vocals, bass.
it was bob allen's third term as senator from oregon. this was a strange time, tom daschle had said just last week. although bob had been in office long enough to know the procedure backwards and forwards, to know the names and agendas of each lobbyist, to know just where in washington to get a decent hoagie, he still lacked the credibility of long-term senators such as, to use an easy example, someone like strom thurmond. bob still had to fight hard for every vote; he couldn't simply coast on his record. this, daschle had whispered over a cup of joe at Baraks 1440, seemed at first to be a liability, but instead made him much more dangerous than any of the long-term office holders. this was the time in most politician's careers when they made the most valuable judgements and the absolute worst mistakes of their lives. just be sure, daschle had finished, as they were heading out the door, to always be on the side that's winning.
it was a blustery january day in the middle of the great debates on national security and terrorism, in the winter of 2002. with daschle's words still ringing in his ears, bob walked onto the senate floor just as the republican senator from virginia, tom davis, was finishing up a lengthy speech whose subject was the importance of increasing border security as regulated by the recently passed patriot act. "just to be clear, those of us spineless enough to call themselves real americans AND to waive increases in border security deserve just what they would receive if they got their way: the downfall of their entire nation and their doomed fate in the hands of evil. thank you." to hearty applause, davis stepped down from the podium.
just then, who should burst in through the side door but a rowdy bunch of pirates! they immediately fell on the unsuspecting senators, slaying them with their glinting cutlasses to a chorus of "yearrrgh!" blood filled the halls of congress. panic ensued. senators went running, clutching important documents under their arms; interns scrambled and trampled each other, looking for the nearest exit, news cameras scrambled to cover the scene: never before had pirates broken into the capitol building. just then, a lone figure emerged from the chaos: bob. wielding a huge bass guitar that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, he began advancing toward the pirates, who were still chopping and pillaging. bob stopped halfway across the room, aimed the neck of the bass at the band of ruffians, and, sweet bejeezus, lightning bolts began shooting out of the bass, striking the pirates dead as they stood. a few tried to retaliate, but were slain immediately by the unstoppable crushing onslaught of bob. once he had finished them off, bob tore his shirt off to reveal a secret hidden underneath: a thick coating of blackish-grey animal fur, like that of a male silverback gorilla. he threw his head back, bared his giant fangs, and let out a mighty roar that reverberated throughout the halls of congress and throughout the world.
bob plays birthday parties, bar/bat mitzvahs, and most retirement homes.
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