Splitting Sides Across Party Lines: Chapter 2 (cont) Ron Paul and The Bathroom Mortar

“Ron Paul, what do you think about the mistakes they made in saying you won the Iowa Caucus, and does this sour you from continuing your campaign?”

A microphone is pushed against the little man’s neck, as he is bludgeoned by reporters.

“What?!  That certainly isn’t a valid question, when I just won this thing, fair and without any help from the Super Pac’s,” he said, exasperated because he was trying to use the bathroom but the media  clumped up, blocking the way in and out.

“Please could you move? I drank a lot of water and…”

A loud abrasive voice ejects from a woman that looks like a Cuban Joan Rivers, and interrupts him.

“So why did you say you are quitting the race?”

“I never said that, now can you please,” he starts to say

“When will you give up and quit the race?”

“Why do you want to quit the race?”

“In your recent decision to quit the race have you thought about siding with candidates? Newt Gingrich or Mitt Romney?”

And on a continuous frenzied loop they question him.

“I am not quitting…”

Ron Paul looks around; weary, pushing now, becoming more violent, his bladder builds up, and the reporters keep striking him with their microphones. They question him all at once, louder and louder, like braying mules.

All news affiliates fill the halls, Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, and NPR all gather outside of the men’s room, jumping over each other to scream at the little congressmen.

Suddenly there is a gaseous exchange of angry wind. It seems to hit off the bathroom walls like a mortar, followed by a stench that might remind a farmhand of a decaying calf’s leg caught in the teeth of a radiator.

The cloud of stench follows and oozes in between the cracks of the men’s room door and sends the media scattering. Ron Paul himself walks away quickly, conveniently forgetting the need to urinate.

“Hey Paul!” A familiar voice shouted.

That voice comes from Newt Gingrich. He waddles out of the bathroom fastening his belt. He has a satisfied look, and little beads of sweat curl around his hamster cheeks, the results of great strain. Ron Paul turns and gives him a disapproving stare.

“Man oh man! I have to start eating better! What just came out outta me was more negative than Romney’s add campaigns!”

And with that he guffaws and walks the opposite direction as Paul stares down the hall after him.

“This campaign is going to be nasty,” he thinks.

Then sniffs the air and adds…

“It already has…”


Splitting Sides Across Party Lines: Chapter 2. Ron Paul or Rabid Raccoons?


I wrote this after studying the GOP race in 2012 and witnessing how both liberal and conservative media was treating Ron Paul when he won the Iowa Caucus. This was the race that everyone in the media, including the Sunday political shows agreed, was a must-win for the GOP front runner. However, when Ron Paul and his ardent supporters celebrated this incredible victory, Fox News, CNN, and MSNBC joined as one great voice of opposition and claimed that Iowa does not hold the weight it once did. That is why I portray the media as robots, or worse in this segment, refusing to accept Ron Paul. 


A silly looking women sits behind her highly polished desk as lights flicker in the background. The script is given to her hurriedly. She is wearing too much makeup, so much so that it cakes and clumps over her cheek and is starting to crawl down her neck. A guy with terrible acne dashes across the room with a tissue and collects the light brown goop before it splashes on her. She doesn’t notice.

She has a far away look in her eyes while the man behind the scenes of CNN  announces that they are ready to go on the air. She stares straight ahead, like in a trance, tar-pit eyes, not blinking.

The sludgy looking director man hollers, but has to cut it short. Maureen O’Feller is put on live TV, still in her vegetable state. The world is watching her, and she is watching them, very, very strangely. If she was a cartoon her eyes would be swirling like in a Cinnamon Toast Crunch commercial as the powder hits the milk.

“Emergency,” whispers the pudgy director behind the scenes. “Number 6 has blinked out.”

The male anchor, folding his hands beside her seems to understand. He snaps his fingers, then quickly flashes the devil- horns hand gesture. He then uses those same two protruding fingers to flick the top of her head while whispering the infamous toy company name, “Mattel.”

Just like that, she is shaken out of it.

A big, unintelligent wide smile spreads across her face, and without missing a beat, like she hasn’t been staring straight ahead for the last minute, says in a cheery artificial voice.

“News on the results of the Iowa Caucus has just been announced. And Historically this is the big one, the Super Bowl of politics. Results of this contest launches the winning candidate into future success. Some political pundits say that the winner of Iowa is spring boarded into New Hampshire with enough momentum to land at the oval office,as was the case with Barack Obama in 2008.”

