Welcome to Fully Insured: The Junk Drawer

AT LEAST WE’VE GOT EACH OTHER were the words emblazoned across the whimsical poster that served as the only decoration on the walls of the fallout shelter. It’s true though, we did have each other, when the canned goods ran out and the nuclear winter continued unabated. I marveled at how we all managed to acquire a taste for human flesh with absolutely no moral reservation…and then one day as I leafed through an old National Geographic that had now become a collector’s item, it hit me…we were mutants! We’d all slowly mutated over time, and looked nothing at all like the pretty humans in the magazine. Goddamn it, dad! What the hell kind of fucking dollar store bargain bin fallout shelter did you build, here? Wasn’t worth the extra hundred bucks to line the goddamned thing with lead, was it!?

EVERYBODY LOVES A CLOWN, so what’s your problem? Think you’re too good for clowns? Well think again—nobody lives harder or faster than your average birthday party clown. He knows what you’re thinking. But he keeps going anyway—that smile is painted on his face. Want a balloon animal? A poodle perhaps, or an exotic giraffe? It’s yours for the asking. There is no cost to you. The children see how you behave, and they begin to understand. They are half-way to forming their own opinions about clowns, opinions that will calcify and become difficult to change. Look at little Timmy. Doesn’t he look happy? He’s beside himself over the antics of this crazy clown fellow. And now—at the end of a summersault of his own, see how he looks up at you? For a fraction of a second, you see a heart and mind uncluttered by doubt or frustration. But then you connect…and he sees you for what you are. The sparkle in his eye runs for cover, and disappears. He doesn’t know what you are, but he knows one thing for sure…you are no clown.

“UNFORTUNATELY, THE CREATURE’S SEMEN CONTAINS A TOXIN,” said the doctor, wearing a well-practiced look of grave concern. “It’s slow-acting, but it’s already begun to attack your nervous system. If we had a sample, we might be able to concoct some kind of antidote, but until we capture the hideous alien monstrosity that did this to you, there’s really nothing we can do.” Bill mustered the courage to look the doctor in the eye. “Well, at least I got fifty bucks out of the deal,” he said, half-jokingly.

I HAVE A SHITTY MEMORY and I always have. It’s got nothing to do with drugs, although it’s usually easier to say, “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name, I’m a drug casualty.” So anyway, when I forgot my girlfriend’s birthday again, she pushed me down the stairs to remind me. “Do you even give a shit about me at all?” she screamed from the top landing as I examined my spine for cracks.“Not after you push me down two flights of stairs, you hag!” I whispered back. “What?” she shrieked. I didn’t answer. It was safer to pretend that I was dead. “Are you okay?” she wailed like a banshee. Again, I didn’t answer. I was dead. And as I lay there dead, I remembered the name of the animal suggested in that morning’s crossword puzzle: opossum! Life’s funny like that, ain’t it?

“I’M NOT GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN,” said my mother sternly, with a look that suggested she meant business. “I…I didn’t hear what you said the first time,” I replied, honestly. “Well. Too bad for me,” she said, and walked away.

DISTINGUISHED MEN OF CHARACTER, genteel, never severe, but firm when a strong opinion is required, disinclined towards participation in group efforts but supportive nonetheless, often have difficulty controlling their emotions once the door has been unlocked. A tightness in the chest, a stinging in the eyes and that sinking feeling are the warning signs that precede an attack of deep, inconsolable misery. Leave the room quickly! It is too late to prevent the uncontrollable frame-wracking sobs that are about to have their way with you. Excuse yourself quietly, and don’t dawdle to answer questions about your health. Those hot tears streaming down your red, swollen cheeks will make you look ten years older and the guttural mewling that is sure to accompany the tears will surprise even you. THERE IS NO CURE for deep-seated misery. It may seem inexplicable, and born of no particular catalyst, but this is simply because you have had neither the time for, nor the inclination towards, introspection and self-analysis. It’s not your fault. Just find a safe place to hide and let it occur. Wave after wave of regret and longing: mother’s embrace, lost love, the nagging suspicion that you have wasted your time, more days behind you than ahead of you, harsh words exchanged in desperate hours, insecurities left to fester, no religion, no, purpose, no direction. The memory of a boy lying in tall grass looking up at a sky more blue than it can ever be again. Warm sunshine, summer-scented breeze, thinking about tomorrow’s birthday cake, and what it would be like to be an astronaut.

