The Dopple Gang: Smart Humor By Dumb People

Exciting Investment Opportunities In Johnny McNulty

Dear Sir or Madam,

My name is Johnny McNulty and I am the sovereign ruler of myself, titled renter of my apartment and heir to occasional influxes of cash from my mother. You have been selected through a rigorous name generator to be informed of exciting investment opportunities in myself and my personal industry. I am very industrious. With an influx of capital, perhaps from a Sovereign Wealth Fund (if anyone from Abu Dhabi is reading! Or Norway - Johnny can provide complete proof that he does not use child labor or produce land mines, nuclear weapons, or cluster munitions), hedge fund, or private investor, who knows what rates of personal growth can be achieved?  My industries of expertise include:

1.) Technology - Johnny (me) has a long history of being on the internet, and is aware of the latest memes and animal-picture trends. He has run several small sites dedicated to serving his core constituency of friends and family for over two years, and whenever he asks, people say they read it almost every time he emails them. In addition, Johnny has considerable acumen in video-games, focusing on more conservative, less risky strategy games which produce an admirable record of finishing 89% of single-player campaigns.

2.) History, Political Science - Johnny majored in History in college, and double-majored in Political Science until he dropped it because it wanted him to take courses all the time. As we all know, in today's society capital can move across borders with unprecedented ease, providing almost unlimited access to the markets of almost all the nations of the world. But how often has that capital arrived, only to find integration awkward due to a lack of knowledge of the inner politics of the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere during the 1930's and 1940's, or an intricate understanding of Hapsburg diplomatic protocol? All too often, is the answer. But no more, now that for a small fee you can call Johnny at home and ask him for trivia, or the geographical location of South American nations.

3.) Hospitality - Johnny is a great cook, an adept conversationalist, and his couch folds out into a very comfortable full bed. Could Johnny's apartment be a successful bed and breakfast? Do you have $20,000? Then yes!

4.) Administrative Services - Johnny has interned for some of the finest organizations in the world, from the Federal Reserve Bank of Philadelphia, Saturday Night Live, The Onion, Late Night With Conan O'Brien, The Aspen Institute, and The Institute for State Effectiveness. Johnny has all the filing, researching, tech-support, coffee-producing, minutes-taking capabilities of a Delhi-based Indian Institute of Technology grad, with none of the political baggage. The only requirement is that I not leave my apartment and work three hours a day. Is that cool?

5.) Finance - I set up a $300 E*Trade account in January, which currently is $297 but I will report got as high as $335 in February before I took the advice of my stupid roommate, who works at Bear Stearns. Although not for long, the jerk.

6.) Email Advertisement - Do you need to send emails advertising your investment opportunities to millions of unsuspecting Americans with the hope of striking gold on one or two senior citizens? Look no further! I will shamelessly plug any and all new product launches, investments, or pleas for money from exiled royalty with the pestering ruthlessness by which I remind my friends and acquaintances to come to my improv shows every weekend.

So if you have excess cash you're unable to figure out how to spend on yourself, come deposit it in me! Interested investors should contact the white kid losing his money playing chess in Union Square. And they should hurry, because Manny has a deal where I can play 3 games for $10 until 6 p.m.

What Happens When I Sit Down To Write Without Any Ideas

As a rule, The Dopple Gang is not a blog. So as a rule, I am bound to break that rule. Someone asked me today why I hadn't written anything recently, and my honest answer was that I had no ideas at the moment. Sad, but true. But, they responded, so what?

Yeah, I thought, so what? I'll just start writing! Well. This happened. It started off with the following brainstorming session:

"Ok...how will we be entertained in the future...hmmm...howbout everything gives you blowjobs. Like it was a really easy machine to make, and once they invented it, they just slapped it on to everything, like the way they do with iPods now."

Yep. And that thought took me to this:

More about THE FUTURE!!!!!!!!!!