“For more of this, let us go to our new political correspondent Debbie Doll. Debbie what is the good word?”

The scene changes and there are tumultuous shouts in the back ground. College-age voices mingled in celebration, but Debbie Doll, the ditsy reporter in a low cut top, is obviously worried. She furrows her brow, but then gets a signal from her ear piece, getting direction from the high celestial media tower overlords.

“The” good word” is that there has been over fifteen rabid raccoon sightings in the past two weeks in this lovely state of Iowa, Maureen.”

She says this and the scene cuts back to Maureen O Feller, or “Barbie number 6” to her handlers, who also has received some instruction by her silent co-anchor, a block shaped man with an overly ripe face full of strange blushes. He pinches her leg strangely under the desk.

“Raccoon sightings. Incredible news Debbie. Have any of them been harmed by any of the republican candidates?”

“No, not at this moment, but there is a celebration going on…you can hear how loud it is from where I am. There are also..alot of people standing, some howling, raising their hands and shuffling around, so it is impossible to tell if there are any rabid raccoons in the auditorium at the time. Everyone in that room could be getting their ankles nibbled by disease carrying critters.”

“Amazing, Debbie,” the male anchor says, smugly.

The female reporter shakes her head enthusiastically. The male anchor, puts a pencil to his pursed lips, above an overly greasy looking upper lip.

He tilts his head and retorts.

“Debbie, uh, is there some reason for this random, and sporadic celebration?”

“Well, nothing that I can tell. The only thing that has happened in the last ten minutes is Ron Paul winning the Iowa Caucus, but that can’t possibly be the reason. I  also heard reports that Newt Gingrich has a wonderful singing voice. Perhaps he is performing for the crowd in there. Perhaps Newt Gingrich has been bitten by the raccoon.”

“It is disconcerting. Whatever the reason, I know you will get to the bottom of it Debbie,” Maureen adds and the scene at Iowa cuts off.

“Rabid raccoons….”, the male anchor trails off and shakes his head. Then adds..

“they can be some nasty things.”

Maureen looks at the camera with glassy eyes. She twitches when hearing the word, “nasty”, then goes into a transition.

“For more about the recent events let us turn to our distinguished political panel. Dr. Arty Van Phallus, professor of political sciences at Yale, Janice Landry, vice president of the organization, Clinton for Kittens, and Barry Golly, a gay man who works at a Ruby Tuesdays in Sarasota Florida. All experts in the field.Let us start with Dr. Phallus.”

“Doctor, for years we have heard that Iowa is such a powerful representative of the United States voting machine…but…is this truly the case? Isn’t this a matter of culture changing in the last four years, and Iowa not being such a great indicator anymore, and in fact, the candidate that wins Iowa has even less of a chance to win the rest of the country, because of Iowa being so backwards in their progressive thinking?”

The professor, who is wearing a monocle, a black and white checkered bow tie, and a sweater under a swede coat, clears his throat with confidence.

“Good question Maureen, with the implied answer not lying in the question at all. Yes, in my expertise, studying the political situation for over a half an hour each day for a month as I read the Huffington Post, I have to conclude that it is a matter of culture changing in the last four years.”

“Very inciteful,” the male anchor nods. All nod after that like on cue.

“Yes, and in fact, Iowa is not such a great indicator anymore, and in fact, I would go so far as to say, the candidate that wins Iowa has even less of a chance to win the remaining portions of the country.”

“And why is this Doctor Phallus?” Maureen asks.

“I ascertain that it is because of Iowa being so backward in their progressive thinking. ”

“Amazing!” Maureen shouts, extra loud, like she was stung under her seat.


“Incredible”, says the male anchor.

“Indeed,” the doctor repeats.

So what do you think about it Barry Golly?”

Barry Golly throws his head quickly to the side, as his back is extra sharp and arched, sitting in his chair with his legs crossed. He flings out his hands in a loose gesture of disapproval. His vest is too tight to his chest, which causes him to lisp apparently.

“Iowa needs to get with it! What an epic fail job! When somebody gets snippy with me at the Ruby Tuesdays, I tell them that maybe they should go to the kitchen and cook their own food.”

“What a great point.” Maureen adds leaning over and resting her hand on Barry’s shoulder.

“And then I tell Iowa that If I were a dog, and you were a flower, I’d lift up my leg and give you a shower…IOWA!!!”, Barry golly yells.

“And did you know that Hillary Clinton has personally breast fed two hundred sickened kittens to health in the last four years,” added Janice Landry.