ONE DAY, I WAS THIRTY and so I sat down and made a list of activities and qualities that I thought would take the edge off the whole “I’m going to die someday!” feeling. Here it is:

1. FIND BEAUTY IN EVERYTHING! Find ways to exploit that beauty for fun and profit!
2. LIVE TODAY LIKE IT’S YOUR LAST and God help anyone who gets in your way!
3. DO ONE GOOD DEED EVERY DAY! Try and limit yourself to one good deed per day!
4. MAKE PEACE WITH YOUR ENEMIES and maintain a watchful eye!
5. DON’T BE AFRAID TO TRY NEW THINGS! And don’t feel the need to keep trying if you’re not instantly good at it!
6. USE MODERATION when exercising and eating healthy food!
7. ASK YOURSELF THIS: What would Jesus do?
8. REGRET NOTHING!
9. BELIEVE IN YOURSELF even when you’re lying to yourself!
10. READ MORE BOOKS WRITTEN BY OLD MEN.

So far I’ve managed to incorporate everything in the list into my daily life, except of course number eight.

YOU ARE A ROBOT. Your mainframe is buried deep beneath a mass of colourful wire within the conical tower that serves as your body. You locomote by way of six small rubber wheels jutting out from the underside of your robot body. Your arms, if they can truly be called arms, are little more than glorified, hydraulic, telescoping forks. One of your arms is equipped with a device for welding. You have no legs, and cannot climb stairs or curbs. You are programmed to affix handles to toolboxes, and nothing more. You are incapable of analytical thought and the formulation of long term goals. Stupid robot!

ARE YOU TIRED OF MAKING YOUR BOSS RICH? Are you tired of making your boss rich? Are you tired of making your boss rich? Are you TIRED of making your boss RICH? Are you tired of making your boss rich, are you tired of making your boss rich. Are you? Tired? Of making…your BOSS: RICH? ARE you tired of MAKING your BOSS rich? Are you tired of making your boss rich! www.areyoutiredofmakingyourbossrich.ca

“FULL THROTTLE, MR. JETSGO!” screamed Captain Korg through a mouth full of blood. The ship lurched and buckled under the heavy phaser assault it was getting from the three Klat’Nat’Buh Juggernaut-class war ships that kept pace. “Full throttle, Mr. Jetsgo! Now! Get us out of here! We’re not getting any younger!” the Captain screamed, the fear in his voice making him seem younger. Mr. Jetsgo looked down at the controls. So many buttons and dials and do-daws! Things that went, “bloop, bloop,” and things that went “ticky-ticky-ticky” and a little speaker-type thing that went “be-dee-boody” incessantly. “Which one is the throttle?” he asked, hesitantly. “What are you talking about!” screamed the Captain, tears streaming down his face. “The button that gets us the fuck out of here!” Another phaser blast rocked the ship, causing a small explosion in the communications panel, killing Mrs. Uroboros. Mr. Jetsgo looked down again at the control panel. It was funny. He’d come to work every day for sixteen years and never, ever had a problem with the controls. That was his job, after all. Steer the ship, make it go faster, etc. But now the panel seemed completely foreign to him. Totally alien. “I’m sorry, Captain, I can’t seem to find it.” “Christ!” shrieked the Captain, “if my legs weren’t broken, I’d come over there and kick your teeth in!” Another blast rocked the ship. “Oh, God, we’re all gonna die!” the Captain mewled. Mr. Jetsgo took another deep pull on his vodka bottle. Seemed like vodka was his only friend these days, the only one who listened, the only one who cared. Vodka loved him. No wonder he spent so much time with it! One more drink then, and we’ll have another gander at the controls, he thought to himself. Swallowing hard, and giving his head a shake and his eyes a good rub, Mr. Jetsgo took a last look at the controls. And there it was, nestled in among the myriad boo-bobs and dingy-dings: a seven inch dial clearly labeled, “throttle.” “Hey Captain, I found it!” he hollered triumphantly. “Throw it!” screamed the Captain. Mr. Jetsgo gave the dial a good spin. The Space Love Boat jumped into warp drive, left its attackers behind, and flew straight into the sun.

IF I WERE YOU, AND YOU WERE ME, I’d totally have sex with you. Wouldn’t give it a second thought. How could I resist your charms? But hey, that’s just what I would do if I were you and you were me. If you were me thinking about what I would do if I were you, you might come up with something entirely different. But somehow I don’t think so. And if you were me and I were you, you’d probably think the same thing, but that’s just me.

