Skinny-dipping in the Sea of Galilee with my dittoheads, by Michael Brockley

I wonder at the simplicity of solving unemployment by outlawing the minimum wage. My partners nod in agreement as all of us tread water. We left our wives in the Dan Tel Aviv Hotel, plying a pair of assassins from Mossad with 007 cocktails. My colleague from Indiana practices Latin conjugations as he preps his lecture to the Buenos Aires Stock Exchange on the vigor of Laffer curves and the polluting habits of trees. The Toddster chuckles as he rolls onto his back. We confab over legitimate rape and the danger of impregnating women with blow jobs. On nights like these, buck naked with my buds in holy water, I have troublesome visions of Ayn Rand in a love sandwich with Papa Smurf and the Teletubby I call Red Purse. These fantasies worry me, what with my junk hanging in the Galilee and the prodigious rut of blue puppets a perverse guardian angel on my shoulder. Tonight the Majority Leader wants to award “Catsup, the Next Vegetable” franchises to the dark side of the moon. As the Gipper said, “Facts are dumb.” He always pulls me from my funk. What I wouldn’t give for a Cuban to smoke while my posse awards lunar plots to Rupert and Rush. While four of us plan a campaign stop at the Creation Museum. Rand is swimming toward us, pushing her languid breasts through the waves. The next governor of Indiana boasts of the orphanages he intends to open, and Newt has all but patented his idea for having the sons of Ham clean school toilets during kindergarten recess. Rand climbs onto a sandbar to sing “Die Lorelie.” My wife and I have a carpe diem understanding.

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