“Indeed,” the doctor breathed, leaning forward with peaked interest..

“Well this has been very informative, from all of you. What can we conclude then about Ron Paul winning the Iowa Caucus?” questions Maureen. Now that the broadcast is coming to a close, she starts slurring her speech.

“That Iowa should be ashamed of themselves with their backwoods ways, and that it is no longer considered the influence it was in the far away past, four years ago. Thank you for tuning in and lets put this horrible incident behind us. Goodnight.”

The male anchor concludes the broadcast. He utters the word, “mummy” and suddenly Maureen slumps in her seat, eyes shut, make up dripping to her calves.

The pudgy director watches the progress of his broadcast, proud, smug, knowing that he runs a program that practices objective journalism, or at least that is what he tells himself when he curls up to sleep at night.


Chapter 1 of Splitting Sides Across Party Lines

chapter 1

  Dreams of His Father: Joe Biden Gets Caught In a Tree  

Explanation:  I wrote this segment after studying Barack Obama’s history. He definitely has been influenced by his muslim father and it has an effect on his politics. Although the mainstream media barely comments about this, or his lack of quick wit when he is not in front of a teleprompter, I will. I also portray Joe Biden as the lovable adorable liberal pet that just does stupid things and gets away with it. He is like a puppy piddling on the rug. Enjoy this segment, as Obama still dreams of his father.  

“He did it again Mr. President.”

The voice comes from an intercom, buzzing electronically. A small mocha hand, fingernails meticulously trim and shining, smacks at the buzzer system.

He thought it was an alarm clock. He comes out of his fog, the hazy glaze of sleep, and it takes him more than a half an hour to respond. He sits in his chair in the oval office, with a blank expression, and then finally shows a sign that he didn’t fall asleep again.

“Look!” he says.

When there is no response from the intercom, he says it again.


Then the intercom replies back.

“Umm, you aren’t giving your weekly address Mr. President. I’m Phil, your intern. Sorry to bother you.” The voice in the intercom seems uncertain, and wavers.

Obama frowns, then he notices there is no podium, or cameras, or teleprompter, or reporters with thin ropes of saliva forming under their lips.

“Ah yes…Phil the intern. I was…working. Consulting ah, some associates about economic policy.” Obama concluded. He spoke some words fast, then in the middle of the sentence he seemed to have lost momentum, then recovered it again, placing some nice political keywords snugly at the end of his sentence.

Phil worked with him long enough to know that meant Obama was taking his daily four hour nap under the desk of the oval office. From the unusually long response, even for this slow processing president, Phil knew that he had dreamt of his father again.

“I just wanted to inform you..Joe is up in the tree again.” Phil says.

Obama frowned, stood up on his tall lanky frame, walks to the window. He slides the American flag to the side with his delicate hands. The sun shines through the oval office window but he sees his security forces around a tree in the distance.

His thoughts are far away though. He dreams. Obama dreams of his father. The current dream is distracting him from his daily routine.

“Dreams of my father,” Obama replies to the haunting empty space circulating in the oval office. Actually he said it to a seven foot cardboard cutout posing in a corner, a smiling Shaquille O Neal from his role in Shazam. Shazam goes with Obama at all times, like a child with his favorite teddy bear.

Obama stares into space, and he is whisked away to his dream as the security team stands on the lawn with their hands casually on their hips.

What Obama writes later in his new book..”I Guess I’ll Keep Dreaming of My Father, is what composes his deep ruminations as he stands valiantly with his hands behind his back.

My father…in a vast space, floating like a little tea leaf in…the air, and he beckons to me. I am standing on..the edge of a mountain. As I see him come close, he reaches out to me. I float towards him in a brilliant light. My father looks at me, a look of complete bliss on his face, wrapped in a shining robe, fluttering musically in the charged air.”

“I am so happy, looking up to my father. He, in his heavenly robes, and me, in my dapper suit, advancing to our celestial reunion in the sky. However, as I draw nearer, and our hands touch, my father’s arms weaken, and he falls to the earth. We hit, with a resounding thud, and I scamper to my feet.

“I yell, what is wrong? No, that’s not right. I yell..Look..then ask him what it is wrong. I turn him over, and he looks at me with wider eyes, accusing eyes, eyes that burn in to me as I shave my chest hair in the mornings. Those eyes say it all. He is..not pleased with me. Unharmed from the fall, more frustrated  than anything, he stands to his feet dusting himself off furiously.

