Oh shit. Is it tax day already? Where the hell did I put my goddamn stamps? I gotta get this check in the mail so we can buy the Cretin-in-Chief another fucking boat.

And no, that’s not a euphemism, dickhead. Your President and mine has so little sense of decorum that while he was telling crippled vets he couldn’t afford to pitch in for their medicine, he was dropping two million federal clams on a fucking yacht. Way to rub it in our faces, asshole. I bet if we sell back some of that body armor, we can hook you up with a fish finder.

Or maybe I should be all fucking Business Republican and efficient and just drop my 1040-EZ in the collection plate next Sunday? Over two billion of our hard-earned tax dollars are getting funneled to religious groups already, so why not cut out the middleman and set Jesus up with that Lexus he’s had his eye on?

Surely he deserves it – that fucker’s been working harder than a Babylonian with a speech impediment. What with picking the winners at the Oscars and fixing the Super Bowl, he barely had time to pitch in when Katrina turned the Ninth Ward into the deep end at Six Flags Moisture Madness. Those bastards in the liberal media kept rerunning those boring helicopter rescues, but on the ground there were thousands of church-goers out making the survivors sit through Sunday School for a Pop-Tart and a snack-size Sunny-D.

I bet you thought that was some weird tangent, didn’t you? Nope. Those Bible-pushers handing out salvation with the Juicy Juice? Can you say, federally funded?” Excellent. Now, can you say, “Those suckers in the Super Dome probably would have been happy to trade the Good Books in their care packages for some fucking wetnaps?”

Sorry. That wasn’t very charitable, was it? Well, if you want to get all technical about it:

char•i•ty (ch aritē’) noun. The voluntary giving of help, typically in the form of money, to those in need.

Don’t get all gooey on me, motherfucker. If the Baptists want to do good works, that’s great. But that’s our fucking money, and I don’t remember anyone asking me if they could use it as bait for their salvation seminars. But, surely that’s a fucking aberration, right? Just a slip-up on the part of the FEMA accountants?

Accountants? That’s fucking hilarious. You actually think someone is keeping track of who’s getting your tax dollars? Wake the fuck up. The only thing you can be sure of is that your money isn’t winding up in the bank accounts of anyone who doesn’t believe that God hung his son up to dry to make up for an apple prank that the Devil pulled back when the biggest question at Fashion Week was Fig, again?”

Speaking of Satan, guess who else is getting multimillion dollar checks from Uncle Samson? Pat Fucking Robertson.

Yes, that Pat Robertson. The one who said liberals were “just like” the Nazis, and claimed God was gonna fling twisters and boulders at Disneyworld, and blamed Nineleven on the gays, and called the Methodists “the spirit of the Antichrist,” and thinks he can steer hurricanes, and thinks faggots just want to “throw blood all around” churches and “spit in the face of ministers,” and suggested that someone should set off an atomic bomb in the State Department.

Ok, to be fair, on that last one he did specify that it should be a “very small nuke” – not one of those big dangerous ones. Still, Pat’s sporting some balls of biblical proportions to be submitting grant applications to the same government he’s threatened with thermonuclear devices, no matter how itsy bitsy.

It’s not like he needs the cash, either. Mr. Robertson’s worth in the neighborhood of two hundred million dollars. His mountaintop home? Has a fucking airstrip. Which comes in handy since his “Operation Blessing” has regular flights to Africa to feed the po... just kidding. Yeah, he shipped a couple of crates of (government donated) powdered milk over to those poor souls that his pal Sese Seko was slaughtering in Zaire. But what was filling the cargo hold on most of the flights? Drills for his diamond mines.

Uh huh. Diamond mines. That he got by cuddling up to a crazy African dictator with a leopard-skin hat. While he was cheating senior citizens out of their social security checks. And suggesting that forced abortion might not be so bad if you’re Chinese. And canceling the fucking Ice Capades.

This fucker’s a Bond villain, but without the warmth and realism. And you’re about to dash out to the post office to make sure he get his share of your tithe – sorry – taxes in time to make his next payment on his Super Death Ray of Death. And yes, as if you didn’t see this coming, Robertson’s “charity” that’ll be getting a cut is the same “Operation Blessing” that Pat used for his mining equipment delivery service.

Oh, and what’s the best part of Pat’s little deal with the Sultan of Smirk? When Bush unveiled his Faith Biased Initiatives, Robertson told his loyal 700 club audience that money from the feds was “like a narcotic” and that charities would get hooked on them. Months later, Pat was rolling up his sleeve and praying for an uncollapsed vein.

And since we’re handing the clergy the keys to the vault, maybe we should put them in charge of the lock-up, too? W is way the fuck ahead of you there. Back when he was making a mess of Texas, W pioneered handing prisons over to the faithful and paying them to convert the sinners into saints. Which almost sounds like a good idea, until you find out that prisoners who went through those sacred slammers were actually more likely to wind up back in the Holy Pokey than the ones in the old-fashioned godless jails. The Lord works in mysterious ways – super fucking mysterious in this case.