Video Games Will Give You Blowjobs
       The late 2000's gave a taste of the divergent paths video-games would go down in the future. On the one hand, expensive, technology-intensive platforms aimed at hardcore gamers will continue to come closer and closer to reality, finally achieving decades of speculation about virtual reality, immersing the user in a total-feedback suit which will provide the tactile experience (minus the pain) depicted in the game. Imagine the experience, and technical skill required, to actually steer your avatar through modern-day military operations in the Middle East, fighting off insurgents, feeling the shockwaves of ordinance after calling in airstrikes, or being fellated by an extremely grateful Baghdad widow. Of course, for the inner otaku in all of us, Final Fantasy XX provides the rich story lines, amazing art, and cinematic blowjob cutscenes the fans have come to expect.
       On the other hand, more casual gamers will be attracted to the colorful graphics, simpler gameplay, and easy-to-use pleasure wand of the Nintendo company. Games like the cel-shaded Paper Mario 3: Escape From Blowjob Island, or games with fun brainteasers like "Blowjob Party Game," appeal to old and young alike who want all the fun of a blowjob without all the button mashing.

Cars Will Steer Themselves
      Although many people have predicted this invention, the will to actually develop it was not present until Toyota began offering drivers-side blowjob machines as an option, with other manufacturers of course rushing to follow suit. The resulting spike in traffic fatalities from thousands of ecstasy-addled motorists crashing into each other made development of self-steering cars a literal necessity. Now fatal traffic accidents are a rare exception, belonging only to the past and the American South, with families free to travel across the country without worrying about a pleasure-induced twitch plunging them all to their death.

And then I ran out of ideas for things that could be improved by blowjobs. Can you believe it? I mean, golf, maybe. But who wants to write about golf?

So, in conclusion, I will write when I have an idea. Because when I don't have one, I can't even think of things that would go well with a nice blowjob on the side, which is a list that extends to pretty much fucking everything.

I apologize to any relatives who may have read this.

Love,
Johnny

John Mayer's Blog: A Translator

by Johnny McNulty

The following is a blow-by-blow parsing and translation of John Mayer's blog entry "From The Heart," a missive against self-obsession and the impact on modern media on our collective psyche. Also, it is about John Mayer being a very boring man who dislikes everyone who thinks they're better than him. All the quotes are in the order the appear in the blog entry, which can be found here.

FROM THE HEART

                    I need to write this. Translation: I want to write this.

I've been traveling alone in Japan for the better part of three weeks now, and It's been so remarkable an experience for me that I can't book a ticket home yet. I haven't spoken very much out loud these days, but I've been thinking to myself in what feels like surround sound. I can see so many things clearly, and feel so connected to myself and the world around me that I need to share the perspective with you. Translation: Study abroad is fucking awesome, dude. Other countries are so spiritual, y'know?

I'm already aware that when I sing, say or write anything, 50 percent of the response will be in support of it and the other 50 will want to discount it. Translation: My manager does not let me read reviews of my albums.

This blog, though, is directed to 100 percent of people reading it. Translation: Yep.

If my blog truly does have any cultural effect, then it should be used for more than just pictures of sneakers and funny youtube videos. Translation: I do not like blogs about sneakers. Why are you writing a blog about sneakers? I don't like sneakers. I mean, I like sneakers, but not enough to write a blog about them. I'm a celebrity. My blog will help the world.

(If you don't think my blog has any effect, than you can't by definition be reading this right now and therefore don't have to respond to it in any way. Isn't that tidy?) Translation: I am a fucking genius.

What I'm about to write isn't about fame or success or celebrity or the media. That's my business. Translation: I'm gonna write this because I'm famous and successful in the media.

This is about us all. Translation: This is about me.

This is about a level of self consciousness so high in my generation, that it's actually toxic. Translation: I think I'm 17.

