City Council Adopts Vulgar Phrase as Town Motto

Since riding the Republican groundswell to office in November, the eight members of the Chrislip City Council have heard whispers behind their backs. Whispers that they’re too stiff, too stodgy, too far behind the times. After all, each is a white, heterosexual, Protestant male between the ages of 50 and 51. They’ve tried several ways to shake their button-down perception, including trying to smile in public. But yesterday, in one fell swoop, they may have changed their image for good.

It started the night before, when Councilman Michael Randolph spotted a teenager spray-painting an obscenity on a town overpass. “I shouted at the beatnik, ‘Where’s your civic pride?’,” he remembers. “He yelled back a very rude reply.”

At the next Council meeting, Mr. Randolph told his fellow members about the incident. One member in particular, John Thomas, found it hilarious. Mr. Thomas, who turned 50 just last November, is the youngest member of the Council, and the resident scamp. He’s known for crazily-colored shirts and ties, and coffee mugs with madcap sayings.

Councilman John Thomas

He was the one who suggested making the beatnik’s rude reply the town’s official motto for the new year. It was an outrageous suggestion, but one whose time had come, Mr. Thomas insisted. It was edgy, it was hip, and far more “cool” than previous slogans, such as “Let’s make our town a slice of heaven in the coming year of 2007.”

At first the other Councilmen were appalled at the suggestion. “But the more we thought about it, the more sense it made,” says Mr. Randolph. “Every year we beg our citizens to take pride in their town, and to no avail. This year we’ll tell them not to take pride, and in the rudest way possible. Maybe reverse psychology will work.”

And so, after much debate, it was ruled that Chrislip’s official slogan will be: “Take your civic pride and shove it up your ass.”

Whether it works or not, Mr. Randolph admits that the slogan is intoxicatingly fun to say. “I really couldn’t stop saying it, in fact,” he admits sheepishly. “That evening when my wife asked if I wanted dessert, I told her to take her apple pan dowdy and shove it up her ass.” He turns serious. “I only wish my five-year-old hadn’t picked that night to ask me to help tuck in her Tickle-Me-Elmo. I’m sorry, sweetie. Daddy didn’t mean what he said.”

When the phone rings and he is told that a private citizen is circulating a petition to have the controversial slogan recalled, the mischievous twinkle returns to his eyes. “Tell him to take his petition,” he says, “and file it with the Chrislip town coordinator.”

FacebookStumbleUponGoogle BuzzRedditDiggdel.icio.usTechnorati

Advertisements

Tourette Syndrome Patients Attend Pricey Art Auction and Mayhem Follows

Over Your Head, by Yari (pronounced “vooch!”)

Local psychiatrist Max Trask is even more well-known for his love of fine art than he is for his ability to help his patients. So when he heard that a major art auction was to be held in nearby Gilder City, he thought it would make an excellent day trip for his Tourette Syndrome support group. An all-bids-final auction of millions of dollars worth of paintings combined with half a dozen people who twitch, jerk, and cry out uncontrollably seemed a perfect way to spend an afternoon.

Dr. Trask and his group attended the auction, and it went off without a hitch. The doctor even bid successfully on a Yari reproduction, which he plans to give to his wife on their anniversary.

It was after they left the gallery that things went very wrong. Their van was broadsided in the parking lot by a circus wagon. There were no serious injuries, but several of the Tourette patients were left lying on the pavement as unicycling clowns and hopping, skirt-wearing poodles circled around them.

“I don’t think any of us saw that coming,” says Dr. Trask. “Considering how the day started, it was a surreal turn of events that came completely out of the blue.”

He said that he and his patients were very eager to get back to Chrislip. “It’s not perfect,” he says, “but it’s home, and the set-ups always match the endings.”

FacebookStumbleUponGoogle BuzzRedditDiggdel.icio.usTechnorati

Mayor Promotes Witness Protection Tourism

Tony Trevisano was like a lot of New Yorkers visiting Chrislip for the first time.  He was wowed by the lack of lights and the indifference of the people.  Whenever Trevisano bumped into a pedestrian while walking up and down the streets of our quiet, Midwestern town, they apologized to him without even knowing who he was or who he’d killed.

“The Federal witness protection program set me and my family up real nice in Arizona, but it just wasn’t the same,” said the former boss of the Gambino crime family.  “Watching MTV’s Jersey Shore reminds me of my crew back home.  That bitch Snooki would make one hell of an enforcer.  She’s like a cross between a drunken smurf and a tanned pit-bull.”

