The Olympics, let us face it, are really not all that fascinating. Maybe it’s because they started like, the week after the Superbowl, or maybe it’s because totally awesome car chases on ice didn’t make the cut this time around while curling gets yet another chance to emboreden the airwaves of the world; whatever the reason, this Winter America needs something better to hold its interest. Interestingly enough, there are one or two new sports recently making a big splash on the political arena (that, by the way, was of course not a Teddy Kennedy reference), shooting people in the face, and choosing new Supreme Court Justices. And since I already covered the whole matter of Vice Presidential Postality last week, this time we’re gonna consider the matter of who ought to be nominated to the highest robe-wearing gathering in the land.
Now, perhaps you think that having already done this whole justice-go-round thing twice in the last year that there’s not liable to be any need to choose yet another in the coming months. To you I say phaw, tsk tsk, pish tosh, and other British grandmotherly saying that MS Word refuses to recognize as real actual words. It is the case, you see, that the average age of the Supreme Court is 578, which means that, statistically speaking, odds are that any one of them might be “moving to Florida” at any time (and my “moving to Florida” I mean being vanquished by a series of hurricanes before feeding Elian Gonzalez to a lion).
Which brings us to the real issue at hand here; who should the President nominate when the time inevitably has arriven? Some will surely say that he ought to choose a woman, to foster a greater understanding on the courts of women’s issues. Others will maintain that a member of a minority group (such as Lutheran monkey wranglers or
Yes America, I blog before you today to throw my name into the metaphorical hat worn by such great justices as William Howard “Tubs” Taft, Oliver “Yo Mamma So Fat” Holmes, and Felix “Actual Name Already Adequately Amusing” Frankfurter. Some may say that I lack the legal credentials necessary to arbitrate the great debates of this nation of ours, but happily enough, all you have to do to get on the court is convince the Senate to affirm your awesomeness.
This is not so difficult as it might appear at first, because many senators are only too aware of the fact that the last two justice hearings have been so legendarily boring that pogs have once again overtaken the network news in the polls. Therefore, in order to spice things up and pathetically attempt to prove themselves certifiably hip (or “crunk” as they say in Canada) while actually playing right into my diabolical hands, I shall simply challenge them to a dance-off, at which all who dare to oppose my mad quest for power will find themselves epically served by my kung fulicious 80s dance skillz (which are so kung fulicious that I am actually required by international law to use a Z when describing them). Also, I’ll promise to put root beer in all the Capitol water fountains and train enough monkey butlers for all of Congress.
Why, you may ask, do I want to do such a thing in the first place? For the power? From some sense of civic duty to my nation? Because I want to find out for myself whether what they say about all the justices using their power rings to summon Captain Planet is really true? Actually, I just want a job where I get to sit at a big table, they can never fire me no matter what, and where I can wear anything I want to work. Anything (and by Anything, I mean hammerpants and battle armor).
So, write to your Senator today and urge them to keep calling the White House at 3 in the morning every day until George Bush nominates me! And if they don’t, call Dick Cheney and tell him they want to go quail hunting with him.