This is about the girl in her bedroom who poses in front of the camera she's awkwardly holding in her outstretched hand. She'll take a hundred photos until coming up with one she's happy with, which inevitably looks nothing like her, and after she's done poring over images of herself, will post one on her myspace page and then write something like " I don't give a f*ck what you think about me." Translation: Melanie, answer my wall posts.

This is about the person trying out for American Idol, who while going off about how confident they are that they were born ready to sing in front of the world, are trembling so badly they can hardly breathe. Translation: Stage fright is for pussies. I'm John Fucking Mayer, bitches.

This is about me, the guy who walks through a throng of photographers into a restaurant like he's Paul Newman, but who leaves a "reject" pile of clothes in his closet so high that his cleaning lady can't figure out how one man can step into so many pairs of pants in a week. Translation: 1.) I told you this was about me. 2.) I'm Paul Newman. 3.) Then I fired her for talking to me.

This is about a young guy who maintains a celebrity blog that subsists on tearing other people down but who has wrestled with a lifelong battle for acceptance as a gay man. Translation: Should I add the word fat? 'as a fat gay man.' No, no. 'as a gay fat man.' That's better. I don't know. I mean Perez Hilton is definitely a big fat gay man, but should I call him that? No, I'll take the high road by slyly referencing him without using his name so I can always deny it later.

This is about us all. Translation: This is about me.
Every one of us. Translation: Specifically me.

Who all seem to know deep down that it's incredibly hard to be alive and interact with the world around us but will try and cover it up at any cost. For as badass and unaffected as we try to come off, we're all just one sentence away from being brought to the edge of tears, if only it was worded right. Translation: That sentence is: "When it comes to boring music, I prefer Jack Johnson."

And I don't want to act immune to that anymore. I took the biggest detour from myself over the past year, since I decided that I wasn't going to care about what people thought about me. I got to the point where I had so much padding on that, sure, I couldn't feel the negativity, but that's because I couldn't feel much of anything. Translation: It was so bad, I was smoking pot every week.

And I think I'm done with that. Translation: People stopped paying attention to me.

I'm not the first person to admit we're all self conscious, Kanye was. Translation: Kanye West was the first person to come up with the concept of being aware of other's perceptions of you. I want Kanye to read this blog. I want to be friends with Kanye.

But what I want to do is to shed a little light on why we're all in the same boat, no matter the shape of the life we lead: because every one of us were told since birth that we were special. Translation: But many of you are still trying to pretend you are as special as me, John Mayer.

We were spoken to by name through a television. Translation: My house was haunted.

We were promised we could be anything that we wanted to be, if only we believed it and then, faster than we saw coming, we were set loose into the world to shake hands with the millions of other people who were told the exact same thing. Translation: Stop making albums on the internet. I have a record deal. Remember "Room For Squares"? That was a breath of fresh air, right? We didn't need Pitchfork to tell you it was good, or bad, or sucked, or that some Weekend Vampires were way better. I GOT HERE FIRST, DAMMIT! NO ONE MAKE NEW MUSIC UNTIL I'M DONE!

And really? Really? It turns out we're just not all that special, when you break it down. Beautifully unspectacular, actually. Translation: I'm NORMAL. Do you hear me?! NORMAL! Normal people are CRUSHED! BY SELF DOUBT!!...RIGHT?!

And that truth is going to catch up with us whether we want to run from it or not. The paparazzo following me to the gym ain't gonna be Herb Ritts and the guy he's following (ME) ain't gonna be Bob Dylan. Translation: Jack Johnson.

It's just a matter of how old you are once you embrace that fact. And for me (ME), 30 sounds about right. Translation: The rest of you should realize right now.

What now, then? I can only really say for myself (ME): Enjoy who I am, the talents and the liabilities. Stop acting careless. In fact, care more. Translation: Get it? Careless...Care Less...Care MORE!