Mr. Trevisano’s relatives arrive from Sicily for a family reunion. His Godmother is second from left.

Against the wishes of the FBI, Chrislip Mayor Howard Presnell began marketing our fair city as a vacation destination for those in the Federal government’s witness protection program.  For security reasons, families left behind by witnesses can’t visit them in their new or old home towns.  So Mayor Presnell is flying them to Chrislip, where no one would look for them.

“I understand that we’re dealing with some pretty unsavory characters,” admitted the mayor.  “But they’re not going to kill anyone with their mother present.  Besides, I made the Mafia pinky-swear not to kill any one while they’re in Chrislip.”

This reporter pointed out to the mayor that recent cutbacks in the police department would make it nearly impossible to adequately protect our visitors.  They would be sitting ducks while in Chrislip.

“Hey, if that happens, it’s a win-win,” said the mayor.  “Now that we have the entire family in one place, it’s a perfect opportunity for a funeral.”

FacebookStumbleUponGoogle BuzzRedditDiggdel.icio.usTechnorati

Local Fatties Shiver Away the Pounds

Historically, Chrislip has been the fattest of towns in the fattest of states.  While we can’t take all of the credit for Michigan’s gastronomic victory, our acceptance speech would thank the popularity of meat-shaped fruits and vegetables (See “Vegetarianism Meats Reality”).

Recently, however, this trend has begun to change, and local dietitian Quinn Jaworski deserves a good portion of the acclaim.

“Your body burns a lot of calories just maintaining a normal temperature,” said the Florida native.  “When you’re cold, your body generates heat by shivering.  I lost a lot of weight after moving to Northern Michigan.  Then I realized that I could turbo-charge the process by just taking off my clothes.”

The health guru’s lack of modesty clashed with the Midwestern sense of shame that pervades Chrislip, where babies are born fully-clothed.

Fortunately for Mr. Jaworski, global warming turned out to be a liberal hoax.  Chrislip’s record cold this winter accelerated Quinn’s weight loss to the point that he began to resemble a meth addict with good teeth.  To encourage locals to adopt Mr. Jaworski’s fitness regimen, Chrislip’s weatherman has begun expressing temperature forecasts in terms of the weight you’ll lose.

Whether they want to or not, the unemployed throughout Chrislip are adopting the program in droves.

“Initially I was disappointed when the tool and die factory closed down and I lost my job,” said Barbara Pollard, her living room so cold that her breath froze.  “But after the electric company shut off power to my home, I was able to shiver off ten pounds.  And I only lost two toes to frostbite while doing snow angel calisthenics.  If I can keep this up, I’ll be able to eat pizza every day and not gain a pound!”

FacebookStumbleUponGoogle BuzzRedditDiggdel.icio.usTechnorati

Republicans Greenlight “Meals for Rich White People” Program

Now that the Chrislip Town Council is in Republican control, they are reaching out a helping hand to a demographic group that all too often finds itself lost in the shuffle – rich white people.

Council Chairman Phillip Boliver explains: “For years we’ve had Meals On Wheels and other programs that catered to the poor and the infirm, all the while ignoring the wealthy and the firm. It’s exclusionary, and we’re correcting it.”

Boliver insists that people with a lot of money are just as needy as those with very little. “When Peter Pauper rummages through his couch cushions and finds enough change to buy a box of macaroni and cheese, it represents a bite out of his income. When Chauncey VanderSnoot lays out a few hundred dollars for his caviar and truffles, it takes a bite out of his income, too. A bite that’s just as big, proportionally, as that of the poor guy. It’s time we did something about that.”

Chauncey VanderSnoot, who legally changed his name from Bob Johnson after inheriting his grandfather’s hotel chain, is relieved that the taxpayers are finally shouldering the burden for his opulent lifestyle. “I can’t say I’m grateful,” he says, “because I and my kind don’t have the capacity to feel gratitude toward our lessers. But it’s nice to know that the working class of this world are finally good for something besides karaoke and being proud of their honor students.”

Thanks to the taxpayers, Chauncey VanderSnoot now has plenty of disposable income to spend on cocaine and high-end prostitutes.