Let’s see, what other genius plans can we come up with once we’ve poured our money into the pews? Maybe we could find a really marginalized group and give them a little boost? Let’s go with. . . married people. Those fuckers are in serious trouble – we’d better get out the big moneybags for this. How about five fucking hundred million dollars? You read that right – while Bush is mortgaging our great, great, great, great grandchildren’s future, he’s throwing a five with eight zeros after it at programs that enhance “marriage skills.”

This is still a Republican administration, right? Run by a guy who said that government should only take care of our “basic priorities”? Food, water, defense, and relationship advice? I’m pretty sure we can do without government intrusion in that last one. And even if our National Marriage Skills Reserves are reaching crisis levels, for five hundred million bucks we could hire Doctors Phil and Ruth full-time and still have plenty left over to get a Randy the Rabbit Brand Quiver Carrot for every lady in the land.

And here’s a bright idea – who do you think could do with a little less funding this year? According to Bush, it’s the National fucking Guard. That’s right, Commander Cowardice is happy to buy flowers for our freeways, but the boys and girls who’re getting their asses shot off far from home had better tighten up their belts and stop wearing through those Humvees so quickly. After all, we’re back here at home sacrificing absolutely nothing. It’s really the least they can do. We can argue all day about what it means to support the troops, but I’m pretty sure we can agree that not bouncing their paychecks is a good place to start.

And speaking of Katrina (it’s called stream of consciousness, asshole, grab a paddle), it turns out Bush is gearing up to bumble the next Storm of the Century already. Next time, though, he really won’t get any warning before the levees start to leak. Remember when Bush tried to channel JFK and start another space race? Turns out the pit crew doesn’t get any new cash to build the next red planet rover. And since the toll for a trip to Mars is approaching the ticket price for a nosebleed seat at a Stones concert, NASA’s cancelling all those extra gizmos they’ve got in the works and slimming down for the trip to the red planet. Gadgets like . . .the weather satellites. And without weather satellites, we won’t see that next big storm until it's swallowed Savannah.

And this fuck-up is a twofer: no weather satellites, no global warming. Who needs headlights when you’re blindfolded?

And now our Dear Leader’s got a fancy new rating system that tells us just which programs are effective and which aren’t. But, just like that fucking rainbow that Homeland Security cooked up so that we could match our panties with our panic, the Program Assessment Rating Tool is about as helpful as a dousing rod on submarine. It’s bad enough that more than two thirds of the programs he already cut never got their report cards, but even when the White House does manage to give out grades, getting straight A’s is just as likely to get you detention as a scholarship.

So, the program Bush set up to boost efficiency in budgeting is creating reports that nobody reads. What do you want to bet that every iPod in that office has an Alanis Morissette playlist?

It’s no wonder the White House sets up these dog and pony shows – they have to distract us from all the money they’re siphoning off for Republican pet projects. What was that? The Democrats were corrupt when they had control of Congress? Good point. When the donkeys held the reins, they did take home more bacon to their districts than the Republicans got. But now that the elephants are running this three branch circus, the difference between the red zones and the blue is more than fifteen times higher than it was under the Democrats.

Yes, you read that right, you small-government simpletons. Back when the Democrats were in charge, their districts got an average of $35 million more than the Republicans. After five years of GOP shenanigans, the scales had tipped toward the Republicans to the tune of $615 million more per district. But when we point that out, you fucking pachyderms call foul and run crying to your mommies. Grow the fuck up, assholes. This is the big leagues, and if you’re gonna keep using the “I’m rubber, you’re glue” defense, we’re gonna have to give you a nice, long time out starting right around the the first Tuesday in November.

And while we’re on distractions from the real problems at hand, if you haven’t been out marching to keep Juan Carlos from being pinched for picking your potatoes, you might want to think about getting your ass out on the street, or you can kiss your social security check adios, amigo. Not only is your friendly neighborhood Mexican picking your crops and washing your dishes, she’s also paying for your fucking Winnebago. If we ever did decide to send those eleven million people back over the border, we’d lose out on the seven billion dollars they pump into Social Security every year. And unlike the rest of us, they won’t be getting a penny back when they hit their golden years. Seems kind of rude to send them all packing after they’ve set us up in dentures and diapers.

Sorry – what the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, taxes. And more specifically, the Bush tax hikes. Didn’t hear about those on Lou Dobbs Tonight, did you? Leaving aside the fact that almost ninety percent of us got less than a hundred bucks off our taxes last year, take a gander at that second envelope you’re about to drop in the mail. See, that fucker is forcing the states to pay for all his little pet programs and hoping you won’t notice that while your federal taxes are little slimmer, your state taxes are putting on the pounds. That, and he figures that if he calls it a “fee” instead of a “tax,” you won’t mind paying it as much. There’s a sucker born every minute, and even more frequently if South Dakota gets its way.

So, before I drop this check in the mail, let’s get one thing crystal fucking clear, Georgie Boy: when we get a turn at steering the ship of state (not if, motherfucker: when – remember how we elected a peanut farmer after Nixon played limbo with his approval ratings?), What Goes Around, Comes Around is going to be the new Presidential Motto. When the Gulf of Mexico starts closing in on your little retirement ranch in Crawford, don’t expect us to send the Presidential Schooner to pick you and Laura out of the waves until you’ve finished the Unrated DVD of Brokeback Mountain. I’d get on my knees and start praying now, motherfucker. Payback's a bitch.


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