Be vulnerable but stay away from where it hurts. Translation: Album reviews.
Read. Translation: But not album reviews.
See more shows. Translation: Mine.
Of any kind. Translation: Mine.
Rock shows, Translation: Mine.
art shows, Translation: Did you know I also macrame?
boat shows. Translation: I have a boat I need to sell.
Create more art. Translation: But not music. Enough people do that.
Wear hoodies to dinner. Translation: Badass!
Carry a notebook and hand it to people when they passionately recommend something and ask them to write it down for me. Translation: YOU carry around a book in which to collect recommendations for ME.

Root for others. Translation: For the rest of you, this means me.

Give more and expect the same in return, but over time. Translation: I write blog entries, you buy my albums. Over time.

Act nervous when I'm nervous, puzzled when I don't know what the hell to do, and smile when it all goes my way. And never in any other order than that. Translation: I have no fucking clue.

And when it's all over, whether at the end of this fabulous career or of this life, which I hope takes place at the same time, I should look back and say that I had it good and I made the most of it while I was able. And so should you. Translation: As a quiet, unfamous citizen who won't date Jessica Simpson.

I'm going quiet now. Translation: Sincerely,

John (ME)

Everything I Know I Learned From "10,000 B.C."

1.) Prophesy, Prophesy, Prophesy

          When your entire existence depends on repeating the same routine every year or starving to death, there is some understandable skepticism when some dude in a loincloth walks up and says "maybe we should shove some shit in the ground and wait 5 months for food" or "we should form a government of some sort" or "we should stop letting these big dudes whip us all the time." However, there is one simple end run around every argument in the ancient world: "Do you see how my leg is all fucked up? Many moons ago, a wise blind, butt-ugly man once foretold that he who walks on a gnarled stump would come to this village and lead you to greatness. I am that gnarled stump. Also, it was foretold that I would wed your most beautiful virgin. Hey, it's not me, I'm just telling you the prophesy."

          Because of the preponderance of prophesy, it is always a good idea in the ancient world to:

                        A.) Cover yourself in scars

                        B.) Be albino (note - this could also get you instantly killed, and it won't help if you have to lead an army across a desert under the blazing sun. A risky choice, but a bold one.)

                        C.) Make friends with the oldest, ugliest person in your tiny society, so they make sure you get a fair share of the prophesizing they will undoubtedly be doing. Does that old crone talking to herself keep asking for a foot massage? Get down there and work on those corns, bunions, and embedded mammoth bones, and while you're doing that, mention how you've been noticing that beautiful blue-eyed orphan girl your nomadic tribe just picked up. Sure enough, when the village elders decide she is to be wed, Old Mother (at the unheard-of age of 42) will mumble something about "Oh, um, the stars say that that nice young man who rubs my feet was destined to marry her. What's that? Eaten by wolves, you say? That's a shame. Let the tall guy have her then."

2.) Civilization is evil and stupid.

          HEAD PRIEST: "Sire, sire! We have discovered a way of transferring messages over distance and time by inscribing them on rock!"

          KING: "Excellent, write down the following: I am a god. You are all my slaves. Build me some pyramids."

          HEAD PRIEST: "Um...ok. Shouldn't we maybe write down some maxims for good behavior and elevate the people..."

          KING: "Does anyone else know how to write in this kingdom?"

          HEAD PRIEST: "Yes, I taught it to all the other priests."

          KING: "Guards! Kill this man! You there! You are now the head priest. Write down what happens to those who question me."

          NEW HEAD PRIEST: "Yes your majesty. Where should we put the pyramids?"

          KING: "I want them right across the street from my palace."

          NEW HEAD PRIEST: "Are you sure, your majesty? This could take decades, and it will require thousands upon thousands of slaves and beasts, who could revolt at any time. We will not have time to gather the army to protect you, plus it will be kind of messy while we construct it."

          KING: "Guards! Kill this man! You! You are now the head priest."

          NEWEST HEAD PRIEST: "Excellent idea about the pyramids, your majesty. May I recommend diverting the gold we planned on spending on bread for the people to creating a giant gilded cap for the pyramid?"