Combined with the extension of the Bush era tax cuts, these are heady times to be rich and white. Still, doesn’t it bother Mr. VanderSnoot to know that underprivileged children are going to bed hungry just to maintain his supply of chilled vichyssoise?

He turns introspective. “I think on a certain level, most wealthy people feel bad that we have so much while others have so little.” His face stays fixed in a priceless deadpan expression for several seconds. Then he bursts into gales of boyish laughter and goes off to supervise the gassing of some past-their-prime polo ponies.

That’s the thing about rich white people. You just can’t stay mad at them.

FacebookStumbleUponGoogle BuzzRedditDiggdel.icio.usTechnorati

Ice Fisherman Doesn’t Call 1-900 Number For Sex

Ask the men of Chrislip if they like ice-fishing, and you are likely to hear a resounding “Uh-huh.” It’s a favorite pastime among men of middle-age and older, especially in winter. Although women aren’t allowed to ice-fish, they play an important part in the ritual. It’s a rare Chrislip housewife who hasn’t come home to find a pile of her husband’s crappie in the kitchen sink. As a rule, she cleans and cooks them without complaint… and enjoys eating them too, of course. But the one aspect of ice-fishing that women tend to tire of very quickly is hearing about it.

Any fisherman can tell you that catching the fish is only half the fun – five-eighths at most. The true joy lies in telling tales about the catch. Chrislp women generally draw the line here. Cleaning, cooking and eating the fish is enough; they don’t need to know the details. This depresses their husbands. But when there’s a hole in a man’s life – whether it’s a hole in his heart or a hole in the ice on a winter pond – there will be a woman who’s willing to step into it.

This year, that woman is Brandee Fontaine. Knowing that the men of Chrislip have a hard time finding a willing ear to listen to their exploits, Brandee has set up a 1-900 number so that they can talk to her about ice-fishing for $4.95 per minute.

Brandee Fontaine tastefully refrains from shaking what her mama gave her.

The service is very popular, but some housewives are less than thrilled that their men have Brandee’s phone ringing off its hook.

Joan Belding’s husband Frank has racked up nearly $400 in phone calls to the Ice Princess. Joan listened in on one of the calls, and found it disturbing. “It bothered me that he was opening up about the intimate details of his ice-fishing life with a total stranger,” she says. “He told her things that even I don’t know, like the fact that his shanty is double-sealed, and how big around his ice hole is.”

Brandee shrugs off the idea that she’s some kind of Field & Stream Jezebel. “If anybody’s marriage is breaking up because of ice-fishing, it wasn’t on very solid ground to begin with. Besides,” she adds with a knowing smile, “if these women were giving their husbands what they want, they wouldn’t have to get it from me.”

She says that next winter she plans to market an inflatable version of herself for sportsmen who like their ice-fishing conversations on a face-to-face basis.

FacebookStumbleUponGoogle BuzzRedditDiggdel.icio.usTechnorati

Garrison Keillor Tells Chrislip to Be Less Funny

Garrison Keillor and his NPR mafia rolled into town this week determined to let the air out of Chrislip’s half-inflated balloon.

“The upper Midwest is big enough for only one fictional small town filled with entertaining dimwits,” contended the capo of casual humor, “and that town is Lake Wobegon, where all of the children are above average.  Get it?  Everyone?  Above average?  Laugh, damn you, or I’ll give you something you’ll really laugh about.”

Chrislip’s Mayor, Howard Presnell, pointed out that the two towns are in different states and that, by contrast, all of our children are below average.  Even Chrislip’s disabled children roll their eyes and drool more than slow kids in neighboring communities.  These facts were met with a volley of rhubarb pies.

Few Chrislipians are aware that Mayor Howard Presnell sent undercover agents Sophia and Eric Holmberg to Lake Wobegon to discover the hidden secret of its popularity

The contention about our children was actually made by striking local schoolteachers.  You’ll recall their angry picket signs shouting “Garbage In, Garbage Out!”  Still, Mayor Presnell knuckled under and gave the teachers a raise after they pointed out that all of our children used to be well-below average.  However, studies later showed that test scores rose while the union was on strike.

“We here in Chrislip refuse to give in to the demands of terrorists, no matter how folksy or funny they are,” the mayor defiantly replied.  “They can’t just come in here and politely throw their weight around.  After all, irony is our only export.  Even fictional mayors gotta eat.”

FacebookStumbleUponGoogle BuzzRedditDiggdel.icio.usTechnorati