ME TARZAN, you possible employer. Me think me good for job ‘cause me love to work. Me work good people fire bad. Also, me have monkey and tiger and elephant. Well, me have Jane too but she her own person. No, me no have experience on cash register.

MY UNINTENTIONALLY HILARIOUS LANDLORD was at the door. He peered in through the screen but his eyes were unable to penetrate the murk beyond. “Hello?” he called out. I got up from the couch-chair and moved into view. “Ah,” he said, “which one are you again?” “I’m Jayson,” I said, although it didn’t matter to him who I was. He held up an unusually colourful toilet seat. “I found this…I thought you might be able to…utilize it…as a decoration.” I had no response. “I’ll just leave it here…for you…” He tossed it down onto the tick-ridden porch-couch. It landed with a squishy sound. “I’ll come back for it…if you can’t…utilize it…” I dutifully thanked him for leaving his toilet seat on my porch. He held up a thick stack of lottery tickets and rifled them with his thumb and forefinger as if it were a wad of cash. “Look at this,” he smiled. “I can’t lose this time. If I win…everybody gets a share.” I thanked him for his hypothetical generosity. “This time…I can’t lose.” He looked down at his feet. Time passed. “See you later,” he said, eventually. I watched as he slowly made his way down the walk. He stopped to decide which way he wanted to go, rubbing his head, squinting in the sunlight. I returned to my Nintendo game, but it wasn’t fun anymore.

WHEN STAYING AT THE RAT HOTEL, please remember to be patient. The hotel is big, and the rats are small, so room service may be slow. Also, the kitchen gets closed down every so often because of rats. Rat knowledge of mechanics and plumbing is very rudimentary. If things start to break down, it takes a while for the repairs to start. A few select rats have recently enrolled at the local technical college, so there should be a number of handyrats employed by the hotel by the start of next season. Enjoy your stay but please bear with them for the first few months. It’s not easy to get a hotel rolling and hey, dem’s just rats.

KAFKA vs. JOHN STUART MILL (CONTINUED)
…and then Franz Kafka bought a huge tub of ice cream, walked out of the store, and hurled the tub through the window of the local tattoo parlour. “Why the fuck did you do that!” screamed John Stuart Mill. “I felt like it, dipshit!” said Franz Kafka. “I can do what I want.” “Oh yeah?” John Stuart Mill retorted. “I can stop you!” A gigantic fisticuffs ensued, and the city was razed. “I give!” screamed Franz Kafka, trapped in an agonizing finger-lock by John Stuart Mill. “You are obviously the better man.” “That’s right,” said John Stuart Mill, pocketing his brass knuckles. “You are weak. I am a real man.” Then they both went into what was left of the tattoo parlour, paid for the damage done, and got matching Betty Page tattoos.

ENJOY LIFE! Do what you want. If you want to give somebody a hot-foot (that old standby!), then by all means, do it. Life’s too short to waste time thinking about the consequences of your actions. Your hot-foot recipient will appreciate your zest for life. As far as hot-foots go, any flammable material is good, as long as it does not burn too quickly. It’s the tension-and-release that makes the joke funny. Also, certain places have laws concerning hot-foots and the like. The onus is on you to know them!

THE DANCING PRESIDENT built his entire election campaign around the “Dance USA” platform. Much to the chagrin of seasoned political analysts, the Dancing President squeaked his way into office and immediately began diverting funds from the antiquated defense department into the newly formed dancing department. Here, tax dollars were used to develop new, improved dance music and the construction of bitchin’ disco halls. The Dancing President was ultra hip, even though he was sixty-one. Gone were the stodgy old three piece suits and briefcases…in were the oversize pants, backwards ball cap, inflatable computerized running shoes, sports jerseys, dope chains and boom boxes. Soon all of America was tapping its collective foot. Spontaneous dance routines would break out in the streets a la Fame, only rarely resulting in terrible accidents. Unfortunately, the Dancing President was ousted in the next election in favour of the “Boxing President.”

THE CABER-TOSSIN’ MUTHA is a superhero who can kick yer ass. One time some lame-ass homeys tried to rob a guy. Then the Caber-Tossin’ Mutha who was disguised as a stupid walking guy took off his coat and there was a kilt, a cape-kilt and a tam with a mask. He had a caber and he tossed it at the robber guys and they fell like bowling pins. The guy who got robbed laughed at the Caber-Tossin’ Mutha and laughed at his kilt. Well, you can imagine the Caber-Tossin’ Mutha kicked his ass with a caber. Don’t mess with the Mutha’, fool!