          KING: "I like the cut of your jib, young man. I have a feeling this is going to be the start of a beautiful civilization."

3.) Walking from the steppes of Central Asia, over the Himalayas, through the jungles of India/Sub-Saharan Africa, through the Sahara to the Nile Delta takes roughly 2 weeks, a bag of mastodon jerky and a canteen. Also, sabertooth tigers make good pets.

What Does Your SleepNumber Say About You?

Select Comfort presents: What does your SleepNumber say about you?

1 - You enjoy the finer things in life, and a fluffy bed sure is one of them. Highly intelligent and refined, you enjoy your authors Russian, your wines French, and your lovers Italian. After a bath filled with the finest bubbles, you climb into your Select Comfort bed and lower the number until the bed itself is almost imperceptible, just a cloud with sheets. Is there a pea under this mattress? You would know, after all - you are a princess.

19 - A military man, you've had enough nights holed up in a foxhole trying to sleep with your back against hard-packed dirt and just your kit for a pillow. You've slept next to dead men, and once you had to try to look just as dead as they did when the enemy advanced past your position. Finally, you arose in the dead of night to seize a German troop truck and make a daring escape back to Allied territory. You got a Medal of Honor for your efforts and the intelligence you recovered, but during the ceremony you saw not the eyes of President Truman, but rather that young chubby German man, a boy really, dozing by the truck before you snapped his neck. You could have just let him be but the risk was too great. Sure, he was a Nazi but he was also just a kid. A soft bed can't remove that guilt, but it sure does feel great at night.

50 - Unable to make decisions, you straddle the line between hard and soft and call it living. You know, here at Select Comfort, half the engineers wanted to leave 50 off the menu, because only a total fucking pussy would ever pick such a lame fucking number. PICK A SIDE, YOU ASSHOLE! Are you with the cushies or the firmies? This is a question you must answer, Steve Hendrickson. We know who you are. All our beds radio home and tell us the most popular numbers. You know how many beds are set to 50? One. Yours. Yes, technically this makes you the most individualistic Sleep Number user, but it also makes you a dickwad. Get off your high horse and pick a real number, or we will detonate your bed without warning.

93 - Relaxed, almost subservient, you avoid confrontation and prefer to work by consensus or alone. Well-suited to the life of a researcher or engineer, you work well in teams, as long as you are not the leader of said team. Also, you like to sleep on a pretty firm bed.

95 - You are a fiery, almost criminal lover. You fuck with wild abandon whenever the opportunity arises and will often be late to work due to your incessant fucking. Life outside the pursuit and conquest of a new sexual partner seems dull and gray. You care little for your work and seek out jobs that don't require thought after the end of the day. Instead, your real day begins afterwards, when you head to a bar or gallery opening to seduce any attractive, lonely figure you see separated from the pack. Once in your sights, you pursue your mark with ferocious tenacity until your raw animal energy overcomes them in wave after wave of pleasure. All that fucking, however, has thrown out your back something serious and you need a firmer mattress to avoid chronic pain.

Johnny McNulty's "Just-In-Case" Presidential Acceptance Speech

Wow.

(Applause)

Thank you.

(Applause)

Thank you. Thank you.

(Applause)

First of all. First of all, I would like to congratulate Senators McCain and Obama for their hard-fought campaigns.

(Boos)

Now, now, let’s be fair. They both conducted themselves superbly, and they are both admirable Americans: a true war hero and a dedicated community leader. They both embody the civil virtues that make America great.

(scattered claps)

Now, to be fair, unlike the Senators, I never actually ran for the presidency.

(Raucous cheering)

I understand this, to a large degree, was part of my appeal. When the newspapers and the pollsters asked you “Why do you like Johnny so much,” you responded, in a loud, clear voice, with answers like: “his humility”

(Applause)

“He’s an outsider who can change Washington”

(Applause)

“He’s not running for President”

(Applause)

“He’s Constitutionally unable to serve due to his age.”

