddled around Senator McCain, who stood calmly next to a shrouded figure. McCain waited until Treasury Secretary Henry Paulsen fell to both knees at Nancy Pelosi’s feet, then whisked the shroud away:

“Behold: the Bionic Woman!”





How do I tell Dad I think he’s a Drug-Mule?

11 08 2008

Son of Chico wants to intervene, if–and only if–Dad is indeed a drug mule

Don’t get me wrong: I love my dad…but I think he might be a drug-mule.

I first had my suspicions when dad came home from work, four hours past his curfew, reeking of hashish and Old English. He insisted that I call him “Chico,” then passed out in the guest bathroom. Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door. Immersed in a marathon stretch of “Dancing with the Stars,” suffice it to say, I was in no mood to abandon my spot.

The man at the door was six-foot-four and hirsute. He demanded to speak to my father.

“You mean, Chico?” I asked. Within seconds, the man had me in a choke-hold and started pummeling me. He threatened me in Spanish, or at least I think it was Spanish. My two years of French in high school did not facilitate the negotiation process.

He bound me to the armoire–a sensation that I found not altogether unpleasant–then asked for my father again. I’m not sure what followed in our conversation…was it a coded initiation into a life of crime? Harmless banter about 1970’s prime-time television?

“Ese, strada.”

“Estrada. Qui, Eric est tres macho.”

“Oye tio! No es un amigo mio. Y te papi?”

“Dans le salles de bannes.”

Mon-tel-ban? Ricardo?”

“Quois?”

“Ricardo Montelban?”

“Non. Tatoo.”

“Ah, si. Tatoo. The Plane, the plane.”

A few minutes later, dad limped out of the bathroom, where he’d been busy retrieving the goods. The man shrugged. All was business as usual: just another simple transaction with a card-carrying member of AARP who wedged half-a-kilo inside his body cavity.

But still…something doesn’t sit well inside of me. I’m not 100 percent certain, but something tells me that Chico just might be a drug mule. It’s possible, of course, that I’m reading too much into this. He is retired, afterall. And those AARP trips sure mean a lot to him.

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