	Distinguished Men of Character

	AT LEAST WE’VE GOT EACH OTHER were the words emblazoned across the whimsical poster that served as the only decoration on the walls of the fallout shelter. It’s true though, we did have each other, when the canned goods ran out and the nuclear winter continued unabated. I marveled at how we all managed to acquire a taste for human flesh with absolutely no moral reservation…and then one day as I leafed through an old National Geographic that had now become a collector’s item, it hit me…we were mutants! We’d all slowly mutated over time, and looked nothing at all like the pretty humans in the magazine. Goddamn it, dad! What the hell kind of fucking dollar store bargain bin fallout shelter did you build, here? Wasn’t worth the extra hundred bucks to line the goddamned thing with lead, was it!? EVERYBODY LOVES A CLOWN, so what’s your problem? Think you’re too good for clowns? Well think again—nobody lives harder or faster than your average birthday party clown. He knows what you’re thinking. But he keeps going anyway—that smile is painted on his face. Want a balloon animal? A poodle perhaps, or an exotic giraffe? It’s yours for the asking. There is no cost to you. The children see how you behave, and they begin to understand. They are half-way to forming their own opinions about clowns, opinions that will calcify and become difficult to change. Look at little Timmy. Doesn’t he look happy? He’s beside himself over the antics of this crazy clown fellow. And now—at the end of a summersault of his own, see how he looks up at you? For a fraction of a second, you see a heart and mind uncluttered by doubt or frustration. But then you connect…and he sees you for what you are. The sparkle in his eye runs for cover, and disappears. He doesn’t know what you are, but he knows one thing for sure…you are no clown. “UNFORTUNATELY, THE CREATURE’S SEMEN CONTAINS A TOXIN,” said the doctor, wearing a well-practiced look of grave concern. “It’s slow-acting, but it’s already begun to attack your nervous system. If we had a sample, we might be able to concoct some kind of antidote, but until we capture the hideous alien monstrosity that did this to you, there’s really nothing we can do.” Bill mustered the courage to look the doctor in the eye. “Well, at least I got fifty bucks out of the deal,” he said, half-jokingly. I HAVE A SHITTY MEMORY and I always have. It’s got nothing to do with drugs, although it’s usually easier to say, “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name, I’m a drug casualty.” So anyway, when I forgot my girlfriend’s birthday again, she pushed me down the stairs to remind me. “Do you even give a shit about me at all?” she screamed from the top landing as I examined my spine for cracks.“Not after you push me down two flights of stairs, you hag!” I whispered back. “What?” she shrieked. I didn’t answer. It was safer to pretend that I was dead. “Are you okay?” she wailed like a banshee. Again, I didn’t answer. I was dead. And as I lay there dead, I remembered the name of the animal suggested in that morning’s crossword puzzle: opossum! Life’s funny like that, ain’t it? “I’M NOT GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN,” said my mother sternly, with a look that suggested she meant business. “I…I didn’t hear what you said the first time,” I replied, honestly. “Well. Too bad for me,” she said, and walked away. DISTINGUISHED MEN OF CHARACTER, genteel, never severe, but firm when a strong opinion is required, disinclined towards participation in group efforts but supportive nonetheless, often have difficulty controlling their emotions once the door has been unlocked. A tightness in the chest, a stinging in the eyes and that sinking feeling are the warning signs that precede an attack of deep, inconsolable misery. Leave the room quickly! It is too late to prevent the uncontrollable frame-wracking sobs that are about to have their way with you. Excuse yourself quietly, and don’t dawdle to answer questions about your health. Those hot tears streaming down your red, swollen cheeks will make you look ten years older and the guttural mewling that is sure to accompany the tears will surprise even you. THERE IS NO CURE for deep-seated misery. It may seem inexplicable, and born of no particular catalyst, but this is simply because you have had neither the time for, nor the inclination towards, introspection and self-analysis. It’s not your fault. Just find a safe place to hide and let it occur. Wave after wave of regret and longing: mother’s embrace, lost love, the nagging suspicion that you have wasted your time, more days behind you than ahead of you, harsh words exchanged in desperate hours, insecurities left to fester, no religion, no, purpose, no direction. The memory of a boy lying in tall grass looking up at a sky more blue than it can ever be again. Warm sunshine, summer-scented breeze, thinking about tomorrow’s birthday cake, and what it would be like to be an astronaut. ONE DAY, I WAS THIRTY and so I sat down and made a list of activities and qualities that I thought would take the edge off the whole “I’m going to die someday!” feeling. Here it is: 1. FIND BEAUTY IN EVERYTHING! Find ways to exploit that beauty for fun and profit! 