(Applause)

“He doesn’t want to be President at all.”

(Wild, savage cheering)

Now, if I could focus on that point for a just a second. I understand your hunger for someone who isn’t craving power…

(Applause)

…please, if you’d just let me get through a thought…anyway, a man who isn’t craving power, or hasn’t been turned into a cunning political animal

(Applause)

…Yes, thank you, I appreciate it, but if you could just hold off for a second… I understand, furthermore, that desire to elect someone who isn’t part of, or an instrument of, the left- and right- wing crazies who think because they speak the loudest, they speak the truest.

(Applause)

And I understand that I must have seemed like that man.

(Applause)

STOP APPLAUDING! Thank you. Sorry for making your baby cry. That’s because I’m just a normal man.

(Isolated claps)

Honestly, I’m sorry for yelling before, but stop it. I don’t want to be president.

(Silence)

Ok, this is awkward, you can start applauding again.

(Applause)

Thank you. I look out on this crowd today, and I see men and women of all backgrounds, united. I see America as I have too few times in my life: united with purpose, united with hope, secure in our ideals. I just have no idea what any of this has to do with me.

(Applause)

I don’t have any experience, policy positions, or ideas for my cabinet. Let’s face it, though, that hasn’t stopped anyone before. But outside of my public life, which just started today, I have a lot of stuff going on that I can’t just drop and become President for.

(Some dude: “Like what?”)

I just started seeing this girl, and I think she’s really cool, and I’d like to see where that is heading.

(Girlfriend in crowd: “Hey sweetie! It’s me! I’m totally fine with you being President!” - Applause)

Thank you, Emily. Ladies and gentlemen, my girlfriend Emily, without whom I could never have not run for President. But c’mon, I’m 22, what if I mess everything up?

(New dude: “What if McCain or Obama messes everything up?”)

Um. Okay. Well you’ve got me there.

(Applause)

Our Founding Fathers knew that the ambition of men was a dangerous but powerful force. So they wrote the Constitution, which harnessed that power in the federal system of checks and balances. Among their smarter ideas was a little one saying you had to be 35 to be President. So, you see, I’m afraid I have you there: I can’t be President, it’s Constitutionally impossible until I’m 35. Again, thank you very much, but go home now, and drive safe.

(“Johnny! It’s me, Antonin Scalia! The Court rules that we’re cool with it. Whooo!! Johnny!!!” – Scalia flashes crowd)

Thank you. Antonin Scalia everybody. Say what you will about his opinions, he’s a terrific public speaker. Okay. Well. Let’s just say, hypothetically, that I refused to serve? What would happen then?

(“You would pick a Vice President and he would be President”)

Well, I don’t want to just pick a President, that’s rather undemocratic.

(Applause – “So then the Speaker of the House would be President”)

Huh….eh. No. That would just lead to a lot of people being pissed off at me, I think.

(“We could have another election at a massive cost to the public and the risk that they pick someone worse.”)

My fellow Americans, I am honored to serve as your President.

(Applause)

And I will hold this against each and every one of you as long as I live.

by Johnny McNulty
(this piece also appeared on The Foghorn - a great writing site you should check out.)

Three Line Fraternity Stories

1."Careful, bro: Beer before liquor, never sicker."
2."Beers after beers after beers! I broke the code!"
3."Blargh! Lies! All lies!"

1."Now listen, I want you to all be nice to my sister when she visits."
2."Where's my sister?"
3."Bro! That's my sister! This is the uncoolest kind of incest, bro"

1."Who wants to play Edward 40-Hands tonight?"
2."Wellsh....maybe...ifsh it lookshed more likesh your fashe! ZING! High fivesh!"
3."AAAAAHHH!!! HIGH FIVESH NOT A GOOD IDEA!!!"

1."Tonight is going to be the best night ever, I can feel it!"
2."Oh shit, the party's being busted! Cops!"
3."Oh man, I slept with a dude. Oh. Oh no. And he's a cop."