He screamed then up to the sky. “Oh, this is maddening! First I get shafted with the seventy-two virgins promise, and now it seems I can’t float properly like a ghostly vision from the afterlife should.

And like a comforting son, I complimented my father.

“Its Ok, Dad. But what is this about the promised young virgins? They are not there?”

“Oh, they are there alright.  The fact is Junior, I cannot pass to the parts of Jannah that are particularly nice. There is a sparkling river of pure milk, but what the Koran did not say, is that there has to be someone milking those cows on the other side. Namely, me. Yes, there are pretty women for each man, lovely houris, but what the holy book failed to say, is you have to prove your worthiness of them, with “training wives.”

They are large, belligerent women, some who have been guests on, The View.  Oh, it is most vile my boy”, my father said.

“I am sorry father,” I then told him.

And before I was snatched, from my dream, I knew that my first three years was an abject failure, that I was the reason that my father was on his knees, milking cows in Jannah, and why he couldn’t advance. And, I knew..what I had to do, from, that…point onward.

It was just that look in his eyes..that dug into my soul, before I awoke in a fetal position under my desk..”

The security team stands at the White house Lawn. They stand casually, as if this is an ongoing routine. The president emerges, smiling, eyes shining with new purpose/ He would carry on his father’s legacy.

He stops at the tall tree, talks to the security team. The man in charge shrugs his shoulders. Up above there is a high pitched whimpering coming from a trembling branch. The branch bends at the weight of the object on it.

Obama looks up and sees a scared Joe Biden, with arms and legs curled up on a tall branch. Joe’s face is red and flushed, and his eyes are strained from crying. Obama, arms are crossed to his chest and he looks up with a wry grin.

“Now Joe, I told you about climbing that tree. Once you get up there you can..never find your way down. “

Joe Biden whimpers and hugs the branch he is balanced on even tighter.

Obama tells his security team to leave him up there for a few more hours as punishment and then to call the fire department. He shakes his head because his vice president is completely adorable. He leaves the White House lawn recharged to lead America to paradise.


Blog Forward to Splitting Sides Across Party Lines



Foreword by the, Author Behind Splitting Sides Across Party Lines

So there is plenty of parody media out there. When Bush was president, both of them, they were portrayed as squinty eyes inbred idealists that sort of blundered around on the stage of Saturday Night Live.  Dana Carvy would impersonate George Bush senior, and his little white hands would shake and he would mumble, “naht-gonnadooit,” and,” wouldn’t be proo-dent.”

As the real Bush declared to America, telling a sucker populace that he would not implement, “no new taxes.” The hilarious skits captured the nuances of the president perfectly and it went into the archives of great political comedy along with Phil Hartman’s, Bill Clinton.

Then Bush’s son took over. The Big W. He became cannon fodder for every comedian, winy, political group, and YouTube video directors alike. He was funnier than his father. He bumped his head on airplanes, had a shoe flung at him, stuttered with our larger words, an even  took liberties to make up his own words by forming them between a deep southern drawl he developed in the heartland of Texas.

His war outraged people, and incited a huge emotional response, and because he was a white male cowboy type, he was up for grabs to be made fun of.

And so he got it in spades. Will Ferrell was hilarious as the big “W.” Saturday Night Live, like the good liberal show that it had become, led the way in the parody. Suddenly everyone imitated George W, and he became the hated, and funniest, of our presidents and should have paved the way for freedom of speech for comedy, and a new era of parody in our country. After all, although Bush Jr. was bad, at least he gave his enemies the right to jeer at him.

But that all changed. The face of our country has altered. It is because a black liberal has been elected in to office. Barack came in and the air of swirling humor has been sucked up and silenced like a media gestapo looks on. We are afraid, and tremble about what to say. Saturday Night Live led the silence by only portraying Obama as a confident, self-assured guy that has blunderers all around him.

As boring as this president is, and as many long, empty, vain, remarks he makes without the help of his teleprompter, we are afraid to say anything lest we appear to look like a racist, or intolerant in some way or another.

Yet he deserves the criticism, the mockery, the jeers, and the other forms of verbal abuse that all of the other presidents in our free nation have received, and he will get it. This administration has as many blunders, moronic quotes, and scandals as any other presidency yet it has been given a golden ticket, and a pass by the mainstream media.

That is why I am starting this parody blog, because that is our right as a free people. There is just too much comedy in this liberal administration to ignore. If I can inform and entertain with these truths and say the things that people fear saying, then, so be it. Enjoy, laugh and learn with, Splitting Sides Across Party Lines.