2. LIVE TODAY LIKE IT’S YOUR LAST and God help anyone who gets in your way! 3. DO ONE GOOD DEED EVERY DAY! Try and limit yourself to one good deed per day! 4. MAKE PEACE WITH YOUR ENEMIES and maintain a watchful eye! 5. DON’T BE AFRAID TO TRY NEW THINGS! And don’t feel the need to keep trying if you’re not instantly good at it! 6. USE MODERATION when exercising and eating healthy food! 7. ASK YOURSELF THIS: What would Jesus do? 8. REGRET NOTHING! 9. BELIEVE IN YOURSELF even when you’re lying to yourself! 10. READ MORE BOOKS WRITTEN BY OLD MEN. So far I’ve managed to incorporate everything in the list into my daily life, except of course number eight. YOU ARE A ROBOT. Your mainframe is buried deep beneath a mass of colourful wire within the conical tower that serves as your body. You locomote by way of six small rubber wheels jutting out from the underside of your robot body. Your arms, if they can truly be called arms, are little more than glorified, hydraulic, telescoping forks. One of your arms is equipped with a device for welding. You have no legs, and cannot climb stairs or curbs. You are programmed to affix handles to toolboxes, and nothing more. You are incapable of analytical thought and the formulation of long term goals. Stupid robot! ARE YOU TIRED OF MAKING YOUR BOSS RICH? Are you tired of making your boss rich? Are you tired of making your boss rich? Are you TIRED of making your boss RICH? Are you tired of making your boss rich, are you tired of making your boss rich. Are you? Tired? Of making…your BOSS: RICH? ARE you tired of MAKING your BOSS rich? Are you tired of making your boss rich! www.areyoutiredofmakingyourbossrich.ca “FULL THROTTLE, MR. JETSGO!” screamed Captain Korg through a mouth full of blood. The ship lurched and buckled under the heavy phaser assault it was getting from the three Klat’Nat’Buh Juggernaut-class war ships that kept pace. “Full throttle, Mr. Jetsgo! Now! Get us out of here! We’re not getting any younger!” the Captain screamed, the fear in his voice making him seem younger. Mr. Jetsgo looked down at the controls. So many buttons and dials and do-daws! Things that went, “bloop, bloop,” and things that went “ticky-ticky-ticky” and a little speaker-type thing that went “be-dee-boody” incessantly. “Which one is the throttle?” he asked, hesitantly. “What are you talking about!” screamed the Captain, tears streaming down his face. “The button that gets us the fuck out of here!” Another phaser blast rocked the ship, causing a small explosion in the communications panel, killing Mrs. Uroboros. Mr. Jetsgo looked down again at the control panel. It was funny. He’d come to work every day for sixteen years and never, ever had a problem with the controls. That was his job, after all. Steer the ship, make it go faster, etc. But now the panel seemed completely foreign to him. Totally alien. “I’m sorry, Captain, I can’t seem to find it.” “Christ!” shrieked the Captain, “if my legs weren’t broken, I’d come over there and kick your teeth in!” Another blast rocked the ship. “Oh, God, we’re all gonna die!” the Captain mewled. Mr. Jetsgo took another deep pull on his vodka bottle. Seemed like vodka was his only friend these days, the only one who listened, the only one who cared. Vodka loved him. No wonder he spent so much time with it! One more drink then, and we’ll have another gander at the controls, he thought to himself. Swallowing hard, and giving his head a shake and his eyes a good rub, Mr. Jetsgo took a last look at the controls. And there it was, nestled in among the myriad boo-bobs and dingy-dings: a seven inch dial clearly labeled, “throttle.” “Hey Captain, I found it!” he hollered triumphantly. “Throw it!” screamed the Captain. Mr. Jetsgo gave the dial a good spin. The Space Love Boat jumped into warp drive, left its attackers behind, and flew straight into the sun. IF I WERE YOU, AND YOU WERE ME, I’d totally have sex with you. Wouldn’t give it a second thought. How could I resist your charms? But hey, that’s just what I would do if I were you and you were me. If you were me thinking about what I would do if I were you, you might come up with something entirely different. But somehow I don’t think so. And if you were me and I were you, you’d probably think the same thing, but that’s just me. ME TARZAN, you possible employer. Me think me good for job ‘cause me love to work. Me work good people fire