1."Who's up for some Beirut!"
2."We just got our asses handed to us by those drunk girls!"
3."Those drunk girls want to hand us their asses!"

Cheating On Your Lunch Guy

Ok, so I may have misplaced my drawing tablet, so it's back to basics on this guy. But I think the message is the important thing here. If you can't eat at the truck you love, love the truck you...eat...at.

If you can't make out the cartoon, click on it to be greeted by an absolutely massive version.

By Johnny McNulty

Son, we found your weed and we are very disappointed. Also, we need the number for your dealer.

Jim? Jim! James Winningham get in here right now! Oh I'll tell you what the big deal is young man. Sit down.

Earlier today, your mother was cleaning in your room and she found...well, just show him, Emily. Yep. You know what that is? Of course you do, because it's marijuana. Oh yeah, you're definitely in trouble. Call that girlfriend of yours, Ilana, and tell her you can't make it to her makeout party tonight, because you are grounded. We are going to get on your ass, young man. I want your schedules for classes, homework, tests, and sports because you'll be doing nothing but studying and chores until this summer. And we're going to need your dealer's number as well.

This is not the time for questions, Jim! You are in hot water right now. You know, I can't believe you would take these sorts of risks when you know that college application season is right around the corner and your grades and boards are just borderline. You know what? Just go to your room. I'm so angry I can barely speak to you right now. I didn't even know you COULD get weed in this town! No, Emily! We tried being nice and he turned into a little sneaky pothead. Go to your room! Uh, but before you go, I need you to call the guy who sells you weed and tell him we're cool. Do it!

Well, if we're going to march over there and give him a warning about dealing drugs in our town, we can't have him thinking we're a narc. Otherwise...he won't let us in...to discipline him. Don't take that tone with me, James! You are one tiny hair from getting your Xbox taken away and put in our bedroom. What else have you been hiding from us? Huh? Shrooms? Needles? Men? Well, I don't know, apparently there's a lot we don't know about you.

Okay, fine. You're right, dear. We wouldn't be mad if you were hiding gayness. Unless you were harboring actual gay men in your closet. Although that would be pretty funny. What? I am NOT not high right now! That is NOT funny! Seriously, Emily, stop laughing, cool it.

Son, I'm angry and I have to go to work tomorrow, so why don't you just go to your room, think about what you've done and how you can repair the damage, and give me this kid's name. I don't care if we know his parents, tell me who he is! I promise I'm not going to blow anyone's game up, I just need to have a man to man chat with this little miscreant. Kevin?! Kevin Miller, the chess club kid? Figures. His parents are a bunch of hippies. He always struck me as a shifty one. I bet he rips off all the innocent kids around town who don't know any better. Probably charges forty an eighth or something.

Sixty!!! Sixty dollars an eighth for this shit!? What a little fuck! In fucking Westchester!? No I don't know what weed prices are, I'm just...a genius. Son, it's time I told you something. I'm a super genius. Emily! Stop laughing! Ohmigod milk just came out your nose, that is so fucking...hahahahahahahahaHAHAHA...ha...ha...erm.

Go to bed, son.

by Johnny McNulty

Post-Apocalyptic Civics Lesson 1 - The Legislative Branch

The Legislative Branch:

INTRODUCTION - What Have We Become?:
  Although most of the attention is lavished on the Executive, and the most controversy occurs over the decisions of the Judicial branch, the Constitution has invested by far the most power in the Legislative branch. Being the representatives of those who can still be called people, the members of Congress decree the laws of the land. In effect, the laws they make describe the kind of country we wish to be as a people. And the process by which they do this is among the greatest dramas in American politics: Gladiatorial death-matches.

