The Sneezing Opossum
By now you’re probably wondering how much I enjoyed my Christmas dinner with the new Republican leadership. I can assure you I enjoyed it as much as watching a crack-fueled, screaming monkey throw its feces, a.k.a., Red Eye With Greg Gutfeld.
When I entered John Boehner’s house, he was sitting at a barren kitchen table with the Tea Partier who won Eric Cantor’s seat, Dave Brat, which is his real name, presumably because his parents were not allowed to put “Dave Asshole” on his birth certificate.
Knowing that the entire Republican leadership would soon be coming, I asked how it was possible that Boehner, leader of the least productive House in American history, didn’t already have dinner prepared.
“We gave our food to the job creators,” he explained. “We expect it to come trickling back any minute.”
I didn’t want to ask in what form that food might come “trickling back,” so I asked Boehner and Brat about their agenda for the next Congress. After 40 minutes of awkward silence, I went ahead and ordered Chinese take-out.
Eventually, Republicans began flooding in, including new Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, who always looks like kids are playing on his yard without permission.
“My number one priority was to make Obama a one-term president,” McConnell declared. “But now it’s to get that kung pao chicken in my belly! Oh, and then take away healthcare for 22 million Americans.”
The real heads of the Republican Party, the Koch Brothers, sent their regards, but did not attend because Boehner’s home is too cozy for them. They needed a bigger place to spread out their wealth, so instead they rented the state of Wyoming.
The other head of the party, Rush Limbaugh, spent much of his time on the couch being fed grapes by a scantily clad Reince Priebus. “Manchy kabook noonee Han Solo!” said Rush in his native Hut language, before eating an entire pu pu platter and the Boehner family dog.
Senator Ted Cruz tried to shut down the dinner, at one point overturning a plate of fried rice and screaming, “This is the Obamacare of moo shu!” Fortunately, we’d had the prescience to seat him at the kids’ table.
Senator James Inhoffe, who will soon be Chair of the Senate Environmental Committee, arrived two hours late, saying he had proved that global warming isn’t real, based on the evidence that his car just slid into a 7-11.
Joni Ernst arrived and immediately complained that Rocky Mountain Oysters weren’t being served. After Googling it and finding out that they were fried bull testicles, we spent the rest of the evening keeping her away from sharp objects.
Representative Steve King, fresh from his interview on CNN in which he suggested Eric Garner’s death by police stranglehold was Garner’s own fault because he was obese, sat back and patted his stomach after his 28th egg roll. “Man,” said King, “I’m so stuffed, I deserve to be thrown to the sidewalk and have my windpipe crushed!”
Senator Rand Paul, having recently suggested that cigarette taxes were more to blame for Garner’s death than the police, finished his baby bok choy. He didn’t say anything; I just wanted to mention the really stupid thing he said about cigarette taxes.
Mia Love was there, but being the sole black woman, she spent most of the night explaining to the other attendees that she wasn’t part of the wait staff.
I commiserated with John Kline, who noted that, with a busy congressional schedule of 28 vacation weeks a year, there just isn’t enough time to properly criticize the laziness of poor people (who work 40 or more hours a week to live in poverty) or to praise the tremendous work ethic of Exxon’s CEO (who makes $28 million to pour shit into our drinking water).
Trey Gowdy wanted to unwrap his presents early, saying he was willing to spend billions of taxpayer dollars to “expose this government cover-up.” Boehner finally relented and Gowdy got to enjoy his newly acquired collection of random subpoenas.
They spent much of the time playing Monopoly, using real buildings and debtor prisons, until Chris Christie and Paul LePage showed up to quarantine the whole party.
“Until we can establish that this foreign food isn’t contaminated, everyone poops in this box,” Christie told us. This went on long after Boehner explained that his house, in fact, has fully working bathrooms.
“Sit down and shut up!” Christie told him. “But I’ll examine those bathrooms anyway. You know, in case they’re contaminated, too.”
He then spent the next hour in the bathroom, making noises that could be compared to a flatulent hippo giving birth to a zeppelin.
We escaped around 6:30, which worked out well, as it was Thad Cochran’s bedtime. We all made promises to get together for dinner and voter suppression the same time next year. Everyone rode off in their limos, driven by underpaid, undocumented laborers.
Well, everyone except me. I had to take a cab, because James Inhoffe was driving my car.