bad. Also, me have monkey and tiger and elephant. Well, me have Jane too but she her own person. No, me no have experience on cash register. MY UNINTENTIONALLY HILARIOUS LANDLORD was at the door. He peered in through the screen but his eyes were unable to penetrate the murk beyond. “Hello?” he called out. I got up from the couch-chair and moved into view. “Ah,” he said, “which one are you again?” “I’m Jayson,” I said, although it didn’t matter to him who I was. He held up an unusually colourful toilet seat. “I found this…I thought you might be able to…utilize it…as a decoration.” I had no response. “I’ll just leave it here…for you…” He tossed it down onto the tick-ridden porch-couch. It landed with a squishy sound. “I’ll come back for it…if you can’t…utilize it…” I dutifully thanked him for leaving his toilet seat on my porch. He held up a thick stack of lottery tickets and rifled them with his thumb and forefinger as if it were a wad of cash. “Look at this,” he smiled. “I can’t lose this time. If I win…everybody gets a share.” I thanked him for his hypothetical generosity. “This time…I can’t lose.” He looked down at his feet. Time passed. “See you later,” he said, eventually. I watched as he slowly made his way down the walk. He stopped to decide which way he wanted to go, rubbing his head, squinting in the sunlight. I returned to my Nintendo game, but it wasn’t fun anymore. WHEN STAYING AT THE RAT HOTEL, please remember to be patient. The hotel is big, and the rats are small, so room service may be slow. Also, the kitchen gets closed down every so often because of rats. Rat knowledge of mechanics and plumbing is very rudimentary. If things start to break down, it takes a while for the repairs to start. A few select rats have recently enrolled at the local technical college, so there should be a number of handyrats employed by the hotel by the start of next season. Enjoy your stay but please bear with them for the first few months. It’s not easy to get a hotel rolling and hey, dem’s just rats. KAFKA vs. JOHN STUART MILL (CONTINUED) …and then Franz Kafka bought a huge tub of ice cream, walked out of the store, and hurled the tub through the window of the local tattoo parlour. “Why the fuck did you do that!” screamed John Stuart Mill. “I felt like it, dipshit!” said Franz Kafka. “I can do what I want.” “Oh yeah?” John Stuart Mill retorted. “I can stop you!” A gigantic fisticuffs ensued, and the city was razed. “I give!” screamed Franz Kafka, trapped in an agonizing finger-lock by John Stuart Mill. “You are obviously the better man.” “That’s right,” said John Stuart Mill, pocketing his brass knuckles. “You are weak. I am a real man.” Then they both went into what was left of the tattoo parlour, paid for the damage done, and got matching Betty Page tattoos. ENJOY LIFE! Do what you want. If you want to give somebody a hot-foot (that old standby!), then by all means, do it. Life’s too short to waste time thinking about the consequences of your actions. Your hot-foot recipient will appreciate your zest for life. As far as hot-foots go, any flammable material is good, as long as it does not burn too quickly. It’s the tension-and-release that makes the joke funny. Also, certain places have laws concerning hot-foots and the like. The onus is on you to know them! THE DANCING PRESIDENT built his entire election campaign around the “Dance USA” platform. Much to the chagrin of seasoned political analysts, the Dancing President squeaked his way into office and immediately began diverting funds from the antiquated defense department into the newly formed dancing department. Here, tax dollars were used to develop new, improved dance music and the construction of bitchin’ disco halls. The Dancing President was ultra hip, even though he was sixty-one. Gone were the stodgy old three piece suits and briefcases…in were the oversize pants, backwards ball cap, inflatable computerized running shoes, sports jerseys, dope chains and boom boxes. Soon all of America was tapping its collective foot. Spontaneous dance routines would break out in the streets a la Fame, only rarely resulting in terrible accidents. Unfortunately, the Dancing President was ousted in the next election in favour of the “Boxing President.” THE CABER-TOSSIN’ MUTHA is a superhero who can kick yer ass. One time some lame-ass homeys tried to rob a guy. Then the Caber-Tossin’ Mutha who was disguised as a stupid walking guy took off his coat and there was a kilt, a cape-kilt and a tam with a mask. He had a caber and he tossed it at the robber guys and they fell like bowling pins. The guy who got robbed laughed at the Caber-Tossin’ Mutha and laughed at his kilt. Well, you can imagine the Caber-Tossin’ Mutha kicked his ass with a caber. Don’t mess with the Mutha’, fool!

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