THE MAKEUP OF CONGRESS - From Melting Pot to Blast Furnace:
  The members of Congress are a true cross-section of what's left of America. Today's Congress is more diverse than ever; some Congresspersons are actually several individuals of different races and genders melded together, like Rep. O'Hara-Takufu-Jefferson (D, R, D - CA). But while Congress is a house of many races and creeds, all are united by their loyalty to their districts and their country, as well as their ability to bash in the heads of those who oppose them.

  In the House of Representatives, congressmen come from districts ranging from the smallest, most backward village to neighborhoods of the largest megalopolises. In the glowing back country of America, where constituents are concerned largely with subsidies for farming and for fighting off 1,300 lb. coyotes, Representatives are usually just the largest or strongest farmer's son in the village, so it is a tradition to send four or five backup congressmen, due to the high fatality rate of freshmen Representatives.

  However, in the huge rival city-states of New-York-Also-Starring-Philadelphia-And-Boston and Los-Angeles-Featuring-Mexico, as well as Chicago and the other cities on the North Coast, Congresspersons can grow to be 15-18 feet tall, often sport broadswords in place of hands, and (their greatest weapon) rely on the old-boys club connections of their Ivy League schools. In order to imbue deliberations with some measure of sportsmanship, however, cyborgs are not permitted to be members of the House of Representatives.

  This is not true, however, of the Senate. Short of the President, no figures command the sheer terror and dread of millions the way Senators can. Barely deserving of the mantle of humanity, they have nonetheless blasted their way to the top by sheer violence. It should be noted that none but the richest citizens can pay for the weaponry and electronics built into even the most minor Senator, and so most are beholden to large lobbies and corporations who maintain and fuel these legislative Leviathans, for example Joe Coca-Cola Biden (D-DE).

THE LEGISLATIVE PROCESS - We Who Are About To Die Support H.R. 101:
   We all remember the popular "How A Bill Becomes A Law" cartoon from the children's series "Indoctrination-Facility Rock" from when we were suspended in  the jelly baths of our subterranean population-generators, but in case you need a refresher, here's a basic primer on the legislative process:

    - While anyone can come up with an idea for a law, only a Member of Congress can sponsor it. This is done by forging a suit of armor in the Hell-Chasm of Washington, the still-hot core of the first (and second through 20th) nuclear blast which almost destroyed this country. Once the suit of armor has been crafted, the Member of Congress painstakingly inscribes the resolution onto the breastplate. When the Member of Congress dons the armor and steps into the Chamber of Valor, that armor becomes a Bill.

    - First, the Bill is tested by the appropriate Committee: generally a pit of bears or feral but intelligent dogs who specialize in Intelligence, Health Care, etc. Although if the Bill (or Congressperson) seems especially unready, they will have to brave the Subcommittee of Truth, a lightless black void where the sponsors must face their most implacable enemy: themselves.

    - After successfully making it out of Committee, the Bill goes to the floor of the House. At this point, Congresspersons choose which side they will battle for, Yea or Nay. However, some on the Yea side may arrive with amendments to the bill inscribed on their armor. If the amendments cannot be agreed on, often the Bill, and its wearer, dies before reaching a full vote.

    - Finally, the House votes until either the Bill-wearer or the highest-ranking member of the opposition has been disarmed. Although the victor has the Constitutional right to kill his opponent, tradition holds that the defeated may appeal to the Vice-President. The Vice-President almost always votes for death.

    - Having passed the House, the armor is passed on to the Senate, where a new champion will wear it. Again, the specters of Committee or Subcommittee await it. The final battle in the Senate, although involving far fewer participants (112 to the House's 1,337), is in fact far more dangerous to the public at large as the Senate, unlike the House, permits cyborgs to be elected, and the battle is often taken to the streets before it ends, sometimes after days or months.

(Note: Although Senate votes are still reasons to flee the countryside around Washington, far fewer die today than in the terrifying reign of "The Dread Triumvirate" of Daniel Webstron, Henry Clayborg ("The Great Decapitator") and John C(omputer) Calhoun.

Pictured: Senator Diebold (R-WA) argues in favor of school vouchers.